Carroge - Book 2 E-Book

Laporte Gilbert

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

Seitenzahl: 185

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...

Biblical historian Pierre Demange calls on a private detective friend with questionable methods to help him in his search for an ancient manuscript and protect him from the psychopath who marks his victims on their foreheads with the number 666.
Lieutenant Martin Delpech of the Judicial Police is doing his best to tighten his grip on the murderer, but he is convinced that he will strike again...

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

WHAT THE CRITICS THINK

Passionate about the subject of the creation of 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

1

Ut queant laxis

Christian Laumier leaned against the railing at the front of the old boat to watch its entrance into the small fishing port. The crossing of Lake Atitlán, flanked by its three volcanoes, had taken less than an hour from the town of Panajachel. It had been particularly pleasant. The sky was clear, the water a deep indigo, and the sun was shining brightly. The prevailing wind of the lake, the Xocomil, had begun to blow just after noon. Thus, it was not too hot on this beautiful day in the Guatemalan highlands.

Laumier stroked his short beard thoughtfully. He had lost count of the kilometers he had traveled in the most remote corners of the world to report on the hottest topics in the news. His weathered face bore the weight of his years more than usual, particularly on his forehead, which was marked by deep wrinkles accentuated by the troubles of his divorce.

He gradually emerged from his thoughts. The old vessel slowed down to dock in a thick black cloud of fuel. The village of Santiago Atitlán was nestled against a hill at 2,500 meters above sea level and traversed from top to bottom by a steep, straight alley. It was crowned by a church of vaguely baroque style. On the other side of the narrowest part of the lake loomed the slopes of the San Pedro volcano.

He took advantage of the last docking maneuvers to snap a few pictures of the mountains surrounding the body of water. To the right of the settlement, there were small fields planted with sparse corn. The volcanic terrain was so steep that he wondered how the farmers managed to irrigate, maintain, and harvest it.

No sooner had he disembarked than two very elderly Indigenous women rushed toward him to offer to pose for a paid photo. They were dressed in local attire with curious round hats, called “tocoyal,” made of a long strip of fabric wrapped around their heads. He gently declined and began his ascent up the alley. A group of dirty children followed him for a while, laughing, under the indifferent gaze of two men sitting on the dock in their traditional striped short pants.

He watched his step as he climbed the narrow street. The path was made of packed dirt, marked by a trickle of muddy water. On either side, tiny shops offered low-priced replicas of Maya art, as well as numerous rugs, vibrant fabrics, ceramics, and quality handmade masks. He took the time to glance at them and was surprised not to be aggressively approached by the vendors, as he often was in many other countries.

At one point, he stepped aside to let a curious procession pass. A group of men was carrying a wooden statue draped in traditional clothing. The most astonishing aspect of this religious scene, full of devotion, was that a cigarette had been placed in the mouth of the figure. Intrigued, the journalist asked a merchant nearby about it.

“What? You don’t know Maximón?” the merchant exclaimed, as if it were obvious.

At the top of the hill, the church occupied one side of the village’s main square, where a fair had been set up with a large wheel decorated with colorful ribbons. Topped with a porch and a wrought-iron railing, the place of worship was covered in peeling white and blue paint, accessible by a series of steps carved from black lava. He decided to enter.

The place was almost deserted.

About ten statues of saints had been dressed in traditional costumes of bright colors, as if to transform them into ancient local deities. A few candles burned in a corner, and a strong smell of incense perfumed the air. The decoration was nearly non-existent. Sitting on the ground, an old woman resembling a shaman poured alcohol onto the stone floor while chanting prayers.

When he exited the church, he was struck by the contrast between the dimness and silence inside and the brightness and noise coming from the central square.

It was a market day.

The activity was at its peak. Farmers and artisans came to sell their produce behind makeshift stalls made of rough planks, corrugated metal, and plastic tarps. Some sat directly on the ground, their few fruits and vegetables placed on the dusty earth. Laumier noticed that these products were smaller than those found in Europe and were mostly blemished by diseases. But their natural origin must have given them flavors that those sold in Western supermarkets lacked.

A little further on, a vendor was offering his greasy, appetizing donuts, which he then wrapped in newspaper. What caught Laumier’s attention were the fabrics hanging or displayed on racks. A true kaleidoscope, the clothes and blankets shimmered with patterns of birds and plants in warm, joyful colors.

Having crossed the market, he headed toward the sunny terrace of an internet café. There were many customers, and he thought it was certainly the best place to begin his investigations. A chipped table and a bamboo chair awaited him. No sooner had he sat down than a young server of Indian descent came to take his order. He asked for a beer in broken Spanish.

