Carroge - Book 1 E-Book

Laporte Gilbert

• Herausgeber: Le Tram Noir - INT
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Carroge
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 189

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A series of murders following a religious ritual shake the Paris region while numerous strange phenomena cause panic in Africa and America...

In the 13th century, monks hide strange gospels in a crypt before being executed by a mysterious knight. In the present day, Pierre Demange, a historian specializing in the Bible, is asked by a priest friend to translate a text written in Old French that could indicate the location of the manuscripts. At the same time, strange phenomena are taking place in Africa and Latin America. As photos and videos of apparitions are circulated on the Internet, evangelical pastors seize on the phenomenon and alert their followers to the imminent arrival of the Beast of the Revelation. In the Paris region, a series of atrocious crimes is committed, with the first victim being the priest who contacted Pierre Demange. All the murdered people have the sign "666" burned into their foreheads. For Lieutenant Martin Delpech, each of these murders corresponds to a specific religious rite. But the devil's signs can be deceptive...

Discover the first volume of one of Lieutenant Delpech's investigations, as he attempts to unravel the devil's clues.

WHAT THE CRITICS THINK

Passionate about the story behind the Gospels, as he explains at the end of the book, Gilbert Laporte uses this subject to create an original and very well-crafted plot, on a theme that has already been explored several times, around the psychology of the murderer, and greed in particular. A very good first novel with fluid writing but also dynamic when necessary. A must-read! - Aucafélittérairedecéline, Babelio

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gilbert Laporte was born in Paris and lives in the south of France. He completed his higher education in Nice and worked as an executive at several large companies. He divides his leisure time between reading history, cinema, music, travel, and writing.

Leseprobe

Couverture

Page de titre

Deliver us from the appearance of good and evil…

Prologue

Inferno?

David Varenne was not a believer.

That was what led to his downfall.

Naturally skeptical, this intellectual in his forties had never worshipped any god nor feared the devil. He was also firmly convinced that he would never go to Purgatory or Heaven, and should therefore enjoy the blessings and pleasures of earthly life without worrying about eternal punishment.

Carpe diem.

He did not dream of the wonderful garden of Eden with its exquisite fruits, crisscrossed by rivers of milk scented with honey and inhabited by sublime languid virgins whose veils billowed under a silky zephyr infused with the sweet fragrances of ancient roses. The punishment of the damned, their skin flayed as they screamed their eternal agony in the flames of Gehenna, or the infamous souls bathing in the sulfur lakes of Tartarus did not populate his nightmares. As for the vaporous angels with wings of light and the stinking imps with hooves and goat horns, they only elicited mocking sarcasm and dubious jokes from him.

For Varenne, the fallen angel, the Prince of Darkness, Satan, the demon, the wicked one, Beelzebub, Lucifer, or Mephistopheles were merely names used to absolve humanity of its most unspeakable urges and to frighten naive women so that the male gender could better subjugate them. This childish mythology was thus only meant to promise rewards or threaten punishment to naive minds.

What David Varenne did not know was that the most malevolent of creatures would come, in person, to make him taste the torments of hell.

NOW.

Yet, at the very beginning, when he gradually regained consciousness, everything seemed fine. His brain was still foggy from the drug that had been injected into him, but he was slowly regaining his sensations. A velvety feeling of well-being and relaxation coursed through his entire being.

45 beats per minute.

His pulse was beating slowly, very slowly. He felt the paradisiacal sensation of floating on the surface of a silky cloud, radiating a gentle warmth on his skin. It was quite pleasant, although he had a bitter taste in his mouth and his limbs felt numb, almost paralyzed… he sought to understand what was happening by concentrating on his situation.

Varenne realized he was lying on his back and indeed could not move either his arms or his legs. His neck was stiff, and he had to make an effort just to open his eyelids. The light from a ceiling lamp, just above him, violently pierced his eyes. He immediately shut them again with a grimace and waited for his pupils to adjust to the brightness. He then called upon his other senses to analyze his situation. The atmosphere around him was heavy and humid. The air he breathed was sticky, almost slimy. There was also this difficult-to-define, overpowering, and acrid smell.

