Left To Run

by Blake Pierce

  A bullet found its mark.

  The Serbian dropped dead to the ground.

  John stood, frozen, staring at the heartbeat monitor directly to his left—a bullet hole buried into the vibrant screen. Unlike the movies, there were no sparks or smoke. It had simply died.

  Like the three Serbians on the ground.

  The final mobster was trembling now, cursing and shaking his head. He was staring at the third man who had fallen, a look of pain in his eyes.

  A brother? A cousin? A friend? Adele wasn’t sure. A part of her cared, but another, angrier part of her wished she could’ve put him down as well.

  Adele scowled, keeping her gun trained on the man on the ground as John secured the doctor. He used a discarded IV bag to tie the German doctor’s hands behind his back, securing the bonds tightly until the doctor grunted in pain.

  “Don’t try that again,” John snarled beneath his breath.

  The doctor replied in French, but John ignored him, shoving him to the ground and sending the man stumbling next to the corpse of his fallen friend. Four bodies. Three of them their doing. Adele felt sick. She resisted the urge to turn and stare at the corpses. She wasn’t sure she could keep her lunch if she did.

  In the distance now, she heard sirens approaching.

  “Does that make us even?” she said, in a trembling voice. John looked over from where he stood by the operating table and murmured quietly to the man strapped to the cold metal. The homeless man looked out of it.

  “What was that?” John asked, glancing up at her.

  Adele shook her head. “Never mind.”

  John regarded the Serbian who had fired at him, then back at Adele. He seemed stuck for a moment, but then his head bobbed. “Yes, I guess it does. I appreciate it.”

  Adele wanted to say something clever. But all she managed was a shuddering sigh, her own emotions rising like a wave in her chest.

  Three dead. Two suspects. Hopefully they would be enough to find the killer.

  Still, something about the scene just felt too real. Adele was used to investigating people after they had died. But this time, she had arrived to save someone’s life. That was rare. Somehow, it left her with an uneasy feeling in her gut.

  She tried not to think of the scalpel or how close it had been to the homeless man’s chest. She tried not to think of the Serbians. What if they had acted sooner?

  The young doctor was dead.

  He’d been part of it, but still, there were bodies on the ground, and Adele hadn’t been able to prevent it. She wasn’t looking forward to explaining this to Ms. Jayne or Executive Foucault. She could only imagine what Agent Paige would say.

  She looked at the empty cooler next to a pile of dirty clothes. She shivered again and looked away, in the direction of the open doors from which the sound of sirens grew louder and louder. Adele swallowed, suppressing the rising bile in the back of her throat. John held the hand of the homeless man on the table, murmuring quietly to him. She watched as John turned and crouched next to the man’s clothing. For a moment, she thought perhaps he was checking the cooler.

  But then, when he regained his feet, Adele noticed the bulge of money he’d stolen from Francis was no longer in his pocket. She frowned, and glanced toward the victim’s clothes.

  Adele sighed and turned away, her thoughts spinning as the sirens approached, stopped, and the scatter of rapid footfalls came near to the warehouse. Backup had finally arrived.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  The small red jalopy trundled down the street, observing every speed limit, using the turn signal when necessary and coming to a full stop at every sign. The driver of the red jalopy whistled quietly as he drove, his eyes fixed ahead, his hands ten and two.

  “We’ll be there soon enough, Daddy, just hang on,” he said quietly over his shoulder.

  He glanced up into the mirror, smiling at his father in the back seat. The old man hadn’t aged in a year. He still had the same dusting of gray hair around a balding head. Wise eyes peered out from a face creased with smile lines. The driver noticed similar crow’s feet forming around his own eyes in the mirror.

  Wrinkles are a small price to pay for smiling. That’s what his father often said.

  “Are you feeling okay?” the driver asked, still glancing in the mirror. After a moment, he turned his attention back to the road, putting on his blinkers as he merged into the left lane and continued up the street. He kept his eyes fixed on the street signs, trying to keep track.

  His father often teased the younger generation glued to their phones and GPS. The driver of the red jalopy didn’t want to be like everyone else. He spent a lot of time reading maps, studying streets. He knew six of the seven streets down this stretch of road alone by name.

  He hoped to memorize all the streets in Paris in time for his father’s seventieth birthday as a bit of a surprise.

  “It’s been a nice day,” the driver said with a nod. “If you’d like, we can stop by that bakery you enjoy.”

  His father just turned, glancing out the window. His father didn’t speak much anymore. Not after his health had begun to decline the previous year. The young man frowned, then just as quickly tried to smile.

  “If you’d like, I could sing that song you enjoy,” he said. “The one we used to sing before bedtime.” He again looked in the mirror toward his dad.

  His father still didn’t speak, but instead inclined his head and gave the faintest of nods.

  The young man began to hum beneath his breath, picking up volume as he did. He’d always been able to carry a tune. A skill he had learned from his mother, before she had left them. A delighted expression curled his father’s lips as the driver hummed.

  The young man began to hum louder, whistling in between, the red jalopy filling with the swell of music. A modicum of peace settled in the young man’s chest. These were trying times for their family. His father could be saved, of course. The driver knew enough about physiology to know what was wrong. They’d confirmed it with doctors. But the medical professionals hadn’t seemed to think surgery would be successful.

