Left to Vanish (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eight)

by Blake Pierce

  She pictured Robert, how she’d found him. Trust your instincts.

  She swallowed, shaking her head, but then stepped into the darkness after Mr. Lavigne. As she entered the gloomy basement, a light clicked on and suddenly warm, yellow tones illuminated the room. Mr. Lavigne stood on the opposite side of the lower level, a single, naked support beam between them. For a moment, they just watched each other. His eyes were wide, unblinking. He tugged at the edge of his beard with sweaty fingertips and then, in a croaking voice, he said, “Here—this is my office.”

  He turned away from a light switch and stepped into a small room at the back of the dusty, naked hall.

  Adele shivered, listening as Agent Paige finally joined her in the bare basement.

  Paige muttered, “He’s probably killed people down here too.”

  “Don’t be dramatic,” Adele muttered. “He’s just not much of a decorator.”

  “He decorated his patio with old broken pieces of clay.”

  “Yes, well, I never said he wasn’t eccentric.”

  Adele shivered and then approached the single, small room in the back of the basement.

  As she drew nearer, she heard a strange, melodious sound… humming… Mr. Lavigne was humming to himself. She drew nearer, entering the small self-proclaimed office and glancing around.

  She blinked in surprise.

  Compared to the rest of the house, this room was practically a penthouse.

  Everything clean, clear. Even the small window in the top part of the wall was pristine, and dressed with a neat little curtain with polka-dots. The walls themselves were plastered in perfectly arranged and sequenced rows of old artifacts and pictures. She spotted crucifixes made of wood, or stone, and—in one case—what looked like bone. She spotted an old nun’s robes and a monk’s habit. She spotted rosaries next to old chalices and wine glasses. She spotted a row of neatly arranged bricks, each of them a different color and hue, with white labels and clear printed writing with dates like 1923, or 1862. She spotted hundreds of black-and-white pictures assorted in binders and folders in a small bookcase beneath the window. The items in the binders were obvious as two of them were already open on the desk in front of Mr. Lavigne where he was quickly sifting through, muttering to himself, clicking his fingers next to his ear and wagging his head as if agreeing with some unheard proclamation.

  “Gregor?” Adele ventured, softly. “Find what you’re looking for?”

  He murmured some more, still clicking his fingers strangely next to his ear as if somehow he found the sound soothing. His hands didn’t tremble as much now that he was down in this room and when he replied, his tone was brighter, more energetic than it had been in any other setting, even when being chased by Agent Paige’s ramrod driving style.

  “Yes, yes, here—here it is.” He nodded quickly and then tapped a finger to one of the open folders. “I knew I had it. Here. See? 632 Route de Contis. I knew it was here.”

  Adele blinked. 632 Route de Contis. The same address she’d asked Mr. Durand about. The home which had been knocked down and the rubble cleared—built up again. She shivered. What were the odds of that?

  “That’s where this convent was built?” she asked, slowly. “632 Route de Contis?”

  Gregor nodded quickly, still tapping a finger rhythmically into his binder. “There, there, see? The address. Written right there.”

  Adele leaned in now, brushing nearer to Mr. Lavigne. Again, she smelled sweat, but also dust and something strange and sweet which seemed to be coming from a small row of jars against one side of the wall. She frowned, staring at the jars. “Is that…”

  “Urine,” he said quickly. “Don’t worry, it’s my own.”

  “That worries me.”

  “It helps keep the brass clear. I tinge it with honey, an old trick. Sweetens the fragrance. Those buttons were from an old cardinal’s uniform, you know.”

  Adele stared at the brass buttons suspended in human urine and grimaced, glancing back at the binder now. She could hear Agent Paige moving surreptitiously behind her. Adele could practically hear Paige’s thoughts. If Mr. Lavigne wanted to strike, to attack, now would be the time to do so. With her so close, in cramped quarters, out of sight from anyone else.

  But he still leaned over the folder, pointing at an old black-and-white Polaroid taped to the page. Adele surreptitiously glanced at his hands—no concealed weapon she could determine.

