Paperback(TRANSLATION)
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Overview
Anna Heymes fears she is losing her mind. The wife of a top-ranking Parisian official, she suffers from amnesia and terrifying hallucinations — a living nightmare made more horrifying when psychiatric testing reveals that Anna has undergone drastic cosmetic surgery . . . though she cannot recall when or why.
In the tenth arrondissement of Paris, a rookie police inspector and a seasoned veteran called out of retirement investigate the horrific murders of three anonymous young women — illegal Turkish aliens who could not have deserved such a brutal, inhuman death.
From the murky night streets of clandestine Paris to the teeming fleshpot of Istanbul, two bizarre and terrible stories will become one — as prey and predator, manipulated and manipulator come together in a storm of blood and fury . . . in the hideous shadow of the wolf.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780060573669 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 02/21/2006 |
| Edition description: | TRANSLATION |
| Pages: | 384 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.31(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.86(d) |
| Age Range: | 14 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Empire of the Wolves
By Grange, Jean-Christophe
Ecco
ISBN: 0060573651Chapter One
"Red."
Anna Heymes was feeling increasingly ill at ease. The experiment was danger free, but the idea that someone could read her mind at that very moment deeply disturbed her.
"Blue."
She was lying on a stainless-steel table, in the middle of a shadowy room, her head inside the central opening of a white circular machine. Just above her face was a mirror, fixed at an angle, with small squares being projected onto it. All she had to do was announce what color they were.
"Yellow."
A drip was slowly pouring into her left arm. Dr. Eric Ackermann had briefly explained to her that it was labeled water, allowing blood flow to be located in her brain.
Other colors appeared. Green. Orange. Pink ... then the mirror went dark.
Anna remained still, her arms by her sides, as though in a coffin. A few yards to her left, she could make out the vague, aquatic glassiness of the cabin where Eric Ackermann was sitting beside her husband, Laurent. She pictured the two men staring at the observation screens, observing the activity of her neurons. She felt spied on, pillaged, as though defiled in her closest intimacy.
Ackermann's voice echoed in the transmitter fitted in her ear: "That's fine, Anna. Now the squares are going to start shifting around. You just have to describe the movements. Just use one word at a time: right, left, up, down... ."
The geometric shapesimmediately started moving, forming a brightly colored mosaic, as vibrant and fluid as a school of tiny fish. Into the mike attached to her transmitter she said, "Right."
Then the squares rose to the top of the frame.
"Up."
The exercise went on for a few minutes. She spoke slowly, monotonously, feeling more and more drowsy, the heat from the mirror adding to her torpor. She was about to drift off to sleep.
"Perfect," Ackermann said. "This time, I'm going to present you with a story told in a variety of different ways. Listen to each one carefully."
"And what am I supposed to say?"
"Nothing. Just listen."
A few seconds later, a female voice echoed in her receiver. It was speaking in a foreign language, with an Asian tonality.
A short silence followed. Then the story started again in French. But the syntax was all wrong. The verbs were all in the infinitive, the articles did not agree, the liaisons were incorrect... .
Anna tried to decipher this pidgin, but then another version started up. This time, nonsense words cropped up in the tale... . What did it all mean? Suddenly, silence filled her ears, making the cylinder feel even darker.
After a time, the doctor said: "Next test. When you hear the name of a country, give me its capital."
Anna was about to agree, but the first name was already ringing in her ears: "Sweden." Without thinking, she replied: "Stockholm."
"Venezuela."
"Caracas."
"New Zealand."
"Auckland -- no, Wellington."
"Senegal."
"Dakar."
The capitals came to mind easily. Her answers were automatic, and she was pleased with the result. So her memory had not been completely lost. What could Ackermann and Laurent see on the screens? Which zones were being activated in her brain?
"Last test," the neurologist announced. "Some faces are going to appear. You must name them as quickly as you can."
She had read somewhere that a simple sign—a word, a gesture, a visual detail—could trigger a phobia. It was what psychiatrists called an anxiety signal. Signal was the right word. In her case, the very word face was enough to make her uneasy. She immediately felt she was suffocating. Her stomach became heavy, her limbs stiffened, and a burning lump filled her throat... .
A black-and-white portrait of a woman appeared in the mirror. Blond curls, sultry lips, beauty spot above her mouth. Easy.
"Marilyn Monroe."
An engraving replaced the photograph. Dark look, square jaws, wavy hair.
"Beethoven."
A round face, as smooth as cellophane, with two slanting eyes.
"Mao Tse-tung."
Anna was surprised that she could recognise them so easily. Others followed: Michael Jackson, the Mona Lisa, Albert Einstein... . It felt as though she were looking at the bright projections of a magic lantern. She replied unhesitatingly. Her uneasiness was receding.
Then suddenly, a portrait brought her to a halt. A man aged about forty, but with still-youthful looks and prominent eyes. His fair hair and eyebrows added to his look of an indecisive teenager.
A sensation of fear went through her, like an electric shock. Pain pressed down on her chest. The face looked familiar, but she could put no name to it. It evoked no precise memories. Her head was a dark tunnel. Where had she seen this man before? Was he an actor? A singer? An old acquaintance? The picture was replaced by a long face, topped with round glasses. Her mouth dry, she answered, "John Lennon."
The doctor finally replied. "It was Laurent, Anna. Laurent Heymes. Your husband." Continues...
Excerpted from The Empire of the Wolves by Grange, Jean-Christophe Excerpted by permission.
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