by Blake Pierce
“Stop!” Adele yelled. “Hey—stop him!”
The man glanced around, panicked now. His eyes fell on her and flared with fear.
Good. Fear was what he deserved.
For a brief moment, Adele was given a long look at the killer. He had plain features, with a blunt nose. His eyes were gaunt, and strangely vacuous, as if some sort of spark were missing. He was clean-shaven and had the thick arms and the calloused hands of a laborer, which didn't match his watch and shoes, or the three expensive drinks she'd spotted on his table by the swimming pool.
Adele kept her gun low. She couldn't risk firing on the deck. Passengers were now staring after the man with the bloody arm. Some of them watched with gaping mouths, others gathered their belongings and loved ones, scattering like hens with chicks tucked beneath their wings.
“Stop right there!” Adele shouted.
But the man seemed intent. He reached the rail, stared into the river and then tried to climb it. His bad arm buckled, though, and blood continued pouring down his hand, to his fingers.
“You don't understand!” he screamed over his shoulder. “Get away from me! She's the criminal! Arrest her!”
Adele picked up the pace, cursing. He was going to jump. She didn't want to have to go fishing for a killer in the river.
The man managed to clamber, with one working arm, onto the rail now. His body and swim trunks were slicked with blood.
The gaunt-eyed fellow paused, winced, and then he jumped.
Adele felt her stomach drop, but just then, she froze in surprise.
A large figure lurched forward from the surrounding passengers as the killer dove. A thick, muscular arm darted out. A hand grabbed the man around the throat, catching him in a headlock and slamming him against the rail.
Adele stared at where Agent John Renee's large form angled over the railing, holding the killer in place.
The man was kicking, his hands scrambling, gagging and choking where John's arm wrapped around his windpipe, holding him taut.
“John, pull him in!” Adele said, feeling a spurt of awe and relief. “Good job! Bring him in! You're choking him.”
John looked back at her. Waited a bit longer as the man kicked and squirmed, then flashed a thumbs up with his free hand, and, with rough motions, dragged the bleeding murderer over the rail and onto the boat.
He tossed the man unceremoniously onto the ground at his feet as Adele arrived next to him.
“You're under arrest,” they both said, between panting breaths.
The man didn't look up, preferring to close his eyes, groaning, and clutching fingers against his bloodied arm, while desperately gasping for air.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Adele stepped off the riverboat, with a sigh of relief matched only by John's great, bellowing exhalation.
“Damn boats,” he muttered, refusing to look back, as if scared the water might beckon.
Adele's gaze was fixed on the small fleet of police cars lining the dock, and the street. No fewer than eight officers were escorting Ian Moffat towards the waiting vehicles.
A strange case, Mr. Moffat. Adele stood on the dock for a moment, frowning at where the police were guiding their suspect into the back of a cruiser. The killer's arm was bandaged now, and his hands were behind him, cuffed.
Adele let out a weary little sigh. For a moment, Moffat looked across the parking lot, his eyes landing on her for a moment. He watched her, and she stared back, eyes narrowed.
“Let's go,” John murmured. “Nothing here for us.”
Adele continued to stare as Ian Moffat was pushed into the back of the waiting cruiser. Other police returned to their own vehicles, and began to pull away from the curb, escorting the killer. Lining the sidewalk, cameramen and news reporters looked for a shot of the notorious River Killer, who'd taken three of Europe's wealthiest heiresses.
Even from here, as the door shut, and he stared out through the tinted window, his eyes seemed strangely empty. As if the spark of life had been snuffed.
“What a horror story,” Adele murmured, wincing as she did. She crossed her arms, glancing back at John.
He reached out a steadying hand, guiding her towards where their waiting taxi was idling by the curb. “Nothing to do about it now. Ms. Velz is alive because of you.”
“You should have heard him, John. Back in that steam, in that heat. He was so angry. So... broken.”
“He was jealous of their money.”
“I don't think that was it. I think he wanted help, and they didn't give it.”
John snorted. “Everyone in the world needs help. I wonder how many times Mr. Moffat chose to watch some TV, go for a vacation, go for a drive to clear his head. I wonder how many people he felt responsible for when he was simply living his life. It's easy to blame others for how they use their resources—not just money, but time, too. Easy to think you're better. Moffat was a bastard. A killer. Nothing else.”
Adele sighed, giving a soft little, sad shake of her head. She wasn't sure she entirely agreed. Mr. Moffat was right. He'd worked for four of the wealthiest companies in Europe. Any one of them could have helped his sister. Saved her with a treatment.
But John was right too... If Adele wanted, she could easily have gotten a second, or even a third job. How much more money could she make then, and give it to charity, or help others. She could skip dates, or jogs, or home cooked meals, just for an extra ten minutes here or there—each investment another meal to someone starving. What if she cut back on sleep?
Everyone could give more. But was it really up to her to decide how much?
She hated the thought. She didn't know—couldn't be sure. And now, Mr. Moffat's sister was dead. Three young women had died too. Families ruined, lives broken. Greed, jealousy, murder...