When his drink landed on the table, he was dismayed by the dirty state of the glass, which was almost opaque. As a precaution, he decided to drink from the neck of the bottle.

He had just begun his drink when a tall, heavyset man approached him directly, addressing him in English.

“Hi! Everything going well?”

Surprised, Laumier examined the stranger who was speaking to him. He was in his forties, and his accent was clearly American. He was poorly dressed in black pants, thick plastic sandals, and a Hawaiian shirt.

“Are you a tourist?” he continued.

Seeing Laumier’s bewildered expression, he added, pressing his right hand to his chest as if to share a secret:

“I’m a pastor in the village.”

He pointed to a new building located at the edge of the square, opposite the old church. The concrete structure, with its modern architecture, clashed with the other buildings in the village. It had been freshly painted white. On the front, an inscription in Spanish identified it as “The House of Jesus and Holy Mary.”

“Can I sit down?”

The man indicated the chair next to him. Laumier invited him with a wave of his hand. Making first contact with the village pastor was, after all, a stroke of luck to start his investigations.

“Are you a tourist?” he repeated.

“I’m a journalist.”

He showed his photographic equipment.

“Ah, good, I see. Have you come about the miracles too?”

“Miracles?”

He pretended not to be aware.

“Yes, the luminous signs accompanied by the singing of angels. You know, everyone has seen and heard them here. You can ask anyone; they will tell you the truth. These signs come from God. There’s no doubt. They’re announcing the return of Jesus, who will soon be among us. The end of times is approaching; the Antichrist will manifest, but the Beast will be defeated by the Messiah.”

He was getting excited, making grand gestures with his arms while speaking in a powerful voice. Then he abruptly stopped, seeing that his interlocutor wore a skeptical expression.

“Are you French?”

Laumier nodded.

“Many American or South American journalists have come, you know, but not any French ones yet. You are the first. But you French, you don’t believe in God, do you?”

“Yes, but perhaps not as intensely as in other countries; we do have a rather secular tradition.”

“The French, you think you know everything and want to teach lessons to the whole world. Well, it’s true, you might have been right in Iraq, but you are wrong to underestimate the events taking place here.”

“What exactly happened?”

The pastor leaned forward and lowered his voice as if to share a secret.

“Well, it was a little after two in the morning, it was early July last year, the whole village was awakened by singing.”

“What kind of singing?”

“Like a choir of young children. They sang a very beautiful melody.”

“Were there any words?”

“No, no words, just voices repeating a melody. It was a strange song, one we’re not used to hearing, and it was sung in an unknown language.”

“Where did those voices come from?”

“From the other side of the lake.”

He stretched his arm toward the volcano.

“We could hear them perfectly, I swear. And then there were the lights.”

“What kind of lights?”

“White lights that rose from the ground and ascended toward the sky.”

Laumier, a bit perplexed, frowned.

“You don’t believe me,” the American noted.

“It’s not that, but it’s quite unusual, admit it.”

“I repeat, you can ask anyone. Everyone will talk to you about it. Almost the entire village witnessed it, and these are simple, honest people here. Not the kind to make up anything to make themselves interesting.”

He changed the subject.

“Have you visited the old church?”

The journalist nodded.

“A beautiful example of syncretism,” said the pastor.

“Syncretism?”

“Syncretism. A mix of religions, if you will. There are many Christian and Maya symbols intertwined.”

“Yes, I noticed, particularly the carved wooden pulpit representing a Maya deity.”

“That would be Yum Kaax, the god of corn, and a quetzal. Curious, isn’t it? The Indians have retained their ancestral beliefs in Kukulkan–Quetzalcoatl–while converting to Catholicism.”

“I suppose the same can be said for all religions, including Catholics.”

“For example?”

“For example, in ancient times, Egyptian priests waved a bowl of incense during processions. Or in the sacrifice of Christ, the wine as a symbol of blood, or the resurrection, and many other things that can be found in Greek or Roman mythology.”

The pastor shifted in his seat. He had a ready answer on the subject.

“Of course, you can always find roots for a custom, but the Christian religion is unique in a fundamental aspect.”

“What aspect?”

“Love, it’s obvious. The love of God, and God is love!” declared the pastor.

This was a slippery slope, and the discussion risked entering into controversy. Laumier nodded and decided to change the subject.

“Your temple looks recent?”

“Yes, it’s about a year old.”

“Were the people of the village the ones who built it?”

“No, not really; the labor here isn’t skilled enough. We had to bring in workers mainly from Panajachel, the nearest town. It was funded by the donations of our American flock. You know, the people here are too poor.

“Do you have many followers in this village?”

