The Whisperer (28 page)

The lights of the car behind her came on.

Her pursuer had finally revealed himself, and he wasn’t giving up. His headlights shone their beam on her and beyond her, on the road ahead of her. Mila steered just in time to take the bend and, at the same time, she turned her lights back on. She accelerated and traveled just over three hundred meters at full speed.

Then she abruptly braked in the middle of the carriageway and stared at the mirror again.

The ticking of her engine, along with the thumping drum in her chest, were the only sounds she could hear. The other car had stopped before the bend. Mila saw the white beam of the headlights stretching across the tarmac. The roar of the exhaust sounded like some wild beast preparing to leap and sink its teeth into its prey.

Come on, I’m waiting for you.

She took her gun and slipped a bullet into the barrel. She didn’t know where she got that courage that she had felt she didn’t have only a moment before. Desperation had led her into a ludicrous duel, in the middle of nowhere.

But her pursuer didn’t take up the invitation. The headlights around the bend disappeared, making way for two faint red glows.

The car had turned round.

Mila didn’t move. Then she started breathing normally again.

For a moment she lowered her eye to the passenger seat, seeking comfort in Sabine’s smile.

Only then did she notice that there was something wrong in the picture.

It was just past midnight when she got to the Studio. Her nerves were still on edge, and for the rest of the journey she had thought only about the photograph of Sabine, looking around at the same time, waiting for whoever was following her to appear at any moment from a side road, or ambush her behind a bend.

She quickly climbed the stairs leading to the apartment. She wanted to speak to Goran straightaway, and tell the team what had happened. Perhaps that had been Albert tailing her. It must have been. But why her?

Reaching the right floor, she opened the heavy armed door with the keys Stern had given her, passed the security booth and found herself plunged in the most complete silence. The creak of her rubber soles on the linoleum floor was the only sound in those rooms that she quickly inspected. First the common area where, on the rim of an ashtray, she noticed a cigarette that had burned away in a long strip of gray ash. There were the remains of dinner on the kitchen table—a fork, resting on one side of a plate, a portion of flan that had barely been touched—as if someone had been suddenly forced to interrupt their meal. The lights were all out, even in the Thinking Room. Mila quickened her pace as she headed for the bedroom: something had plainly happened. Stern’s bed was unmade, there was a box of mints on her pillow.

A beep from her phone told her that a text had come in. She read it.

W
hen she got to Yvonne Gress’s house she saw that they hadn’t all gone in yet: Sarah Rosa was slipping on her overalls and plastic shoe covers by the van. Mila had noticed that Sarah had been much calmer with her over the past few days. She walked around, almost always lost in other thoughts. Perhaps it was because of her family troubles.

But now Rosa looked up at her. “Christ! You don’t miss a trick, do you?”

Just leave it…
thought Mila.

She ignored her, trying to get into the van to get some overalls. But Rosa planted herself on the steps, keeping her from getting past.

“Hey, I’m talking to you!”

“What do you want?”

“You really think you’re quite the expert, don’t you?”

She was standing only a few inches from her face. From below, Mila could smell her breath: cigarettes, gum and coffee. She wanted to push her aside, or give her a piece of her mind. But then she remembered what Goran had said about her separation from her husband and her daughter with an eating disorder, and decided to put it off for the time being.

“Why have you got it in for me, Rosa? I’m just doing my job.”

“Then you’d have found child number six by now, don’t you think?”

“I will.”

“You know, I don’t think you’re going to be in this team for long. You think you’ve won them over for now, but sooner or later they’ll work out that they can do without you.”

Rosa stepped aside, but Mila stayed where she was.

“If you hate me so much, when Roche wanted to fire me, why did you vote for me to stay?”

Sarah turned towards her with an amused look on her face.

“Who told you that?”

“Dr. Gavila.”

Rosa burst out laughing and shook her head.

“You see, sweetie, it’s that kind of thing that means you won’t last long. Because if he told you that in confidence, then you’ve betrayed him by telling me. And, by the way, he fooled you…because I voted against you.”

And she left her there, frozen, heading resolutely towards the house. Mila watched after her, dumbfounded by her last words. Then she got into the van to change.

Krepp had guaranteed that it would be his “Sistine Chapel.” The comparison with the room on the second floor of Yvonne Gress’s villa wasn’t as wild as all that.

In modern times, Michelangelo’s masterpiece had been given a radical restoration that had given the paintings back their original splendor, freeing them of the thick layer of dust, smoke and animal glue that had accumulated over centuries of use of candles and braziers. The experts had started their work with a little detail—about the size of a stamp—to give themselves an idea of what was hidden underneath. It had come as a complete surprise: the thick layer of soot had hidden extraordinary colors that couldn’t even have been imagined before.

