by Blake Pierce
“Careful,” cautioned Father Paul.
Rudy hesitated, clearing his throat, and began to close his mouth but Adele said quickly, “What thing?”
Rudy stammered, glancing at the older priest. “I am—I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“What is it?” John growled.
“I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead. Everyone liked Fernando—I did see something unusual, though.”
“Rudy,” said Paul, sharply, “I’m sure they know. We don’t need to speak of this in the Lord’s house.”
“Speak of what?” Adele said.
Rudy hesitated and then, swiftly, he muttered, “The prophylactics I saw on his chest.”
“What?” John said.
“Condoms,” Adele replied. “He had condoms on him?”
Rudy’s cheeks were red and he kept bobbing his head.
Father Paul muttered up a silent prayer, crossing himself while wearing a disapproving frown.
“Used?” Adele said.
“Lord, preserve us,” Paul muttered.
Rudy gagged, making a coughing sound and shaking his head wildly. “No. Nothing like that. They were sealed. Unused. But there were three of them resting on his chest. I didn’t notice them at first, because of all the blood. But while I was calling for help, I spotted them. The investigators took them when they,” he coughed, “also took Gabriel.”
“I see,” Adele said. “As for Father Fernando, you don’t know of any enemies he might’ve had?”
At this, both men shook their heads adamantly. “Everyone loved him,” they said, in near unison. “He was one of the favorite teachers at the school—it used to be an orphanage, but he treated everyone in the school like his own children.” Father Paul hesitated, then reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small business card. He extended it and John plucked it from between his fingers.
“I am not sure we have anything else to add, Agents,” the man said, carefully. “But if I think of anything, I’ll be sure to let you know. And there you have my number. I tend to turn my phone on after rounds in the evening.”
Adele sighed, circling the caution tape once, glancing at the neat, well-kept floors. But nothing stood out. Someone had followed the priest into the church, either late at night or early in the morning. Then they’d jumped him.
What was this business with the condoms, though? A priest breaking his vows? Or a killer sending some sort of message?
Adele touched John on the arm; he glanced down and looked her in the eyes. She gave an imperceptible nod back toward the door.
John cleared his throat. “Stick around. We might have questions. Good day.”
The two of them began to move and as they did, John murmured, “So who kills a saint then leaves condoms on their chest?”
Adele whispered back, “We should check with the coroner. Maybe he’ll give us more.”
***
The coroner’s studio was ten miles away in the more urban setting of Saint-Palais. Adele couldn’t say why, but she was glad to leave the old commune behind her. It was one thing to go back into the past to learn from history, but another thing to live in it. Also, sometimes, what she didn’t understand made her uncomfortable. Now, stepping into a cold, chilled room lined with metal refrigerators, she felt a greater sense of familiarity.
Science she understood. Corpses and evidence made sense to her.
The coroner was standing near one of the slabs, a sandwich with lettuce and mayonnaise in one hand. The contents had dripped on the ground beneath the slab. The man glanced over, peering through Coke-bottle glasses in their direction. He removed his glasses, squinting, the few strands of hair remaining on his head wispy beneath the bright lights above. “Are you the ones who called?” the coroner said.
“Dr. Gascon?” John queried, stepping forward.
The man adjusted his white coat, nodding. He gesticulated with a sandwich, sending another drop of mayonnaise flying onto the body. He didn’t seem to notice or care. “That’s right. Are you Agent Renee? Agent Sharp?”
He glanced between the two of them. They both nodded and drew nearer. The chill air sent tremors up Adele’s arm.
“Well,” the coroner said, his voice creaking, “I’m not sure I can tell you much more than I gave in the report. But you caught me on my lunch break. So I don’t mind visiting on old friend. He patted the arm of the cadaver, seemingly indifferent to the mayonnaise stain he wiped across the bicep.
