by Blake Pierce
Then she saw them, like shrouds rising from a deep nightmare, impossible to believe even when confronted with the spectacle.
A figure was standing directly opposite her with a rope tight in his hands. A second, smaller figure was struggling weakly, his fingers scrambling at a noose wrapped around his neck.
Adele felt a surge of vindication. She’d been right. But the thought was quickly replaced by the horror of the moment.
“Drop the rope or I’ll shoot,” she shouted.
The figure holding the rope turned sharply, staring, eyes pale, pulsing in the dark. But instead of complying, he moved, spinning around the side of a wooden archway. For a moment, she issued a gasp of relief. The victim was still alive. But the attacker didn’t release the rope. He was behind the wooden barricade, sheltered from her gunfire, and then began to pull, hard.
Adele heard the sound of creaking wheels, a jury-rigged pulley system of some sort, and the rope went taut. The small form of the sandy-haired victim, with bulging eyes, was gasping, kicking, and began to be lifted off the ground, the rope tightening around his neck. A quiet scream seemed to rise from his lips, but was suddenly cut short like a speaker dropped into the ocean. He was pulled higher, higher, tugged up, his head banging against the tall column of wood behind him.
“Stop!” Adele shouted. She fired a gunshot into the air, if only to distract the killer.
But he seemed to realize he was out of her line of sight. He didn’t falter. He continued to yank the rope; there was the sound of grating wheels as the pulley system did its work, and the rope strained against the victim’s neck.
Who was the victim? It didn’t matter. The killer had to be stopped.
Desperately, she sprinted around the wood and stone columns, gun raised, trying to get a good angle on the man.
She pulled up short, standing nearly twenty feet away from the fellow gripping the rope; the killer had a wide, unblinking gaze. His hair was wild, frayed, like pictures of Einstein she’d once seen. He was wearing gloves, which wrapped tightly around the rope.
“Drop it!” she snapped.
The killer just stared at her. She didn’t recognize his face, and he didn’t wear a mask. He had a small, silver goatee. A weak chin, but especially intelligent eyes. She could tell the way he was looking at her that he was already calculating, thinking through his next step.
“Drop it or I’ll shoot,” she screamed.
But the killer stared at her over the rope and made no move to comply. He didn’t speak, but instead inclined his head in sort of coy little nod.
She turned to look, and realized the victim was struggling at the very top of the tall wooden joist. Nearly twenty-five feet in the air.
“Shoot me,” he said, his voice soft like velvet, “and he’ll break every bone in his body.”
“Lower him, now!” Adele screamed.
The killer looked at her, and it took her a moment to realize the reflection of his eyes was actually from glasses. The glass had no frame that she could see, and the thin veneer of corrective lenses seemed to shield his gaze as if beneath a layer of water.
“I can’t do that,” he said, softly. He shook his head and made a quiet tutting sound. He didn’t seem scared at all. In fact, his hands were steady as tombstones. His eyes fixed on her like a gargoyle statue.
“You will be shot dead,” she snapped. “You get it? This is over. Lower him!”
The killer didn’t respond in kind. Usually, they would. The more shouting, the more they felt the need to increase their own volume. This was tactical. It sometimes would help distract the suspect. But the killer seemed wise to the move. He kept his tone calm, considered. “This has to be done,” he said, quietly. “Agent Sharp.”
She felt a shiver up her spine. She gazed at him, staring now, also unblinking. “You know who I am?” She glanced up again toward the struggling form of the victim. At least they were still moving. Hands still struggling against the rope. Their neck would snap. But there wasn’t much time. They were choking, dying beneath the makeshift gallows. She had to figure out something. She took a tentative step forward, but the killer clicked his tongue. “Don’t.”
She paused.
“I do know you. I know your name. I checked your work. I try to keep apprised of those who hunt me.”
“I didn’t know my name was in a newspaper,” she said, gritting her teeth.
He smiled at her and shook his head. “Not all information is found in papers.”