So Krepp had begun with a simple drop of blood—the one found by Mila with the help of the Newfoundland dog—to end up making his masterpiece.

“There was no organic material,” said the scientist. “But the pipes were worn, and there were traces of hydrochloric acid. Let’s hypothesize that Feldher used it to dissolve the remains, to make it easier to get rid of them. Acid’s even very good at getting rid of bone.”

Mila only caught the last part of the sentence as she reached the second-floor landing. Krepp was in the middle of the corridor, and in front of him were Goran, Boris and Stern. Further back was Rosa, leaning against the wall.

“So the only clue we have to link the massacre to Feldher is this little blood stain?”

“Have you had it analyzed?”

“Chang says it’s ninety percent likely that it belongs to the boy.”

Goran turned to look at Mila, then back to Krepp: “OK, we’re all here. We can start…”

They’d been waiting for her. She should have felt flattered, but she was still trying to digest Sarah Rosa’s words. Who was she to believe? That hysterical madwoman who’d been abusing her since the start, or Goran?

Meanwhile Krepp, before leading them into the room, told them, “We can stay in here for a quarter of an hour at most, so if you have any questions please ask them now.”

They said nothing.

“OK, let’s go in.”

The room was sealed off by a double glass door with a little passageway in the middle that allowed one person to enter at a time. It served to preserve the microclimate. Before going inside, one of Krepp’s colleagues took everyone’s body temperature with an infrared thermometer of the kind normally used with children. Then he entered the data in a computer connected to the humidifiers in the room that would correct their contribution to keep the thermal conditions constant.

The reason for these devices was explained by Krepp himself, who came into the room last.

“The main problem has been the paint used by Feldher to cover the walls. It couldn’t be removed with a normal solvent without also taking away what was under it.”

“So what did you do?” asked Goran.

“We analyzed it and it emerged that it’s a water-based paint using a vegetable fat as a collagen. All we had to do was spray a solution of refined alcohol and leave it in suspension for a few hours to dissolve the fat. We effectively reduced the thickness of the paint on the walls. If there’s any blood under there, Luminol should be able to show it up…”

3-aminophthalhydrazide,
better known as Luminol. A substance that aids a great deal of the techniques of modern scientific policing. Reacting with an element in blood, it produces a blue fluorescence, visible only in the dark. There is only one problem with Luminol: the fluorescent effect lasts just thirty seconds. Which makes the test practically unrepeatable after the first time.

For that reason a series of long-exposure cameras would document each result before it vanished forever.

Krepp distributed masks with special filters and protective goggles because—even though it had not yet been demonstrated—it was feared that Luminol might be carcinogenic.

Then he turned back to Gavila: “When you’re ready…”

“Let’s get started.”

With a walkie-talkie, Krepp transmitted the order to his men outside.

First all the lights were turned out.

It wasn’t a pleasant sensation for Mila. In that claustrophobic darkness she could make out only her own short breathing which, filtered through the mask, sounded almost like a death rattle. It was superimposed over the deep, mechanical breathing of the humidifiers, incessantly pumping their vapors into the room.

She tried to stay calm, even though anxiety was rising in her chest and she couldn’t wait for the experiment to finish.

A moment later the noise changed. The vents began to emit into the air the chemical solution that would make the blood on the walls visible. Shortly afterwards, the hiss of the new substance was accompanied by a thin bluish glow that started appearing all around them. It looked like sunlight filtered through the depths of the sea.

At first Mila thought it was only an optical effect, a kind of mirage created by her mind in response to a state of hyperventilation. But when the effect spread, she realized she could see her colleagues again. As if someone had turned the lights back on, but replacing the icy color of the halogens with this new indigo tone. At first she wondered how it was possible, then she got there.

There was so much blood on the walls that the Luminol effect lit them all up.

The splashes spread in various directions, but all seemed to come from the exact center of the room. As if there had been a kind of sacrificial altar there in the middle. And the ceiling looked like a layer of stars. The magnificence of the vision was broken only by the knowledge of how it was produced.

Feldher must have used a chainsaw to reduce the bodies to a mass of mangled flesh, a mush that could easily be flushed down the toilet.

Mila noticed that the others were as frozen as she was. They looked around, like robots, as the precision cameras arranged along the perimeter went on clicking relentlessly. Just fifteen seconds had passed, and the Luminol was still showing up new and increasingly latent stains.

They stared at that horror.

Then Boris raised his arm towards a side of the room, showing the others what was gradually appearing on the wall.

“Look…” he said.

And they saw.

In one area of the wall the Luminol did not take root, it encountered nothing, and that area remained white. It was framed by a rim of blue stains. As when you spray paint on an object on a wall and, when you remove it, an outline remains. Like an outline carved into the plaster. Like the negative of a photograph.

