Left To Die

by Blake Pierce

John shrugged, rose from his seat, and poured himself a fourth glass, nearly to the brim. Then, ignoring the concerned look on Adele’s face, he sidled past her with steady movements and pushed open the door. Adele followed him back up the stairs to the seventh floor—by the fourth he’d already finished his fourth glass and yet, somehow, it didn’t seem to affect his surefooted movements.

  Either he knew how to hold his liquor very well, or years of training his physical body had a greater effect than that of the alcohol.

  John’s office was far larger than Adele’s, and there were no pictures or photos here. Instead, his walls displayed posters of scantily clad models and actresses that most agencies would’ve considered grossly inappropriate.

  John played his role well—just enough to keep people offended and at arm’s length. But Adele was starting to discern more about the man.

  Still, right now, the source of her curiosity wasn’t the man himself, but what lay on his desk. She spotted the manila envelope the moment she stepped into the room.

  John left the door ajar behind them and approached the desk with her. She beat him to the envelope and opened it with quick, deft motions.

  She scanned the document a few times, hesitating, trying to place the results. It wasn’t formatted the same way the FBI did, so it took her a moment, but at last she found what she was looking for.

  “Dammit,” she muttered. She lowered the report.

  “What?” said John, sounding bored again.

  Adele gnawed on the corner of her lip, shaking her head slightly from side to side, her hair swishing against her ears.

  “It’s the same as the FBI. They know the chemical compound; a powerful paralytic, but they don’t know what it is.”

  John sat on the edge of his desk, massaging his forehead. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they can identify its components, but they don’t know where it would be sold. It’s not over-the-counter, obviously. But it’s not even in medical distributions. They’ve not seen anything like it.”

  Adele tapped her fingers against the manila folder, grinding her teeth in frustration. A clear, powerful liquid. Not unlike John’s alcohol.

  Could the killer be making it himself? She highly doubted it. Whatever substance he used was powerful and immediately effective. To make that sort of stuff from scratch would take a level of clearance and competence the killer couldn’t have possessed while simultaneously maintaining anonymity. But then where was he getting it?

  John asked, “FBI didn’t know?”

  Adele shook her head.

  “DGSI doesn’t know?”

  “Great rehashing.”

  “My point,” he said with a sniff, “is that perhaps Interpol might have a clue. America and France aren’t the only places with records of tox screens or chemicals.”

  Adele glanced to John, her eyes widening. “Do you think Interpol will help?”

  John smirked. “DGSI has a great relationship with Interpol, unlike the US. Besides, their headquarters are in Lyon—it’s not far from here.”

  Adele tapped her fingers against the folder, her excitement mounting. “Genius. If we can find out where he’s getting that drug, we might be able to find out where he’s from.”

  “I thought you said he was from France,” said John, frowning.

  Adele placed the folder back on the desk and turned, heading toward the door once more. She could feel exhaustion still pressing down on her like a blanket, trying to smother her. Her morning run loomed large in her mind, and she shuddered at how she would feel when the wake-up call came for her in her hotel room. Still, if John was right, and Interpol could identify the substance, it would clear things up.

  “I thought he had to be, at first,” said Adele. “But what if he’s not from the US or France? What if he’s a vacationer? We didn’t consider that. What if he’s from somewhere else, and what if that’s where he’s getting the substance from?”

  John tried to hide it, but he looked impressed, if only for a split second.

  She patted him firmly on the arm. “Good idea, grab the report, we can fax it over from my office.”

  John shook his head and waved at her. “No need. I have an old military buddy who works there. I’ll give him a call—send a picture of the report. Give me a second.”

  Adele felt a surge of gratitude toward her partner, which she hadn’t felt up to this point. Perhaps he wasn’t as disinterested and useless as she’d first thought.

  It took a couple of moments, but after a murmured phone call and some legally questionable pictures of the document, John turned back to her, clicking his phone off. “They’re on it,” he said.