  The son’s smile began to fade, turning into a scowl, but just as quickly, he corrected his expression. There was no point in alarming his father. He continued to whistle, considering the words of the doctor from the previous year.

  “I’m afraid he won’t make it. No, not even with a kidney transplant.”

  “Dialysis worked,” the son had replied, desperate. “If you look at his levels—fluid retention is down. The swelling around his ankles diminished. That has to be a good sign. CKD is moderate—shows signs of dropping. I’m sure it will work!”

  The doctor had looked surprised at this. “Did you read that somewhere?”

  The young man remembered the doctor’s office, the way the walls had seemed to close in, constricting his breath. He had wanted to hum then too, but hadn’t found the nerve.

  “No,” he had told the doctor. “I’m a medical student. Or, at least, I was. I dropped out last month to take care of my father. You have to understand, this is important. The surgeries can work.”

  But the doctor had just shaken his head and repeated the same word, “No.”

  The young man gripped the steering wheel, staring through the window. He set his teeth, wanting to shout.

  “It’s fine,” he said, preempting his father. The old man began to open his mouth, noticing the frown on his son’s face. “It’s fine,” he said, a bit more calmly now. “We’re going to figure this out. Trust me.”

  Three more doctors. Three more refusing the transplant. They hadn’t even considered putting him on the list. They said it would be a failure of a surgery. But what did they know? The young man had been top of his class at medical school. He, of course, planned to go back and finish, once all of this was put behind them. Once his father was okay.

  “Look,” he said, pleasantly, “we’re here. This is where the nice girl lives.”

  The old man in the backseat raised h
is eyebrows.

  “I know, I know,” the driver said, shaking his head at his father. “It’s uncomfortable. But there are genuinely good people in this world.” He turned around, reaching out, holding his father’s hand. It was tender to touch. He thought back to when he’d been growing up an only child. His mother had left when he was only eight. His father would sing him to bed, every night. He thought of the way his father would hold his hand, or rub the back of his shoulders when he was sick.

  “There are kind people,” he repeated. “She’s kind. I promise you. She’s going to be happy to help.”

  His father nodded and settled back, reclining his head against the seat back. The young man pulled the red jalopy over to the side of the road, parking beneath the shade of a tree.

  He peered at the townhouse, then glanced back at his phone, which he had placed on the passenger seat while driving. He reached over, sliding it from where it had lodged beneath the toolbox, then held the phone up, scanning the contents and moving over to the message he’d received from the man he had hired.

  “32. Recently arrived. Blood type unknown. Michelle Lee.”

  The young man read the message again. He frowned for moment. “Which unit?” he muttered beneath his breath. He glanced up again, peering toward the old white and blue siding of the two-story structure. There were three garages he could see curling around the side of the townhouse. A private driveway with an electric gate blocked any passage. This would be trickier than the others. But no less doable. There truly were kind people in this world. The driver’s faith in humanity had been restored.

  He paused for a moment and frowned. He reached down, rubbing at his side, wincing. He felt a flash of a chill across his spine, and he shifted uncomfortably. He glanced in the back seat and stared. His father’s eyes stared back at him. For the faintest moment, memories surged in his mind.

  Memories of his father in the bathtub. Memories of his own surgical scalpel in his hand. Memories of excruciating pain. He’d been certain he could do it. Certain he could. They had to have been a match. Father and son.

  Memories of approaching his friends, asking for help. Memories of their refusal. Memories of rejection after rejection. Memories of despair, then desperation. Then came the memories of cutting his own abdomen. Memories of anesthesia applied locally. Memories of the pain. Just so much pain.

  The young man’s whistling faltered for moment, his humming ceased, replaced by the urge to scream. Why—why scream? They were here to meet a nice lady. A volunteer. Someone who wanted to help his dad.

  He could feel sweat beading on his upper lip as the memories continued to flood in.

  Memories of the cold tile of the bathroom floor. He had managed to extract it for the most part. But the pain had been too much. He’d fallen—he’d hit his head, slipped on his own blood.

  He woke. Found his father in the bathtub. Palliative care be damned—he could cure this! His father trusted him!

  The young man shook his head. Trying to focus, trying to calm himself. He smiled; what a strange memory. Just make-believe.

  He looked back at his father. For the vaguest, faintest moment, he saw faded eyes, milky; he smelled the scent of decay; beneath his hand, which was still gripping his father’s soft fingers, he felt something clammy, cold, like a dead fish. Something hideous was sitting in his back seat. But just as quickly, the young man began to whistle again. Humming softly to himself.

  The fear faded. The memories—because they couldn’t have been memories, they weren’t memories at all—also disappeared.

  The young man’s smile returned, and he reached out, patting his father once more on the hand.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, softly. The kind-eyed old man stared back and nodded once.

  The driver exited the red jalopy. The windows were tinted. His father had been bothered by the sunlight as the worst of the disease had come on. He’d had the windows tinted. It had cost €300. Most of what he had saved up for rent that month. Money was the main reason he’d been forced to quit medical school and come back to live with his father.