Not acrid.

No, rather…

ANIMAL.

A bit disoriented by the events, he strained to listen. Very faint sounds reached him, but he could not truly identify them.

58 beats per minute.

What were his eardrums perceiving? It seemed like something was sliding next to him. There were also scratching sounds, but extremely faint. Gripped by a slight unease, he gradually opened his eyelids, trying to acclimate to the brightness of the lamp filtering through a thick, dirty glass.

71 beats per minute.

He jolted in surprise, but his muscles, blocked by the drug affecting his neuromuscular system, did not respond to his reaction. Something was slowly, very slowly, creeping up his left leg, inside his pants. Disgust and fear overwhelmed him. He felt that a small animal had entered beneath his clothing.

Not such a small animal.

He sensed the presence of multiple legs. It felt, in fact… like a huge spider.

83 beats per minute.

Varenne’s eyes widened abruptly at this horrifying thought. He had to make an effort to slightly lift his head and glance at his legs. The sight that assailed him filled him with dread, and he wanted to scream his fear, but only a garbled sound escaped from his stiff throat. A second hideous spider was stealthily crawling on his left shoe and was also preparing to take refuge in his pants.

This is not possible. I’m having a nightmare!

DO YOU BELIEVE?

Yet it did seem to be a rather large tarantula, more precisely a female Atrax robustus. This species, native to Australia, exceeded seven centimeters in diameter and possessed very robust venom fangs capable of piercing the leather of a sports shoe. Unlike other tarantulas, it was hairless, giving it the repulsive appearance of a skeletal hand clad in light brown leather with oily reflections. As for its companion, snugly settled under the beige polyester pants, it was a male measuring only five centimeters, but whose venom was four times more toxic than that of its mate. Varenne tried to reason with himself.

Thank goodness I was drugged, he thought, otherwise I would have moved… and they would have bitten me!

He shivered compulsively.

Calm down, it’s not necessarily an aggressive species. They just want to find warmth. You can’t move. They won’t harm you…

91 beats per minute.

He searched for reasons to reassure himself, but suddenly a doubt crept in.

If I was able to move my eyes and eyelids and lift my neck a bit, it means the substance that paralyzes me is starting to wear off!

Fearful, he cast a circular glance around him to try to analyze his situation. He immediately realized he was lying in some sort of glass cage…

A glass cage?

… resembling an aquarium…

A vivarium!

The utterly absurd situation he found himself in terrified him.

I’ve been locked in a vivarium! With tarantulas!

NOT ONLY…

He felt something from his right hip slithering across his belly in a sinuous motion.

Oh no! A snake!

115 beats per minute.

The viper, gray with a black-striped back and about 70 centimeters long, paused for a moment to look at him with its unsettling round eyes and vertical slit pupils. Feeling threatened, it coiled into an S shape and opened its mouth, revealing its formidable venom fangs. Then, reassured by the man’s immobility, it stretched out again and continued its leisurely path. The reptile seemed to take its time advancing, and it felt to Varenne as if it lasted an eternity.

Am I going crazy, or what???

Fortunately for him, he was still physically unable to move, and the sight of the venomous snake had petrified him with terror anyway. However, his breathing quickened under the effect of the panic he had just experienced.

The spiders are afraid of the viper! That’s why they took refuge under my clothes.

Another slithering sensation was felt, this time along his right leg.

Oh no! There are several snakes!

There were indeed two, and the second one was also of considerable size.

127 beats per minute.

He suddenly felt very short of breath, his chest tight, and a sharp pain shot up his left arm, a symptom of a possible heart attack. He grimaced. Despite the pain, he could not move, lest he be cruelly bitten. If that happened, he would have no chance of survival. David Varenne’s eyes filled with tears. He began to sweat profusely. Large beads of foul-smelling sweat pooled on his forehead and along his temples. It was not the heat that made him sweat.

It was fear.

How had he ended up here? He could not remember.

How can one experience such an unreal and horrific situation?

He did not understand it.

What is happening right now does not exist! It’s the drug they injected into me that is making me delirious…

This will all stop soon.

