The Savior of Souls

By Sylvain Gilbert

Jack, a dark and sinister being whose terrifying face warped by an old scar, waited in the pouring rain. His mind, disturbed by painful memories of his violent childhood, tormented him. He stood motionless near a telephone booth on Boulevard Hamel in Quebec. Lightning ripped through the sky, reminding him of his mission, a promise of old that he now wanted to keep. He knew that the road to redemption would be strewn with pitfalls, but nothing would stop him. He had to do it, not only for himself, but to find inner peace. He would become the savior of souls to save those people who had sold their souls to the devil. He walked into the phone booth and dialed the pimp's number. He needed a girl, a very young girl.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spiritus Tremens
• Release date: Jan 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781071583067

Book preview

To my mother and my brother Stéphane who love police novels.

A September night...

Saturday morning, 1:02 a.m.

On that cold September night, the rain poured down heavily on the quiet city making the weather even gloomier. A suspicious-looking man walked slowly across the parking lot of a seedy motel on Hamel Boulevard in Quebec City. He made his way with difficulty to a telephone booth on the side of the deserted street. As he passed under a streetlight, he turned his head, revealing his dismal face marked by a scar on his right cheek.

He was wearing jeans and a black waterproof coat with a hood covering his head. Beneath his long, frowning brows hid intimidating dark eyes that could strike anyone with a single glance. A smirk formed on his gaunt lips and a dimple appeared on his hollow cheek. The foggy lighting on his scar had drawn a treacherous smile on the face of this sinister man.

He pushed open the glass cabin door and lowered his head. He picked up the handset and inserted some coins into the device. Then, holding the receiver over his shoulder, he dug deeper into his pockets and pulled out a piece of paper with a number scribbled on it. He trembled. His hand was shaking and it wasn't the rain that made his blood run cold, but what he was about to do.

He took a deep breath, hesitated, and hung up. The sound of coins falling from the phone mingled with the sound of rain hitting the glass booth. He put both hands on either side of the phone and, leaning on the rear window, tilted his head as he breathed increasingly harder. OK, OK, everything is going to be fine. You just have to call and the rest will be fine. Everything will be fine...

He picked up the coins, put them back into the phone box, and dialed the number on the slip of paper. He was gasping for air and scowling. He must have repeated this scene dozens of times, but the nervousness persisted. The tone rang once as if to warn him that there was still time, that he could give up. He shook his head, wanting to chase away all those contradictory ideas that hammered his thoughts like strident notes escaping from a violin harassed by the bow of a talentless man. He had made up his mind, nothing would dissuade him, he couldn't back down. Another ring, another torment. Did he really want to do it? Was there no other way out? Of course not! Upon the third ring a dull, deep voice with a strong foreign accent was heard:

Métier, I'm listening ...

Uh ...

Who is it?

It's... uh... It's Jack!

I don't know any Jack!

The suspicious man felt that his listener was about to hang up, so he answered quickly with a sigh:

I know, Wilton told me to call you.

A silence. A long silence. A very long silence which did not forebode well for this Jack who stepped on the ground like an impatient horse pawing at the inaction of his rider. His fingers roamed out of control on the phone. He scraped the ground, unable to stay calm and still. Time had stopped for a short moment that seemed an eternity. Breathless, he whispered to himself, Please, please don't hang up...

Wilton, you say? What did Wilton tell you?

He told me you could find me a girl for an hour or two. A young girl ... a very young one.

Another silence. He heard the listener put his hand on the handset and speak to another person. Jack put his ear closer to the receiver and tried in vain to understand what he was saying. He heard only an unintelligible rustle. A gust hit the cabin with unexpected violence. One last warning, he could still back off. Jack jumped, big drops of sweat ran down his forehead.

It is for tonight?

Uh ... yes ... is it possible?

Hands on the handset again, inaudible words.

A fifteen-year old blonde... But quite experienced... She will do whatever you ask.

That's perfect!

At that age, they're very expensive, you know ...

How much for an hour?

It's ... It's five hundred!

Fine, I've got them.

Cash?

Yes, yes, I have it!

And where do you want us to take her?

Jack gave the name of the motel, the room number and the address.

We'll be there in an hour.

What's her name?

The call is cut off. The man with the scar stood still for a moment with the handset in his hand. He looked outside. Time stops. The rain keeps falling with the same intensity, the street is deserted and the motel seems abandoned. That's it. It's done ... I did it and I can't go back now.

An atrocious image struck his head and completely brought him down, as if lightning had just fallen on him. He slipped down against the side of the cabin, totally confused. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw to chase away what he had just seen, but it was not enough. More frightening images flooded his thoughts. The face of a young girl, crying, long tousled hair falling over her face. She was scared, helpless, terrified. She received a violent slap on the face, she was bruised, tied up, abused.

Jack crashed to his knees on the floor, his head between his legs, his hands on the back of his neck; his whole body was shaking. Forgive me ... forgive me, he whispered in an uncontrollable sob.

