Seeking Whom He May Devour (21 page)

Soliman jumped up in sheer exasperation.

“It’s her call,” Watchee reminded the young man, tapping Soliman’s shoulder with the tip of his crook. “If she doesn’t want to see the fellow, she doesn’t, and that’s that.”

“Bugger that!” Soliman yelled. “We don’t give a toss for him being special!” He turned towards Camille and said: “And what about Suzanne’s soul, Camille? Have you thought about that? Stuck for all eternity in that bloody stinking pond with all those crocodiles? I’d call that a special position, and so should you!”

“The pond stuff’s not altogether gospel, you know,” said Watchee.

“But don’t you reckon Suzanne’s relying on us?” Soliman went on. “By now she must be wondering what the hell we’re up to. Whether we’ve forgotten her. Whether we aren’t just getting sozzled and don’t give a damn any more.”

“No, Sol, I don’t believe she is.”

“Really, Camille? So what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Have you forgotten? I’m here to do the driving.”

Soliman pulled himself up straight and wiped his brow. He was getting agitated. He was much too agitated about Camille. Perhaps because he fancied her and had no idea how to make it over the last fifty metres between him and her. Unless Camille made a move, but she had not given the slightest sign so far. Camille was pretty much all-powerful in the lorry and that was exhausting. She was mistress of seduction, she was mistress of the lorry, and she could be the mistress of the chase – if only she would call that special man of hers.

Soliman sat down again somewhat crestfallen.

“It isn’t true you’re only here as the driver.”

“No.”

“You’re here because of Suzanne, you’re here because of M. Johnstone, you’re here because of Massart, to nab him before he tops anyone else.”

“Could be,” said Camille before emptying her glass.

“He might have killed again already,” said Soliman insistently. “But we can’t even find out if he has. We can’t find out the first thing about a vampire that only we know. And that only we can head off.”

Camille got up.

“Unless you call that
flic
, of course.”

“I’m going to bed,” she said. “Give me your mobile.”

“Are you going to ring him?” Soliman asked with a brighter face.

“No, I want to get hold of Johnstone.”

“Who cares about your trapper?”

“I do.”

“Think about it all the same, Camille. Pausing for thought is the privilege of the wise. Do you want to hear the story about the man who refused to pause for thought?”

“No,” said Watchee.

“No,” Camille concurred. “I find wisdom boring.”

“All right then, don’t think. Act. Boldness is the privilege of stout hearts.”

Camille smiled and gave Soliman a kiss. She paused, then shook Watchee’s hand and vanished behind the canvas screen.

“Bugger,” said Soliman.

“She’s hard to crack,” Watchee observed.

XXIV

CAMILLE WOKE UP
by herself at around seven, which was a significant indication of inner tension and contradictions. Also a symptom of wine with a tail. Yes, it could be that too.

Last night she had been able to get in touch with Johnstone and she had enjoyed hearing the Canadian’s voice, even if only in splinters. Johnstone had been more monosyllabic than ever on the telephone. Up in the Mercantour, Crassus the Bald remained untraceable. Almost all the other known wolves had been spotted in their ranges, but big Crassus was still missing. Augustus was gobbling down his ration of rabbits, Mercier was amazed that the old boy was holding up so well given the rotten state of his teeth. “You see,” he told Johnstone, “where’s there’s a will, there’s a way.” And Johnstone had accepted that without a word. He had been concerned to hear of the death of Jacques-Jean Sernot. Sure, Massart had crossed his mind. But he did not like the ragged turn that Camille’s pursuit of the man was taking. He did not like knowing that Camille
was
within spitting range of Massart, holed up but also vulnerable in that truck. In any case, he did not like Camille being stuck in that stinking vehicle with two men. With any man, actually, in any lorry. No, he wasn’t against getting a
flic
involved. Quite the opposite, in fact. Hadn’t they wanted to get the police involved from the start? Well, if she knew one, she should call him. Makes no difference if he’s special or not, as long as he’s a
flic
. He would be more effective than the three of them together, if he was prepared to get interested in the werewolf. A big if. Johnstone was convinced that police involvement would put an end to the saga of the girl, the shepherd and the boy-child. That’s what his heart most desired. He’d try to come to where the lorry was this evening, to have a talk with her, sleep with her. She must let him know if they decided to move.

