by Blake Pierce
It turned.
More groaning, more desperate now.
Her heart skipped a beat, and she pushed the door, sharply, but instead of bursting in, she stepped back and dropped to a knee, allowing herself a good long look at the room before rushing into potential danger.
The door settled with a dull thump against the wall, spread over the white carpet.
In the room, in front of the neatly made bed, her father sat bound to a spindly wooden chair. His hands were tied behind his back; duct tape sealed his mouth. He was bleeding from cuts in his forehead and along his cheek.
Adele could just make out the edge of his fingers, from the way he was positioned facing the door, but turned slightly toward a window. Droplets of blood trickled from his fingertips and tumbled to the pristine carpet, staining the white beneath his chair and joining a larger stain caused by the blood seeping down his pant leg and soaking into the carpet beneath his foot.
“Dad!” Adele said, her hear in her throat.
She pushed off her knee and surged forward, rushing toward her father.
But he began shaking his head wildly, bucking and thrashing, a desperate look in his eyes she’d never seen before. He was staring at her, and kicking as wildly as he could, sending droplets off blood flying around the room, further staining his white carpet in complete disregard.
Adele hesitated for a moment in the doorway, entranced by her desperate desire to obey her father in all things, but also a sheer sense of duty to help those in danger.
Especially her parents. She only had one left.
Adele ignored his thrashing and bullishly entered the room, rushing to her dad’s side and ripping the duct tape from his mouth as quickly as she could, like pulling a Band-Aid.
Her father’s eyes narrowed as he winced, his cheeks bunched, but once the duct tape left his lips, his groaning and mumbling ceased and, in a loud voice, he shouted, “Sharp—no! Run!”
Adele heard the faintest of creaks behind her, from where the bookcase levied against the doorframe. She whirled around, gun raised. Something whistled as she ducked again, like she’d done before, and a heavy, metallic object swished over her head, rushing through her hair.
Her dad shouted incoherently.
There was a loud curse as a hooded shape swung a metal crowbar a second time, trying to crush Adele’s upraised arm. Her gun went off, but she knew she’d missed before she lurched back, avoiding the attack.
At the same time, her father kicked out, trying to trip the assailant, but the man—though not particularly large—was clearly strong.
Adele raised her gun again and squeezed off a shot, blind, still reeling. She finally managed to reset, bracing her back against the window to her father’s room, and she aimed now.
The hooded man cursed and kicked out, scoring a strike against Adele’s wrist. She grunted in pain and her gun went flying. She tried to track it, but lost it as the killer surged at her, trying to overwhelm her. Still, she might not have enjoyed firearms, but she was a trained investigator; she knew how to find things.
And while she hadn’t seen where the gun landed, she heard a quiet tick, suggesting the weapon had brushed the glass window, followed by a dull thunk, suggesting it had ricocheted off the jutting windowsill, followed by nothing further. Which meant, instead of landing on the carpet, it had likely landed on the soft pillow in the empty chair facing the window.
She didn’t have time to check this theory, though, as the killer came at her like a bat out of a flooded cave. His hood obscured most his features, but now he had a scalpel in one hand and a crowbar in the other. Adele lurched beneath the swiping blade, but this time couldn’t avoid the crowbar.
It struck her a glancing blow to the side of the head.
Immediately, she tasted iron in her mouth, and her head started spinning. Being struck in the side of the head was a lot harder to track than stories made out. It almost, inevitably, always came with a surge of shock and lost time.
Adele blinked and the killer seemed to have transported, the blow from the crowbar creating a gap in her memory. Still, she had the wherewithal to roll onto the bed as another swipe of the scalpel threatened to open her throat.
She couldn’t move too far, though; if he reached the gun, it was over.
Adele didn’t have time to look. She didn’t have time to shout out a warning. If the gun was on the floor instead of the cushion, she was dead.
But while she struggled with firearms, she could follow clues to their inevitable conclusion. The soft tick, the dull thunk, the lack of any further sound.
