Left to Prey (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eleven)

by Blake Pierce

  John shook his head. “I hate it when you say it like that. You’re not convinced.”

  Adele glanced at her partner. “Are you?”

  He sighed, and then shook his head once. “I guess not. Fine, I’ll talk to Pascal. We’ll see if anything else shows up. In the meantime, though, if he isn’t our guy, you’ll have a hell of a time convincing the Spanish authorities of that. They’re getting pressure to clear the pilgrimage routes—people are upset they’re being watched by police while they conduct their sacred journey.”

  “We’ll be done when we’re done. They might not like it, but I can think of at least three people who would’ve been glad for us to show up on time.” Adele leaned back against the metal interrogation room door and gave another long sigh. The world weighed in, and it felt heavy. Her shoulders ached under the pressure, along with her thoughts. Mr. Segura seemed racked with guilt, filled with self-loathing. Could it have led him to kill? He didn’t even have the energy to defend himself. He’d been eating supper when they’d arrived, and it had taken everything in him just to get to his feet. Would he really be able to summon the energy to outmatch someone like Matthew? Or Rosa? Would he have killed Father Fernando? She didn’t think so. She knew hunches could be wrong but the murder weapon didn’t match either.

  What was the killer using? Calcium carbonate. Not a bone, surely? Something of religious significance?

  Adele pushed off the door, growling as she did and moving down the hall in the direction of the conference room where Agent Pascal was still arguing with the precinct’s sergeant on duty.

  They needed answers. And they needed them now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  He could feel his heart pounding as he hopped the fence, wincing against the pain along his side. His hands were still scraped and bloody from the close call with the truck, and now…

  Now he had stooped so low to steal.

  The bike in his hands was old, rusted—no gears, even. He’d ignored a few other, far nicer bikes in order to snatch one that someone might not miss.

  But it was still theft.

  He’d told a lie to the woman at the hostel, giving a false name. And now he’d stolen a bike.

  He could feel his heart hammering as he settled on the seat, adjusted his cotton handkerchief to the handlebars, and began to pedal, picking up speed, faster, faster. He pedaled until his legs ached again, ignoring the fire in his right side. Was his ankle badly sprained?

  Perhaps, but it didn’t matter. Pain would purify. It always had.

  His mind darted back… more memories. Memories he’d cherished. “Evil creature! On the ground, worm! On the ground.” The flash of pain across his shoulders. The whistle of the metal buckle on the end of the belt as it struck him again and again. “On the ground!”

  He winced, pedaling faster, ignoring the pain in his ankle, teeth set, eyes ahead. He couldn’t slow, couldn’t stop now. He had to keep going, going.

  He’d lied. He’d stolen.

  But absolution awaited. Absolution for all his sins. Absolution for everything. He just needed to reach the cathedral. He pedaled, his heart pounding as he raced to the top of a hill and began to coast down now. Still, even then, he pedaled. Without gears, it was difficult to manage the speed, but he’d faced greater obstacles.

  Sleep and exhaustion from the day’s travels were falling on him now, but he couldn’t stop. Now wasn’t the time to slow. He had to press on.

  Faster. Faster

  Further.

  He had to ride hard to make up for lost time. He couldn’t stop tonight. Sleep was for the weak. Food was for the gluttons. Pain only deterred the pleasure-craving. No… he could make it. He would make it.

  He continued to pedal, his legs aching, his body on fire, his head down, gasping in quiet breaths and tearing through the night under the watchful eye of the stars and moon.

  He had to reach the cathedral. He needed to reach the shrine.

  ***

  Adele stood outside the precinct as night returned to make itself known. A day wasted. A day of interrogation, of broken promises. She still didn’t know what to make of John. Renee had been acting strange—she should have trusted her instincts.

  Why hadn’t he told her? Not only that—did she want to be with the sort of man who abandoned his daughter? Was it even any of her business?

  She clenched her teeth, trying to refocus, to rip away from this line of thinking.

  As she stood outside the precinct, eyes half-hooded behind the night sky, she considered the first victim on the case. Father Gabriel Fernando. A priest…

  Why did it matter he was a priest?

  The religious ties in this case were clear…

  So why kill a priest?

  If the killer was seeking some sort of absolution, clearly he held the church in high regard. So why kill a man of the cloth?

  It didn’t sit right. She was missing something.

  Something else nagged at her… The name he’d given to the landlady, then apologized for it, saying he’d been lying. None of it made sense. But the name… Just a throwaway name? Or something more?

  Adele frowned, slowly pulling her phone out from her pocket and swiping to the internet browser. What were the odds?

  What name had he given again? Oh, right…

  She typed in the search bar, Ricardo Mora.

  She waited as the search engine began to load…

  No results, save a few profiles on social media sites.

  She cursed, considering a moment longer… Why had he killed Father Fernando? Why had this all started in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port?

  She typed in “Ricardo Mora,” and then, before hitting enter, she also added the commune’s name.

  She let out a little sigh and hit Search.

  Results popped up nearly instantly. This time, not from social media sites, but from local news articles. All of them in Spanish.

  She scowled, clicking over to the app the department used to translate web pages. Little more than a glorified browser translation service, it would have to suffice unless she wanted to go fetch Agent Pascal.

  For now, this was nothing more than a hunch.

  She waited patiently as the page began to translate to French.

  As she scanned the translated sections of the article, she wrinkled her nose. A few sentences were complete gibberish, others were missing words or subjects entirely.

  But as she scanned the paragraphs, pieces began to fall into place. Feeling her eyes widen, she clicked on another article, also translating this one.