I will regain my senses. I’m sure of it…

YOUR TORTURE IS NOT YET OVER.

135 beats per minute.

Although he frequently suffered from tachycardia, he had never felt his heart pound so fast. He suddenly felt nauseous, followed by a sudden dizziness. He thought that fainting might be a good solution, given the circumstances, but he noticed that his right hand was now moving. He also realized he could move his neck. The substance had been administered to paralyze him was beginning to wear off.

Don’t move! Above all, don’t move, or you’re dead!

He tried to gather his thoughts despite the panic that was now turning into sheer terror. The second tarantula was still moving. He could feel it through the disgusting tickling of its large hairy legs along his calf. The other spider remained snugly still at the top of the inside of his right thigh. Feeling it so close to his intimate parts revolted him, but he had to stay calm. He had no choice if he wanted to live, for himself and his family.

That’s it! Think of your wife and children. Disconnect your mind from the atrocity of the current situation that cannot be reality… none of this really exists…

155 beats per minute.

Unfortunately, he could not manage to discipline his heart, which was pounding harder and harder against his chest. He felt as if it was delivering irregular and violent blows, as if it wanted to escape by bursting through his ribcage. His body could no longer endure what his eyes were witnessing. In his life, nothing had equaled such a feeling of revulsion and pure terror, which he was also forced to endure without means of defense or escape. He was suddenly seized by uncontrollable shivers.

Your heart is fragile. Find your calm… you must, or else…

He was interrupted in his thoughts by a deep, masculine voice resonating from the other side of the glass.

“Nunc est tremundum.”

He experienced a moment of perplexity.

Latin? Damn, what is this madness?

Someone had spoken in Latin… he was sure of it. It was absurd, but it didn’t matter; there was someone nearby, and he could now call for help.

But how without frightening those damned beasts?

Indeed, how to do so when one is trapped in such a situation?

Think, think fast…

A sudden doubt assailed him.

Who says this guy will help you? Could he be the one making you endure this vile ordeal?

He called upon his distant knowledge of Latin. Remembering… not easy after all these years, especially in such a state of panic…

‘Nunc est’… it’s now… but ‘tremundum,’ what was that again?

TO TREMBLE.

This guy is crazy, completely crazy! It’s astounding!

He thought he had reached the height of horror, but he was mistaken. Although his vision began to blur from the rapid heartbeat, he caught sight of a tall figure dressed in a blue coat approaching on his right. It was distorted by the thickness of the vivarium glass, and he could not make out the features of the individual, concealed by a surgical mask.

“Nunc est tremundum… [It is now that we must tremble…]”

A small hatch opened just above his head.

“… ad nauseam [… until nausea].”

A latex-gloved hand appeared, holding a glass jar resembling a large jar of jam. He saw with disgust and horror through the bottom of the container that it held a writhing mass of black and light brown scorpions that were fighting savagely among themselves, barely twenty centimeters from his face. He could clearly distinguish their stingers and pincers. There were Androctonus from Africa measuring seven to eight centimeters and Centruroides from Central America, even longer by one to two centimeters.

These were the species most dangerous to humans.

Varenne managed to move his lips to plead, crying:

“No! Not that! Please!”

You’re hallucinating. This is not possible; all of this is purely imaginary!

He let out a hysterical scream, a hoarse and primal cry that was quickly stifled by the thick vomit that erupted instantly from his mouth.

169 beats per minute.

He didn’t even hear the man solemnly pronounce:

“In cauda venenum [In the tail, the venom]. Aeternum vale, memento quia pulvis es [Farewell for eternity, remember that you are dust].”

The hand tilted the glass container with a swift motion, and a cascade of furious scorpions poured onto his face. He shut his eyelids, tucked his head between his shoulders, and pressed his lips together for fear that one of the insects might enter his mouth. He managed to raise both hands to protect his face, but it was too late.

About fifty arachnids were already covering his face and the upper part of his chest.

190 beats per minute.