  “How good is this friend of yours?”

  John shrugged. “I saved his life, twice. He saved mine three times. You could say we’re close.”

  “No—I mean how good is he at his job? He works in the lab?”

  John smirked as if sharing a secret joke with someone not in the room. “No, he works at Interpol. He wouldn’t know a chemistry set from a distillery. But they’ll do what he says.”

  John turned and exited his office with Adele, locking the door behind him. “I’ll drive you back to your hotel,” he said.

  Adele shook her head. “Not after four drinks you won’t.”

  He groaned and complained, but Adele stood her ground, and, at last, he relented.

  “Fine, here are the keys,” he said, tossing them to her. His aim was just a bit off, and the keys scraped against the wall, leaving a small gash in the paint. He groaned and began to walk down the hall, back toward the stairs.

  “You need me to drop you off?” she called after him.

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Sleep downstairs.”

  She pictured the small interrogation room with the couch and the TV.

  It was an oasis in a place like this. But it also held a sadness. She wanted to protest, but then thought better of it. Perhaps John didn’t have anyone to go to. Back in San Francisco, Agent Grant Lee often slept at the office.

  Adele took the keys and hurried toward the elevator. She was sick of stairs.

  The toxicology report would be the key. As smart as the killer thought he was, she was getting closer; she could feel it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The cool breeze introduced itself to the night with gentle swirls, brushing against leaves and sidling along buildings down the cramped street. Enes made his way, stumbling a bit on the stone curb. In the distance, he spotted a police car pulling by, lights flashing.

  The man puffed his cheeks, breathing in quiet relief. “Stupid Peter,” he murmured. He was glad he’d turned down the ride from his dorm mate—five drinks in and still behind the wheel.

  Still, prudent decisions did little to stave off a nip in the air, and the young man wished he’d brought a jacket. He’d left his umbrella back in Peter’s car, but thankfully the rain seemed to have stopped, at least for the hour. He shivered, rubbing at his arms as he made his way along the street.

  Enes glanced back in the direction of the bar and blearily surveyed the glowing orange and yellow lights emanating from the streaked windows. He could hear the raucous cries of people reacting to the football match, and, perhaps, to the magician. It hadn’t been a very good magician. The trick with those twenty-three cards had been easy enough to spot. An engine, in statistical parlance, where no matter what, a chosen card would be revealed after a series of mathematical estimations.

  The university student shook his head and pulled his shirt collar over his ears for a bit of warmth. He rubbed his arms a second time.

  Normally, walking through the parks at night, especially in Paris, was an ill-advised option. But it was just so cold. He didn’t want to circle the park to reach his dormitory. Besides, it wasn’t like he was some defenseless child, worried about being attacked. He could take care of himself.

  Enes jutted his chin forward and nearly slipped off the curb as he took another step. Quickly, with a spring, he righted himself, testi
ng his suspect foot. He winced.

  Through the tingling pain, Enes paused, teeth still clenched. Behind him, for a moment, he thought he heard footsteps.

  Uttering a string of expletives, he glanced back, but spotted no one.

  The row of parked cars glinted beneath the moon, winking ominously at him. Still cursing, he jerked his foot back onto the sidewalk, testing it gingerly. Then, with added respect toward the alcohol cycling his system, he began to move toward the park.

  There had been a killing in Paris not long ago. It had made the news. But it was on the opposite side of the city, nearly an hour and a half away in bad traffic. He figured he would be fine.

  Enes reached the park and scanned the darkness. Safety lights flanked the trails, illuminating the waving trees and the vegetation responding to the influence of the wind.

  He wished he’d carried a knife. Still, it was only a short walk to the other side of the park, and then he’d be within sight of his dormitory.

  Again, for a moment, he had the uncanny feeling of being watched. The back of his neck prickled, and he turned, peering across the park once more.

  Still, he spotted no one. For the faintest of moments, he reconsidered the trip through the park. The place was notorious for muggings and worse, but even muggers didn’t like the rain.

