Carroge - Book 4 E-Book

Laporte Gilbert

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

Seitenzahl: 132

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...

At the hands of the murderer who crucifies another of his victims, Claire Demange tries everything to escape. At the same time, Lieutenant Martin Delpech has finally identified the lair where the psychopath kills his prey. But he still has to arrive in time to save her...

Discover the fourth 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

Penitence

Olivier Debecker felt sharp pains coursing through his entire body. He grimaced and recalled how his tormentor had first suspended him naked from a chain hanging from the ceiling of the room, violently whipping his back and chest. The stinging leather straps had almost immediately left red, burning welts on his pale skin.

THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING…

Though paralyzed by pain, he was also aware of an uncomfortable lying position and the numbness in his limbs. He realized he was lying on his back on the floor, with his arms and legs restrained. He lifted his head to assess his situation, and what he saw petrified him with terror.

He was bound with thick black adhesive tape to a wooden cross lying on the ground. His feet were propped up on some sort of platform, and he was dressed only in a short white linen loincloth. The thought of being crucified knotted his stomach, and he could not stop his legs from trembling. At first, he thought it was a bad joke, but when he noticed that the room had been set up as an operating theater, a paralyzing fear engulfed him. On the operating table, he caught sight of a young blonde woman he did not know, who appeared to be deeply asleep. He turned his head to the left, towards metal shelves fixed against the wall. The sight of jars filled with small animals and shapeless pieces of flesh, perhaps human, only added to his horror.

YOU WILL ATONE FOR YOUR SINS ON THE CROSS.

He heard footsteps approaching, and when he saw the man in a surgeon’s outfit enter the room, coming closer with long nails in one hand and a heavy hammer in the other, he screamed in a panicked tone:

“Stop! What are you doing? Are you insane!”

Valade remained unperturbed. He set his tools down on the floor, put on a mask over the lower half of his face, and donned splash goggles. He picked up one of the nails and pressed it firmly against Debecker’s palm, driving it into the wood of the cross with powerful blows of the hammer. His victim screamed with each impact, thrashing like a madman, but the adhesive tape held him firmly in place. After each nail was driven in, bursting through flesh, Valade recited a phrase from the mass in a monotone voice.

“ Dominus vobiscum. [The Lord be with you.]”

When the faux surgeon finally finished nailing his hands and feet, Debecker was both mad with pain and deeply disoriented. He pleaded with his tormentor through sobs:

“Please, why are you doing this?”

Valade paused, surprised by the question.

“But to save you, of course,” he replied in a muffled voice through his mask.

“But save me from what?”

His lips trembled with despair. The surgeon seemed to be reciting a well-learned lesson.

“Simply saving your soul. Extracting the sins and sacrilege that dwell within you. You will repent on the cross. Your suffering will cleanse your wicked soul, and God will welcome it into His paradise for eternity.”

“You’re insane, completely mad!” Debecker sobbed.

He stopped thrashing, fearing to reignite the pain in his palms and feet, and began to cry softly, feeling despair inexorably engulf him.

But for him, the worst was yet to come.

YOUR TRIAL IS NOT OVER… YOU WILL UNDERSTAND WHAT CHRIST ENDURED.

Valade attached a hook to a ring at the head of the cross. It was connected to a chain fixed to the ceiling via a pulley. Then he moved to a control box and flipped a switch. The cross began to slowly rise with the hum of an electric motor. The surgeon then cut the adhesive tape with a scalpel. For the crucified man, who was now only held by the nails, the pain was excruciating. First in his hands, then in his feet as he reached a vertical position. It felt as if his flesh was gradually tearing apart.

Then it became even more terrible. If he pressed down on his feet, the pain shot up to his thighs. If he relaxed his effort, it became unbearable in his palms, and he began to suffocate due to his suspended position.

He knew the consequences of crucifixion and was well aware that his agony would be slow and continuously painful. It would end in asphyxiation when his muscles cramped and could no longer lift his ribcage, pulled down by the weight of his body. He would only be given a quick death if his tormentor decided to break his legs to hasten his suffocation. In the meantime, his suffering would be intense and unending. He would have no resting position, no moment of respite in his torture.

THIS IS HOW IT MUST BE… FOR YOUR OWN GOOD.