The gun was on the cushion. It had to be.
The killer swiped at her again, this time with the crowbar. But instead of surging back, as he’d anticipated, she shoved forward, slamming her head into the hooded man’s chest and sending him reeling into the window. Then, shooting up a desperate prayer to all listeners, she blindly groped toward the chair beneath the window, felt only cushion—horror flooded her—but then, at last, her fingers met metal.
She cried out in alarm and relief as her hand came back with her gun once more. She aimed it again, finger tightening on the trigger.
But the killer’s eyes widened in the moonlight streaming through the window. This time, he didn’t come for her again and instead, he flung himself backward, with impressive speed. Adele’s finger stiffened on the trigger.
“Shoot him!” her father kept screaming. “Do it, Sharp! Kill the bastard!”
But Adele couldn’t. The Sergeant was in the line of fire. She tried to shift, moving toward the door for a better angle, but the killer’s eyes flicked from her, to her father, and then teeth flashed in the shadow of his hood as he grinned.
The scalpel fell, descending toward her father’s neck.
The blade pressed against his throat and the Sergeant fell quiet, suddenly, swallowing.
“Hello, Agent Sharp,” said the killer in perfect German, smiling at her.
He reached up and lowered his hood, revealing his face.
Porter Schmidt had the reddest hair Adele had ever seen. Robert had been right. He also had a nearly perfect nose and sculpted cheeks. He would have been alarmingly handsome, except something about his appearance seemed a little too intentional. Though Adele couldn’t be certain, it seemed to her that Porter had booked appointments with the same sort of doctor who’d restored Robert’s once fading hair.
“Mr. Schmidt?” Adele replied, also in German, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in rapid motions. The man frowned briefly, and Adele noted the reaction. “We know everything about you. There are ten officers closing in as we speak. They’re downstairs. If you want to make it out alive at all—”
“Shh,” the man said, quietly, drawing the scalpel across her father’s neck and leaving a thin, red line.
The Sergeant winced and, for a brief five-second window, seemed to insert all the prohibited words he’d suppressed over the course of the year.
“Stop!” Adele said, desperate. “There are snipers just outside, and—”
“Shh,” Schmidt repeated, smiling again. Another tracing of the scalpel, and her father hissed in pain, kicking his feet.
“Stop!” she screamed.
“Lower your gun,” he said, quietly. “Please.”
Adele hesitated.
“Don’t, Sharp—shoot him. Do it now! Do it, or we’re both dead.” Her father’s voice cracked. “Don’t you—don’t you dare. Please. Honey, please. Don’t—I’ll be fine. Don’t—” This time he howled in pain as the scalpel bit deeper, dragging across his chin down to the collarbone, in the same position where John had his burn marks.
Adele dropped her gun like a hot coal. It hit the carpet with a muted thud.
“There are no snipers, no other officers,” said the killer, studying Adele. “Are there? And, please, for daddy’s sake, don’t lie.” He leaned down and kissed her father on top of his head, making a loud, smacking noise with his mouth as he did.
Her father
tried to hit the killer with the top of his head, but the man was too quick. He chuckled and pressed the scalpel back to the Sergeant’s neck.
“Well?” he said, quietly. “Tell me the truth.”
Adele hesitated, then shook her head, staring at the knife. “No. I’m alone.”
“Good. Please, darling, shut the door. I want to talk. How old are you, by the way?”
Adele frowned, but, with slow, morbid movements, she reached for the door and closed it. As she did, though, with her free hand, blocking it from view with her turned shoulders, she reached up and flicked the radio receiver on, while simultaneously muting the device.
When she turned back around, her hands were both back by her side.
Anyone listening would be able to hear, but she wouldn’t be able to hear them.
The killer eyed her up and down, his gaze lingering on her radio for the faintest moment. Then, with a relieved sigh, he said, “Good. Now we’re alone.”