Each of them thought that the print looked vaguely like a human shadow.

As Feldher tore into the bodies of Yvonne and her children with chilling ferocity, someone, in one corner of the room, was impassively witnessing the spectacle.

S
omeone has called her name.

She’s sure of it. She hasn’t dreamed it. That was what dragged her from her sleep this time; not fear, not the sudden awareness of where she had been for so long.

The effect of the drug that dulled her senses vanished as soon as she heard her name bouncing off the belly of the monster. Almost like an echo that had come looking for her from who knows where, and finally found her.

“I’m here!” she wants to shout, but she can’t, her mouth is still furred.

And then there are the noises, too. Sounds that weren’t there before. What do they sound like, footsteps? Yes, they’re the footprints of heavy boots. And shoes, at the same time. There are people! Where? They’re above her, around her. Everywhere, but somehow far away, too far away. What are they doing here? Have they come looking for her? Yes, that’s it. They’re there for her. But they can’t see her in the belly of the monster. So the only option is to make them hear her.

“Help,” she tries to say.

Her voice comes out in a strangled form, infected by days of induced agony, violent, cowardly sleep, administered to her at will, at random, just to keep her well-behaved as the monster digests her in its stone stomach. And the world out there slowly forgets her.

But if they are here now, it means they haven’t forgotten me yet!

The thought fills her with a strength she didn’t know she had. A reserve stored by her body in a deep hiding place, and to be used only for emergencies. She starts thinking hard.

How can I tell them I’m here?

Her left arm is still bandaged. Her legs are heavy. Her right arm is her only possibility, the only thing that keeps her attached to life. The remote control is still fastened to the palm of her hand. She lifts it and aims it at the screen. The volume is normal, but perhaps it can be increased. She tries to, but can’t find the right button. Perhaps because they all give a single command. Meanwhile the sounds continue above her. The voice that she hears belongs to a woman. But there’s a man with her. Or rather, two.

I’ve got to call them! I’ve got to make sure they notice me, or I’ll die down here!

It’s the first time she mentions the possibility of dying. She has always avoided the thought until now. Perhaps she did it as a kind of good-luck charm. Perhaps because a child shouldn’t think of death. But now she realizes that if no one comes to rescue her, that will be her fate.

The ridiculous thing is that the one who is going to put an end to her brief existence is now looking after her. He bandaged her arm, he gives her medicine through the drip. He takes scrupulous care of her. Why does he do that, if he’s going to kill her in the end anyway? The question brings her no relief. There’s only one reason to keep her alive down there. And she suspects that he has plenty of other torments in store for her.

So perhaps this is the only opportunity she has to get out of here, to get back home, to see her family. Her mother, her father, her grandfather, even Houdini. She swears she will even love that damned cat if this nightmare ever ends.

She lifts her hand, and starts thumping the remote control hard against the steel edge of the bed. The sound that she makes is irritating even to her, but it is liberating. Harder and harder. Until she feels the plastic gadget beginning to break. She doesn’t care. Those metallic hammering noises are getting angrier and angrier. A broken cry emerges from her throat.

“I’m here!”

The remote control comes away from her palm and she’s forced to stop. But she hears something above her. It might be positive, or it might not. It’s silence. Perhaps they’ve become aware of her and now they’re trying to hear better. That’s it, they can’t have left already! Then she starts knocking again, even though her right arm hurts. Even though the pain runs along her shoulder and flows into her left arm. Even if that only increases her desperation. Because if by any chance no one hears her, it will be even worse afterwards, she’s sure of it. Someone will avenge her. And make him pay.

Cold tears run down her cheeks. But the sounds start up again and she takes courage again.

A shadow detaches itself from the rocky wall and comes towards her.

She sees it, but goes on anyway. When the shadow is close enough, she notices its delicate hands, its little blue dress, the chestnut hair falling softly on its shoulders.

The shadow turns back towards her with a child’s voice.

“That’s enough now,” it says. “They’ll hear us.”

Then it rests a hand on hers. The contact is enough to make her stop.

“Please,” the shadow adds.

And its plea is so sad that she is convinced, and doesn’t start again. She doesn’t know why that child wants something so ridiculous as to stay in there. But she obeys anyway. She doesn’t know whether to start crying over her failed escape attempt, or to be happy to discover she’s no longer alone. She is so grateful that the first human presence she has been aware of is a little girl like herself, that she doesn’t want to disappoint her. So she forgets she wants to leave.

The voices and sounds on the floor above have stopped. This time the silence is complete.

The little girl slips her hand from hers.

“Stay…”
she pleads now.

“Don’t worry, we’ll see each other again.”

And the girl returns to the darkness. And she lets her go. And she clutches at that small and insignificant promise to go on hoping.