Varenne had reached the limit of what was bearable. He cracked nervously in the face of such atrocity as, unfortunately for him, the drug had now completely finished numbing his body. He screamed and suddenly thrashed about as if seized by a furious madness, pounding the glass walls with his fists and frantically moving his legs like an epileptic in the throes of a seizure.

It was the slaughter.

The first viper sank its fangs into his forearm, and the second into his thigh. He didn’t even feel the bites of the tarantulas in the avalanche of stings from the scorpions that were now lacerating his neck, lips, and even his eyes. The toxins spread rapidly through his veins. He would never have imagined dying in such a repugnant manner and in such torment.

The individual who had condemned him in such a horrific way remained, for his part, impassive before his cries of the damned. He observed his reactions with a cold eye mixed with simple curiosity.

His suffering is necessary, but is it sufficient?

Like many people, David Varenne hated more than anything the vile animals and insects that crawled and swarmed on the ground. He had a severe phobia of arachnids, hissing reptiles, slimy worms, damp larvae, disgusting cockroaches, and other hideous mites, and an inhuman individual was currently making him cruelly experience the most dreadful of his nightmares, giving him a taste of hell, the realm of Hades, the Sheol, the Gehenna on earth, without even allowing him to cross the limbo.

He was not a believer; he had never been, but he now knew the worst torments, and the one who was subjecting him to such atrocities had one of the most demonic minds. However, he would never know what part of his delirium and what part of reality was in what he saw. His suffering was, unfortunately, authentic. An unbearable, unimaginable pain.

His bloodshot eyes began to take on a completely glassy appearance, while streams of foamy drool oozed from the corners of his lips. His entire body was shaken by violent spasms.

Fortunately for him, his life ended before the venom had time to swell his flesh and make him agonize in a horrific manner. It was fear that ultimately overcame his heart muscle. He had one last spasm that abruptly lifted his ribcage.

Death was a release.

Above his glass tomb, his executioner displayed a satisfied look.

His work had been well accomplished.

DELIVER US FROM EVIL.

0 beats per minute.

AMEN.

1

Carroge

Crrrrrrr…

A faint crack echoed through the room.

Claire Demange paid it no mind. Her husband’s old family home naturally creaked and groaned, especially on summer evenings when its fir beams cooled. In those moments, one could almost hear the lamentations of a centenarian complaining of the rheumatism in her weary body.

The young woman was anxious. It was 11:15 PM, and her partner, who had yet to return, had not been in touch for several hours. She couldn’t fathom the reason for his delay, especially since Pierre was typically very predictable, always punctual and faithful to his routines. He was not the type to linger before returning home. He thrived in the comfort of his own space and cherished the gentle presence of his wife by his side.

She had tried several times to reach him on his mobile, but it went straight to voicemail.

Don’t worry. He must have forgotten to turn it on this morning, that scatterbrain… she thought to reassure herself.

Claire hadn’t the heart to prepare a meal while waiting for him and was merely nibbling on a piece of cheese, anxiously browsing the internet. Due to the sweltering heat of July, she wore a loose-fitting T-shirt and bright pink shorts that showcased her long, pale legs. As for her feet, which she thought were too large, they were clad in a pair of thick, comfortable flip-flops, which she snapped against her heels to distract herself from her worry. With a precise motion, she tied her fine blonde hair at the nape of her neck, nervously fanned herself with a notebook, and squinted her green eyes while stifling a yawn. She had slept poorly the night before due to the oppressive heat, and fatigue was beginning to take its toll.

In search of an explanation for her husband’s unexplained absence, she decided to open his email account. Claire felt a twinge of guilt for snooping through her husband’s emails, but she was equally furious at not having received a call or message from him to inform her of his delay. With a nervous gesture, she tucked a rebellious strand of hair behind her right ear.

“Damn, he put a password on it,” she muttered under her breath.

She made a first attempt to access it using the name “Pierre,” but to no avail. Then she typed “Pierrot” on the keyboard. That didn’t work either. Next, she entered her husband’s date of birth into the input field. The inbox opened.

“Bingo!” she exclaimed, clenching her fists in victory. Too easy, my dear!