Lying on her back Camille watched the slanted rays of the sun filter through the slats and light up the dust suspended in the air. That was no ordinary dust. There must be micro-particles of straw, sheep wax and sheep shit hanging there, shimmering in the morning light. A rare blend, for sure. A really beefy kind of dust. Camille pulled the blanket up to her chin. The night had been cool in this misty village, and they had needed the woollen blankets Buteil had provided. What would it cost her to call Adamsberg? Bugger all, as Soliman said. She did not give a toss for Adamsberg, he had fallen through the floor into the black hole of forgetting, where everything gets pulped and incinerated and turned into something else, like in those recycling plants where you make cane chairs out of old tractor parts. Basically, she had already recycled Adamsberg.
Not
into a cane chair, definitely not, she had no use for such things. She had turned him into wanderlust and musical scores, into 5cm sheet-metal screws, and into a Canadian, why not? Memory does whatever it wants with the rubbish you discard in it, that is memory’s business, you have no right to go poking around down there. In any case, there was nothing left of the Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg she had once loved so much. Not a tremor, not an echo, not even a regret. There were a few images, of course, but they had no relief, no charge. At one point Camille had been deeply upset by memory’s merciless pulping of people and sentiments. Seeing a man you had spent so much time worrying about transformed into a 5cm sheet-steel screw was enough to make you stop and think. And she had stopped for a while to think. Her memory had not done all that work in a day, of course. There was no denying it had been a lot of work. Long months of smashing and grinding. Then a period of thinking. Then nothing. Devoid of the slightest twitch or the batting of an eyelid. Just a few souvenirs from another world.

Well then, what was stopping her giving Adamsberg a call? Nothing. Just that she expected to be irritated by it. Just that she felt tired at the prospect of stirring the remnants of a past that was now a foreign land. The kind of weariness you feel when you realise you have to go all the way back to check on some piddling detail like a gas cut-off. Making a detour. Wasting time. Killing time. The sinking feeling that you’re taking a sidetrack back down a burned-out memory lane.

But Soliman, with his suffering on his sleeve, his
pressing
glance, with his fables and stories and dictionary definitions – Soliman had begun to breach her defences, and Camille had spent all night exercising the privilege of the wise, taking pause for thought. And in addition, all through the night Massart with his fangs and Suzanne with her Black boy-child and her Watchee had mounted noisy attacks on her uncooperative and selfish mood.

Came the dawn, and she found herself sitting or rather wobbling on the fence, torn between two equally distasteful prospects – going back to Les Écarts in defeat, or calling Adamsberg.

On the other side of the screen Soliman and Watchee were up. She could hear the young man unhooking the moped, no doubt to go in search of fresh bread. Then Watchee putting on his shirt and trousers. Then the smell of coffee and the noise of the moped coming back. Camille slipped on her top, her jeans and her boots before putting a foot on the ground – walking around inside the back of the truck in bare feet was out of the question.

Soliman smiled when he saw Camille appear, and Watchee showed her her breakfast stool with the tip of his crook. The youngster filled Camille’s mug, put in two sugar-lumps, and cut her slices of bread.

“I’m going to manage now,” Camille said.

“We thought you would, young lady,” said Watchee.

“We’re going back,” Soliman declared. “Retreat. ‘Act or action of retiring or withdrawing in face of difficulty.’ Retreat’s not a defeat. The dictionary makes that quite clear. Doesn’t mention being beaten.”

Camille frowned sceptically. “Can’t that wait?” she said.
“In a day or two there could be more sheep. Then we’d know where to go.”

“So what?” said Soliman. “We’ll always be one step behind. We’re on his tail. And if we stay on his tail we’ll never be able to head him off, right? To do that you have to be one step ahead. And to be ahead of him you have to have much more information than we have. We’re useless. We’re tracking him, we’re closing in on him, but we can’t actually touch him. We’re going home, Camille.”

“When?”

“Today, if you’re up to driving over those passes again. We could be at Les Écarts by nightfall.”

“At least the animals would be glad to see us back,” said Watchee. “They don’t feed properly when I’m away.”

Camille drank her coffee and ran her fingers through her hair.