  Trust your instincts.

  So she brushed past him now, shoulder to shoulder, staring down at the indicated picture.

  In the cramped frame, she spotted an old, wooden and stone building with a circular window centering a crowned doorway. She hesitated, glancing from the photo to the white writing above the frame.

  632 Route de Contis.

  The photo itself displayed what looked to be a small and old building.

  “That’s the cloister I was speaking of,” he murmured. “That’s it. The one where they sent…” His voice went softly hoarse, “the demon-possessed children.”

  “The mentally ill children,” Adele replied.

  “Perhaps both.” He shrugged, his shoulder rubbing against hers.

  Again, she glanced toward the jar of urine-soaked buttons and grimaced.

  “All right… So that’s what we’re dealing with. You mentioned you might have a picture of the nuns who ran this particular cloister. Do you?”

  “Yes—yes, of course. Here. Look.” He flipped the folder to a second dividing page, muttered to himself, scanned and then flipped the page again. “Damn it,” he said. “I know it’s here some—there!” he suddenly declared, jabbing an excited finger toward a picture pressed to the middle of the divider, surrounded by other old black-and-whites.

  This picture, though, deserved its centered location of honor.

  Five women in the frame, standing in front of the familiar building now. One of them, in the middle, stood in just such a way that the round window of the old 632 Route de Contis building served as a sort of halo behind her head.

  The other woman all stood angled toward this middle-most person.

  All of them wore tight gray hair in buns, their eyes severe and certain, their postures docile but hinting at a hidden will of iron. Their hands were folded in front of themselves, their dresses low, past their ankles, brushing the ground, their shoulders back in perfect postures.

  Each of them looked near carbon copies of each other.

  Adele leaned in staring, stunned. She felt her heart flutter.

  They also looked similar to others…

  “Paige, look at this,” she said sharply.

  “I’m fine back here,” Paige returned. “Describe it to me.”

  “No—seriously, come look.”

  Paige sighed in frustration, but then, with the sound of slow, cautious footsteps, she began to approach from behind, muttering darkly to herself. She circled around Gregor, preferring to press in on Adele’s other side, her one hand still fixed to her holster, which, Adele noticed, was unbuttoned.

  “Look,” Adele said, quickly, jabbing a finger toward the indicated picture again. “See that? Anything unusual about them?”

  Paige frowned, leaning in, staring at the picture of the five women. “No,” she said, softly. She shrugged. “They look the same. Old and gray.” Paige reached up with one hand, brushing her hair behind one ear and scowling at the picture.

  “Exactly—they look… Healthy, though, yes? Powerful. All of them in their fifties. All of them sharing a certain… bearing, yes? A proud bearing.”

  Paige blinked, staring at the photo. “And?”

  “If any of our victims were somehow taken back through time, dressed a certain way, would they stand out at all in that photo?” Adele asked, feeling her heart flutter in excitement, her mouth dry with anticipation. Her eyes itched from not blinking, but she kept her gaze fixated on the centered picture. “It’s uncanny. They would fit right in. All of our victims would, wouldn’t they?”

 
“I—I suppose so. You think he’s going after a certain type because of this photo?”

  “I think… Yes.”

  “We already knew he had a hard-on for old ladies with money and pride. So what? How does that help us narrow anything.”

  This time, Adele glanced toward Mr. Lavigne. “Well?” she said, softly. “Anything that might—”

  “Before she’d even finished, he flipped over the photo and tapped a finger. “Their names,” he said, quietly.

  Adele blinked, staring now at the five names scribbled on the back of the Polaroid.

  As she did, her mouth slowly fell open and a prickle sped up her spine and along the back of her arms. “Holy shit,” she said.

  “Careful,” Gregor snapped, crossing himself.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, leaning in now and rereading the names.

  “Ella,” she said, softly. “Aileen.”