  Enes lowered his head and began to limp through the park, keeping quiet, his arms at his side, as if presenting as small a target as possible would allow him safe passage beneath the shadowed trees.

  At this point, everything seemed quieter. Living in a city like Paris—a beautiful, messy, loud city—one could forget what quiet was. Even at night, the sound of passing cars and the noise from the apartments or bars would taint the air. The park, though, while not entirely removed, was still spacious enough and serene enough that Enes thought he could pick up the quiet buzz of the safety lights.

  Then he heard footsteps.

  A chill crept up his spine, prodding at him like fingers of ice. He turned sharply and spotted someone coming rapidly toward him.

  For a moment, he felt a flood of fear. He tried to break into a sprint, but found his twisted ankle wouldn’t hold his weight. He stumbled and quickly righted himself, turning once more to face the oncoming person.

  As the stranger in the dark drew nearer, Enes’s breathing eased.

  It was the magician from the bar.

  The young man muttered beneath his breath, allowing a sardonic smile to twist his lips. He felt silly all of a sudden, reacting as he had. The tourist with the thick accent had been annoying, but clearly nonthreatening.

  Enes shoved his hands in his pockets, refusing to return the small wave flashed in his direction from the magician.

  “Excuse me,” said the tourist, his accent grating.

  “You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” Enes snapped. Some of his friends liked to slow their speech when speaking to tourists. It allowed the foreigners to understand better. But he had no such aversions to rapid cadence. Tourists, as far as he could tell, were a bane on the city. They robbed Paris of much of its identity.

  The magician continued to approach, smiling genially. He had a wool cap pulled tight over his head with stray strands of reddish hair poking out from beneath the hem.

  “You forgot something,” said the magician.

  Enes frowned. Instinctively, he checked his pants pocket, but his wallet was still there. He glanced back at the tourist and shook his head.

  “Come with me,” said the stranger. “I left it back over on the trail by accident.”

  Enes scowled now. He didn’t like this tourist, and he didn’t like that he’d been startled at night in the middle of the park. He glanced around and thought he spotted a couple teenagers on a bench in the distance. But they weren’t looking his way.

  “Go away,” he said.

  “Come, you forgot something. Your wallet. It’s just back that way.”

  Enes checked his pocket again, this time pulling his wallet out enough so he could glance at it. He opened it slightly and spotted all his cards and the ten-euro note he’d expected.

  He shook his head. “Not mine,” he said. “Go away.”

  The magician had stopped, both his hands out of sight behind his back, a quizzical expression on his face. “You really are twenty-three? What’s it like?”

  This took Enes off guard. Now, part of the earlier fear had returned, once more circling his system. Perhaps he’d been too quick to dismiss the threat presented by this tourist. He began to turn to walk away, limping along quickly, heading toward the opposite end of the park.

  He continued to glance back, refusing to leave the strange, creepy man out of sight.

  “It must be nice,” the magician said, following in his footsteps, moving quickly, but confidently. Like a predator stalking its prey. “Youth is wasted on the young. I’m only a bit older than you. Look at me; can you guess how old I am?”

  Enes shook his head wildly, and began glancing around for a tree branch or some rock he could use as a weapon.

  “I’m only forty,” said the magician. “But I don’t look much older than thirty-two, do I? That’s what my friends say. I’ve had a lot of work done.” He laughed in a would-be disarming manner.

  The young man felt anything but put at ease. He felt a hand suddenly reach out and grab his wrist, gripping him tight and sending his heart catapulting into his throat.

  Enes caught a wicked gleam in the magician’s eye, followed by the flash of something metallic as the tourist’s other hand came darting forward.

  A needle. Enes shouted and swung a wild punch, which missed the magician, but did enough to knock off his aim. The twenty-three-year-old turned and tried to sprint away, but again his ankle failed him.

  Now, the tourist snarled and lunged after him.

