Left to Envy (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Six)

by Blake Pierce

  That was her job. The bureaucrats and Interpol, the agency heads might have other things to worry about. She didn’t blame them. It was likely a nightmare to deal with the politics of managing agents across continents. But that didn’t change her job. And it didn’t change what she needed to do.

  “I’m sorry,” Adele said. “I know he’s going to be there.”

  “Adele—Adele, don’t you dare—”

  Adele hung up.

  For a moment, she sat in the cockpit next to Leoni, breathing shallow breaths and trying to calm herself. Her chest prickled with pins and needles, and her face felt hot all of a sudden. She had just hung up on the correspondent for Interpol. She had just sealed her fate. Unless…

  Unless she was right. Unless she could prove it was worth it.

  Do or die.

  “Are you all right?” she said, glancing at Leoni.

  The plane seem to steady, at least a little. Adele didn’t know much about flying, but it seemed like he had lifted them a bit out of the clouds, away from the rattling wind currents. “Fine,” he said, curtly, his tongue tucked inside his cheek in concentration.

  “They’re mad at us,” Adele said.

  Leoni didn’t glance at her, his eyes fixed ahead, through the windshield, down the cone shape of the plane. “My left pocket has been buzzing since we took off. My own agency has been trying to reach me too.”

  “And you’re good with that?”

  Leoni finally did glance over at her, and shrugged one shoulder, but then quickly looked back, his fingers gripping the controls firmly. “I have to be,” he said.

  Adele gnawed on her lip, her mind fizzing and spinning. Thoughts bubbled to the surface, always anxious, always nerve-racking. She needed to focus, but what would that help now? It was a zero-sum game. She was all in on black. The roulette wheel was spinning. Even now, the small white ball bounced around the tumbling wheel, eyes fixated, emotions high, a crowd of onlookers staring, holding their breaths.

  She was all in.

  Her phone began to buzz again. She glanced down. It was Executive Foucault.

  “Who is that?” Leoni asked.

  Adele hung up without answering. “No one, just fly.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Round hands… round eyes… Around and around and around. The wooden columns circled more wooden columns, circled a fence intent on holding back onlookers…

  It wasn’t that he had forgotten how to smile, but rather that he reserved the expression for suitable instances. And now, under the cover of darkness, beneath the smile of the midnight moon, he allowed his own lips to twist up at the sides. The rocky ground around him was strewn with old, shattered fragments of stone and splinters of calcified lumber. He moved, slowly, one foot in front of the other, the black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His supplies needed to be within quick reach.

  He spotted a huddled group of figures up against the first ring. Many rings of wood, some stone from reconstruction, some protruding, some gouged into the earth. He watched as one of the figures tossed a glass bottle over their shoulder, and it shattered against one of the logs.

  He breathed slowly, allowing the anger to swirl through his gut. There were four of them, college-age, perhaps. Maybe a bit older. It had been a long time since he had been so young. He didn’t prefer their company. Stupid, vapid, inane. Just like the rest of this stiff-necked generation.

  He hefted the bag again, his eyes flicking toward where the group bunched. They’d spotted him a few minutes ago and perked up, likely guessing he was a cop sent to chase them off. But when he made no move toward them, they’d started laughing, drinking more. After a bit, a couple of them had tried to toss stones at him.

  Now, he was out of reach, watching from behind the precipice of lumber. Watching the four figures, potential offerings each one.

  “What are you looking at, you stupid hobo?” shouted one of the voices.

  The man didn’t reply. Of course, he knew German perfectly. But he didn’t like to speak to the prey. The offering couldn’t be sullied with words, but baptized in action. Baptized in blood.

  The figure who was still leaning against one of the wooden columns hefted one of the bottles now, throwing it toward him. “Buzz off,” they shouted.

  The man didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He was a prophet in his mind, and he knew the bottle would miss. It shattered against one of the stones at his feet, the residue of liquid spattered against the ground, but it was difficult to spot where the glass had strewn in the darkness.