She massaged the bridge of her nose, approaching the taxi with John and reaching into her pocket as she did to slide out her phone.
She frowned, glancing down at the number that had called when she'd been in the steam rooms. The same phone call that had nearly cost Ms. Velz her life.
An unknown number.
Strange.
Adele paused, but then lifted the device, stopping on the curb in front of the taxi. She waited, hearing it ring.
Then, a second later, a voice: “Agent Beatrice Marshall. Is this Agent Sharp?”
Adele frowned in surprise. “Hello, Agent Marshall—this is Adele. I'm returning your call.”
A pause, then a hurriedly cleared throat. “Look—you mentioned I ought to call you with anything pertaining to the man who attacked your father.”
Adele felt a shiver up her spine, and her breathing came in a quick gasp. “What about him?”
“We found him. He killed one of our officers in Gremheim.” The voice became rather constricted at this part. “We're looking for him now. I heard you were in the area—we could use all the help we can get. Especially if you know this son of a bitch.”
“I'll be there right away,” Adele said, quickly, her tongue feeling strangely numb.
She lowered her phone, exhaling softly and standing in silence for a moment by the taxi. The Spade killer was nearby... Gremheim—where was that, again? She paused, frowning, and then her eyes widened. They were only a ten-minute drive away...
“Adele?” John said, his voice quiet. “Are you okay? What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost.”
“John,” she said, suddenly, looking at her partner. “We need to go to Gremheim right now.”
“What's the—”
“I'll tell you on the way! Get in the damn car. Now!”
Adele was already moving, slamming the taxi door shut behind her and barking instructions as she did. She didn't even hear her own words, her body on autopilot.
He was nearby. Close.
They were going to catch him. She was going to catch him.
Not in a week, not in a year. No.
Right now. He was in her sights. And she was going to pull the trigger.
> “Faster!” she yelled as the tires screeched and the taxi pulled them out of the parking lot, racing towards Gremheim and onto the warm trail of her mother's killer.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
It looked like every police car in Germany had been emptied onto the streets of Gremheim. Adele could still smell the river air lingering over the industrial outskirts of the small town. She watched officers move about, in groups, some of them led by dogs on tight leashes. They moved through the factories, in a sweeping pattern, searching every floor, behind every window.
Adele could feel her stomach tighten. A hazy, oppressive series of memories hovered over her. Memories of her mother, bleeding, bleeding, always bleeding. Thoughts of Robert, dead, in front of his fireplace, beneath his favorite red leather chair, cut to pieces in his own home.
She glimpsed the small, dull-eyed little man. The way he'd grinned at her, and then fled when she'd confronted him in his apartment. The memories came fast and made it difficult for her to focus.
"Agent Sharp?" someone was saying, "Excuse me, Agent Sharp, so, what do you think?"
She felt John nudge her from behind, and she snapped out of her momentary reverie, and glanced towards the police captain who was standing in front of her. Three other officers, all of them high ranking were circling the captain, staring at the map he had spread on the hood of the SUV in front of them. Adele pressed a hand to the metal of the police vehicle's hood. It was warm beneath her fingertips. She lowered her hand, staring at the map.
"What was the question?" she said, her heartbeat still pounding.
"Where should we search?" The police captain repeated, rubbing a hand against his bristling mustache, not quite dissimilar to Sergeant Sharp's own facial hair.
She thought of her father, wondering if he'd had the good sense to return to the hospital. But no, of course not. Her father was probably at home, eating soup, or watching TV. She hated that he wouldn't look after himself.
But the killer wasn't out there anymore.
Not now. Not for this moment. He was on foot, according to the police. He'd attacked a cop and then ran away. He was here, somewhere, skulking about. Trains, planes, and now, at her insistence, even boats were being monitored. Everyone was looking, double checking identifications. Everyone had a description of the Spade killer. He was an easy man to pick out of a lineup.
"He won't be in the factories," she said, quietly.
A couple of the ranking cops behind the police captain shared a look. "You're sure?" the captain said. "It provides cover, is hard to search. Some of them have chemicals which would make it difficult for the hounds to detect his scent."
"I'm not saying it wouldn't make sense for a normal person, but he's not normal. He thinks of himself as some sort of twisted artist. He wouldn't want to be in a factory."
"Where then?"
Before Adele could answer, though, one of the sergeants cleared his throat and interrupted, "Sir, we're already gearing up to go through these buildings. We've searched three already. It would be a mistake to call it off now.”
The captain nodded, showing he'd heard, but then gestured towards Adele, as if to say, please continue.
She bobbed her head once. "Look," she said, "he's not going to be in some grey, dusty, bleak building, with boring windows, and cement floors. He'll hate it. Plus, on top of that, there are too many entrances, too many windows. He won't go into a basement, either, because there are no escapes.”
"Well, where then?"
Adele looked around, glancing at the map, but then deciding it wouldn't help her. The aesthetics of the building, the aesthetics of it all would matter. She remembered the way, back at that apartment of his, he had painted on the walls, drawing figurines and smiley faces. He seemed to enjoy decorating his home. He liked to taunt Adele, by decorating his victims too.