A sharp noise made him tremble. The telephone handset, swinging on the end of its cord, began to make a shrill sound. The man wiped his nose with his forearm, picked up the handset, stood up, and set it on its base. He took a deep breath, his shoulders shrugged. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. He came out from the cabin in complete control of himself, as calm and threatening as when he had walked in a few moments earlier.

Saturday morning, 4:26 a.m.

Detective Sergeant France Bellefeuille was trying to tidy up the clutter in her office, a lack of order that perfectly reflected the state of confusion that also reigned in her head, like a titanic chaos that would hopelessly lead her to dementia. She moved slips of paper with a man's name, address, phone number and stacked them on top of other slips of paper with pictures of sex offenders, pedophiles, maniacs, perverts, and all kinds of misfits.

She frowned when she noticed a man's name on one of the sheets. Jacques Pouliot. She closed her eyes and began to roam the cluttered twists and turns of her mind in search of this man. Salons d'Edgar? Maybe. The murder on Canardière street? Possibly. The pedophile of Saint-Vallier? Certainly not!

Her mobile rang.

Bellefeuille!

France, this is Dulac. We have a murder in a motel on Hamel Boulevard.

Ok, but why are you calling me? You need help?

Yeah, I think it's a matter of juvenile prostitution and I ...

Where?

He gave her the name of the motel.

¡I'm on my way!

Bellefeuille hung up and took a sip of the rest of her cold coffee, which gave her an unpleasant shiver. She gritted her teeth. She looked at her watch. Good Lord, she thought. Half past four already. I won't be sleeping tonight.

She looked at her empty coffee cup. Despite its unpleasant taste, she would have liked to draw some more energy from it to end this insane day that had thrown her into an absolute whirlpool. She glanced quickly at the mess that reigned in her office. How did she manage to steer around, both professionally and personally? She shook her head and decided that the household could wait. She put on her gray raincoat resting on the back of her chair, and took one last look at Pouliot's name and phone number. Pouliot ...

She walked briskly; her short, wavy, black hair waltzed over her muscular shoulders with each step. Despite her mid-thirties, her hair was already graying, which she didn't really care much about, a sign of endless stress and a merciless job. The office was deserted, well almost, only Gendron was still working who turned around as she walked by. Both men and women were unconsciously drawn to France Bellefeuille's dark beauty. She was five feet and a few inches tall and weighed a little over 120 pounds. She was a healthy woman despite her lifestyle. She practiced yoga regularly and would run or swim whenever she had time. These legs looked like tree trunks and she could lift several times her weight. Her colleagues nicknamed her friendly big calves behind her back. She always dressed in a sober fashion, deliberately concealing the curves of her body, preventing men from imagining her naked. Bold and determined, she never refused a challenge.

She never allowed herself to be intimidated, manipulated or flirted when she went out for drinks with her colleagues. She would quickly bring anyone who wanted to get too close to her down. No one could say without a doubt her sexual orientation. Legendary gin-tonic lover, she would drink nothing else. Difficult, as with everything in her life, she only tasted flavored and Québécois gins and slightly sweet tonics. If the bar offered Saint-Laurent gin and Feever-Tree tonic, she would be on cloud nine.

She left the police station, got into her car, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a faded red cap with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers colors, which she placed on her head, fitting it on her head. She didn't like people looking her in the eye, to show her fragility. She started the car and stormed out of the police station, a habit she loved without knowing why, and headed to Hamel Boulevard in the Sainte-Foy district.

A murder in a motel linked to juvenile prostitution. This was not common! What is going on? She sped up. The tires screeched as she turned towards Hamel. Pouliot? Who was he? A murder! A young girl probably. It made her increasingly sick. She hoped, just once, that she could get her hands on one of these maniacs... He would have a bad quarter of an hour! She slammed her fist on the steering wheel.

A motel on Hamel Boulevard? It was not the first one in this area. But why had he killed her? Unless she died because she had been too abused. The idea made her gag. She took her mobile from the inside pocket of her raincoat and called Dulac. I'll be there in two minutes.

She threw the phone on the passenger seat, where there were some empty cups of coffee, bar wraps, an energy drink can, and several newspapers. Crumpled paper balls, a pair of sunglasses, more cups of coffee, a pair of gloves, and a small teddy bear were lying on the floor.

She stopped at a red light. The rain was still falling persistently, but not as heavy. She hated Hamel Boulevard. It was slow, ugly and charmless, like Gendron. The road was deserted, the ground was soggy from the downpour mixed with a thunderstorm that had raged overnight. She remembered the lightning and thunder. She had looked at the time, three twenty! She was reviewing the case of Willy Jutra, a repeat pedophile who she had just arrested and put in jail for the third time in the past five years. Recidivist pedophile, she whispered. This is a pleonasm! They are all bastards!

She pressed the pedal, screeched the tires again, and ran the red light. Pouliot! The name kept coming back to haunt her mind. And Jutra...

