by Blake Pierce
To her astonishment, he was crying now. Adele wasn’t sure what to do, or how to act. She found some of her self-pity was fading as she looked at her partner.
“For a while I hated you for that. But you reminded me. It was like someone had taken a knife to my chest and scraped away all the scar tissue, just to reveal the wounds again.”
He shook his head, and for a moment, it sounded like he wanted to spit.
He stared at the carpet as well. “I don’t know, I don’t know, but I got to know you a bit better. I couldn’t help but like you. You’re hard not to like. You’re determined. Focused. Unrelenting. You’re a force of nature. A bloodhound. Made me think, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to live longer than a couple months. A year. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to be sober sometimes.”
He shook his head. “I know I’m an ass. I won’t pretend I’m not. I know,” he trailed off, “Christ. I don’t know anything. But my point,” he said, clearing his throat, nodding to himself, as if remembering there was a reason behind his words.
“My point,” he said, “is that it’s all right again. I didn’t think it was going to be all right. But it is, again. Not for them. The dead are dust and the living survive. They no longer suffer, only we do. And it’s all right. You still smile like him. My copilot, my brother, my best friend. You still remind me of my other brothers. You’re determined, focused, brave. As brave as all of them. That’s the highest compliment I could ever give anyone.”
His voice strained again into a sob. His shoulders were shaking now, and he was crying.
Adele stared. She could feel her own tears slipping down the inside of her nose. She looked at the handsome, scarred agent. More scars than just the ones on his throat and chest. More scars than she could see.
She breathed softly, and for a moment, it almost seemed like she was inhaling his ache, his pain. Like she was taking a deep breath of the agony sitting across from her.
It’s going to be okay, that’s what he said.
But Robert was going to die. She felt certain. Foucault hadn’t given much hope.
“I just want to talk to him again,” she said, her voice shaky.
John nodded. “I get it,” he said. “I’d give anything to be able to talk to my friends again.”
Adele put a hand against the carpet and tried to rise, then thought better of it. She leaned over toward John and pressed her head against his shoulder. She moved up against him, the warmth of his body against her side. His muscular forearm against her trembling shoulder. She sighed softly, exhaling.
John whispered something in her ear, and she turned, looking up. He looked at the tip of her nose, and then his eyes moved to hers. He held her gaze in the darkness, illumination cast solely by the moon through the windows. The small shaft of orange light beneath the door pressed between their fingers, and between the small gap between them. The sound of warped classical music drifted through the wall next to them.
“Adele,” he said, softly.
She could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheeks. She tilted her head, angling her chin just a bit, looking him in the eyes and holding his gaze.
“John,” she replied, just as softly.
He leaned in, and then put his lips to hers.
She held the kiss, drinking in the warmth, feeling the softness and the firmness, listening to the quiet, and then the pulse of a shuddering breath. Feeling the stillness of his body, and then the tremor of his heart in his chest.
And then she withdrew. She exhaled slowly.
He swallowed. “Sorry,” he said, his voice faint.
But she shook her head, staring at his chin, not daring to meet his eyes. “Last time I tried to kiss you, you protected me from my own decision. I feel like I’m obliged to do the same.”
“It’s probably very wise of you,” he said, in a husky voice.
“Downright responsible, that’s me,” she said.
“Wouldn’t want to take advantage of me, not while I’m in this emotionally delicate state, yes?”
“That’s right. Delicate—that’s you.”
“Adele?”
“John?”
And then he leaned in and kissed her. This time, it wasn’t tentative or probing or hesitant. This time, he held her firmly, but tenderly, soft, but determined.
His eyes were closed, and her eyelids fluttered shut as well. He pressed against her, and she leaned back. Soon, she found she had moved, and now was leaning against him, one hand braced against the wooden door, the other pressed to him, against his neck, down to his side, pressed near his scars along his chest. She leaned into him, kissing him deeply, and then breathing softly. For that moment, in the sound of him breathing, in the shared warmth, the shared embrace, the shared connection, everything else felt faint, felt distant. Everything else felt like perhaps he was right, and maybe it would all actually be okay.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The smashed bottle had come back to haunt him.
Gabriel stood, trembling, the final bag of blood still nearly full. But the wine was gone. He stared at the display rack behind his workbench. His fingers were trembling again. “Please,” he said, desperately, “please, there has to be another. Let there be another.”
But as he scanned the items, his eyes flitting from the labels, looking at the numbers, he realized the horrible truth.
That had been his last bottle from 1978. 1978, the same year the woman had been born; a crucial, important component of the task.
He looked longingly at the nearly full bag of blood dangling from his hand. His fingers were stained red and purple. He looked at the shattered glass, with dry glints of wine against the stained shards.
“Please,” he said, desperately. “Please,” he said, elongating the sound, his voice trembling now.
Desperately, he began searching through the display case, his eyes moving, flicking from one white label to the next. But he had organized perfectly. He knew what was there. And, before he’d even scanned the full shelf, he knew there wasn’t another vintage from that year.