Claire, for her part, heard everything that was happening. Lying on the operating table, she remained unable to move a muscle. When she had tried to defend herself upon waking, Valade had injected her with another drug using a syringe. Since then, her mind had been foggy, and her body felt paralyzed, but she was becoming increasingly aware.

The young woman had not seen what was happening on the floor to her left, but she felt a chilling apprehension upon hearing the cries of pain and pleading from the man who had been nailed up. She had to find a way to escape a similar fate. She made an effort to open her eyes and turn them to the left. It felt like a nightmare when she caught sight of the crucified individual. The bloody scene was astonishingly horrifying, but her eyes grew heavy and closed again. She still wanted to fall asleep so badly…

Don’t fall asleep! Above all, don’t fall asleep! Otherwise, you’ll end up like him!

She felt extremely tired, and it would have been so easy for her to surrender to sleep. But she had to fight for her survival. So she focused on moving her right hand. No success.

She concentrated. Think only of her hand. Just try to lift her fingers from the table.

Try something else.

Focus on the victim’s screams and moans. Fear would surely snap her out of her stupor. Indeed, the tortured man’s cries were growing louder in her head, a sign that her senses were returning.

Try to move a limb.

She focused all her attention on her right arm. It twitched.

It’s working! It moved! Weakly, but it moved!

Go slowly.

Proceed with caution.

Above all, don’t attract the attention of the man in the surgical scrubs. Be on high alert.

Listen for his movements in the room.

Try to look to the side again by opening her left eye.

She was met with a horrific vision: the bloody, half-naked body of the stranger struggling like an insect pinned to a board. Paralyzed with pain, he finally wet himself.

My God, for pity’s sake, give me the strength to escape this hell!

Don’t panic.

Stay calm.

Watch the executioner through her eyelids and keep moving her right hand.

Try to lift your forearm.

That’s it! Yes, you’re doing it…

2

60 Feet Underground

Demange, his heart frantic at the idea of being buried alive underground, quickened his pace, ignoring the pain from the lighter’s flame on his thumb. When he reached the base of the tunnel’s entrance shaft, his dismay turned into deep distress. He could hear the sound of shovelfuls of dirt and gravel being thrown onto the marble slab. He didn’t want to believe it, but the sound became more and more muffled until he was left in total silence.

The silence was frightening. He could distinctly hear his own breathing and his heart pounding in his chest. Overwhelmed, he sat on the ground to think in the dark about how to get out of this situation.

He would have already had great difficulty lifting the heavy marble slab alone. But if there was now over a meter of earth on top of it, it wasn’t even worth trying. He lit his lighter again to check the time. Claire must be on her way. She would save him. It was his only chance. However, a worry immediately followed this positive thought.

“What if those sinister people go after her?”

They would try to eliminate her, surely. If Carrel set a trap for her, she would be completely unsuspecting and, in any case, se was far too fragile to defend herself.

He got up. He had to try something at all costs. The historian decided to go back into the crypt to find another way out to the surface. Once inside the room, he couldn’t help but admire the frescoes again, bringing his lighter’s flame close to them. The drawings depicted familiar scenes from Jesus’s life, but in different ways. On one of them, he died alone on the Cross.

“That’s possible, it would explain why Jesus left no trace in the history of his time. A common rebel against the established order, and the evangelists later added two other crucified men, following the tradition of the two witnesses who are there to certify that Jesus was indeed martyred.”

But there were other scenes where Jesus was surrounded this time by twenty apostles, whereas they were traditionally recognized as being twelve in number. Another painting showed him very young with his mother. He was accompanied by children, girls and a boy, with a Greek inscription specifying that they were the brothers and sisters of Jesus. One of them was labeled “James.”

“James the Just. The brother of Jesus, as indicated in the texts, and not a cousin as the Church claims.”

There were indeed depictions of the Lord’s entombment, but no scene showed a resurrection or any events following his death. Similarly, miracles were conspicuously absent. He understood that the monks who had hidden these manuscripts must have been frankly disturbed by the discrepancies between these writings and the Church’s canonical vision. Historical study and modern science would allow them to sift through all these versions and determine the most plausible ones. Provided, however, they had the original manuscripts. He was enraged again at the thought that such precious documents were in the hands of common thugs.