She wasn’t sure what the hell that meant. How did he know her name? She felt a bad taste in her mouth. But that wasn’t important. There were ways to bribe, pay people off, create unwitting, or witting, contacts on the force. These things all cycled through her mind. But none of them mattered just yet. What mattered was the gasping, struggling form of the young man being choked to death twenty-five feet in the air. If she shot the killer, the rope would slip and the fellow would fall, breaking his legs and spine. But if she didn’t, he would choke, suffocating, gasping, with her helplessly below, staring down the barrel of her gun.
“You think you’re clever,” she said, breathing heavily. “You know my name. And you think that makes you clever.”
But he didn’t rise to this bait either. “Agent, is that the best you have? Attack my ego? Try to get me emotional? Distract me. You don’t understand what’s happening here. I don’t blame you. Only one soul must mark the soil. You comprehend this?” He smiled. His teeth reflected like pearls beneath the moon. The sheen of his glasses also flickered back the stars. For a moment, his shadow almost seemed to lengthen, stretching to the base of the rock. He stood firm, his hands steady. Even though the weight must’ve been heavy, he didn’t seem strained by holding the rope.
“No,” she said, softly. She edged her tongue between her lips, trying to focus, trying to find an angle. She couldn’t shoot. She took another couple steps forward.
But this time, the man snapped, “Don’t. One more step, he dies. You have my word. And I won’t lie.”
“Lying, lying is bad to you, but killing isn’t?” Adele asked.
She needed to keep him talking, focused on her instead of his victim. Already, she could see the movements from on top of the column fading, legs kicking, feet falling still, even fingers dropping off the edge of the rope; she was running out of time.
“You don’t understand anything,” he said.
“You said that a few times. Help educate me.”
He shook his head. “The soil needs blood. And no, I don’t lie. Lying is for these sheep.” He shook the rope, and there was a rattling sound of the pulley, which she realized was lashed around the top of the wooden gallows. Secured in place by what looked like rock-climbing gear.
“All right,” she said, “the sheep are the liars. What do you mean by that?”
Now that she was asking him, she hoped he’d relish the chance to educate her. Clearly, his mind was his ego. For a moment, his gaze slipped, glancing off toward the trees, as if gathering his thoughts. She took this opportunity to take another quick two steps forward. This time, he didn’t seem to notice. And yet, she had drawn within ten feet of the killer. She could actually see a thin glaze of sweat on his upper lip. She could see his gloves, stretched against the rope itself.
“Everyone has forgotten the gods,” he said, softly. “They think they’re dead. But they’re not. They’re dormant. Just look around you. Look at the depravity. Orphans, children, widows, they wail, their teeth gnashing, as they die in the streets of Kolkata, and the cocoa fields of Ghana. You can’t even imagine the horrors that I’ve seen in India, Singapore, Chicago, Los Angeles, New Guinea.”
“You’re well traveled then,” she said.
He smirked at her. “For my job, yes. I built them their buildings. But the structures were built upon piles of bones. Once, they even had me clear out an old cathedral. Had it torn down to make room for a gaudy hotel.”
He clicked his tongue. “And then I knew my call. I saw it as
clear as day.”
Was that before or after you fell on your head? Adele thought to herself. But she kept her eyes open, earnest, interested. Ego. Ego was everything. She had to figure out what to do next. Time was out now. The figure above on the rock had stopped moving. No longer kicking, no longer scrambling. She was out of time. Shit.
The killer kept prattling. “And as the people, the sheep, get fat, line their pockets, desecrate the grounds, they will reawaken the old beasts. Have you heard the weather changing? The next ice age coming? Have you seen the typhoons? The earthquakes? The rumors of war,” he said, his voice going low, all of a sudden, into a deep growl.
He shook the rope, and for the first time, his arm seemed to twitch, as of beginning to tremble. He didn’t have a plan to get out of this any more than she did. He was improvising. And so was she.
“There’s one thing,” he said, softly. “I’m not trying to wake the gods. You have to believe me.”
“I would never accuse you of such a thing,” Adele said.
