by Blake Pierce
“What are you doing here?” Matthew wasn’t really in the mood for conversation, but the man had started it, and if they were going to be sleeping in the same room, he figured at least he could establish some sort of rapport and not have to be worried about getting stabbed in his sleep.
“Now, Matthew,” the man said, deftly ignoring the question again, “you expect to travel the French Way in the footsteps of St. James and arrived at the shrine? You are looking for absolution?”
“I mean, yeah. I guess. So you know about it?”
“See, Matthew, the thing about absolution, which is quite hard, is you can extend past it. Think of a rubber band.” The man shifted, his boots scraping against some of the sand on the ground. He pulled something out of his pocket, holding it up. A seashell. A large, thick, slick seashell.
“What is that?”
Another question ignored. The old man twisted the seashell around and around, smiling as he did. “Absolution is a gift.”
Matthew was beginning to grow uncomfortable. He hadn’t signed up for a lecture from a stranger. “All right, guy. Whatever you say.”
“Listen to me, Matthew,” the man said, his voice hoarse. “I’m tempted to lose my temper. But that would be impatient. A sin. You understand what sin is?”
Matthew rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t want to pay extra, but to get away from this weirdo, he wouldn’t mind. He needed to sleep anyway. This was gonna be the last fun day he had in a while with his buddies.
“Whatever,” he said as a parting shot, turning toward the door, snatching his backpack, and heading to grab the handle.
The man was quick, though, bounding out of the bed and coming to a halt in front of the door, holding his strange seashell.
“Hey, get out of my way.”
“Matthew, please listen to me, you have to understand why. It isn’t my intention to cause unnecessary pain. Please. Penance, absolution, such things are important.”
“Man, I don’t know any of this stuff. Plenary indulgence, St. James, whatever. It’s all crap. I’m just doing it. All right, now move. Move or I’ll make you. I mean it!”
The man paused, standing upright. He had very neatly parted hair, like a choir boy. He stood straight-backed with perfect posture.
At these last words, though, his eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to punish you.”
At this, Matthew felt an odd combination of cringe and terror. A chill trickled down his spine. “Get out of my way. I mean it, man!”
“Yes, it’s the way. I don’t like what I have to do to you. But the Lord told me. I’m sorry, Matthew.”
He took a step back now, hesitant, slowly lifting his backpack like a shield.
But then the strange man bolted forward, fast. Matthew tried to jerk away, but the man lunged, shoving him against the bed. Matthew kicked, trying to scream, but fingers grabbed over his lips, and the sound was cut off. The odd seashell came whipping forward. It jammed into his neck hard, slicing.
Matthew yelled now, but his voice was cut off a second later. His eyes widened in panic, kicking, screaming, desperately trying to get free. But most of the sounds were muffled by the hand over his mouth. His violent motions weren’t enough to dislodge his strong roommate. More pain on his neck. Two eyes above him, unblinking, staring. A single word whispered, “Repent.”
And then the pain became so intense, his eyes rolled back in panic and terror; then he fainted.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The chill air of night, replacing the swaddling warmth of daylight, settled in Adele’s bones. She stared after the retreating ambulance, watching as the paramedics, escorted by two police cars, took Mr. Lazar to the hospital. Adele’s hands dangled at her sides, her phone gripped between clenched fingers, her eyes on the flashing lights of the highway.
Mr. Bardem, Mr. Lazar’s coworker, had confirmed the man’s alibi. She’d already requested a confirmation of the phone number’s identity and was waiting—tentatively—for Agent Pascal to get back to her. But she wasn’t hopeful.
Mr. Lazar had been erratic, dangerous, but hardly subtle. Not the sort of man to stalk someone until they were alone and kill them in the dark, in privacy.
No… Mr. Lazar’s alibi had checked out. Holding on to hope that it would all crumble wouldn’t be the best use of her time.
What then?
