by Blake Pierce
“That’s just it!” he howled from behind the table. “Too many pieces—not one. Too many! Fractured and tethered souls, bound to this plane by fear and ailment. I march the sojourner’s path! I march onward!”
Then she heard a deep sucking noise. For a moment, Adele frowned. She glanced at the victim, who still seemed to be breathing, thank goodness, his chest rising in slow, shallow motions. But then her eyes widened as she glanced at the blood bag. It lay discarded on the table, dappling the oak with a smattering of droplets. The tube from the IV, though, was out of sight—no longer attached to the bag.
Adele felt a cold shiver and sidestepped now around the table, moving deeper into the dining room and gesturing for John to do the same. She went still.
Mr. Davis was ducked behind the chair still and had the tube in his lips. He was sucking it, swallowing deeply and giggling as he flooded himself, drinking the victim’s blood like from a straw.
Adele felt sick, but she steeled herself and pointed her weapon at Mr. Davis. Aimed, and fired.
But he was quick. He spotted her, spat the tube out and rolled under the table, avoiding the blast. The blood now pooled on the varnished ground, staining against the Turkish rug beneath the table. The victim on top of the table let out a quiet little gasp.
Adele glanced toward where Mr. Davis was scrambling out the other side, her eyes flicking toward John, then to the victim. She lunged forward, ripping the tube from Mr. Castle’s arm and tossing it to the side. She grabbed a cloth placemat set in the center of the table and quickly discarded it as too thick.
Cursing to herself, desperate, she pulled her own pocket lining and ripped, hard. Then, using this, she pressed it firmly to Mr. Castle’s arm. “Mr. Castle,” she said, “Arthur, listen to me. Stay awake—Arthur you’re going to be fine. Stay with me!” She practically was yelling now, watching Mr. Castle’s eyes flutter in his wizened face. He was older than Robert, but not by much. She could feel panic setting in as she desperately reached for her phone, placing her gun on the table so she could call for paramedics.
John had his own weapon raised, but a second later, a chair was knocked free from beneath the table and sent slamming into the tall agent. He went down with a howl. Mr. Davis darted forward now, tackling John around the ankles, but then, just as quickly, using it as a feint to switch his strike.
A hand leapt out as quick and powerful as a piston. He struck John in the throat.
The tall French agent gave a gasping, gurgling nose. His hands darted to his neck and his gun dropped, clattering to the ground.
Adele shouted incoherently, one hand holding a makeshift bandage to the victim’s still bleeding arm, another pressing a phone to her ear as she desperately called for paramedics.
“Ambulance, now!” she screamed when she heard a response on the other line. There was no more time. She dropped her phone, allowing it to hit the ground and crash amidst the pooling blood at her feet. Her shoes were also stained at this point.
But it didn’t matter. She snatched her weapon off the table, aimed, and tried to fire again.
But John had recovered enough to tackle Mr. Davis, who was bolting toward the shattered sliding door. John was making a wheezing hacking sound like a cat with a hairball. Mr. Davis spun around where he was knocked to the floor. He snarled and lashed out again—fast, deadly. His fingers aimed for John’s eyes.
But this time, the French agent seemed to be expecting it. He didn’t speak, but spat, jerking his head to the side and using the momentum to slam his forehead square into Mr. Davis’s groin.
Adele winced and Mr. Davis went stiff as a board, squeaking in agony. John surged up now, dragging Mr. Davis by the collar and flinging him into a cabinet, sending the killer crashing head-first into the wood.
But Mr. Davis was like a cornered animal. He was the smaller man, but the more desperate one. He raised a hand, which, miraculously, still held the knife Adele had spotted earlier. With a howl, he charged at John, slashing at the big man’s face—again, it seemed, going for the eyes.
“You’re blind!” Mr. Davis screeched. “Blind!”
John ducked one way, then surged back, distancing himself, trying to circle toward his firearm. But even in this crazed state, Mr. Davis seemed to realize the large agent’s intent; he circled as well, keeping John between Adele and himself, but also cutting off access to the agent’s gun in the kitchen.