He collapsed into a sitting position on the bed, arm still out, scalpel still glinting in the moonlight in the dark room. The comforter flattened beneath his weight, puffing up around him and pressing against his hips.
He patted the bed next to him. “Come,” he said, “sit next to me. You look so much like her, you know?”
Adele frowned. “Excuse me?” She didn’t move, standing where she was in front of the closed door, still within view of the window.
“Elise Romei,” said the killer, his tongue poking through his lips as if savoring her mother’s name as it left his mouth. “You are the spitting image—believe me. Truly, truly,” he began to giggle, shaking his head incredulously, “this is fate.” He wagged a finger toward something on the bed.
Adele glanced over and felt her heart skip a beat. It was an old framed photo of Elise, the Sergeant, and Adele. Smiling. They hadn’t smiled much together, and Adele couldn’t even remember when the photo had been taken.
“We were meant to meet, Adele Sharp.”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
“Romei,” he clicked his tongue… “Elise changed her name, otherwise I would have realized sooner.” He chuckled softly.
Adele glared at the man, a prickling horror giving way to a burning fury. This man, of all people, had no right to invoke her mother’s name. “Romei was her maiden name. How do you know my mother?” she demanded.
The killer winked at her, reclining one elbow on her father’s shoulder, using him like a table to prop up a weary arm. “Oh, she was a beautiful woman… I masturbated to pictures of her, you know…” Then he hesitated and frowned, as if realizing he might have said something offensive. “Not when she was alive, of course… I wouldn’t do that to a married woman.” He shook his head wildly from side to side. “Of course not. But afterwards? The pictures that were published in the papers, but repressed—they found their ways online… I have to tell you, I spent many nights—”
“Who the hell are you?” Adele demanded.
But the killer raised a hand, beckoning for her to come closer, smiling again.
With dread in her heart, but few options, she stepped over her gun, where it lay useless enmeshed in the thick carpet—stepping past her one defense—and approached the man with the knife to her father’s throat.
“I don’t understand, Mr. Schmidt,” Adele said, slowly, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. “You knew my mother?”
Porter paused, reaching back with the hand not pressed to the Sergeant’s throat and running a hand through his vibrant, red hair. “It’s not what you think,” he said, shaking his head, still smiling like a child discussing their favorite superhero. “I didn’t kill your mother…”
“But you know who did?” Adele’s voice rasped.
The killer frowned. “A gardener,” he said. “They called him the Spade Killer. You should know that. He honored your mother—you owe him a debt of gratitude.”
Adele rolled her fingers, clenching them into fists. She brushed her right foot back, seeking an anchor point with her gun, in case she needed to lunge for it.
The killer noticed this movement though and shook his head. He beckoned with a finger at her. “Come here. Give me your shirt and your radio.”
Adele stared at him, and the Sergeant began thrashing again, indifferent to the blade against his neck.
The killer wiggled his pointer finger, gesturing at her. “I’m serious. Come on—give them, or I open a second smile in daddy dearest.”
Adele stared over her father’s shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes.
The killer rolled his eyes. “Puh-lease,” he said, blowing air from out of a jutting lip and causing his red bangs to lift like dandelion fluff. “I’m not a perv—I just don’t want you making any inappropriate calls, and I need to check you for a wire.” His carefree tone morphed without notice and, with steel, he snapped, “Give me your shirt and your radio, now!”
He began to cut her father again, but Adele quickly ripped her shirt off, which took the shoulder radio and its wires with it. She flung both at Porter.
She glanced down, noticing the streak of blood along her ribs where she’d scraped against the glass window. She looked up and noticed the killer staring at her too, ogling the cut along her ribs. She’d worn a sports bra, modest enough—but Adele had never been embarrassed by her body, and if the killer was hoping to shame her, it wouldn’t work.
His eyes weren’t drawn to her chest, but rather remained fixed on her ribs, staring at the blood swirling down her abdomen. He let out a quiet sound of gurgling pleasure from the back of his throat.