Claire was a computer scientist, and this made her smile. Pierre was an intellectual passionate about history who wasn’t very savvy about computer security. Fortunately, he didn’t have an internet subscription for his bank account, as she usually handled the practical aspects of their household. She clicked on the email. It was from a certain François Montaigu, a priest, it seemed. The content of the message was utterly enigmatic to her:

�Pierre, please come visit me as soon as you can. We need to discuss the matter that concerns us. I have some very interesting new information to share with you. I know that with you, it will be in good hands and that you will use it appropriately. However, I feel watched. It is therefore high time we disseminate the information, though it pains me, as you can imagine. Best regards. May God keep you. François.�

This message left her perplexed. She had never heard of this François. The term “watched” only added to her unease. What kind of trouble had her husband gotten himself into, naive as he was?

Crrrrrrr…

She ignored the plaintive sound again, which seemed to be getting closer, and settled back in her chair to think. Pierre was a historian specializing in ancient religious texts, but he was not a believer. Claire deduced that he must have met this François Montaigu in the course of his research. She checked the sent and received folders in the email account and saw that the priest and the historian had exchanged several messages. The discussions indeed revolved around the Gospels, with Pierre offering critiques to which his interlocutor responded very openly for a religious figure. Some recent emails bore the same subject line: “Re: carroge.”

These messages generally contained only a few words, the meaning of which was not obvious. Increasingly intrigued, Claire scrolled back to the first email received in the list. In it, it simply stated:

“I managed to decipher a first word: ‘carroge.’ It appears often, and I think it’s important, perhaps the key to the riddle.”

Gripped by curiosity, she opened her internet browser and typed the word “carroge” into a search engine.

“Two hundred ten results” flashed on the screen. However, the data was not promising. Most of the responses were in foreign languages. Claire narrowed the search to French pages, but the forty-six results that appeared were equally unhelpful. The engine suggested the spelling “carrouge.” She tried that, but the links mostly led to sites about a Swiss town and a castle in Lower Normandy. Knowing that her husband was only passionate about analyzing ancient texts, she typed “carroge etymology” into the search window.

The response suggested trying “carouge etymology.” She clicked on the link, but the results still didn’t provide any clarity. Frustrated by going in circles, she nervously tapped her nails on the bottom of the keyboard and made one last attempt with “carroge name origin.” Again, the results were disappointing.

Crrrrrrr…

A new crack echoed, this time very close to the desk. Claire vaguely perceived it, but she was still too absorbed in her research to pay it any mind. Still worried about her husband’s fate, she checked her mobile phone resting on the computer desk once more. No messages had been received. She bit her lower lip in exasperation. The waiting was frustrating. She thought that when he returned, he would receive a good scolding followed by a frown.

You’re going to get it, old man!

Claire was furious, but anxiety was growing within her. Her troubled gaze fell upon a piece of paper lying near the phone. Words had been scrawled there by her husband. She recognized the enigmatic word “carroge” along with others that didn’t shed any more light: “bone, cachier, craon…”

A severe yawn abruptly pulled her from her thoughts. It was high time to go to bed. It was getting very late, and her husband seemed well on his way to staying out all night…

He wouldn’t cheat on me, would he?

This hypothesis only crossed her mind for a brief moment. She shook her head as if to say no, smiling at the thought. Her husband was extremely shy and had taken an eternity to confess his feelings for her, despite all the advances she had made that he seemed not to understand. It had almost taken her forcing the issue during their first intimate encounter. That memory made her chuckle. She gently shook her head.

Not really his style to chase after women. Between an ancient manuscript and a beautiful girl, he would choose reading…

Claire trudged upstairs to the pavilion and made a stop in the bathroom, where she slipped into a white nightgown after quickly applying a night cream to her face. She sighed at the sight of her pale complexion and her small chest, which she was so self-conscious about. Finally, she stuck her tongue out at her reflection in the mirror and threw herself onto her bed. The coolness of the sheets was pleasant, and she shifted positions as soon as the spot warmed under her body’s heat. Despite the night, it was still very humid, and her skin was constantly clammy. Sleep would be hard to find.