  “Gina,” Agent Paige completed, also leaning in now, a stunned note to her tone. “The names,” she said. “They’re…”

  “Practically the same as our victims’,” Adele said, shivering. “Obviously, Elke Schmidt is closer to Ella. Gina to Gianna Calvetti and…” Adele felt prickles across her face. “Aileen to Alaina Churchville. But still, a letter here, or there… That’s it. That’s why he’s targeting them. That’s the narrowing focus.” She tapped her finger insistently just beneath the photo but stopped when Mr. Lavigne growled.

  She raised her hand in a placating gesture, but then read the last two names. “Jacqueline. And Candela…”

  “The remaining two names,” whispered Agent Paige. “Think that’s who he’s targeting next?”

  Adele’s eyes shone as she stared at the picture, feeling an old sense of excitement settling across her. A sensation she hadn’t experienced in a while. “Jacqueline and Candela,” Adele said. “That’s going to help us narrow down the list of twenty-three. It has to. Shared names—close names. Those are going to be the targets!”

  Paige muttered softly in disbelief, but then turned and began to move out of the room, fishing her phone from her pocket as she did. She stood in the doorway now and Adele glanced back to watch as Paige cycled through the pictures she’d taken of Mr. Becker’s highlighted documents with potential victims.

  For her part, Adele glanced at Mr. Lavigne, who still stood docile by the table, his eyes darting between the two agents. “So,” he murmured, “have I been helpful?”

  “Very,” Adele said. “Yes.”

  “Am I free to go?”

  “No, but you’re free to stay. A police car will be by, watching your home for the next few days, no doubt. Don’t leave town.”

  “I travel for work,” he insisted.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s the best I can do.”

  Adele glanced over her shoulder once more, her eyes fixed on the severe-faced women outside the old cloister, now turned new home.

  She didn’t believe in cursed land… At least, she didn’t think so.

  Demons were now explained by science.

  At least, so she thought.

  Somehow, though, standing in that basement, shivering in the cool draft of the old home, surrounded by odd artifacts and brass buttons and old photos of a bygone era, she felt a slow trickling sense of anxiety rising that had nothing to do with Robert, nothing to do with her skills as an investigator.

  Real or not, she felt now they were on the very edge, poised to catch a demon before it struck again.

  She felt another chill at the thought and shivered, glancing around the room. Perhaps a premonition, or simple instinct, but Adele felt near certain, whatever the case, they were almost out of time.

  “We need to check the names,” Adele said quickly. “And any translations of those names or nicknames. Especially if found on official documents. I don’t know how he’s getting access to the names… but he is somehow, that’s how he’s finding his victims.”

  “Most sales with the church were public record,” Mr. Lavigne called out from behind her.

  Adele began marching toward the door, toward where Agent Paige was still flicking through her phone, her face glowing blue in the light of the phone.

  “Come on,” Adele murmured, quietly. “We need to move. We can check as we go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  “Jackie Eymard and Candace Danis,” Adele said, urgently, hissing through her teeth.

  “You’re sure?” Agent Paige snapped, now sitting in the driver’s side, steering the vehicle up the road, away from Mr. Lavigne’s home. It seemed like all worries about releasing the killer had faded now in the face of this new information.

  “Yes,” Adele insisted. “Jackie lives in Spain.”

  Agent Paige glanced sharply over. “Spain?” The car practically stalled, as she began to apply the brakes and twist the wheel.

  “I still don’t think it’s him,” Adele retorted. “A coincidence.”

  Agent Paige growled, readjusting the wheel and pressing the gas once more. “He had a ticket to Spain, Adele,” she said, insistently.

  “I know. But why would he lead us to those pictures? The killer is out there. He has to be.”

  Adele turned her attention to her phone, cycling through the pictures of Mr. Becker’s list. She scrolled through the names again, glancing at the yellow legal pad where she had written down the additional information, double-checking.

  She shook her head, “Candace Danis and Jackie Eymard. The only two names that are close matches to our Jacqueline and Candela.”