The blood in the bag was as good as useless; it wouldn’t work. The age of the victim had to match the age of the vintage. He had always known this. Everyone knew it. Why wouldn’t he think this through? How stupid could he be. How stupid!
He began to squeeze the bag of blood. His fingers punctured through the thin plastic, and the crimson material seeped down his knuckles to his palm, and then began to drip against the floor. A quiet tapping sound brought the droplets against the ground.
“Dammit,” he murmured.
Of course, damnation was for others. His was a future of eternity. Paradise waited.
He looked into the mirror, just above the wine cabinet. And for a moment, he froze. He clenched the crushed blood bag in one hand. The dripping sound still emanated in the quiet basement. He leaned in now, careful not to step on the glass of the shattered bottle.
Was that a wrinkle?
His fingers pressed to his forehead. His hands combed through his hair. And he froze, his palm half pressed against his head. There, right beneath his pinky.
He leaned in, so close his nostrils fogged the glass, and he had to wipe hastily with his clean hand.
He dropped the blood bag from the other hand and heard it hit the ground, joining the glass and the blood in the discarded pile of refuse.
Gray hairs. A wrinkle on his forehead; gray hairs. It was working. He was aging. His body was being taken. His spirit would beat the flesh. His spirit had to be stronger now, strengthening. And eventually, eventually so strong it would destroy his flesh completely. And then, then he could be free. And then he would claim eternity. To die is gain.
It couldn’t be faked. It couldn’t be manufactured. And he could not be complicit. The ritual had to do it. The elixirs had to do it. He had tried to kill himself once. And that had nearly been the cardinal mistake. But, by the mercies of the powers that be, he had been given this new chance. Young, handsome. Peop
le had longed for him. Had looked on him with lechery in their eyes. He had known their secret desires, he had seen in the hearts and eyes of men and women alike.
They didn’t know. They longed for the flesh. He had to put to death the flesh by the spirit. Only those who put to death the flesh could possibly inherit eternity. It was the same story. In the far east, 10,000 years ago, in the contemporary churches, the old synagogues, the old halls of the Vikings. Every story, they all knew the truth. The flesh would decay. The flesh was death.
He began to breathe heavily, his throat constricting.
“Please, look on me with favor.”
Gabriel gritted his teeth. He didn’t have enough of the vintage left to match the blood. He would need more.
His eyes flicked to the vintages on the counter in the storage space.
Some of them were too young. Far too young. He would not kill children. Their spirits were already stronger than their flesh. They just didn’t know it. No, children had to be left. Which meant his eyes flicked toward the very bottom of the case. An old vintage. 1956. And 1958.
Only two within the parameters. The only two that wouldn’t cause the death of a child.
He shook his head; where on earth would he get that vintage?
He would have to consult the list once more. Perhaps he would even have to update it. He still had access to that information. Then again, he didn’t want his credentials to be flagged. Too many attempts, too much access to those files, given the current atmosphere, might be costly.
He stood, still naked, as naked as the day he was born. A gray hair on his head, a wrinkle on his forehead. The flesh dying, his spirit strengthening. But at his feet, the discarded blood bag, a puddle of crimson, the wine and smashed bottle.
There was still a distance to go yet. He hadn’t arrived. But soon, very soon. It had to be soon. He knew it had to be.
Another name. He needed to find another name.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Adele stood outside Artisan’s Supplies at the T-intersection, scanning the road. She was glad, secretly, John wasn’t with her. Things had only gone so far. Clothes stayed on, and dignity remained intact. But she remembered Executive Foucault’s admonishment and his warning about the careers of those involved in office romances.
She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought. John was a big boy, and he could take care of himself. She looked down at her phone. She scrolled through recent calls. Robert’s number—four calls unanswered. He wasn’t picking up. Foucault wasn’t picking up either. She doubted this heralded good news. She needed to solve this thing so she could return and see him. Foucault’s and Jayne’s warnings weren’t lost on her either… She was on a timer—barring some political incident, the killer was operating at a waspish pace. More bodies would drop if she didn’t pick up tempo as well.
Her eyes scanned the trail, in the direction of where they had found the body. Two miles away. She looked back at Artisan’s Supplies.
The killer had been in a hurry.
He had kidnapped the woman, and she had been found only a couple hours later. Drained. How much of a hurry though? Had he gone in a direct path?
She made a chopping motion with her hand, pointing straight toward the path at the edge of the intersection. That was the way he would’ve left. From this shop to the body. A straight line. She felt a shiver of anticipation at the prospect of movement through the trees and the soft, gently sloping terrain. Not quite her normal jog, but close enough.
She counted the houses as she went. Two miles of road. Two miles was a long space. She could’ve driven it, but that would have defeated the purpose. She was looking for something specific, though she wasn’t sure what.
Security cameras, witnesses, old ladies who liked to sit on front porches. Anything that slipped the killer’s attention.