“I’m not happy with that,” she said.

“But that’s the way it is,” said Soliman. “Stuff your pride down your boots. Do you know the story about the three foolish men who tried to learn the secret of the tree with the 120 branches?”

“What if I rang?” Camille said. “If I rang that policeman?”

“If you call that
flic
, then it’ll be the story of the three idiots and the genius who tried to learn the secret of the man with no hair.”

Camille nodded and pondered for a few minutes. Soliman tried to chew silently, while Watchee sat bolt upright with his hands on his knees, looking at Camille.

“I’ll call him now,” she said, getting up.

“You’re the driver,” said Soliman.

XXV

“I’M THE ONE
standing in for him,” adrien danglard said for the third time. “Are you phoning to make a complaint? Or to report a theft? Threatening behaviour? GBH?”

“It’s personal,” Camille said. “Strictly personal.”

She had reservations about that word. She did not like saying “personal” for fear it would be taking a liberty and create ties she did not wish to have. Some words are like that – like insurgents stealing fields not their own.

“I’m his stand-in,” Danglard said blankly. “Please tell me what your call is about.”

“I cannot tell you what my call is about.” Camille remained imperturbable. “I wish to speak to
Commissaire
Adamsberg.”

“Personal, is it?”

“I said so.”

“Are you in the fifth arrondissement? Where are you calling from?”

“From the side of the N75 in the department of Isère.”

“Then I’m afraid we can’t help you,” said
Lieutenant
Danglard. “You’d do better to contact the nearest
gendarmerie
.”

He grabbed a sheet of paper, scribbled the name
SABRINA MONGE
in capitals, jerked his head, shoved the paper towards the man sitting on his right, and with a jab of his pencil turned on the speakerphone.

Camille thought of hanging up. By blocking her, the Inspector was providing an easy way out, making it seem like fate. She could say that they just would not put her through to Adamsberg and she wasn’t going to fight to get put through. But once combat had been engaged, Camille, with her streak of not entirely commendable pride, was simply inept at giving up. A quirk that had often wasted a lot of her time and energy.

“I don’t think you understand me,” she said patiently.

“Of course I do,” said Danglard. “You wish to speak to
Commissaire
Adamsberg. But
Commissaire
Adamsberg cannot be spoken to.”

“Is he away?”

“He cannot be reached.”

“This is important,” Camille said. “Tell me where I can get hold of him.”

Danglard gave another nod to his assistant. The Monge girl was giving herself away with astounding naivety. She really must think
flics
were complete idiots.

“He can’t be reached,” Danglard said again. “He’s gone away. Flown the nest. There is no
Commissaire
Adamsberg any more. I’m standing in for him.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

“Is he dead?” Camille inquired in a quavering tone.

Danglard’s forehead puckered into a frown: Sabrina Monge’s voice wouldn’t go wobbly like that. He was quite astute. He had not heard the fury or the mistrust he would have expected in the voice of Sabrina. The girl he was listening to was simply incredulous and taken aback.

Camille waited tensely, more stunned than anxious, as if she had seen the tide come to a halt. It could not be. She would have seen it in the papers, she would have heard about it. Adamsberg was a name.

“No, just away,” Danglard informed her in a different tone of voice. “Leave me your name and number. I’ll get him to call you back.”

“That won’t work,” Camille said as her nervous tension returned to normal. “This mobile is nearly out of power and I’m in the middle of nowhere.”

“Your name, please,” Danglard insisted.

“Camille Forestier.”

Danglard sat up straight, waved his assistant out of the room and switched off the speakerphone. So it was Camille, Mathilde’s girl, Queen Matilda’s only daughter. Adamsberg had patches of trying to find out where on earth the girl was, but it was like trying to pin down a cloud, so he let it drop. Danglard took a fresh sheet of paper with the excitement of a boy who’s been fishing at sea for days and suddenly feels a tug on the line.

“I’m listening,” he said.

Cautious Danglard quizzed Camille for fifteen minutes before he was satisfied that it was she. He had never met her but he had known the mother well enough to be able
to
test Camille on a file’s worth of details that Sabrina Monge could never have known even if she had done all her homework. And what a beautiful mother Mathilde had been!