“Oh, more and more, although there are now several evangelical temples. But we are close to the people and speak to them from the heart, which is why we have crowds. The traditional church, on the other hand, doesn’t do much for them. And with the miracle that happened, it’s going to become a pilgrimage site here.”

His eyes sparkled; he had spoken of the Catholic Church with disdain. Laumier continued:

“So is your mission quite new? I had never heard of it in Europe.”

“We’ve been around for three or four years, but we’re growing a lot. Our message resonates with many people, and we have a huge number of followers in the States…”

A powerful sound of an organ interrupted him, as if a key had stuck on the note C. It came from the temple. Everyone in the square turned their eyes in that direction.

“What’s happening?”

“I don’t know, replied the pastor,” looking astonished.

“Is someone playing the organ?”

He shook his head negatively.

“No, that’s not possible…”

“Why?”

He pulled a set of keys from his pocket.

“Because I locked it when I left, and there’s no one inside.”

The sound of the organ continued to fill the square. Gradually, and out of curiosity, people began to converge toward the white building. The pastor grabbed the journalist by the arm.

“Come with me!”

They ran to the temple, weaving through the crowd that was starting to stir. The pastor frantically searched for the right key and nervously turned the lock. They had barely entered the building when the sound stopped abruptly.

The large worship hall was empty. At the back, on a platform, stood a solitary organ. The two men approached it. Laumier’s heart was beating nervously. His Cartesian journalist’s mind was being challenged. The electronic organ was not turned on.

“May I?” he asked the pastor, pointing to the musical instrument.

“Go ahead, please.”

Laumier flipped the main switch, and a soft hum of startup was heard. He pressed the C key. It was indeed the same sound as earlier. The volume was set much lower, but it was identical.

For the first time in his life, he thought that something was happening that surpassed his understanding.

2

The Savior

Pierre Demange drove nervously, brooding over anger and frustration. He had to queue again at the police station, and the same officer had looked down on him when he declared he had found his car. He had also received a paternalistic sermon, a reminder of Article 441-6 of the penal code regarding false statements and the punishment for lying declarations, etc., etc.

… and really, it’s such a pain; I don’t have enough problems as it is…

Finally, he was not far from home. He was almost there. He would soon find the comfort of his sweet wife and the coziness of his large house, where he found the isolation that suited him so well.

He activated the automatic gate and drove down the gravel driveway. He was surprised to see his wife sitting on the lawn, her bike with bags full of groceries leaning against a tree. She stood up upon seeing the car and dusted off her bottom, making sure she hadn’t stained her shorts. Pierre stopped beside her.

“What are you doing here?” he asked through the open window.

Claire approached the vehicle.

“Get out!” she commanded nervously.

She was so stressed that she didn’t even react to the fact that her husband had found the car.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking worried.

“Someone broke in through the front door.”

“Oh, really? Did they steal something from us?”

“I don’t know; I was scared to go in. There might still be someone inside… I was sure of it, and you didn’t want to believe me…”

She had thrown this accusation with an angry glance. Her husband, looking annoyed, seemed to ignore it, unless he didn’t want to enter into a debate he knew in advance he wouldn’t win.

“Damn it! This can’t be true! It’s definitely been a week of disasters!”

Claire followed her husband, who was striding angrily toward the entrance after arming himself with the car jack. They climbed the three exterior steps of the pavilion and stopped on the stone porch. They listened intently, but everything seemed calm.

The door was ajar, the lock smashed, and the edge of the wood damaged by what appeared to be pry marks. Pierre Demange cautiously pushed the door open with the tips of his left fingers, his right hand firmly holding the jack.

The door opened slowly, revealing an empty hallway.

They successively checked the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedrooms, the dining room, the living room, and ended their inspection in the office.

“What is this mess!” Pierre Demange exclaimed angrily upon seeing the disordered room.

Books from the library had been knocked to the floor, the desk drawers were open after having been clearly rummaged through, and numerous sheets of paper littered the ground.

“They even stole our laptop!” he added.

“Apparently, they didn’t take anything else; the stereo, the DVD player, and the TV are still in the living room,” Claire noted.

“I’m really fed up!” Pierre grumbled. “I’m going to pour myself a whiskey to relax; otherwise, I’m going to lose it.”

“Good idea. I’ll join you. At this point, we might as well get drunk.”

They collapsed onto their couch after pouring themselves a generous drink.

“I don’t understand anything about what’s happening to us,” the historian wondered, looking overwhelmed after explaining to his wife how he had found their vehicle. “The pinnacle being my abduction, with the car returned almost to the same spot.”

“It’s because they didn’t want either you or your car,” his wife asserted.

“What are you saying?”

“They didn’t want to kidnap you or steal from you, obviously.”