He seemed to detect some of the sarcasm. “Well, you shouldn’t. I’m trying to keep them sleeping. Feeding them, like a mother nurtures its young.”
“That’s what you are? A mother?”
He grinned at her again. “A wolf bringing back prey to the yapping children.”
“These gods? They are your children?”
He hissed now, glaring and growling, spitting off to the side. “You don’t understand! I’m trying to save us all. If we wait, the typhoons, the storms, the ice, the earthquakes, the devastation and the plagues. Millions will perish. I’m saving you. You owe me. You don’t see it. None of you do. Sheep chasing each other’s asses. The smell of your own shit in your nose.”
Adele nodded. “Yeah, just a sheep. No one is as smart as you.”
He stared at her now, his eyes snapping to her like a cobra zeroing in. “You mock me.”
“A little,” she said, sidestepping just a bit; now she was within eight feet. Her gun still leveled.
And then she realized her mistake.
She thought she’d been playing his ego. She thought she’d outwitted him, allowing herself to draw near. But the killer had been baiting her too. What she’d taken for a hand twitch had been something else. He had moved his hand, lower down the rope. Lower and closer toward his pocket. Toward his waistband.
And then she realized, with a horrifying sinking sensation, right before she saw him move, that he’d been playing her all along.
His hand darted off the rope and shot toward his hip. She saw the gun a second before the moon caught it, reflecting off the metal. She cursed as he swiveled around with a victorious cry.
And she fired, twice, instinctively.
Two bullets. One hit his arm. The other struck his head.
He went over, stumbling, and to her horror, the rope slipped completely. She tossed her gun to the side. A stupid move. But no time to think. She leapt forward. She didn’t have the benefit of gloves. But she managed to get close enough, and she grabbed the rope. She held on, screaming in pain as the rope ripped at her hands. She felt the burn streaking across her fleshy palms, ripping skin, spreading blood.
The rope went taut, her arms jolted, but she allowed herself to be dragged forward, refusing to pull too sharply and do the killer’s work for him. For a moment, she felt her elbow pop and her feet scatter dust as she was yanked forward. And she yelled again. But she caught the rope, groaning against the victim’s weight and easing the rope down, her feet still following the momentum.
Still, gasping in agony, her hands on fire, she quickly lowered the rope. She felt the weight go slack the moment the victim hit the ground.
Mercifully, she let go of the rope, her hands spread. No posture made them remotely comfortable. The agony spread across her fingers, spread over her palms. She tried to flex her hands, and it just shot another bolt of sheer pain. She tried to hold still, and it was still agony, like dipping an open wound in saltwater.
She heard a groan and glanced over. The victim was twitching, moving. She felt a flutter of relief.
She heard another groan. Her heart leapt in her throat. She turned, and to her astonishment, she saw the killer shifting, trying to sit up. She took a couple of hurried steps over and kicked his gun out of the way. It skittered off behind a wooden column; she spotted a black duffel bag hidden beneath some shrubs. His glasses had fallen off. Blood was pouring down from his head wound. And yet, his eyes were twitching. He was still breathing. Somehow, he had survived a bullet to the skull. Maybe some people just had brains enough to spare. A morbid thought.
Then again, it wasn’t like his big brain had gotten him very far.
She tried to reach for her phone and managed to pull it from her pocket, but then screamed from the sheer pain of the rope burns. Her phone dropped, hitting the dust.
She bent over, trying to grasp it, but it felt like someone was jabbing needles all up and down her hands.
A few moments later, though, she heard shouting. She glanced back, tears pouring from her cheeks now. Her hands held out in front of her, like a child begging for food. The victim was struggling, gasping for air. The killer was bleeding from two gunshots, also gasping.
She saw whirring blue and red lights. She heard more shouting, then static from radios. She felt a sudden surge of desperate relief as German police swarmed up the hill, guns raised, moving toward her.
“Adele Sharp,” one of them was shouting. “You’re under arrest!” he screamed.
