23

The atmosphere in the Parc de la Villette had changed since the discovery of Mathieu Leroy’s body. Armed security guards patrolled the area day and night. Several had trained dogs ready to alert their masters to any suspicious activity. Many Parisians were staying away. On the other hand, the park seemed to be drawing more rowdy teenagers, who swore they weren’t afraid of anything, especially not the Butcher of Paris. If they saw him, they’d take him down, and if he happened to be gay, so much the better. “We’ll kill the fag,” they bragged. “He’ll be our bitch.”

Clément wanted to shout for help. But only a few barely audible groans escaped from his mouth. He was bleeding to death. The pain was unbearable. He thought of his mother. She had always been there for him. He loved her so much. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to cause her grief. Why him? Another groan. He pressed his hands against his stomach as hard as he could. All this blood. His hands were sticky. He felt tears running down his face. He was afraid. Afraid to close his eyes because he knew he’d never open them again. But he was so tired. He was losing hold. It had to stop.

“Hey, there’s somebody on the ground over there.” The voice was faint, but he heard it. Then footsteps and a cold nose sniffing him. A dog?

“Shit, he’s bleeding to death!”

Someone was turning him on his back. But his body felt so numb.

“He’s got a pulse! Call an ambulance!”

“Look at his shoulder. He’s like the others!”

“Sir, sir, can you hear me?”

He groaned.

“Hang in there. We’re getting help.”

“Call La Crim’ right away. Go do it!”

And then the cold and the dark. Death.

Nico was deep asleep, his face buried in Caroline’s neck, his arm across her stomach, his hand on her breast.

His Freddie Mercury ringtone woke him up with a start. It was intruding on their sleep all too often these nights. Caroline purred. She felt wonderful. But Nico knew he had to turn over and answer the phone.

“It’s Charlotte, sir. There’s been a third attack. He didn’t wait long to strike again.”

Nico sat up.

“Shit! Same MO?”

“Except for one thing. The victim’s on the operating table.”

“So he might live?”

“It’s touch-and-go. The doctors don’t want to say for sure.”

“Who is he?”

“Clément Roux. He’s twenty-three years old, a chef at the Carré des Feuillants restaurant. Two security guards heard him groaning and found him in one of the architectural follies.”

“Which one?” Nico asked. He was now familiar with each of Bernard Tschumi’s playful pavilions.

“Le Belvédère,” Charlotte replied. “At the southern end of the Prairie du Cercle. My team’s there already.”

That particular folly offered a bird’s-eye view of the park and Claes Oldenberg’s monumental sculpture, Buried Bicycle, a huge bike saddle, wheel, and handlebars.

“Did he have a shoulder wound?”

“Yes, just like the others.”

“We need to sweep the scene before any evidence disappears. And if Clément Roux survives, I want him under protection. The killer failed and might try to finish the job.”

“Got it, Chief.”

“Has his family been told?”

“His parents are at the hospital. I’ll ask them a few questions later.”

“Good, but don’t wait too long,” Nico said.

So the Butcher of Paris had struck again. But he had made a mistake. He hadn’t managed to kill his prey. Nico felt sure that his emotional state was worsening, and he was losing control. Beneath his veneer, he had to be a vulnerable person with memories and nightmares. The butcher was now a wounded animal, and the police were tracking him. Still, he was a threat, and he had to be stopped before he attacked yet another young man.

Or maybe exhaustion was setting in, displacing his anger. Were these murders forcing him to confront the void left by his lovers? The same way he had been forced to face the void thirty years ago?

“You’ve got your work cut out for you, and you could wind up falling on your ass,” Michel Cohen had warned him. But Nico’s gut told him that he was on the right track.

Who was Damien Forest? Why had Jean-Baptiste told his father that he was a Reuters photographer?

Could this man be a suspect? It was time to answer those questions.

In a few hours, the full excavation of the banquet would begin. Nico prayed that no more surprises would complicate the investigation.