by Blake Pierce
She let out a long sigh, staring at where John was still glaring into the sky.
“I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, facing the open door.
John didn’t reply, still stretching, ignoring her.
Where could they even go from here? Adele didn’t know. He’d been lying about the calls, too. She hadn’t expected Agent Renee to be perfect. She would’ve been a fool to assume that. But he’d been lying. He’d been secretive. He didn’t take their relationship seriously. Was it really her job to fix all his own personal baggage? It was one thing to empathize, another to enable. Adele had to work through her own shit. For decades she’d been forced to. She’d even done therapy. But what about John? He thought everyone was going to leave. That everyone would die or abandon him. And so he abandoned them first.
Just because she understood it, and felt sympathy for it, didn’t mean she had to endure it.
The scent of the hamburgers and fries smelled stale for a moment. Adele wanted to slam the door shut on John and drive away, leaving him behind. But she’d already hung up on Paige. Perhaps she wasn’t in the most rational, decision-making frame of mind.
Just then, a voice crackled over the radio. Adele jerked, her attention shifting, getting emotional whiplash as she tried to focus.
She pressed a button and said, “Yes, Agent Pascal?”
The voice crackled again and said, “Agent Sharp? Renee? We have an innkeeper nearby. He says someone fitting the description of our suspect recently checked in.”
Adele stared, feeling her mouth dry. “Was this person driving a bicycle?”
Another crackle. “Affirmative. They just checked in five minutes ago. What would you like me to do?”
Adele swallowed back the emotions burbling through her, trying to think for a moment, and then said, “Wait for us. Please text the address. We’ll meet you there.” Things with John would have to wait. She was still irritated, still frustrated, but she had to compartmentalize at least for the moment.
“Get in,” she called out. John ducked down, looking at her again, his expression indeterminable. “We got a hit,” she said. “Get in, buckle up. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The painter’s body hadn’t quite adjusted to the time difference between Paris and San Francisco. He held a hand to his mouth, yawning where he stood in the darkness of the small row of trees outside the apartment complex. It had been easy enough to climb the wall and the side alley, slipping through the garden paths to take a seat on the bench facing the apartment. Now, he had a perfect view of the second-floor window.
The painter played with his new toy, passing it from one hand to the other, spinning it once, twice, feeling the heft, the balance. Stray strands of moonlight caught the blade, reflecting off the edge.
He glanced down at the bench, where splinters scattered. Gouge marks in the wood displayed where he had tested the sharpness of his new toy.
It had been a sacrifice, leaving his favorite equipment back in Paris, but he hadn’t wanted to raise any questions. Already, the authorities were on the lookout for him. Already, his face was likely circulating throughout airports and terminals. Still, he had come this far, and whether his equipment was faulty or not, he would see the masterpiece through. Thankfully, the knife he had picked up from the curio shop would do nicely.
A light flickered in the second floor window. The trees around him swayed and shook, trembling in the faint wind. The gate at his back stood resolute and solid, locked. The sandstone walls were high, not unassailable, especially not for someone with his experience, but intimidating to any small-time crook who might pass by. He wrinkled his nose, feeling a jolt of disgust. He hated criminals and thieves. Scumbags—the dregs of society.
He winced, testing his bad leg as he got to his feet, standing in front of the bench beneath the trees. Slowly, he pocketed his knife, leaving his hand against the bone hilt.
A shadow passed across the window. He smiled, watching as a man with curly brown hair brushed his teeth. Curtains open, lights on. The perfect spectacle.
People were so inattentive.
“Hello, my dear,” he murmured. “You look quite stunning tonight.”
The man in the window couldn’t hear him. Didn’t see him. Didn’t realize he had an audience. Which only made things more pleasurable.
The painter giggled to himself, a high-pitched, creaking sound. He watched some more as the shadow disappeared out of sight, likely going to spit the toothpaste into a sink.
He liked watching them. For hours now, well into the night, he’d stayed in the shadows of the garden, just watching. Enjoying the view. It was a delightful thing. He continued to watch as the lights suddenly clicked off.
Someone was going to bed—a late night for his new friend. A wealthy man, judging by the apartment in San Francisco. Judging by the career profile he’d found on the Internet. A wealthy man with no clue.
The lights were off. A lesser artist might have made their move. But half the fun was the wait. Watching. Attentive to every detail. He pulled the knife from his pocket again, slowly lowering back to the bench. He was in no rush. His friend would go to sleep soon. He traced the blade through the cuts in the bench. A familiar swirling pattern. One of his favorites. A difficult thing to do without completely breaking the skin too deeply and causing the cracks to mesh together. He had tried it first on Elise. Adele’s mother had howled so delightfully. He could still remember the pitch of her screams, like the falsetto crooning of some soloist. He had always fancied himself a painter first, but now, the more he spent time perfecting his craft, the more he thought about moving into other avenues of creative expression. A conductor, too, perhaps?
He could collect the pitch of their shouts and cries of agony. Perhaps record them, make something out of them. Some sort of music.
He smiled in delight at the thought. This was how he always stayed on top of his game; creative genius didn’t rest. He had more ideas for beauty and he had years left.