  Enes kicked, bit, and scratched, trying to go for the magician’s eyes. But the tourist held on tight; there was a pause, a quick grunt, and Enes felt a sudden sharp jab of pain in his waist. He glanced down, realizing suddenly that he somehow found himself on the ground in the dirt with the magician above him.

  A horrible, pale little syringe was stabbed into his hip. The plunger had been pressed.

  Enes stared, stunned. Then he tried to rise. A second passed… two… His arms felt funny.

  The magician emitted a cooing sound and reached down to caress the young man’s hair in tender, affectionate strokes.

  Another chill crept across the college student’s skin. But, just as quickly, the sensation up and down his spine faded. He tried to regain his feet, but found they wouldn’t move either.

  Had he broken something in the fall? Terror filled him. A childhood spent playing sports, fearful of injuring his spine, flooded his mind. But, as he tried to speak, he found his lips wouldn’t move either. His arms hung limply at his side like wet strands of pasta. He could hear, see, he could feel the dirt trail pressed against his chest and cheek. He could feel the sharp pain now, returning to his side. His senses, if anything, seemed heightened. The magician was twisting his arm, evoking further pain as he tried to roll his prey over.

  Enes wanted to resist, but his muscles, his tendons, his limbs didn’t respond. He could feel, but he couldn’t move.

  Now fear pumped through him, swelling his system with adrenaline. But the adrenaline only stirred him to more anxiety. The adrenaline wasn’t being used; it had nowhere to go. He was helpless.

  He tried to scream, and he could hear the shout, the bloodcurdling screech in his own mind, but there, beneath the moon-laced tree branches, staring up at the dark sky, he heard nothing. His lips remained numb.

  He saw a glint of something metal, and then a muttered oath. The magician was shaking his head and murmuring something to himself in a language the young man didn’t understand. The tourist grabbed his victim by the wrists and began to drag him roughly along the trail, toward a darker portion of the park.

  “Have you ever heard of the Spade Killer?” said the magician in a low voice,
grunting in between the words. “He once created artwork in a park too. Not this one, but close enough. I must thank you for leading me here. It’s fate.”

  Enes couldn’t respond. He could feel dirt getting into his shirt though, scraping against his back as he was dragged along the path. Somehow, the sensation was double. The pain in his shoulder sockets worsened, the rash along his back rubbed with dirt and gouging rocks.

  He felt himself deposited unceremoniously beneath a dark tree.

  Above him, he glimpsed another flash of metal. The magician was holding a small knife. He stared down at the young man, a tender expression on his face. He stooped, still smiling, and removed Enes’s shirt. The college student couldn’t resist; he couldn’t fight.

  The magician loosed a shuddering gasp, an orgasmic sound. He studied his victim’s exposed chest. “Where to start?” he said. “Twenty-nine was too old. This park—it’s funny we should be here. Not far from here, in another park, the Spade Killer had his first. She was forty-one, you know? Twenty-three, forty-one. The numbers both add up to five—get it? That’s where he started. He stopped at thirty—imagine that? Forty-one to thirty. The authorities don’t even know all of his tapestries. I picked up where he left off. You’re just a youthful piece to a grand tapestry. I once had a body like yours, you know? I still do. Look.”

  The magician lifted his shirt, revealing a trim, pale body, and he seemed to flex his abdomen, trying to press his muscles against his skin. The vanity and the terror of the moment mixed, settling on Enes’s helpless form like a smothering blanket.

  “Rock hard,” said the magician, slapping at his abdomen. “And the work,” a long, pale finger traced his cheeks. “Most people can’t tell it’s professional.” He reached up, prodding at his nose and beneath his eyes. He smiled down at the shirtless victim. “This is going to be fun. Please, whatever you do, don’t scream.” He chuckled at this. “Not that you could…”

  Then the knife flashed forward, descending toward Enes’s chest.

  Voices exploded from behind them.

  “You! What are you doing with him!”