She shivered.
"I need you to take me back to where you last saw him."
The captain frowned. "We've been over that place three times already. There's no sign. We have a couple of police still patrolling, but he isn't there anymore. He's on the move."
Adele shook her head. "That's fine. Me and my partner can go. Can you let us borrow a car?"
She wondered if she should press further and insist that they send backup. She needed to track the Spade killer, retracing his footsteps, and she could use all the help she could get.
But on the other hand, she didn't want the help. In fact, part of her resented the notion. She didn't need help. She wanted to catch him on her own.
"I'm afraid we need those vehicles," one of the sergeants began to say, but the captain cut him off with a shake of his head. "That's fine. You can take mine. Contact us if you find anything. There's a radio in the car."
The captain's mustache twitched, but the rest of his expression remained stony, impassive, as he fished keys out of his pocket, and handed them to Adele. The keys were surprisingly cold compared to how warm the hood of the car had been. She nodded in gratitude, and then moved over towards the indicated vehicle the captain waved towards.
John fell into step, lost in the midst of a sea of German. He followed after Adele, narrowly avoiding a hound on a leash, who was sniffing and growling.
"What's the plan?" John muttered beneath his breath.
Adele had to speak loudly to be heard, now that the captain was barking orders again.
"We're going back to where they saw him last. I'll drive."
"Did you ask them where it was?"
Adele nodded. "Near one of the River Metro docks, of all things. What are the odds?"
John sighed, but nodded, sliding into the passenger seat as Adele took the driver's side.
He said something else, but Adele didn't quite hear him, her eyes fixed on the road. She couldn't even make out his words, as if his voice was muffled or coming down a deep tunnel.
She was closing in.
He was nearby.
She would find him.
***
She stood by the chain-link fence, her eyes moving towards the police car parked on the other side of the road. Orange traffic cones and caution tape cordoned off the area. She could see the stain of blood on the sidewalk, which they had attempted to scrub away. She shivered, staring at the crimson mark.
There was a chain-link fence behind her, and through it, she glimpsed the river.
"Well, what now?" John said, quietly.
Adele looked one way, then the other. She paused, her eyes on the distant water tower, and then her gaze flicked to a bridge spanning the river.
She crossed her arms for a moment, scanning the street.
Low buildings, some shops. Witnesses, potentially. Nothing stood out about any of it.
The water tower, though, had a big pink fox painted on it.
She frowned at the thing.
The bridge itself, seemed old, and well-constructed, beautiful in a way, with stone pillars lining it, and holding the thing aloft, more than a hundred feet in the air above the water.
"He's there, or there," she said, quietly. "A high vantage point. Alluring structures—the sorts of things he might find fascinating. Plus, an easy landmark to track, while moving through the streets, away from police cars. The water tower won't have people around it, nor the bridge, beneath it. Seclusion, high vantage point, safety. He's in one of those places."
"Are you sure?"
Adele paused, and began to shake her head. Of course she wasn't sure. It was like picking a needle out of a haystack. They had narrowed in on the Spade killer's location. But that didn't help unless she was able to find the needle.
"We need to split up. You want the water tower or the bridge?"
John frowned at the words, shaking his head. "We can't split—"
"No choice. He's going to get away if we wait for nightfall." She glanced up at the sky, as evening continued its descent. "Which one do you want? You can take the radio from the car, too."
"You take the radio."
"I'll use m
y phone. It's fine. He probably won't be there anyway. We can reconvene at the car if neither of us find him. Keep an eye out for any other landmarks or something that might attract the eye of the psychopath."
"You sure?"
"I already answered that."
And with that, Adele began to walk hurriedly, stalking towards the bridge, moving along the sidewalk next to the chain-link fence, the river rushing in the opposite direction of her own motions.
Would he be beneath the bridge?
What would she do if he was?
She picked up the pace.
Evening loomed above, and night threatened. Once night fell, the cover of darkness would help the Spade killer get away.
She couldn't let that happen.
***
Adele shivered softly. She remembered her first time returning to France in ten years. That case had started with a bridge as well. Beneath the bridge, a young woman, killed. And now Adele was back to a bridge. It seemed fitting somehow.
She could hear the sound of traffic above her as she took the steps on the side of the bridge and began to move down towards the river walk.
On one side, she spotted people strolling the walkway, and others riding bikes.
But on another, behind a low, concrete wall, there were only support columns for the bridge itself. And shadows.
She paused, one hand braced against the low, concrete barrier. She felt a shiver up her spine. For a moment, she looked off into the distance, staring at the water tower. The bright, pink fox was still visible.
Had she sent John into a trap all alone?
She shook her head, fighting the thought. Agent Renee knew how to take care of himself, and she couldn't afford to allow her own distractions to cost her. Too much was riding on this.
She began to move, quietly, stepping over the concrete wall, and beneath the metal supports for the giant bridge above. Shadows swallowed her and fell across the ground. She could smell the faint odor of urine and mold. The scent of something decaying wafted nearby. She paused, frowning, towards a small tent hidden in an alcove.