Adele wrinkled her nose, still staring in the direction of the whining ambulance, watching as cars parted before it.
“Bad news,” a gruff voice muttered behind her.
Adele looked over at the side of the concrete barrier on the edge of the highway. John was stalking toward her, scowling and shaking his head. He jerked a thumb in the direction of their parked cruiser where Agent Pascal was still on the phone. “No go. The alibi checks out. Mr. Bardem works for the same company. Admits to taking over his friend’s route as a favor.”
Adele sighed. “Same news from the hotel,” she said, slowly slipping her phone back into her pocket. “They had a man matching Mr. Lazar’s description check in and stay the night.”
“More than two hours from where Ms. Alvarez was killed that same day.”
Adele and John both sighed at the same time. Adele felt sore all of a sudden, wincing and massaging her neck. It was all so exhausting.
What next? What new lead could they uncover?
Maybe the victims weren’t connected after all—maybe the murderer was just arbitrarily executing anyone he found. In some ways, it was harder to catch a maniac—they were less predictable in the mayhem they caused.
As these morbid thoughts cycled through her mind, she heard a soft ringtone and glanced over as John’s hand darted to his pocket. He hesitated, almost as if he were going to let the call go to voicemail.
And now this… John acting strange again.
Perhaps he didn’t deserve it, but Adele could feel her temper rising, could feel her frustration mounting. She fixated her gaze on John and said, through gritted teeth, “Answer it.”
John paused, hand still on his pocket. He began to speak, but she cut him off.
“I mean it. Answer it now, John. Who the hell keeps calling you? What are you hiding?”
John stared at her, but seemed to realize she was being serious and, with a sigh, he pulled out his device, lifting it and wiggling it in her direction. For a moment, as he glanced at the screen, he almost seemed relieved. Or was it just her imagination? She was so tired…
“Ha, see!” John said, as if he’d just scored some point. “It’s just Agent Pascal.”
Adele turned, peering past the concrete barrier toward where the tall, large-framed woman was holding her phone to her cheek and gesturing at them to come over to where she stood, talking with a Spanish police sergeant.
Adele hesitated at the frown on the normally cheerful woman’s face.
John answered, paused, then said, “You sure?”
Pascal, in answer, over by the rest stop, just waved again, her arm small against the backdrop of the night, the reflection of passing headlights flashing across the paint of her borrowed cruiser.
“What is it?” Adele said petulantly. Both times now she’d called John out on the phone calls, she’d been wrong. She hated eating crow. But he was acting strange, wasn’t he? Or was she just insane? She rubbed at the bags under her eyes, focusing on John once more and forcing a calmer tone. “What does she want?”
John was already moving, though, heading in the direction of their parked cruiser, navigating the concrete barrier on the side of the road and maneuvering past the officers stationed, blocking this section of the rest stop.
As Adele moved to keep up with her lanky partner, she heard John mutter, “Another body. They found it just south of here.”
Adele’s skin prickled and she stared from her partner over to where Agent Pascal was still standing, frowning and speaking with the other officer.
“Same killer? We’re sure?”
“Same rough cut… No autopsy
report yet about calcium carbonate, but the same MO otherwise. Throat slit—no one saw anything.”
“Where?” Adele said, her pulse racing.
“At a hostel an hour away. This time,” he muttered, “I’m driving.”
***
Pascal drove them to the hostel nearly an hour away, despite John’s best efforts to take the driver’s seat. Now, Adele hopped out of the back seat as they slid smoothly into the driveway of a quaint two-story home with a laminated placard out front declaring vacancy in the communal living space.
John slammed the car door as he hurried to catch up, muttering to himself about carsickness.
Adele shouldered through the house, entrance which was already open. She heard voices from within and, stepping past a man in a police uniform, her gaze settled on a woman standing behind the desk, her eyes etched with laugh lines. Now, though, the woman had a hand to her mouth, her face displaying evidence of recent tears. She seemed to have calmed herself, though, and was now speaking to the police officer.