  Paige drummed her fingers against the steering wheel. “Let’s say it was just a coincidence he had a ticket to Spain. Where’s our other possible victim?”

  Adele winced, reading. She cursed and muttered, “She’s one of the ones I couldn’t pin down. At least two locations I could find. She travels for work.”

  “You have a phone number?” Paige said, insistently.

  “I’m sure I can get one.”

  “All right, well, I’m heading toward the police station, just in case. I’ll call ahead to Spanish authorities, and get them posted out at Jackie Eymard’s place. Protective custody.”

  Adele nodded quickly, as Agent Paige kept one hand on the steering wheel, and the other fished into her pocket for her phone again. She raised it, already dialing the number for the DGSI operatives in Spain.

  For her part, Adele glanced at the final name. If Mrs. Eymard was safe, that meant the only remaining target would be Candace Danis. But where was Mrs. Danis? At least two locations. One of them in Italy, but the other was the summer home in France.

  She shivered, lifting her phone to make a call of her own.

  She could hear Agent Paige rattling off information, already communicating with the Spanish authorities. Adele felt a slow, cresting sense of relief. At least Mrs. Eymard would be safe.

  But Mrs. Danis was in the wind. The killer was on the hunt.

  Adele quickly scrolled through her notes on the yellow legal pad a second time. She glanced down at Mr. Becker’s list, cycling over to the furthest column.

  She froze. There had been no phone number for Mrs. Danis herself, but there, written in the margins, was a number for someone else. She leaned in, squinting, trying to read the cramped number.

  It was listed under an insurance column. But it didn’t have the same code as the other French insurance agencies. So who did the number belong to?

  It was worth a shot. Adele quickly dialed, raising her phone, feeling the car increase speed as Paige took them back toward the precinct. Adele could feel the vehicle shake from the strain as Paige put it through its paces. She could hear Paige now raising her voice, yelling at someone on the other end of the line. Jackie was in safe hands in Spain. Mrs. Danis, though, needed help.

  To her relief, someone picked up after the third ring. “Candace Danis?” Adele said, quickly.

  A voice cleared on the other end, and hesitantly replied, “Excuse me? Who is this?”

  Adele’s heart plummeted, sinking somewh
ere in the vicinity of her toes. The voice was male. “I’m trying to reach Candace,” Adele said, quickly. “My name is Adele Sharp, I’m an agent with the DGSI. Who am I speaking to?”

  There was a pause, then a frustrated clearing of the throat. “Is this a joke?”

  The person spoke perfect French. Adele tried not to let her frustration show, as she insisted, “No, I’m not joking. Please, this is important, who is this?”

  “Gabriel Danis. Candace is my wife,” said the voice testily. “Is she okay? I was supposed to see her tonight. What’s going on?”

  “You’re not with her?”

  “My wife travels for work. Who did you say this was?”

  “Agent Adele Sharp. I’m with DGSI. The agency works on crimes that—”

  “I know what DGSI is. What’s the matter with my wife?” The voice on the other end cracked now with anxiety, some of the frustration replaced by fear. “What happened? Is she okay?”

  “Sir, as far as I’m aware, your wife is fine. But we have to find her. I can’t repeat how important that is. We have to find her now. Where is she?”

  A swallow. “I’m not sure where she is. She likes to stop by the apartment after work but is supposed to meet me in Aquitaine tonight,” the man said, hyperventilating now on the other end. “I’m already on my way. I was at the airport. Look, where is she? What happened?”

  Adele paused. This was the worst part. The uncertainty of it all. Still, she had to keep focused. “Nothing has happened yet, sir. Please remain calm. We’re contacting your wife. Do you have a phone number for her?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Could you please text it to this number, right now. The same number I’m calling you on.”

  Adele heard muttered curses, but the voice faded, suggesting the phone had been taken away from the man’s ear as he complied with the request. Adele waited patiently, allowing the man a moment, likely with trembling hands from adrenaline and fear, to type out the information.

  A few seconds passed, and then her phone buzzed.