Besides, all of this was going to culminate in a final masterpiece now. He knew how she would react when she found out. In the end, this had to end face to face. Far sooner than she might have thought. Much, much sooner.
Time passed but he didn’t notice, still sitting on the bench, still biding his time, smiling toward the second-floor window. Still dark. No lights, no movement, no witnesses. An audience would come soon enough but even they were absent for now. This part of the creative process happened in private.
He gave a soft little sigh and then slowly got to his feet. He shot a look back at the bench, at the swirling pattern. A practice scratch before the big reveal. Would he do something with the man’s eyes? Sometimes he liked leaving them untouched. Other times he felt this was dishonest to the piece.
Leaves crunched beneath his feet as he limped off the grass onto the cobblestone path to the front doors of the gated complex.
Three hours ago he’d already memorized the code for the building. People weren’t very good at guarding their secrets.
Even with a dull eye, he had eyesight like a hawk in the other.
He entered the code he had seen that cute young businesswoman use a couple of hours before. The door buzzed, and he stepped in
He approached the stairs, still moving carefully, slowly, with an air of excitement. The anticipation was nearly as beautiful as the final product. He took the stairs slowly, moving up one at a time. Already, in his mind’s eye, he played out what would come next. It always started the same way. Shock, disbelief, fury, and then terror. This last part was his favorite.
He reached the top of the stairs and curled around the banister, approaching the door facing the east side of the building. He didn’t knock. Though, in the past, he had done just that to gain entry with some of his earlier pieces.
Now, his skills were more honed.
He examined the door for second, his gaze fixated on the lock.
High-security, as he’d assumed. Instead of tryi
ng the door, he moved, heading toward the window overlooking the street. The foyer window stared down at the park bench where he’d been sitting. He opened the window, felt the breeze against his face, blinking.
He had a small form, like that of a child. It didn’t help when it came to physical acts. But when it came to slipping into small spaces, it had served him well in the past. Now, as he opened the window, he slipped out, pulling himself onto the outside of the building. He gripped the windowsill as he leveraged his body against the painted wall.
If anyone had been watching, they would’ve seen him start to move like a monkey, hand over hand, along the drainpipe and gutter dangling from the roof. He moved until he dangled over the window he’d been watching. He had traced the path with his eyes for the last few hours, rehearsing it in his mind. He didn’t even need to look as he extended his hand and caught the trellis. Then, with a show of strength that might have surprised the uninitiated, he lowered his small form until he was dangling one-armed from a wooden trellis, facing the dark window. The curtains were still open.
He smiled, faintly catching his reflection in the glass due to the moon. Like a small monkey, hanging over the ledge in the search for food. Unlike a monkey, he wouldn’t eat what he found within his haunt. No, consumption would ruin the work. He knew some artists who liked to consume their pieces, but he’d always found the practice distasteful.
The painter landed on the sill, bracing himself against the frame and the jutting concrete around the window. The pressure of his hands kept his body lodged. With one hand extended, holding himself in place in front of the window, the other moved toward the frame. He pushed, but the window didn’t budge. He frowned, slipping his hand into his pocket and withdrawing his new toy. He wiggled the knife between the cracks of the window and the frame. He jerked it a bit and then felt something click. The knife tapped against the metal latch. Tongue inside his cheek, one hand still pressing his body against the window, a foot jutting to the concrete protrusion to hold him in place, he maneuvered the knife. The doors would be secure. The people weren’t very creative nowadays. They would lock themselves in a mansion with bolts and security systems and all manner of chains and electronic locks. And then they would leave glass windows all around. Windows could be broken. Should be broken. Could be opened. This was how he’d taken Robert Henry.
His knife moved. The latch lifting. He grinned to himself, shimmying his knife back and forth until the gap widened. Slowly, he maneuvered his small fingers in the gap and pulled. Ever so quietly, the window opened, and he slipped into the second-story apartment, leaving the night to enter the apartment.
No one saw him. No one screamed. Perfect.
He dusted himself off, adjusting his sweater, pulling the hood up and tugging on the drawstrings. He scanned the apartment. Sparse, with a couple of boxes in one corner suggesting the tenant still hadn’t unpacked. A single couch sat beneath the window, and he slid past this, walking quietly past the kitchen.
For a moment he just stood in the middle of the room, enjoying the carpet beneath his feet, the sense of quiet accomplishment. The window was still mostly closed. He hadn’t needed to open it much to escape.
Being small came with benefits.
He moved down the hall, resisting the urge to whistle. Sometimes he liked to make a sound, if only to alert his new friends. Fear got the blood going. Panic and adrenaline got the muscles taut. All of it made for a better canvas. He had to be mindful of that sort of thing, like a painter mixing paints. Acrylic or not. Water-based or otherwise. It was up to him to choose his canvas medium. Now, he didn’t want the blood flowing too much. This masterpiece, in his mind, didn’t need that much red. And if the canvas was loose, limp, he would be able to contort it better. This time, the shapes he had in mind needed a more pliable medium; he clutched his knife in one hand, moving down the hall. On his right, a bathroom. Then a closet.