The officer looked over at Adele and John as they moved in. Adele flashed her ID and said, “Hello, English? French?”
The woman behind the counter raised a hand which clutched used tissue. She pressed the tissue back to an eye, lowering it again. In broken English, she said, “No more vacancy. Sorry.”
“No, no,” Adele said, raising her ID again. “DGSI. We’re law enforcement.”
Agent Pascal was now moving up behind them, content to stand outside the open door and watch the proceedings from the porch. The officer who was already there leaned in, muttering to the woman, his eyes brightening in recognition. Pascal returned the murmur and the officer’s eyebrows shot up, the look he cast toward John and Adele now no longer as suspicious.
“I’m sorry,” Adele said, hurriedly, taking this as a sort of permission to cut in on the interview, “but you’re the owner of this place?”
The woman behind the counter hesitated, as if translating the words in her mind one at a time, but then she nodded quickly. “Sí, yes. I am owner.”
“And the victim is where?”
She pointed up and broke into a round of sobs, clutching the tissue against her face and ducking her head.
“I’m sorry,” Adele said gently. “I don’t mean to upset you. Who found the body?”
The woman’s face paled; she swallowed and murmured, “I find this. I find this.”
“Again, I’m very sorry. When you found it… was there anything that stood out? Anything you noticed off about the room? Anything at all you can tell me?” Of course, she would observe the room herself soon enough. But she knew well how important first impressions were when arriving at a scene. The kind-eyed woman owned the place and would be in the perfect position to spot anything awry.
Now, though, the woman was just shaking her head, sobbing. “Dead,” she said. “Murder.”
“I know. I know,” Adele said, still gently. “I’m very sorry.” She could feel the others in the room all watching her, but pressed on. “Are there any other guests here?”
The woman nodded, holding up three fingers, but then pointing out the door and down the street. She said something, paused, and tried again.
“I—I’m sorry, what?” Adele asked.
Pascal called from the doorway, “She says the police have them at the cafe down the street, waiting for the crime scene to be cleared.”
“I see,” said Adele. She looked back at the owner of the hostel. “Anyone else?”
The owner paused, and then, carefully, as if picking her words from a menu, she said, “Man room in with boy.”
“There was another person in the room?”
She nodded. “Yes. Room in the same.”
“This man, is he at the cafe?”
Here, though, the woman’s eyes widened and she shook her head. She looked past Adele, craning her neck to spot where Pascal stood, and began speaking rapidly in her own language. After a few moments, Pascal nodded and the woman ducked her head again, sobbing once more.
Adele looked at the CNI agent. “What did she say?”
Pascal shot a sympathetic glance at the woman, but then said, quietly, “She says that the victim had just ordered his room. He gave his name as Ricardo Mora, but then said he was lying about the name. He checked in only a few hours before she found the body. She went upstairs because the young man had left a wet towel on the floor in the shower and wanted him to take care of it. But when she entered the room…” Pascal rolled a finger as if to say et cetera.
“I see,” said Adele. “What did she mean about the man lying about his name?”
Pascal translated the question, waited, and, after a few more stops and starts as the landlord gathered herself, she eventually turned back to Adele. “She says the man was another tenant who stayed in the same room. He refused to give his name. He also only just arrived. After the victim.”
“How long after?” Adele said sharply.
This time, the hostel owner replied, “Ten minute. Only ten minute. Very nearly. Very nearly.”
“I see,” said Adele, her pulse accelerating. “This man, do you think you could describe him to me?”
The woman paused as Pascal repeated the instruction, but then shrugged. “Nice,” she said. “Look nice. Normal.”
“What color hair, do you remember? Skin tone? Height?”
She puffed a breath, hesitant. She pointed at Adele. “Bit tall.” Pointed at John. “Not as tall.”
“Taller than me? By a bit?” Adele said.
The woman nodded.
“Anything else?”