A thin sheet covered the body up to the neck. The coroner reached up, lowering the edge of the fabric. “As you can see,” he said, wiggling his finger along, tracing the cuts on the throat, “messy. Very, very messy.” He took another bite of his sandwich.
Adele stared. The cold, pale face of the corpse matched the picture of Gabriel Fernando. He wasn’t smiling as he had been in the picture. The cuts on his throat were jagged, ripped, rough.
“That’s not the work of a professional,” Adele murmured.
The coroner shook his head. “Not the work of a knife, either.”
John looked away, scowling into the corner of the room, staring at a patch of darkness, if only to look at something besides the body for a moment. When he turned back, his tone was gruff. “What do you make of it?”
The old man grunted. “Maybe our guy’s first kill. Not a practiced killer. Not a good weapon. Certainly, like you said, not the work of a professional. I did find a strange deposit of calcium carbonate in the wound.”
Adele wrinkled her nose, also looking away from the corpse now. The bright light behind the balding coroner caused her to squint. “What do you make of that?”
“Make? Me? Nothing. It’s your job to make. I just tell you what I see. The weapon wasn’t a knife. Maybe bone. Maybe something else. Certainly unconventional.”
“We heard the body was found with unused condoms on his chest,” Adele said, carefully.
The corner scratched at his head and nodded. “I was told the same thing. I don’t have those. In evidence probably.”
“Could that be connected in some way?”
The coroner shrugged. “Maybe some jilted lover. You know some of the stories that come out with these sorts. Or could be something more licit.”
Adele shared a look with John; they both shrugged.
“Well, anything else?”
“One other thing. No defensive wounds. Fingernails undamaged. Hands were fine. I have to reckon the poor guy didn’t see his killer coming. Or maybe he knew the fella.” The coroner shrugged. “That’s what I have. If I find anything else, I’ll let you know.”
Adele and John nodded farewell, taking another long look at the hapless victim. Then, with twin sighs, they turned and began to make their way out of the studio back toward where they had parked their rented car.
“Well, that’s a big dead end,” Adele muttered. “He didn’t tell us anything new. Our victim was killed with a weird weapon. Maybe he knew the guy. Maybe he didn’t.”
John returned, not speaking nearly so quietly. “If it is the killer’s first victim, and this girl is his second, he’s escalating fast. Normally serial killers ease into it. This guy is breaking into an all-out sprint.”
Adele began to reply but then her phone buzzed. She cursed, glancing down. Another text message from Agent Paige. “She won’t leave me alone,” Adele snapped. “What does she expect us to report? We just got here.”
John shrugged. “Not going to connect the dots until we see the second crime scene. I haven’t been to Spain in a while.”
Adele wiped a hand across her forehead, which felt clammy from the short stint in the coroner’s lab. “Right. You set the tickets up. I’ll try to keep Agent Paige off our backs.”
CHAPTER FIVE
It had been a while since he’d managed to get on a plane.
Now, the painter peered out the small window, watching the clouds. They were art in and of themselves. The beauty of the sky, and the way the sun caught the condensed vapor
against a backdrop of blue seemed like some infinite canvas.
He smiled, rubbing a hand against his leg.
It had taken him a couple of weeks to recover from the dive off the bridge.
He leaned back, pressing his head against the cushioned rest, tapping his fingers against the plastic tray.
A large woman next to him was taking up too much of the armrest. There was a time, out of curiosity, he might’ve inquired of the woman about herself.
But he wasn’t looking for another job. Not now. He knew why he was here.
The plane dipped from the sky, through the clouds, shredding the vapor with metal and engine and fuel.
He wrinkled his nose, continuing to tap his bony fingers against the tray in front of him.
His eye itched. His body ached. He’d been lucky he hadn’t broken a bone by jumping into the water. His bones healed slower than most.
“First time in California?” the woman at his side whispered in his ear.
He glanced over, regarding the way her hands gripped the armrests, her knuckles white in panic.
He sniffed. “No,” he said in nearly perfect English. “I have been before. First time in a while, though.”
