Left to Hunt (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Nine)

by Blake Pierce

  She knew that look. He was going to finish what he'd started and damn the consequences.

  As if finally deciding something, the man ripped his gaze away from Adele, looking down at the victim in his lap. He stared at the side of her cheek, his eyes flashing with strange longing, and then the knife began to cut, to finish the job.

  She didn't have a shot. No time to think.

  She yelled, fired at the ceiling, just to buy time, and the man flinched, the knife going still, and at the same moment, Adele lunged, covering the distance. Again, grateful she didn't wear high heels, her dress fluttering around her as she lunged in, knee first.

  A dress or not, as she surged over the top of the girl, the gunshot distracting everyone for second, she had a spare moment to lash out, her knee catching the man solidly in the side of the face.

  She had thought it might stun him. She had seen the angle, timed it perfectly.

  But as she crashed over, against the ground, gasping, it felt like she'd slammed her knee into the side of a boulder.

  The man was still upright, shaking his head, dazed, and it was Adele on the floor. She still had her gun in her hand, though, and she aimed straight towards him. With a snarl, though, the man, who had been little more than distracted by a knee to the forehead, spun around, his thick skull glinting beneath the florescent lights. He flung the victim towards Adele now, shoving her, hard. The pain seemed to have jarred him into a more reasonable course of action. Or, at the very least, one bent on self-preservation. He shouted in fury and stamped a foot, almost like a child, but then, as Adele tried to disentangle from the victim on top of her, he turned and bolted.

  Like an American linebacker, he slammed into the two doormen, sending both of them reeling back. One of them went head over heels through the swinging door of the men's restroom.

  Adele, quickly, extricated herself from the victim, glanced down, staring. Yes, only a superficial cut. She was still breathing. Adele quickly ripped at her dress. It took her second, but she tore off a piece of the cloth, careful to use a clean portion, and then pressed it to the woman's neck. She pointed at the second doorman who was still trying to recover.

  "Keep pressure," she demanded, miming the motion with her hand gesturing hurriedly at him with her gun.

  The doorman tentatively entered, glancing up the hall towards the fleeing form of the killer, then back towards Adele. She gestured now with her off hand, lowering the gun. The man hesitantly approached, and then, quickening, nodded, showing he'd understood, and dropped to a knee, placing his hand firmly against the young woman's throat. He kept the cloth in place.

  Adele mimed a phone call with her pinkie and thumb, and said, "Polizia!"

  The Italian nodded back quickly.

  Now, certain the young woman would be taken care of, Adele turned, and broke into a run, racing back out into the hall. An older couple were coming nearer, their faces creased in extreme worry. The man tried to stop her, asking her something in Italian, but Adele brushed past him. She heard the groggy groan of the second doorman who'd been sent bodily through the men's bathroom. She paused just in time to watch the large killer, barreling through the final portion of a small group of guests, sending powdered wigs flying and masks scattering as he raced back outside through the glass door.

  Adele gave pursuit, her gun lowered, her finger against the trigger guard, careful not to let loose an unintentional shot.

  She heard the sound of a motor and yelled in frustration as she realized the man was commandeering the boat she'd rented.

  As she also exited the restaurant onto the dock, she spotted the speedboat turning, rocking wildly beneath the large frame of the enormous killer. He had a knife, brandishing it towards the driver, but the boatman seemed to have his wits about him, and he lunged, jumping over the side before the large man could catch him.

  For a moment, the large man floundered on the water, rocking back and forth.

  Adele aimed; the knife flashed. But the large man spotted her just in time and dropped, ducking low.

  Adele cursed. She couldn't aim lower. Behind him, crowds had filled the rails, were watching the procession of the floats along the river.

  Adele's heart hammered, watching as the large man, likely native to Venice, began to guide the boat himself, heading back up the water, fleeing.

  She glanced wildly around and spotted a gondola. She would never be able to catch him like that, but if she reached the shore to run along the walkways, perhaps she could catch up before he reached the far bridge.