  A couple of the bottle throwers’ friends were chuckling now. He spotted a flicker of orange, a lighter, and then a puff of smoke from a cigarette. He watched as another bottle was shattered against the columns.

  Fine. He could feel his anger rising, the bile in the back of his throat threatening to consume. Rage had its place. And so did patience.

  If married together, rage and patience made the best of friends.

  He hefted the duffel bag again, deciding the supplies likely pegged him as homeless in their minds. But he wasn’t homeless. He was a wanderer. Everywhere was his home. Especially places like this.

  Their feet were like twigs, skeletal feet, with many bones now resting on the ground. What they didn’t know was how many bones had once been beneath this earth. A gift, really. A gift that made life worthwhile. A gift that could seal deep within this earth, the knowledge required.

  “What are you staring at?” one of the voices shouted again.

  Four of them. Four was too many. But they were stupid. And slow. Eventually, they would split off. Patience was a virtue of a good hunter. And the prophet had patience in spades. While the pack animals were together, he’d wait and watch. But once the mewling lambs wandered off, then the wolf would show its teeth.

  His smile faded now, his face bathed in moonlight. And he stepped around the boulders, disappearing into the shadows.

  “Shit,” said one of the voices. “Where’d the hobo go?”

  “Probably to sleep beneath a tree,” replied another.

  For some reason this declaration was met by a chorus of giggles.

  “Want to find him?” someone said.

  “Nah, leave him alone,” a voice replied. “He’s doing no harm.”

  The giggling stopped for a moment, suggesting perhaps that this comment wasn’t a popular one.

  The same voice who’d just spoken cleared their throat and said, “Whatever. I’ve gotta take a leak.”

  “It’s getting cold,” said another.

  “You all go on without me. There’s pizza in the fridge back home.”

  Voices murmured and the sound of scattered stone and clinking bottles arose. The prophet listened as the earlier voice said, “I’ll piss behind a tree and catch up with you. Also, front seat is mine—hear me, Bjerg? Mine!”

  A spout of grumbling met this declaration, but then the prophet heard the sound of retreating footsteps. Fading murmurs and laughter. He also heard a steady stream of cursing. He glanced around and spotted a single silhouette, moving away from the other three now, heading behind one of the large wooden barriers for privacy.

  The little lamb had wandered off.

  This time, the prophet didn’t smile. This wolf’s teeth stayed behind steady lips. For now. He hefted his duffel bag and began to move with slow, strolling steps, sliding through the shadows of the old, hallowed ground as he crept up on the separated little lamb.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Adele stared, her eyes wide as she peered down at the highway lights flashing by.

  “You sure about this?” she asked, her voice strained.

  Leoni tucked his tongue inside his cheek and didn’t reply. He focused on the highway below.

  “I don’t see any cars,” Adele called out, playing her role as lookout.

  Leoni adjusted the plane, lowering even further, and Adele felt her stomach tip as they began to descend closer and closer toward the highway below. Trees and lights flashed by on e
ither side, illuminating the long stretch of road. Adele shivered as they came closer.

  “Landing gear is out,” Leoni shouted.

  Adele didn’t realize until she tasted blood that she’d been biting her lip.

  Her phone, mercifully, hadn’t been ringing. But now, they were careening down, and she could just about see the Pömmelte Henge visible over the hills, an outline illuminated by glowing lights from a backdrop of civilization. Most of the area was cast in darkness. And night inserted itself across the horizon. Adele wanted to scream. But this was the only way. She glanced at her watch; nearly midnight. If the killer was planning to strike, it would be soon. If the killer was here, which she had to believe he was, someone would die within minutes. And so they’d concocted this harebrained plan.