“But then why?”

“They were looking for something.”

“But what?”

Claire grew exasperated at his lack of common sense.

“I don’t know; you’re the one best placed to know the reasons. It could be a document in your possession or something compromising.”

She furrowed her blonde brows.

“Would it have anything to do with your upcoming book?”

“Hmm, no. I don’t think so. There are no state secrets in it, nor anything that could implicate anyone.”

“And the priest’s messages?”

“Why do you think of him specifically?”

“Well, he said he was in danger in his emails. Did he mention anything particular to you?”

He shrugged, making a questioning grimace.

“We were supposed to do research together, as I told you earlier. He mentioned an old document that I was supposed to help him translate, but I’m not a specialist in Old French. I have some notions, that’s all…”

“And what was this document about?”

“He didn’t specify. For him, at least, it was very important. It was a collection he had recovered after his father’s death. His father had told him that it could challenge the foundations of Christianity.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all. I don’t know more.”

“I’m sure it’s related to that,” Claire asserted.

Pierre, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue, plunged his gaze into the bottom of his glass.

“You’re probably right. In any case, I don’t see any other reason.”

She had a sudden flash of intuition.

“It’s a plot by the Vatican!” she exclaimed, grabbing her husband’s arm.

Pierre, nearly spilling his drink, stared at her in astonishment.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The Church is behind all this. Without a doubt.”

He rolled his eyes with a mocking smile.

“Now you’re going a bit far!”

“But who else would have an interest in wanting documents that could endanger the Church? And you told me that one of your attackers seemed to be Italian.”

He thought for a moment, scratching his neck nervously.

“Well, upon reflection, your idea isn’t so far-fetched.”

“It’s obvious; that’s why they rummaged through the car and took the laptop. They left the printer and the stereo. They were looking for information.”

“Yes, and they succeeded. But that doesn’t explain why I found my car in the same spot.”

“In my opinion, they arrived like you by train and took the same means of transport back. That’s all.”

He looked astonished.

“That’s true… I’m so foolish. I hadn’t even thought of that.”

Claire gazed at her empty glass thoughtfully.

“So, what do we do about the house?”

“What do you mean?”

She rolled her eyes and mimicked him, looking astonished.

“What do you mean? What do you mean? Sometimes it seems like you’re doing it on purpose. We’re not going to sit here with our arms crossed waiting for something bad to happen to us! By the way, what do the police think of your complaint?”

“Oh, you know, they didn’t really believe me, especially since I went back a quarter of an hour later to say I had found our vehicle.”

She waved the argument away.

“In any case, we need to file a complaint for the burglary.”

“Oh, no! I’m not going back there. You can go if you want.”

“Fine, okay, but you take care of fixing the door. We can’t leave it like this.”

He picked up the glasses to take them to the sink and stopped halfway.

“I have an idea. I’m going to call Mathieu.”

“Who’s that?”

“Mathieu Carrel. An old high school buddy. We still saw each other occasionally at university, but he studied law.”

“How can he help us?”

“He started a private investigation business, which was doing quite well last I heard. I’m sure he can advise us.”

“Have I seen him before?”

“No. I vaguely mentioned him to you, but that’s about it. Since we’ve been together, I’ve cut ties a bit.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I think when you see him, knowing you as I do, you’re going to hate him.”

3

The Wrath of Pluto

Naples, paradise.

Its sweet way of life, the sun, the sea, Capri and its multicolored marine caves, the Amalfi coast with its white villages clinging to steep cliffs.

Naples, hell.

Vesuvius.

A sleeping monster with an eye that always waits for its moment. In the past, it had already swept away the insolent who dared to inhabit its slopes with a scorching breath, burying their fragile homes beneath its fiery spouts. Today, like a hypocritical giant, it remained poised to spew death from its gaping maw onto the unsuspecting population living at its feet.

It is said that God wept, recognizing in the Gulf of Naples a fragment of heaven torn away by Lucifer, and where His tears fell, the vines sprang forth that produced the delightful wine Lacrima Christi.

Paradise and hell.

Graziella and Roberto were about to experience both…

Young Roberto had taken his new fiancée for a stroll on the slopes of Vesuvius at dusk. He had received a shiny blue scooter as a gift for his eighteenth birthday, which he parked along the winding road next to a dry stone wall. The young couple sat down below, facing the Bay of Naples, which began to illuminate as the glowing fires of the day faded. In the city, a stifling heat reigned, but here, a cool breeze caressed the slopes in the evening. The suburb where they lived was mundane, dotted with sad buildings faded by the sun. At night, however, it appeared to their eyes like a cluster of twinkling stars, car headlights resembling tireless fireflies from above.