  But the young man didn’t care. It wasn’t a sacrifice. His father had sacrificed far more.

  He took his toolbox as he exited the car and adjusted the hat he grabbed from beneath the front seat. Still whistling, he moved up the street, toward the townhouse.

  He wouldn’t enter today. Today was time to get to know the place. Like a surgeon familiarizing himself with a patient’s body, going over the operation in their mind, rehearsing.

  The young man nodded, his eyes crinkling in the corners. It was a good thing to rehearse. Soon, though, soon he would meet the volunteer in person. Very soon. And then everything would turn out just fine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Adele watched as John reached up, growling, as he wiped spit from his cheek. He glared down at the Serbian, his fist clenching at his side.

  Adele’s own hand shot out, snaking forward and grabbing John by the wrist. “Don’t,” she said quickly. “It’s not worth it.

  She glanced uncomfortably at Foucault. The executive stood in the interrogation room with them. After the shootings in the warehouse, Foucault had wanted to keep a closer eye on the interrogation. They’d already spent nearly three hours briefing what seemed like everyone in a suit in the office.

  Adele swallowed and looked away from the French executive.

  They still needed information, but the Serbian had yet to provide any. This was the second time he’d spat on John.

  “I don’t think this is working,” she said, quietly, moving John away from the suspect toward the corner of the room. Foucault stood against the mirror, glaring between the two of them. The Serbian smirked in Adele’s direction, and John growled, making toward him, but Adele caught his arm again.

  “Hang on,” she said, quietly. “Don’t. Just hang on.”

  John cursed the Serbian with a series of obscene remarks. The man replied in kind, and added a few words in his own language. “Kucka?” John parroted. “What did you call me?” he shouted, spittle flying. He jabbed a finger over Adele’s shoulder, beneath the glare of Foucault. “You’re kucka,” he shouted! Hear me?”

  At last he settled, and seemed to hear Adele. “What?” he demanded, rounding on her.

  She kept her voice low, trying not to make eyes to where Foucault still leaned against the mirror, watching everything.

  “What does kucka mean?” John demanded.

  “I don’t speak Serbian,” she said tight-lipped with as much patience as she could muster.

  “You don’t?” John snorted. “You speak everything.”

  “No, I don’t. Look,” Adele said, turning her shoulder to shield her mouth and dropping her voice to a bare murmur. The Serbian continued to watch them with a contemptuous glower from where he was handcuffed to the interrogation table. “It’s not working,” Adele whispered. “He’s clearly organized crime. He’s not going to tell us anything.”

  John made no effort to whisper. He stared over Adele’s head, returning the Serbian’s glower. “Just give me a few minutes alone with him. I’ll get him talking.”

  Adele shot a look at Foucault. The executive’s frown had only deepened as he watched the two of them. He said nothing, but Adele felt like she could read the disapproval in his hawk-like eyes. Comments like these from John did little to mend fences.

  John grunted, glancing between Foucault and the Serbian like a hound sizing up the greater threat. “What about the German?” he said.

  Adele regarded the naked bulb above the suspect illuminating the metal table. “Fine,” she said, quietly. “But let me do it alone.” She spoke so quietly John had to lean in to hear her over the churn of air through the vents above.

  Foucault’s frown deepened, and he crossed his arms, still staring. “This is the sum of it then?” he asked, across the room.

  Adele turned from John, dropping her shoulder and raising her voice. “Sir, if you just give us a moment.”


  Inwardly, she felt a flash of frustration. Foucault’s presence wasn’t helping anything. If anything, it was giving the Serbian further motive to stay quiet, if only to see the executive’s temper rise. At this thought, the mobster began rattling off in his language and making rude gestures in Foucault’s direction. For the briefest moment, the executive’s ire rounded on the suspect.

  Adele took this interlude to glance sharply at John, reaching out for his forearm and whispering, “I’ll talk with the doctor. Just stay here. And… please, don’t do anything dumb.”

  John shrugged her hand off and approached the Serbian once more as Adele moved toward the door. “Who do you send the organs to?” John demanded in French.

  The Serbian grinned, flashing a row of yellowing teeth.

  Adele sighed and spoke to Foucault. “I’ll be right back. I just need to get a drink.”

  The executive’s dark gaze glanced between Adele and John, as if he wasn’t sure who he should keep an eye on. But then the Serbian made another remark and John lurched forward, slamming his open palm into the back of the man’s head and sending him tumbling over in his chair, clattering against the ground with a shout.

  Foucault whirled around, yelling, and John held up his hands, muttering something about having slipped. Adele winced, wondering how many weeks of unpaid leave John had just earned himself, before slipping through the door and shutting it behind her, cutting off the continued yelling from all three men.

  Two agents were standing outside the door in the hall—they’d come with the executive. One of them, a woman with short hair, raised her eyebrows at Adele.

  “Productive?” she asked, nodding at the interrogation door.

  Adele flashed a clenched smile. “Very.” Then she turned and hurried up the hall. Adele made her way down to the first floor and past the front desk, nodding at the clerk. The agent behind the desk returned the nod. She moved toward the hall where they kept the holding cells.