Pierre quickly returned to his initial idea of finding a way out. He went to the crypt door and tore off a plank. Perhaps he could make a torch from it. However, the piece of wood refused to catch fire.

“Too old, probably.”

He also noticed with concern that the fuel level in his lighter was extremely low. He wouldn’t have much light left. He needed to conserve it if he wanted a chance to find another exit. He went back into the tunnel, his throat tight with the fear of dying alone underground. He hadn’t yet tried to explore the unimproved section that continued to the right after the crypt. The historian headed in that direction, preserving his light as much as possible, only relighting it periodically to orient himself.

He progressed by carefully placing his feet on the ground, one hand sliding along the chalky wall of the tunnel and the other arm feeling ahead. The corridor descended quite steeply for about twenty meters, then rose in a gentle slope. Demange was gradually regaining hope, although it was becoming increasingly difficult to advance. The vertical fissure was narrow, and he sometimes had to bend over or turn his body sideways to continue. At one point, he felt a wild hope. He stopped and looked at the flame. No, he wasn’t dreaming. It was leaning in the direction he was heading.

“There’s a draft! The fissure must lead to the open air!”

His hopes, however, were quickly dashed. The passage became even narrower. At first, he had to proceed on his knees, then soon he could only painfully crawl. Doing so, he hit his spine against a rocky spur and grimaced in pain. He was scraping his knees against the rock with almost every movement, and his fingers were starting to bleed. The part of the corridor he was in had become so narrow that he had to move with his arms stretched out in front of him, gripping with his fingers and pushing with the tips of his toes. His skull rubbed against the wall. He was completely covered in white dust, including his glasses. The fine chalk dust filled his nostrils, his mouth, and even his eyes.

Coughing, spitting, and crying, he nonetheless poured all his energy into escaping, centimeter by centimeter…

Until that terrible moment.

“Oh, no!”

Trying to force his way into an extremely narrow passage that rose abruptly like a siphon, he became stuck, his torso twisted backward and his head tilted toward his left shoulder. He tried to reverse, but while he had found a grip to pull his body forward, there was no protrusion to push against. The palms of his hands scraped desperately against the ground, but he could no longer move forward or backward.

He was completely stuck.

This was the end.

His journey stopped here.

Pierre lit his lighter and saw out of the corner of his eye that the fissure narrowed to the size of a conduit through which one could barely pass an arm at most. This was indeed the end of his path and his hopes. A draft made his flame flicker, and it finally died. He frantically tried to relight it. A new flame managed to ignite, but weaker. Feeble at first, it began to slowly decline before going out completely.

“There’s no more fuel!”

He tried in vain to relight it. Only a few sparks flew in the dark. He shook the container, hoping for a remnant of fuel.

It was useless.

Dejected, Pierre Demange understood he was condemned to die of hunger and thirst, in a very uncomfortable position and in complete darkness. His torment risked lasting a long time.

He then thought of Claire.

Was she in danger at this very moment?

He hoped she would be okay.

She had a fragile constitution, but he was constantly surprised by the unsuspected resources she found when in difficulty.

Demange loved his wife deeply.

She was a pretty woman, sensitive and strong at the same time. She complemented him perfectly. He was distracted, often lost in thought, and very clumsy with practical matters. Claire, however, always had good sense, great pragmatism, and flawless organizational skills. Despite their character differences, there had never been conflicts in their marriage. They agreed on the essentials: tenderness and respect for each other.

“Claire, my Claire, I love you…”

“I haven’t told you often, because I let myself get too absorbed by reading and my research, but I love you with all my heart.”

Pierre had a sudden, combative surge.

He could not die here without knowing what had become of his wife. It wasn’t possible. She might need him. He absolutely had to get out. This thought comforted him for a moment and gave him the courage to fight. He didn’t want to die without helping his wife. He urgently had to do something.

He couldn’t just stay there.

“Fight, for her!”

He tried again to free himself and began a desperate effort to go backward. He hit his head several times and knocked off his glasses, with no way to put them back on. The palms of his hands were scraped completely raw. Under his fingers, he felt sticky blood mixed with chalk dust. Tears of rage streamed down his cheeks. The rock pressed against his chest, and with his nose full of debris, he could only breathe with great difficulty, which intensified the anguish of his situation. He felt waves of heat, and his body was sweating profusely.