The large woman nodded her head, her double chin squishing with the motion. He studied her neck. Studied her oversized body, her engorged breasts, the way her stomach jutted past her seatbelt, and the cushions of fat protruding around it. He had an eye for the human figure. He liked to study bodies. He liked to do other things with them too.
“I’m here for work,” he said, delicately, his eyes flashing. At a distance, due to his size and youthful features, people often thought of him as a child. This had helped him in the past.
But now, up close, the woman must have glimpsed something in his gaze. She cleared her throat and turned to face the headrest in front of her. “Forget I asked,” she said beneath her breath.
He smiled, watching the side of her chunky neck. He liked to know she felt him watching. He liked the way his gaze made her squirm. That big hefty twitch and fidget. He could’ve made that body do incredible things; the ecstasy of sex was nothing compared to the rapture of sheer agony. Pain could contort and twist and reform. Pain was the absolute source of truth and honesty.
And every painter had to be honest.
He glanced out the window, peering through the clouds, staring at the airport as they began to descend.
He had been telling the truth. He had been here before. And he had returned once again for work. He felt the chill air from the nozzle above against his cheeks. He pulled his sweater tight around his form, tugging at the sleeves until they hid his hands.
She wouldn’t even see it coming. His true friend. The person this was all about now. He wondered how she would react when she found out. Especially given what he had in store. He was going to tell her himself. Face to face. Yes. That would be his crowning achievement. The look of shock, of horror, of grief, all of it mingled into one. And there was nothing she could do about it. He would watch. She would cry.
And then he would smile.
He was here for work. And that work had a name.
CHAPTER SIX
The short flight from western France to Northern Spain had come and gone with a sense of mounting tension, and now as their rental maneuvered through the country in view of the mountains, Adele looked out the window with something bordering a scowl. Her breath fogged the glass as they pulled along the foot of the Pyrenees. Ahead, an old abbey stood out against the natural backdrop of the treacherous terrain.
“What’s this?” John muttered as he began to slow the car.
Adele looked up, eyes to the road as the tires kicked asphalt and pebbles off to the shoulder. Ahead, a police vehicle blocked their way. A Spanish officer in a dark blue cap held up a hand as they neared. A few other cars had been pulled to the side of the road, waiting patiently on the shoulder as another officer moved from vehicle to vehicle, speaking with the commuters.
Instead of pulling off the road, though, John lowered his window and continued to roll forward, tires crunching along the dusty ground.
The officer standing by the hood of his blockading vehicle frowned, a hand lowering to his belt. He raised his hand higher, snapping something in Spanish which Adele didn’t understand.
“John, slow down,” Adele murmured.
The tall agent, though, as he was wont do to, ignored her. He jutted a large, muscular arm out the window, making sure his imposing form was visible as he continued to roll toward the blockade.
The Spanish officer had now reached for a radio. The crackle of static filled the quiet mountain air. John raised a hand out the window in greeting as the officer gestured at his partner.
The two of them both began to approach the rolling car.
“Stop!” the officer said in strongly accented English. “Detener!”
“DGSI,” John said, lazily, his voice reminding Adele of an alley cat. The tall Frenchman pulled his wallet from his pocket, lifting it and displaying it toward the approaching officer.
The Spaniard stopped, staring for a moment. His radio crackled again, and he replied.
Adele looked past John, ducking so she could see through the window and meet the officer’s gaze. “Apologies,” she said. “We’re here about the murder last night.”
The officer just stared blankly at her. Adele set her teeth, wishing she’d had a chance to brush up on her Spanish. But then, shooting another look toward the identification, the officer listened to what sounded like barked instructions on the other end of his radio and loosed a long sigh. He ran a hand across a sweaty brow but then gave an instruction over his shoulder.
Glowering through the window at John and Adele, the two officers returned to their cruiser. The engine growled, the lights flashing, and the vehicle was guided slowly off the road, allowing Adele and John passage through.