  She could hear the chug of the motor as she landed inside the wooden boat and began to paddle, doing exactly as Leoni had when they'd first arrived at Ricardo's.

  It didn't take long for the front of the wooden gondola to jar against the sandstone side of the walkway opposite the canal. She moved quickly, hastening towards the nearest rail, and then, stowing her gun back in her purse and looping the bag over her shoulder, she reached up, climbing.

  To her surprise, a couple of helping hands reached over. The festival, still in full swing, had the Venetians and the tourists giddy. Two older men who'd helped were nodding, smiling at her from behind their own masks, and flashing thumbs up.

  She thanked them with a nod of her own, but was already moving, hurrying through the crowds, shoulders brushing against shoulders, ducking under a juggler throwing flaming bowling pins over his head and catching them behind his back.

  She apologized quickly as she nearly tripped over a busker's guitar case, and then found the railing, watching as the killer, and his small speedboat, made his way up the canal.

  Because of his size, and perhaps, in part, due to his inexperience with this particular watercraft, he was moving slowly.

  "Stop!" she yelled.

  The killer didn't look back. She continued to move, following the same waterway, pushing through the crowd, through the festival goers, yelling even louder, "Stop right there!" but it didn't matter.

  The words fell on deaf ears. What was the point of shouting? He was clearly determined to try and escape.

  So she saved her breath, jogging now, cutting in and out of the crowd, wishing desperately she'd called one of the other agents for backup.

  Now, as she moved along the rail, she saw a particularly large gathering of people. She cursed, knowing that if she tried to move through them, she'd lose the speedboat which was heading towards the bridge. So, instead, she jumped onto the railing itself, walking across it like a balancing beam, hurriedly, moving quickly, doing her best not to look over the edge at the water. She reached the other side, jumping back onto the bridge itself. Below her, she spotted the killer's boat, moving just beneath, water spreading out as white waves on either side.

  She aimed, this time towards the liquid.

  She waited as the boat crossed beneath her, it would emerge a second later on the other side of the bridge. She would have a clear shot.

  "Stop!" she tried a final time.

  The tip of the boat emerged, she braced, aiming, preparing to end it now if she had to.

  And then the boat emerged.

  But there was no killer.

  She frowned in frustration, glancing sharply the other direction. And then she spotted him, clambering desperately over a railing on the opposite side of the bridge from where he had abandoned the boat. He was wet, suggesting he'd taken a dive.

  She cursed, wheeling around, and though this part of the dock had fewer pedestrians, she still didn't have a clear shot. The man broke into a sprint, aiming towards one of the small alleyways that Venice was famous for. She gave chase, fear trickling along her back with pulses of adrenaline, watching as the man's enormous frame slipped into the small alley, and he sidestepped, scraping his belly against the wall.

  She aimed again, but he disappeared around the corner just before she could fire, she cursed, and then paused. Was it smart to follow him back there?

  If he was waiting around the corner with a knife, or another weapon, she'd be a sitting d
uck.

  The crowds around this portion of the city were smaller, the festival goers sparse. There would be fewer witnesses. Exactly the sort of space the killer might like.

  Breathing slowly, she began to inch through the alley, gun raised. It wouldn't give her plenty of time. But it would give her enough space in case he was waiting in ambush.

  Fewer people, fewer witnesses.

  But fewer people meant open ground to run. A second later she heard the clatter of footsteps.

  He wasn't waiting, he was bolting.

  She cursed, stepping out of the alley, and breaking into a run herself. She spotted him, moving up the pathway between large buildings on either side, heading away from the canals, away from the water.

  If he reached the vehicle, she wouldn't catch him. She had to get to him first.

  She burst forward.

  The man was large, heavyset, dangerous, and muscled. But this meant he was also slower. She raced, gaining, and now he was glancing frantically over his shoulder, gasping and wheezing, clearly not meant for large bursts of exertion.

  His face was reddened, his eyes bulging. The knife was still clutched firmly in his left hand.