  Even now, she couldn’t quite remember if it had been Leoni’s idea, or hers. Either way, she knew they would pay for it with Ms. Jayne. Not only was it a pilot without a license, steering them on an uncharted flight into another country, but the Italian agent was now bringing the plane down on an open stretch of highway at night, ignoring airports and runways, deciding to use the asphalt of the autobahn as their landing strip.

  If this didn’t get them in hot water, Adele felt certain their jobs were already forfeited. Which meant, at this point, they were likely going to face prison time.

  But now wasn’t the time to worry about such things. The decision had already been made. Already, midnight was approaching. The Stonehenge of Germany was within sight; once they landed, if they landed safely, she would be within running distance.

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?” she demanded.

  “Look out for cars,” he retorted.

  “I don’t see any. But you’re sure?”

  “You buckled?”

  “Will that help?”

  Leoni shook his head once, gritting his teeth and pushing on the controls. “Probably not. Hang on.”

  She could practically hear Ms. Jayne screaming in her mind, shouting at the top of her lungs at the stupidity of this move. But Adele was beyond turning back. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Besides, every cloud had a silver lining. If they crashed and burned in a fiery explosion of metal and molten plastic, she wouldn’t have to face Interpol or DGSI to account for her actions, which seemed wilder and wilder with each passing moment.

  And then her stomach leapt up. The plane tipped down. Finally, she saw the lights on either side whipping by the small eight-passenger plane. She wanted to scream. In a flicker, she spotted an old truck, lights blaring, buzzing toward them.

  “Look out!” she screamed.

  But Leoni shook his head. “Other lane,” he retorted.

  A second later, she realized he was right. The truck was going by in the opposite direction, heading along the stretch of road past the concrete divide. At least, mercifully, at midnight, the highways seemed mostly clear.

  The lights flashed by through the windows, illuminating the inside of the cockpit, and stretching shadows across her sweat-slicked hands which gripped in front of her lap. Adele tried to hold back a scream. But a small little yelp escaped her lips as the wheels hit the asphalt below.

  Leoni loosed a hearty curse. The plane jolted, and for a moment, Adele felt certain he had brought them in too hard.

  But Adele watched as Leoni pulled sharply on the controls. After a second, a bounce, another bounce, a loud squeak of skating wheels, they began to slow down.

  Still, they weren’t safe yet. No trucks coming toward them, no vehicles visible. But the stretch of highway was quickly losing ground. Ahead, there was a sharp turn. They’d left it too late. The plane barreled toward the turn, and Adele this time couldn’t hold back a scream.

  For his part, Leoni had turned pale, his knuckles the same color as his cheeks. He gripped the controls, guiding the plane, and she heard a horrible screech of metal. The flaps on the wings, she guessed. She hoped they hadn’t lost one. They began to slow, skating beneath the safety lights on either side of the highway, a worrying procession of white streaks of paint beneath the front of the cone-shaped nose. The plane continued to slow. Trees on either side. The Pömmelte was invisible now, out of sight. But Adele, despite herself, tried to keep track of its location in her mind. It wasn’t like there was anything else for her to do. It helped her focus, and keep her mind off the horrible, imminent threat of being burned alive.

  The plane rushed forward, heading straight toward the curving metal banister.

  “Leoni,” she shouted.

  “I see it,” he retorted.

  The squeaking sound continued, the plane continued to slip. They weren’t going to make it. They would slam into the barrier. Adele winced, bracing herself, her hands rising in front of her, crisscrossing instinctively before her face. She smelled asphalt and burning metal.

  But Leoni leaned on the controls and twisted; the plane slowed, slowed, and it was about to hit, but not so fast anymore.

  And then the plane shifted; Leoni dropped one of the flaps. It was the only explanation. The plane turned, not sharply, but glacially slow like a corkscrew. Leoni seemed to have overestimated, and the plane wheeled about, nearly falling off the other side of the road. One wing jutted sharply out over the top of the metal banister curving the road. Another crushed into a tree branch, knocking boughs loose.