“Hair brown? Maybe?”
“Brown hair in Spain, great,” John muttered in French.
Adele shot him a warning look.
The woman shrugged again and said something Adele didn’t understand which Pascal translated as, “She really couldn’t say. She was so busy and didn’t pay much attention. She says he acted a bit strangely.”
“Strangely how?”
“She says he wasn’t very talkative. He spoke like a school teacher. Sort of condescendingly.”
“Great,” Adele said. Brown-haired, average height, and condescending was hardly a description worthy of an APB. Still, she supposed it wasn’t nothing. She nodded her gratitude toward the hostel owner and then, following John, moved toward the stairs leading to the second floor. The police officer behind them resumed his questioning as they took the stairs up to the top. Another officer was guarding the door on the left, but flashing her ID this time gained them entrance.
As the officer stepped aside and Adele pushed at the closed wooden door, a sudden smell met her nose. Tinny, coppery, like blood. And the sweaty, sweet smell of human BO.
As she pushed into the small room, she noted two beds on either side of the room framing the grisly spectacle across the floor. Blood was everywhere, first in streaks across the bed and then staining the wooden ground. A few droplets spattered the windowsill, which was open.
“Window,” Adele murmured to John.
“Think that’s how he got out?” John said.
“Looks like,” Adele replied. Her eyes darted to the body on the ground.
A young man, a bit heftier than John and shorter. He had a nasty gash across his throat. Not so much one cut as multiple stitched together at odd, jagged angles.
Adele stared at the wound, stared at the young man’s sightless eyes fixated on the wall and the radiator. Her own stomach churned and she felt an urge to yell. Another body. Another soul lost.
For a moment, she didn’t speak, simply staring at the corpse, feeling the weight of the world descend on her shoulders and threaten to glue her to the ground. Her own breathing came in rapid puffs and her throat constricted as she stared at the young man. She noted a sandwich wrapper resting next to the man’s hand, near the bed.
“What was his name?” she said, softly, her eyes still fixed on that horrible gash along his throat. Very similar to the first two victims. The same? Perhaps not�
�� But odds were for it.
“Matthew Icardi,” said a voice from the door.
Adele glanced back to see Agent Pascal standing there, her face rigid as she looked in any direction except the body. “He was only twenty,” Pascal said, her voice wafer thin. “My son’s age.”
Adele didn’t know how to reply to this. She simply sighed, shaking her head.
“He was a Spanish citizen,” Pascal continued. “The police have checked his ID. From Barcelona. Apparently his friends said they were on a trip.”
“His friends?” Adele said, dully.
“Yes—two of them at the cafe. They were in another room. Apparently they didn’t even see the man who Matthew was with. According to the landlady the two of them were still taking a shower when our mystery killer arrived.”
Adele glanced back at the corpse, shivering. “He was on a trip?”
“Apparently. They said he was going to meet his brother tomorrow.”
“Has the brother been notified?”
Pascal sighed wearily, passing a hand across her face. “Yes. He is on his way.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The cafe had been cleared now of the other tenants from the hostel, but Adele sat at a booth with John near the fridge, his arms crossed. Agent Pascal sat next to Adele, waiting patiently, her eyes darting toward the door.
“When did you say he was coming?” Adele murmured, her eyes half hooded as she watched the entrance to the now-empty cafe.
“Patrol officer picked him up a quarter hour ago,” Pascal replied. “Should be here by now.” She checked her watch, pulling her phone from her pocket. She didn’t use it yet, preferring to rest it on the table and wait, still watching the door. Her fingers rested over her phone, not quite touching it, like a spider perched above a fly.
Adele could feel exhaustion weighing heavy now. She glanced at her own phone, noting the two text bubbles. Without even reading Agent Paige’s most recent comment, Adele hastily typed, “Will keep you posted. Interviewing third victim’s brother…” She then flipped her phone so she couldn’t see the screen, growling in disgust.