  She aimed, gun rising, and shouted, "Get down! Get down now!"

  The man paused for a moment, breathing heavily, relieved, it seemed, to have an excuse to stop moving.

  He was gulping and gasping, desperate, trying to gain air. For a moment, she wondered if this was perhaps how his victims had felt, unable to breathe, their necks slit, gurgling on their own blood. For a moment, she thought to fire.

  But for now, he wasn't a threat. He still had a knife, but he was far enough away, nearly twenty paces, but she had him in her sights.

  There was nowhere left for him to go. No alleys to escape into.

  "Get on the ground, now!" she yelled.

  The man slowly turned, his knife still clutched in one hand.

  "Get on the ground!" she yelled again.

  He was breathing heavily, his large chest heaving and falling.

  "Careful," she said, sternly. "I will shoot you."

  She wasn't sure if he understood a single word, but at the very least, he would understand the gestures with the weapon. He didn't stare at the gun though; his eyes were fixed on her face. Again, she felt an oily, gross feeling as he stared at her, examining her like an item.

  He said something softly, shaking his head.

  She gestured with the gun, firmly, aiming towards the ground. She stepped in, closer, now only ten paces away.

  "I will shoot you unless you drop," she said firmly.

  The man just continued to stare at her, and his tongue actually reached out and licked his lower lip. He swallowed once, and closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose as if savoring something delectable.

  His eyes opened again, and some of the redness had faded from his cheeks. He glanced over his shoulder, but he was still breathing heavily.

  "Nowhere left to go," she said, quietly.

  It was a strange thing to confront a killer who couldn't speak her language. He didn't seem to understand the words she was saying, and the few mutterings he gave she couldn't comprehend. But the language she had spoken, the language she understood to come and catch him was universal among psychopaths and serial killers everywhere. The language of blood, of graves, and bones hidden deep, was a language she knew, and he knew. The language of unspoken words and subconscious thoughts, a language of brokenness and hidden secrets. A language formed in depravity but released in brutal action. And this was a language he was fluent in. Not a language she enjoyed, not one she'd come up with, but one that she had to know to do her job.

  And yet somehow, in those thoughts, in the brief exchange between his half glances, and muttered comments, she knew, in part, the despair he was feeling. This knowledge that whatever he'd enacted, whatever he'd wanted was falling apart around him. He had failed. She had seen to it. Nothing gave her greater delight. The wind behind her had picked up, passing through the streets between the buildings, carried over the sea, and tinged with a salty odor. The cool breeze against her skin raised the hair on her arms, and for a moment she felt the chill of wearing her dress.

  She kept her gun pointed, but didn't move closer, and didn't back away. Sometimes, in moments like these, patience was all that was required.

  If he thought it through, and came up with another plan, she would respond. But for the moment, she knew he was trapped. Now, he just had to realize it himself.

  His eyes flashed; he stared at her, and fireworks exploded behind him all of a sudden, illuminating the scene and accompanying the bathing moon.

  He muttered something else, a word she couldn't understand. And then he spat off to the side reached up, and with a quick, swift motion slit his own neck.

  The knife clattered first, falling from suddenly rigid fingers. It flashed with red and silver where it hit the ground. The body followed, toppling to its knees first, blood down his neck and throat, gurgling, a desperate sound.

  She cursed, instincts taking over and broke into a sprint. She dropped by the man's side, quickly pressing her beautiful dress to the man's bloody neck, trying to stop the flow. Already, his eyes were shut, already, crimson stained his throat, the ground. He twitched, then stopped moving.

  Adele cursed, trying to keep pressure, but already feeling the warmth seep through the thin cloth of her clothing. She stared, trying to bind the wound, trying... desperately... futilely... watching, refusing to look away. He had stared at her like she was some sort of item, a slab of meat. And now, bleeding, like a stuck pig, like something else found in a butcher's shop.