Which only left one door at the far end of the hall.
He approached it, smiling to himself as he did. He reached for the door handle, careful, patient. Then he turned the handle, pushing the door opened with the faintest of creaks.
A bed. A lump beneath sparse blankets. No movement. The quiet droning of a fan on the desk, and another one on the ceiling. The room was cold. And the painter could feel his teeth begin to hurt from the frigidity. His bones were weaker than most. He frowned as he stepped into the room, still quietly, moving toward the lump on the bed. The man didn’t even seem to react. The painter frowned. Some of the fun was lost without a struggle. Part of the enjoyment was the difficulty. He sighed, standing in front of the bed, knife tapping against his upper thigh.
The lump beneath the blankets shifted a bit, pulling a comforter over his head.
The painter sighed a bit louder, clearing his throat.
The man beneath the blanket didn’t see him.
The painter crossed his arms, staring, unblinking, watching the man beneath the blankets. Then he began to whistle, a faint, soft tune.
Like twittering birds in the night. He stood at the foot of the man’s bed, whistling.
The lump beneath the blankets shifted again, groaning, muttering. And then the movement stiffened. The painter smiled. He wondered what the man was thinking, as his sleepy self roused to consciousness. His eyes were still closed, but the way he had frozen suggested he was now aware someone was in his room. The whistling, the strange, itching sensation at the base of one’s spine when they knew they weren’t alone where they should have been.
The man beneath the blanket turned suddenly, jolting upright, eyes wide like pale moons in the dark. He stared, not quite believing his eyes, and then began to scream.
But the painter moved fast. He darted forward, snatching one of the pillows as he moved and jamming it against the man’s face. His knife flashed, down once, down twice. Then he backed off. He wanted the man to fight, to struggle.
“Come on,” the painter said, his voice soft and lilting. “Let’s play. What would you like to do next? Don’t scream. That didn’t work. Maybe you should try to run. Yes, that’s it. Go on, I’ll wait. You start. Let’s see if I can get to you before you get to the door.”
The man on the bed was gasping, bleeding. He didn’t seem to realize he’d been stabbed, though. He frantically reached for the lamp by his bedside, lifting it and throwing it at the painter. It missed. The wounded, sleep-deprived fellow tried to push off the bed, shoving toward the door. He made two steps before the painter tripped him. Far faster, far more nimble. He laughed, chuckling. The man tried to scream again, but the painter put the pillow against his face once more, making a shushing sound. He reached out, holding a knee against the man’s chest while holding the pillow to his face. With one hand he stroked the curly hair. “There, there,” he murmured. “It’s scary, isn’t it? You should be scared. I’m going to do horrible things to you for hours. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. Would you like to try again? All right, let’s go another time. I’m going to let you up now. You could try to tackle me. You’re stronger. Or maybe you can run again. Which one? Either? You know what, don’t tell me. I like surprises.”
The painter stepped back, lifting the pillow. The man on the ground gasped, trying to scream again, then bolted toward the door.
The painter let him get a head start, grinning, and then he broke into a sprint after his new friend. This was always fun. He’d forgotten how much fun. Now, as he chased down the hall, his footsteps thumping in the wake of his bleeding friend, he felt the familiar thrill of sheer exhilaration.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Adele was driving. A nice change of pace given the last two excursions with Pascal’s and John’s usual speeds. Then again, she was pushing limits too. As she ripped through the streets, heading in the direction of the address for the inn with the APB hit, she shot a sidelong glance at John, who was glaring solemnly out the windshield. She didn’t know what to make of it all. She didn’t even know how to process this new information. He
had a kid. He hadn’t told her. He hadn’t thought it was worth mentioning. Still, now wasn’t the time to think about this.
They raced down the streets as the GPS chirped instructions.
“I have a name,” came a crackling voice over the radio. “A name. Innkeeper just got back. How far are you?”
Adele cursed, glancing at the GPS. “Five minutes,” she replied. “Are you there yet?”
“Almost,” Pascal returned. “Want the name?”
Adele nodded, then realized she couldn’t be seen. “Yes, Pascal, what’s the suspect’s name?”
“I just got off the phone with the innkeeper. He says the man’s name is Santiago Segura.”
Adele wrinkled her nose. “Santiago Segura? Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be,” said Pascal.
To his credit, John didn’t wait for an instruction. His phone was already in his hand, as he began to hastily enter the information into their database
For a moment, still racing through the streets, heading in the direction of the inn, everything just passed in silence. Then John looked up. “Santiago Segura?” he said quickly.
Adele nodded.
“This look like our guy?”
John thankfully seemed to be willing to put their differences behind them for now in service of the case. She looked over as he held out his phone. She stared at a mug shot. A man with a buzzed head and a beaklike nose. He was glaring into the camera.
“I guess the bristle is brown—matching the landlady’s description. Maybe he’s grown his hair out now. Height looks average. Why does he have a mug shot?”
John pulled his phone back, scrolling through the file. He inhaled sharply and said, “Looks like he was involved in a wrongful death case—charged with murder. His brother-in-law. Some dispute over a restaurant.”