As he stared, he was distracted. He extracted the radio from Adele’s shirt and tossed it onto the bed, behind her father’s bound form. But he didn’t check it, nor did he flick the off-switch. If anyone was listening, they could still hear everything.
“I feel uncomfortable with my back to the window like this,” Adele said, choosing her words carefully. “The moon is in your eyes; you have a pretty good look out the window, don’t you? I bet that was intentional. And you kept the curtain open so you could see me coming. Clever,” she said.
The killer frowned, listening to her, still mesmerized by the cut along her ribs.
Shirtless, Adele felt a chill now in the room. Her father’s eyes were fixed on hers, wide, the whites stretched in the dark. She looked away, though. She needed her wits about her; long, meaningful looks of melancholy or unstated love wouldn’t save them now.
“Second floor,” she continued, speaking a bit louder than necessary, but refusing to look in the direction of the radio. “Smart to hole up here in the room facing the street. Gives you the perfect vantage point, and you’ve been one step ahead this entire time. No wire—can I have my shirt back? You’re making my dad uncomfortable.”
She stared, unblinking, unyielding at the killer.
At this, he tore his gaze away from the blood across her ribs and studied her for a moment. Then he began to giggle. He stood up, still keeping the knife to her father’s throat, but now with his calf muscles against the frame of the bed. He watched her across the room. “You have a nice body,” he said. “But I bet you don’t have to work as hard as I do for it. See?”
He lifted the edge of his shirt, revealing his abdomen, and he flexed, grunting from exertion. Still flexing, in a strained voice, he repeated, “See? How old do you think I am—no, really, take your best guess.” Now he was studying her eyes, staring out across the dark room and the bleeding sergeant.
She met his gaze, stepping, ever so slightly to the right.
“Hey!” he snapped. “None of that now; kick it away. Do it!”
Adele held up her hands in deference and reached back with a foot, kick-shoving her gun across the floor and sending it into the corner of the room beneath the chair. She used the motion, however, to take another, hesitant step to the right, out of the line of fire through the window.
Please be listening, John. If you stopped for another donut, I’ll kill you myself!
�
�You never met my muse, did you?” said Porter, still studying her. “How old are you?”
“Does it matter?” she said.
He scowled, his smile disappearing. “What a stupid bloody question,” he spat. “What a stupid question. Yes!” Spittle flew from his lips, speckling the back of her father’s head. “Of course it matters. How old are you!”
“Thirty-two,” Adele said, quietly.
The killer hesitated. His mood shifted again, just as rapidly as before. Instead of fury, his eyes now held awe. He glanced out the window, catching the reflection of the moon and glancing up as if looking to the stars. “Truly,” he said. “It’s fate. Elise faded away at forty-one, you know? The numbers equal five.”
“A lot of numbers equal five.”
The killer’s eyes narrowed. “It’s fate.”
What is?” said Adele, still keeping calm, trying to stall, to give her backup as much time as they needed. What if they didn’t come? What if they came too late? She suppressed these thoughts, forcing them, willing them from her mind.
The killer hadn’t handed her shirt back, but still clutched it in one fist, bunched around his hand. He lifted it slowly, and sniffed at the fabric, especially lingering, his nostrils flaring, along the stretches streaked with blood.
“I like your perfume,” he said, quietly. “It smells nice mixed with your sweat… Like flowers and sulfur…” He giggled and inhaled again, pressing her shirt against his mouth and nose now, his eyes rolling back in pleasure.
For a flash of a moment, there was an opening—he wasn’t looking. But the moment passed as quickly as it came.
Adele couldn’t risk her father. She didn’t react, listening, allowing him to speak. The more he talked, the less he hurt the Sergeant. For now, that was a win. Eventually, though, he would lash out. She knew men like this. Killers always thought they were special. People romanticized serial killers—some people fantasized about being like them. TV shows, movies, books—serial killers were revered world ’round.
But really, deep down, killers were all the same.