  And then, mercifully, they came to a jarring halt, both of them gasping, sweat on their brows, sitting in a borrowed airplane on a highway in Germany at midnight.

  “Holy shit,” Adele said, gasping, her chest heaving up and down. She turned, staring at Leoni, and, also breathing heavily, he looked back, shaking his head from side to side. “Never,” he said, gasping, “let me,” he continued, still puffing air, “do that again.”

  Adele made a crossing motion over her heart, kissed her fingers, and said, “I won’t. I promise.”

  And for a moment, Adele forgot why they were there. She forgot the fear, forgot the task ahead, forgot the ticking clock, the ire of Ms. Jayne. She just sat there, glad, grateful to be alive. So many people were unable to appreciate the small joys of life. People spent their lives worrying about losing something they could never keep. Not forever. She breathed, exhaling, her blonde hair fluffing up over her nose, and her fingers tightened against the hem of her shirt, if only for something to squeeze for comfort.

  Leoni reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I have to stay with the plane,” he said. “Make sure no one hits it.”

  “Fine,” she said, snapping back to the moment. “Of course, yes. How do I get out of here?”

  Leoni quickly opened the doors, sliding past her and lowering the steps. The extended metal and aluminum stairs tapped against the asphalt of the highway.

  Adele heard a loud, screeching horn and glanced back, watching an enormous hauling truck coming to a halt behind the plane, unable to pass.

  At least the truck had stopped. She winced. “Good luck.”

  Leoni nodded. “You too.”

  Adele’s phone was already out in her hand. She took the steps three at a time and stumbled out onto the highway. The lights lining the road illuminated the night, past the edges of trees, in the direction her GPS was taking her. It seemed so dark, so far all of a sudden. But now wasn’t the time for cold feet. She would have to off-road it. They had chosen this highway specifically, because it was within running distance of the Pömmelte Henge. Everything was riding on this. Would the killer be there? He had to be.

  She could only hope the killer wasn’t already finished with his midnight work.

  Adele lowered her head, hands at her side, and sprinted, racing, her legs stretching beneath her, rolling with each motion. She felt more at home on the run than she did in France. More at home on the run than she did in Germany. And more at home on the run than she did trapped in her own thoughts. This was how it should be. Running, not just into danger. But to help someone. And, perhaps just as important, to catch a killer before they shattered another li
fe.

  She vaulted the cement barricade lining the highway, ducking beneath a branch that had been knocked loose by the wing of the plane. She could hear now, the truck behind them, leaning on its horn, and another car quickly pulling up, screeching to a halt and slamming on its horn as well. Leoni would have to deal with the locals. Eventually the police would come. It was up to Adele, though, to catch the killer. And so she sprinted, racing through the edge of the forest, away from the autobahn, glancing down at her phone. Every couple of minutes, studying the GPS. The phone estimated it would take her at least fifteen minutes to reach the old wooden and stone burial grounds.

  Was fifteen minutes too long? She had to make it ten.

  Adele growled, memorizing the path by glancing at her phone once more, then jamming the device in her pocket to free her hand and break into an extra surge of speed, racing over scattered twigs and detritus, racing through trails and switchbacks, moving closer, closer, to the burial ground of druids.

  ***

  Gasping, gun in hand, Adele emerged over the top of the trail. She had seen signs of an old car parked at the bottom of the hill, but the moment they’d spotted her, the driver had careened away. She spotted three forms in the vehicle, and where they had been parked, a scattering of cigarette butts and green bottles littered the ground.

  She raced up the hill, toward the outline of stone behemoths beneath the moon. Ancient, echoing, unyielding wood, circling, standing sentry, obstinate and obsolete, forgotten, and yet memorable. Not just a single ring of stone, like the henge in England, but multiple, different-colored wooden barricades circling.

  Gasping from her sprint from the highway, her gun in her hand waving in front of her, Adele stumbled through the gaps, into the circle of wood. Then she pulled up short.

  It took her a moment, panting at the ground, to adjust.