John tried to step forward, but Mr. Davis wiggled the knife threateningly.
For a moment, they stood, facing each other, the smaller, bloodstained man carrying a knife, the taller one gasping and glancing around the kitchen, trying to find another angle.
“You big freak,” Mr. Davis spat, “I’ve got you. You’re going nowhere, understand? Now hear my terms. I’ll let you leave, but only if—”
John was not in a listening mood. He seemed to resign himself to the inevitable. And then, instead of trying to dodge the knife, he surged toward it. One meaty fist snared the blade around the edge. Mr. Davis howled, yanking his weapon. A spurt of blood, but John managed to hang on, gripping the knife by the very blade. The tall agent howled in pain, but then jerked, yanking the weapon free where it had embedded into his palm.
Adele just stared.
Mr. Davis didn’t seem to believe what had just happened.
“Here are my terms,” John snarled. He flung out a hand, scattering droplets of blood from his freshly injured palm into Mr. Davis’s eyes, distracting him for a second. And then he surged forward, grabbing the killer by the throat, lifting him and tossing him like a child across the kitchen into the refrigerator with a loud thud!
There was a crunching noise and Mr. Davis went very still.
Breathing heavily, with blood staining his shirt from where Mr. Davis had spat on him, John turned, looking at Adele, his eyes wide and feral as they often got in situations like this. Blood trickled between his curled fingers where he’d snared the blade, pattering to the carpet at his feet. He blinked, shook his head, and said, “That was close.”
Adele began to speak, but then screamed.
John spun around. Mr. Davis had recovered Agent Renee’s gun. He pointed the weapon at the Frenchman. Aimed for the head.
A gunshot.
Mr. Davis slumped over, his hand falling limp, lifeless to the tiled kitchen floor. Adele’s own weapon was raised, trembling in her grip, pointed at the killer and emitting a soft puff of smoke. Her other hand still gripped the bandage against Mr. Castle, and between her feet, she could hear a voice squawking on the other end of the discarded phone, calling out her name.
She stood over the pool of blood, still gripping her weapon and staring at John with unblinking eyes.
The French agent reached up and pressed delicately against his cheek. He licked his lips and pulled his hand away. A thin, faint trail of blood laced his cheek.
“W-was that me?” Adele said, hyperventilating. “Was that my bullet?”
John’s fingers were steady, his tone without inflection. “Think so,” he said, lowering his blood-tipped fingers. “Another scar, I suppose. Thanks to my American Princess.” He glanced toward where Mr. Davis leaned against the cabinets, a bullet between his eyes.
John whistled. “Nice shot.”
“I—I almost hit you,” Adele said, still breathing heavily.
John probed at his cut cheek and winced. “Technically, I think you did. Don’t worry,” he said, his voice shaking for the first time. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Adele just stared incredulously past her partner at the fallen form of Mr. Davis. His eyes were still open, his hand splayed on either side of him, his mouth stained with blood which had dripped down his neck in sticky streaks of crimson, dabbing his shirt collar.
He had the faintest of smiles on his face as his lifeless eyes stared directly at Adele. For a moment, he almost seemed at peace—his features arranged into a look of lifeless gratitude. But then Adele shuddered, looked away, and turned all her attention on Mr. Ca
stle.
She murmured, “It’s going to be okay. Sir, stay with me. Help is on the way.” Then, louder, she lifted her head and called, “Christ, John, I don’t know if he’s going to make it. Make sure the ambulance is coming. Now!”
John nodded at her, his phone already in his hand, the number already dialed. He turned away, took two strides toward Mr. Davis’s form, and kicked the firearm skittering across the ground. He moved over, retrieved the weapon and pocketed it, speaking in low, urgent tones.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Adele and John sat at the edge of a small, makeshift pond, beneath three bird feeders. Night had fallen but the lights set up by the paramedics and the crime scene unit cast a haze across the backyard. Still, beneath the warm glare of the lights, witnessing the movement through the house, Adele sat, shivering, shaking.