“About time,” John muttered.
“Thanks!” Adele called out through the window. “Sorry!” she added, elbowing John in the arm.
“What?” he said. “We’re on a time-sensitive case. You’re the one who keeps telling me, American Princess. Well—this is me. Being sensitive. To time.”
“Big old sensitive John, that’s you,” Adele muttered, rolling her eyes. While she was still mid-motion, John leaned in quick, pecking her on the cheek with a laugh. He returned his attention out the window, smirking. Grumpy at times, always eager to bend the rules, sometimes Adele wondered why she cared for the large man. But it wasn’t hard to remember. Adele didn’t need a partner who watched her emotions as if they were fragile china. John was competent, spontaneous, and unpredictable.
Adele tried to keep her frown, but found it difficult, especially given the prickle spreading along the side of her face. She sighed, leaning back and crossing her arms for good measure as John pulled them along the road, past the abbey she’d glimpsed and beneath large trees.
“You’re cute when you’re angry, you know,” John murmured, shooting a sidelong look at her.
Further ahead, on a cleared portion of the roadside, amidst prickles and fallen branches, more vehicles were parked. These were dark-windowed sedans, without the lights. But the four men and two women moving through the scene, wearing dark suits despite the warmth of the day, were obviously law enforcement.
John pulled slowly off to the side of the road, the tires scraping over the edge of the path. As he parked, Adele was already bounding from the front seat. Two planes, a taxi, and two rentals later she was glad to be walking around again.
She moved hastily toward the crime scene, where caution tape stretched between the trees and Spanish detectives moved through the terrain.
“Hola!” called a woman near the edge of the road. A few of the others glanced over, but when they realized who’d spoken they continued their work, suggesting the woman had the authority to speak for the rest of them.
Adele adjusted her suit and marched toward this figure. The woman in question was very
tall. Even taller than Adele. She had flat cheeks and a wide face with bright, intelligent eyes. Her shoulders were broad and her hands unmistakably feminine. She dressed in a neat suit with a trail of red flowers stenciled into the lapel, down toward her jacket pocket. She also wore very expensive-looking shoes, clearly polished.
The woman didn’t seem to mind the dust, though, and she waited patiently for Adele to approach, John lagging just a bit behind.
“Hello. Interpol correspondent with DGSI,” Adele said, carefully. She flashed her own credentials.
The tall woman nodded. “Ah, yes,” she said with a light accent. “I am Serra Pascal.”
“Adele Sharp. He’s John Renee.”
“Right, well, Agent Sharp, Agent Renee, on behalf of the CNI, welcome to España.” The woman flashed an easygoing smile, crossing her large arms over her even larger frame, her feminine hands resting against her biceps, where the sleeves of her suit crinkled. The small thread stenciling of red flowers stood out in the shadows and folds of her thin jacket.
“Our supervising agent mentioned she’d called ahead. Were we expected?” Adele pointed back down the road. “We seem to have alarmed a couple of your officers.”
Agent Pascal waved a hand airily. “Ah, no, no, it is fine. We are expecting you.” Even as she said it, though, she didn’t move. Instead, clearing her throat, she said, “We hear there was a similar case in France. Is this true?”
Adele hesitated but John stepped in. “How about we take a look at things here, then we can recap, hmm?”
The tall woman glanced at the even larger man. She gave him a long look, nodding once in a sort of mild approval. “Yes, of course, the CNI is more than happy to help. However, we were under the impression Spanish hospitality would be met with cooperation. We’re all here to help, no?”
John frowned, but before he could take the lead, Adele interjected. “Of course. Yes, we had a similar case near Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. The commonality seems to be the murder weapon.”
“I see,” said Agent Pascal. She began to turn now, presenting her intimidating silhouette as she faced the dusty portion of road surrounded by CNI vehicles and agents moving about the space, scattering leaves and examining portions of the trail.