The space between the houses was wide, the houses themselves not particularly large. It was as she passed the halfway point, continuing on, still marching up the street, sweating a bit, her suit rolled up at the sleeves, that she paused.
She spotted an old rope swing dangling from a large tree. An abandoned tire, split at the middle, rested against the tree. A couple of roots, like rolling waves calcified against the shore, protruded from the ground in the dirt. Grass abandoned the dust closest to the tree, likely from children playing around the roots, and scuffing up the earth. An old two-story house sat at the very top of a small hill, facing the road. She spotted a thick red mailbox shaped like a rooster. The aluminum bird stood out against the backdrop of dusty ground and withered grass.
A sprinkler system, in front of the porch, was spraying waves in angled patterns through the air, in palliative care for the grass closest to the house.
Adele saw glints near the door. She paused, fully stopping now, and turned to look.
She glanced up and down the street one way, then the other, and then crossed toward the rooster mailbox.
The glint grew more pronounced.
She felt a flicker of hope in her chest.
She picked up her pace, now striding up the driveway, moving over the tangled roots and past the swing from the oak tree. As she neared, she realized what it was.
One of those Ring doorbells. The sort that activated with motion and recorded whatever passed.
She felt a shiver of anticipation and hurriedly walked up the path, ducking beneath the spray of the sprinkler, then reached the porch.
Through the screen door, she saw a fudge-stained face as a four-year-old child looked out at her. The four-year-old was wearing overalls, with one of the straps hanging loose. He had brown streaks, likely from some sort of cookie batter, or maybe a Popsicle, dripping down his cheeks and staining his shoulder.
The child looked through the open screen door at Adele, then turned and began to scream.
Adele coughed slowly and crossed her arms. She waited patiently.
The sound of the screaming child faded as he raced into the house. His thumping footsteps were met by a shout. “Elijah, quiet!”
A few seconds later, a lady in a loose pink shirt emerged. Her hair was streaked with gray, and she stood slightly hunched. She had the boy’s hand gripped in hers, and though she was admonishing him sternly, she also held him tenderly. The boy, despite the words, didn’t seem scared at all.
The old lady in the pink shirt limped over, still hunched. She peered at Adele through the screen.
“Are you with IRS?” she demanded, one of her eyes nearly half closed as if from some sort of allergy.
“No, ma’am, my name is Adele Sharp. I work with the FBI.”
If she had thought the words would impress the lady, she would’ve thought wrong. The lady grunted. “Don’t know anyone with the FBI. What do you want?”
Adele winced. She waved a hand toward the Ring doorbell. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t need to take up much of your time. But that bell, do you think it would be possible for me to look at the footage?”
The lady looked at the bell, then back at Adele. “FBI?”
Adele nodded.
“I don’t rightly think the neighbors would like it much,” the lady said. She held the child’s sticky hand and gently tucked him away behind her leg, as if protecting him. “We’re not really the sort that speak with feds.”
Adele nodded. “I understand. I promise I’m not trying to get any of your neighbors in trouble. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Shoot me straight. What do you want?”
Adele hesitated. She knew it was against protocol to discuss much of the case, especially the details, with a civilian. But the woman, with her half sealed eye, and her slightly bent back, still had a searching look about her. She was studying Adele, and for a moment, Adele felt like if she tried to lie, the woman would see right through it.
“Apologies,” Adele said. “Look, I’m searching for someone who has killed people. Three of them. One in Germany, another in France, and one nearby. Left the latest woman on the road. Drained h
er,” Adele trailed off quickly, and glanced back toward the little boy.
The woman said, “He doesn’t speak a lick. Slow. Sweet, but slow. Drained of what?”
Adele shrugged. “Blood,” she said, simply.
“Some sort of pervert?”
Adele shook her head. “I don’t know. Definitely some sort. They came from that wine-making shop nearby.”
The woman wrinkled her nose. “Wine is of the devil.”
Adele winced.
But then the lady’s face cracked into a grin. “Just joking with you. I like Moscato. You seem like a nice sort. I’d invite you inside, but I’ve just been vacuuming. If you don’t mind, just wait out front. Anything to drink?”
Adele stared; for a moment, as the lady smiled, she felt like she was about to cry. “No, thank you though,” she said, a flash of gratitude flooding her. “You think it’s okay if I—”
“I’ll bring you the video. I have one of them online doohickeys. Shows the moving pictures and all that stuff.”
Adele hesitated, and the woman laughed again. “Still joking. I know what a video is. Hang tight. I’ll be right there.”
The woman disappeared through a side door; Adele heard the muttered conversation between her and the boy. The woman said, “Head upstairs, and go wash yourself.”
The boy replied, “What?”
“Elijah, head upstairs and go wash yourself.”
The boy replied, “What?”
“Darn it, child, I don’t have time. Go upstairs. Look, see, look what Grandma is doing with her hands. See that? You go do that upstairs.”
“What.”
But this last time, it didn’t sound so much like a question, as an acknowledgment. A few seconds later, Adele saw the fudge-stained child racing through the house and scampering up the steps, moving away.