John glanced at her, his eyes half-hooded, a bandage now wrapped around his mangled hand.
“Gotta stop hurting my shooting hand,” he muttered. “Third time since we’ve been partnered.”
Adele returned his look. She exhaled deeply. “Second time,” she muttered. “Don’t exaggerate, you big baby.”
She’d meant it as a joke, but as the words left her lips she felt a flash of guilt. Her eyes darted to John’s cheek. He hadn’t accepted a bandage for the shallow graze from Adele’s bullet. The same bullet that had taken Mr. Davis.
She shuddered, looking at the streak of red against her partner’s face, and looked away again, her eyes flicking back to the house.
She watched as paramedics emerged, moving carefully, gently, carrying Mr. Castle out on a stretcher and around the side of the house. She heard the paramedics instructing each other, guiding their team safely and cautiously along the stone path.
Careful was good. Careful meant he was still alive.
“You got here in time,” John murmured, nodding past Adele’s hunched form toward the paramedics.
She didn’t reply, still trembling and shaking.
John reached out, putting an arm around her shoulder and pulling her close. For a moment, she stiffened, her eyes darting to the officers moving through the house, visible through the window. She heard quiet murmurs, radio chatter, and watched officers move delicately around the blood-spattered table and floor. She heard a commanding officer’s voice call out from within, “Careful—no, back, back. Too many of you. Get back!”
She looked back toward the grass between her feet, swallowing a breath of the cool night air of Sonoma County.
“You all right?” John asked after a moment.
She leaned a bit into him now, her shoulders relaxing somewhat. His injured hand draped past her right arm, his bandaged palm reflecting off the surface of the small pond. Above, she heard a twittering, rustling sound and looked up to see a small blue jay probing tentatively among the seeds.
“Pretty late for you, isn’t it?” she murmured to the creature.
But the bird ignored her attention, seemingly emboldened by all the noise serving as a distraction so it could make good its pillaging of the free seed. Then, after a few more flutters of its wings, it darted away, moving off into the night.
Adele shook her head, smiling wryly. “Didn’t know they fed this late.”
John grunted. “Some birds don’t let expectations define their decisions.”
Adele glanced back at her partner, scowling at the side of his cheek. “Are you trying to be clever, John?”
He crossed his good hand over his heart and kissed the fingers. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Adele sighed, blinking, her eyes strained from the bright lights lining the backyard and emanating from within the house. “I’m tired,” she murmured.
“I can drive back,” John said. “If you trust me not to crash.”
“I don’t, but fine…”
Despite this, she made no move to rise. There was something comforting, safe, about sitting next to her partner, shivering, but warmed by his body heat. She leaned her head against his shoulder fully now.
He seemed to breathe a bit quieter, as if fearful he might disturb her, or startle her away. For now, though, she didn’t care if anyone saw them, if it somehow got back to Foucault or Ms. Jayne. For now, she was simply tired and wanted to rest.
“Adele,” John said, softly.
“Hmm? What do you think we should do with Mr. Davis’s nephew? Carter was asking.”
Adele hesitated a moment, closing her eyes to think. She heard the soft, artificial swish of the pond water lapping against the side of the stone basin. Then she shrugged. “Cut him loose. I don’t think he had anything to do with it.”
“Even after covering for the killer?”
“His uncle. Family. The same uncle who would have been happy to let the boy take the fall for him. I think Ken will figure that out soon enough.” Adele shook her head. “Yeah, let him go. He didn’t know—was just trying to protect family.”
John sniffed. “Fine. I’ll tell Carter. You sure?”
“I’m sure. People risk a lot for family.”
John breathed in a way that might have been a chuckle or might have been a sigh of resignation. She didn’t bother to look up and see.
“Adele?” he said after another few moments of watching the movement through the windows.
“Yeah?”
“I like you.”