  Her hands were stained, her dress too. No more pulse, no more movement at all. Adele breathed heavily, holding a hand to the fabric against his neck. No one to witness his death. No one to mourn his passing, fireworks overhead as if the city itself were celebrating.

  She stared at his corpse a moment longer, exhaling slowly, and then, despite every instinct, every part of her wanting to just leave him there, she reached into her pocket, one hand still pressing her dress to his neck, and pulled her phone to called for paramedics.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  Adele shivered where she stood in the shadow of one of the balconies, watching the police move about the crime scene. She stared at the shape beneath the white tarp which had been dragged over the corpse.

  Dead.

  So many things seemed to end that way. She glanced up at the skies—the fireworks had faded now. The festival was still ongoing but had moved to other parts of the city and diminished in intensity with home-bound spectators, exhausted from the night's culmination.

  In the same way, perhaps, the killer's own crescendo had finally come to a conclusion, ending beneath a white sheet on a cold, blood-streaked sidewalk.

  She watched where Agent Leoni was discussing in grave tones with some of the Italians. Watched as John approached her, frowning as he neared.

  “You look cold,” the tall Frenchman said, coming to her side and leaning against the wall beneath the balcony as well. He didn't face her, but rather preferred to stare off in the same direction as she did.

  “You try wearing a dress,” Adele murmured. “It's hardly meant to be warm.”

  “I'll take you at your word,” John said. He glanced at her, his dark eyes peering down where she shivered. “If I had a coat, I'd offer it to you.”

  “If you did, I'd probably say no,” Adele said, flashing a small, weary smile to show she was kidding. She turned her attention back to the body, shivering as she did. Agent Leoni had stepped away from the gathered police and looked around. The handsome Italian spotted both of them and began to approach, moving with surefooted steps through the Venetian streets.

  “Sometimes these things end bloody,” John said. “Give yourself a break. You need food and sleep. I hear Ricardo's is a nice place.”

  Adele glanced at him, scowling. “Not funny,” she muttered. “Besides, I'm not really in the mood for It
alian.”

  John's eyebrows flicked up a bit. He winked. “How about French?” he said, innocently.

  She elbowed him in the ribs, soft enough to be playful, hard enough to shut him up.

  Agent Leoni now stepped beneath the shadow of the terrace above, glancing between the two of them. “They identified him,” he said with a nod.

  “He dead?” Adele asked, if only for further confirmation.

  “Yes, I'm afraid.”

  “Well, others aren't anymore. I suppose it's a fair trade,” Adele murmured.

  Leoni blinked, tracing the words, but then said, “His name was Abele De Rose. A part-time opera singer and a patron of that masquerade at Ricardo's. One of the masters of ceremony. Looks like he had a bit of a vendetta against Compagnia dei Cielo. We have a police report of threats made. Nothing ever came of it.”

  Adele breathed slowly, nodding. “Two birds with one stone, then. Killing the ball's guests as a vengeance, and killing the young women as...”

  “Jealousy, most likely,” Leoni said, soft. “The other young woman, a Mona Santarossa is going to make a full recovery. Thanks to you.”

  “Jealousy,” said Adele, shaking her head. “What a stupid reason...”

  “You'd be surprised what people would do for jealousy,” Leoni said, shrugging. “Good job, though. Both of you.”

  John didn't grunt, this time, but instead said, “And you.” He reached out a large hand, and shook Leoni's, standing beneath the terrace, both of them looking each other in the eyes as Adele watched.

  She half-frowned at the exchange. Was it her imagination, or were they being friendly all of a sudden? John said, “Thanks,” with a simple nod.

  Leoni returned the gesture. “And to you, Agent Renee. It's been a pleasure.” The Italian gave Adele a warm smile and a nod, and then turned, moving back towards the gathered police, moving with his usual slow, careful pace as if plotting out each step with caution, watching the very cracks in the ground as he moved away.

  Adele watched him retreat, but then turned away to glance at John.

  “I think I am tired,” she murmured. “Not sure I'm up for a drive to the city.”