Old bastard!

She was going to the murder scene of a young girl working in the juvenile prostitution ring. The world was changing, manners were changing. How did we get there? Evolution, where was it? In the old days, human beings moved around like all other animals, and they adapted to their surroundings. They were evolving according to the environment. Now they were adapting their environment to their needs, slowly destroying it. Evolution ... is gibberish!

Another red light. The policewoman slowed down her vehicle, without activating the flashlights nor coming to a complete stop, entered the intersection, and ran through one more traffic light. Jacques Pouliot... She closed her eyes for a moment, exploring the abyss of her mind seeking for an answer in the heady whirlwind of her brain. She remembered Desbiens, her former partner now in early retirement, in an office signing reports. 

Well... France, you have too much business in your head. One day you'll have to let go a little, otherwise your head will explode!

She winced, she had one of those migraines, those headaches that tormented her more frequently. Desbiens had been a remarkable partner, like a big brother at work, a true mentor. He was the complete opposite of her and they perfectly complemented each other. He was rational, logical, Cartesian and extraordinarily followed the leads to solve crimes. On the other hand, she was totally creative, spontaneous, indecisive and always found the wackiest paths. Desbiens... Jutra... Pouliot... Dulac... 

Dulac! she yelled.

She noticed her colleague on the side of the street, waving to her. She was going straight ahead. She hit the brakes and the car zigzagged along the sodden pavement. She made a U-turn in a jiffy and parked her vehicle in the motel parking lot, right next to Dulac's.

Saturday morning, 3:59 a.m.

A mobile had been vibrating for a few moments on the nightstand in a rather tidy bedroom. A man's arm came out of the covers and gripped the device. Then the rest of his naked body sat down on the edge of the four-poster bed. A glow from the window lit up the young man, cutting to perfection his astounding body. His short blonde hair was tousled, unkempt on the upper part of his head. He squeezed his jaw and put pressure on the top of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. His septum hurt.

Dulac.

He barely recognized his voice; it was hoarse like that of a rock singer pulling a cork on vodka. The three pints of beer and the unknown number of Jagër Bomb he had consumed earlier that evening had something to do with it. He doubted it, maybe it was the cigarette he had smoked when he was a non-smoker.

Hum hum...

Something scraped his throat, coming from an unfathomable abyss.

I'm on my way.

The tone of his voice grew warmer and its intensity increased.

He stood up with difficulty, his head was spinning. He closed his eyes, but immediately opened them again, leaning on the nightstand. My God he whispered. He then carefully examined where he was, trying to come to his senses. It was the first time he had seen this room. It was rather tiny and sparsely furnished. At the back of the bedroom, near the wardrobe, stood a small wooden chest with three drawers, one of which was not properly closed. On top were a revolving mirror, a few open envelopes, and two immaculate washcloths. On the wicker nightstand with a bedside lamp resting on it, sat the open, empty condom package and a candlestick which candle had just burnt out.

He closed his eyes for a moment, this time without feeling dizzy, and he saw the naked body of a young woman, lit by that candle, her breasts pointing skyward, swaying on it. He opened his eyes again and glanced at the four-poster bed from which red and gold curtains hung. The girl was still there, bundled up tightly in a thick green goose feather quilt. Her long, curly hair was the sole part sticking out of the covers; he tried to remember her name, but without success. It had been visual, no doubt.

The walls were painted in a very pale eggshell yellow, on which hung a reproduction of Van Gogh's Sunflowers. Right next to the closed door, a transparent negligee on a hook foreshadowed warm sensual evenings. On another wall, the one in front of the wardrobe, a window whose curtains were always open overlooking the street with a lamppost discreetly lighting the room.

Dulac saw his reflection in the glass and the image of himself made him realize where he was, how his evening was going and the call he had just received. He shook his head and searched for his clothes on the floor. There was only one pile of clothes. He grabbed his boxers and put them on. He grabbed a flowery thong that he brought to his nose and inhaled the scent. The underwear smelled of sex, the whole room was filled with this libidinal smell, the result of an evening without inhibition. He smiled, then put it back on the floor next to the matching bra. He put on his black jeans and hung his phone on them. Then he put on his white t-shirt, took his socks and shoes and left the low-waisted blue jeans and the yellow tight-fitting sweater aside.

He took one last look at the bed. Did I take her number? It didn't matter. He only wanted a sex and he had it. And if he wanted to have sex again, he would, with this or any other girl. What was the difference? It was so easy for him to find himself in a girl's bed. His smirk, his dark and mysterious eyes, his muscular body, his angelic looks and his cop plate. These were basic ingredients for an active sex life.

He grabbed the hanging negligee and smelled it. He smiles again. He opened the door skilfully, in silence, and closed it behind him. He found himself in almost total darkness. It took his eyesight a moment adjusting to his new surroundings. He was in a narrow hallway with white and unvarnished walls. He looked to