She kept her eyes closed, still leaning against John, but a small smile twisted the corners of her lips. “I like you too,” she said, softly.
“I’m shit poor with this sort of thing,” John said.
Adele’s smile remained. “Me too.”
“Foucault?”
“I don’t care. We’ll tread carefully.”
John snorted. “Not sure either of us knows how to do that.”
Adele’s eyes blinked open. Instead of replying, her gaze scanned the smashed window of the sliding door, slipped along the bloodstained hall, took in the scene of the police officers moving through the house, scouring the scene of carnage within.
“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe not. Oh well.”
John went quiet for a moment, then reiterated. “Oh well,” the tall agent murmured to himself and then, louder, said, “I miss France.”
Adele nodded, her hair shifting against the fabric of his shirt. “Yeah, me too.”
“Let’s go home.”
Adele closed her eyes again. She wasn’t entirely sure where home was. But for the moment, in the warmth of John’s company, facing the distant gleam of flashing lights from an ambulance which carried Mr. Castle, alive, safe… she felt perhaps it didn’t matter so much.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Executive Foucault had called her that morning and told her the news. Robert was awake. He wanted to talk.
The cab from the airport reached the hospital in record time. She glanced back where she stood on the sidewalk, watching the taxi peel away, doing an illegal U-turn and heading back in the direction of the airport.
She took the steps outside the hospital, quickly, as if wanting to get it over with as soon as possible. She reached the large sliding doors, beneath the symbol of a red heart in a curling stethoscope. She glanced off to the side, toward the roundabout near the emergency room. It didn’t feel right arriving in a different way than her mentor. They’d been through a lot together.
That lump in her throat only seemed to worsen, and she swallowed, clearing it, stepping into the hospital. She moved quickly to the counter and addressed the nurse. “I’m here to see Agent Henry. I’m DGSI.” She flashed her credentials, moving through the motions in robotic fashion.
The nurse looked at her, curious, but then glanced at the credentials, and nodded.
“Second floor,” she said.
Adele hurried over to the elevator. Her eyes flicked to the stairs, but there were so many of them. So she waited for the metal box of death to ding, indicating it had arrived. The doors parted, and a couple stepped out. Adele waited for them
to pass, breathing shallowly lest she absorb germs. And then she stepped into the elevator. She covered her hand with a sleeve and touched the button to the second floor. On the side of the elevator, etched into the metal, different descriptions of the floors informed her the second floor was for cancer.
“Dammit,” she said as she stared at the word.
The doors dinged open far too soon. She found she even missed the elevator. But then, like a prisoner facing the gallows, she marched out of the elevator and moved along a desk and down a long hall.
A nurse in a green uniform, with her mouth covered, paused and glanced back. Through her mask, her voice muffled, she said, “Can I help you?”
Adele shrugged. “Here to see Agent Henry. I was told he’s on this floor.”
The nurse hesitated, glanced at her clipboard, then looked down the hall. Then her eyes brightened. “Oh, you mean Robert?”
Something about the cheerful tone gave Adele a flash of hope. “Yes, is he here?”
The nurse nodded quickly. “Of course. Yes, come, I’ll take you to him.”
Adele suppressed a rare smile. It was just like Robert to start making friends, even in a hospital. The small, mustached Frenchman had a way of charming people.
She followed after the nurse, down the hall, moving past a doctor who seemed to be relaying news to a woman outside a glass door. They reached the end of the hall and Adele was ushered into a bright room with a large window.
The nurse smiled at Adele and said, “Give me a call if you need anything.” And then, louder, “Robert, you have a guest!”
A familiar voice called out, “How delightful.”
The nurse giggled and waved, then moved back through the doors, leaving Adele.
Robert had been looking out the window and for a moment, she stared at the back of his neatly combed head. Then her old mentor turned, his eyes vibrant. When he saw who was waiting for him in the room his smile only brightened.
He looked at her, his eyes tender. His face was gaunt, his cheeks sickly pale. His chest pressed against hospital robes seemed little more than bones and skin.