For a frustrating moment, she realized they were here for her. Probably due to the airplane causing the traffic jam. Two officers reached her first, with five others following close behind, and they pulled up short. She jerked one of her wounded hands, indicating generally toward the victim and the killer. “That’s the Monument Killer,” she said, gritting her teeth. “And that guy needs an ambulance.” She paused, then shrugged. “They both do.”
And then, wincing, satisfied by the astonished looks on the faces of the police, she allowed herself to be put in handcuffs, escorted away from the scene, glad to hear the yammering calls over the radio for ambulances, for EMTs, and for further backup.
She looked at the moon as she was escorted toward the nearest squad car. She spotted Leoni, tucked in the backseat already. He looked out at her. She nodded once.
He smiled and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. For her part, she looked at the sky again, studying the moon, the stars, and she smiled.
She’d been right. She’d saved a life. That’s all that mattered.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Adele sat in the cold, sparse, holding cell, yet her thoughts carried more warmth than the bleak gray walls and floor around her. Daylight moved through the ceiling-level window above her. She breathed a gentle sigh toward the concrete, the back of her head resting against the wall where her shoulder blades grazed the rough, unpainted surface. Her left arm hung in a white sling, in a crook near her ribs. She winced a bit, readjusting.
She’d been right. But that didn’t mean everyone appreciated the method. Adele could still feel the raw marks around her wrists where the handcuffs had been pressed too tight. Apparently, the German police didn’t appreciate private planes being parked on their autobahn.
She heard a clink, and then the sound of marching footsteps. Her eyes flicked up, and she spotted one of the arresting German officers moving down the cold corridor to the holding cells.
For a moment, Adele felt a flutter of relief, but then, a second later, her heart plummeted. Behind the officer, Ms. Jayne came walking in like an angel of death appearing in the frame of the door. Adele resisted the urge to bite her tongue. For a moment, she felt like a schoolgirl caught by the principal. She wasn’t sure exactly where to look. After a couple of hyperventilated breaths, though, she reminded herself she wasn’t a child in need of reprimand.
Her stomach still twisted, and her chest prickled with nerves. At last, she settled on glancing through the iron bars of the hold
ing cell, flicking her gaze down the hall toward Ms. Jayne’s approaching form. The German police officer stepped to the side, clicked an electronic lock, and the door to Adele’s cell sprang open.
Ms. Jayne approached and came to a halt with one red-shoed foot resting on the line between the cell and the hall, while her other foot slanted off toward the exit.
Adele remained sitting on the bed, but then decided she didn’t like how it felt to be looked down on by Ms. Jayne. She got to her feet, shakily, wincing as she pushed off with her free hand, careful not to move the arm in the sling too much. Thankfully, the German police had provided bandages and ibuprofen. Both her hands were wrapped in gauze. She could still feel the heat from where she’d gripped the slipping rope, but the pain wasn’t as bad as last night.
“Agent Sharp,” said the Interpol correspondent.
Adele winced. “Ms. Jayne.”
“Quite a showing.”
Adele shrugged. “Saved a life.”
“Broke seven international laws as far as I can tell,” Ms. Jayne said, her expression impassive. She was a bit heavier than most field agents, with white hair and grandmotherly features. Everything about her seemed neat, clean, contained. Even now, there was no sign of the voice that had been barking at Adele over the phone to land the plane. Ms. Jayne simply peered out from her spectacles, eyeing Adele where she stood in the cell.
“You were right,” the Interpol correspondent said at last. “I can’t say your methods were particularly conventional, but you were right.”
Adele blinked.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean you should’ve disobeyed a direct order.”
Adele winced. She rubbed at one of her ears and said, “Honestly, the cell reception was just really bad.”
For a moment, Ms. Jayne studied Adele. She seemed to be weighing her options. Specifically, she seemed to be deciding if she was going to let Adele set the narrative. Bad reception. Hard to hear. A simple enough lie. Perhaps one that could be repeated. Of course, both of them knew the truth.
At last, eyes still narrowed, Ms. Jayne said, “I’ve heard that before. Something about the plane’s electronics. It would’ve been unsafe for you to try to call back.”