  Now, using the combination of the two half-translated pages, she could feel her heartbeat quickening.

  Not just a hunch.

  A clue.

  Ricardo Mora… Or, according to these articles… Father Mora. A priest…

  But not just any priest. A priest who, ten years ago, had been in the same commune as Father Gabriel Fernando. The first victim.

  The same commune where the first victim had been killed.

  Adele could feel her heart racing now, her pulse quickening to catch up with her racing thoughts. Ricardo Mora had died under suspicious circumstances at the same commune. He’d drowned… The first article hadn’t been clear, translating a certain word as “rock star.”

  Really, though, as Adele looked it up manually, the word in question meant “idol.” A small stone statue had been found in Mora’s pocket where he’d drowned.

  Strange. An idol?

  Why did that matter?

  Perhaps the same way the money found in Rosa Alvarez’s pocket mattered. Or the condoms on Father Fernando… And Matthew… He’d been found with an empty sandwich wrapper. Small, strange things. Nothing on their own, especially this last one. But maybe the killer had been rushed.

  What did they mean together, though?

  Not just clues, but accusations.

  Adele stared at the translated page of the longer article. It showed a picture of the commune and the Gothic church she’d visited fir
st. The first crime scene.

  Apparently, Father Mora had been at the commune when there’d also been a school on the premises. The school had now turned into an orphanage—hadn’t one of the priests mentioned they worked with orphans, teaching classes?

  Did it matter?

  Why had the killer given a fake name of a dead priest?

  She hesitated, considering it for a moment, and then she fished the business card John had given her for Father Paul. She dialed the number, lifting her phone beneath the evening sky. She waited, impatiently, as the phone began to ring.

  She took a couple of steps away from the precinct, toward the parking lot, if only to keep her blood flowing. Exhaustion hung heavy on her, caffeine circling her system. She couldn’t fall asleep, though. Not yet.

  On the third ring, a voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Father Paul?” Adele said.

  “I—yes… Ah, Agent Sharp, correct? I recognize your voice.”

  “Yes, er, sir. Look, I’m calling about something. Did you know a man name Ricardo Mora?”

  “I—not personally, no,” said the voice on the other end, the tone turning a bit colder than how it had started.

  “But you’ve heard of him?”

  “He was before my time, child. I only came here seven years ago.”

  “I see. I’m… Has anything else happened in your commune in your tenure there, or in recent history?”

  “Anything else? Many things happen here, child.”

  “No, sir—that’s not what I mean. Anything… noteworthy?”

  “Are you referring to Father Fernando’s death?”

  “I know about Fernando. I know about Mora’s drowning.”

  “That was a horrible accident.”

  “So the reports concluded. But anything else—anything I should know about?” Adele felt frustrated, flailing for words that she couldn’t quite seize hold of. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for.

  For a moment silence reigned and Adele though perhaps she’d lost reception. But then a long sigh emanated on the other end.

  “Ah, I think I know what you’re talking about. I can assure you, Agent Sharp, he was one bad apple. The rest of us voted unanimously to bring it to the church at large. No one holds ill will about it. Is that what you’re wondering?”

  Adele frowned. She paused, considering her reply. She didn’t have a clue what Paul was talking about, but also didn’t want to lose this small glint of bait. So instead, she said, “What did you think about all of that?”

  “Well… It’s obviously not great for the reputation of the commune or the church here. Besides, excommunicating a priest is a very rare occurrence. Even in France. None of us wanted it to go that way. But times are changing—protecting each other is a commandment of the Lord. We believe in protecting our brothers and fathers. But we can’t do it at the cost of others. It’s a tricky balance and I pray for discretion and wisdom daily. At the time, I, along with the others here, felt that Vargas was going well beyond the pale.”

  “Vargas?” Adele said, frowning.

  “Yes. Brother Luca Vargas,” Paul replied. “That’s who you’re asking about, isn’t it?”

  Adele paused again, collecting her thoughts. “You’re telling me you had a priest excommunicated from your church. When?”

  “Hang on—what are you asking about?”

  “Now? That.”

  She heard a sigh, and another long pause continued.

  “I really shouldn’t be—”

  “I will come there myself and take you to an interrogation room if you don’t,” Adele snapped.

  The man on the other end sighed again. “Your threats don’t affect me, child. Those in my faith have suffered far worse at the hands of jackbooted thugs.”

  She winced, biting her lip. Quickly, she said, “Apologies. I shouldn’t have spoken like that. But this isn’t about saving the church’s reputation right now. It’s related to a murder investigation. Three are dead. Three innocents. That’s what you just said, yes? It’s important to protect your own, but also not at the sake of others. Well, others are being hurt. I need your help. Please.”

  Father Paul sighed again, his voice crackling for a moment as if he’d walked through a patch of bad reception. Still crackling, he finally said, “I understand your zeal, Agent Sharp. I don’t blame you. I … I hate speaking ill of a brother. Especially one as sick as Mr. Vargas. He grew up in this commune, in fact. Went to the school here. Started teaching after finishing his studies.”

  “Luca Vargas. He was a priest?”

  “Used to be. No longer. He… he was excommunicated for archaic practices. Punishments like flogging and self-flagellation. He hurt himself, but also encouraged some of his students to hurt themselves. He was caught whipping a fourteen-year-old boy.”

  Paul drifted off for a moment. When he spoke next, his tone was laden with emotion as if he were on the verge of sobbing. “I—I’d never seen anything like that. It scared me when I heard. I can’t imagine the sort of wounding for the boy either. It certainly wasn’t the light of the church, nor was it the light of Christ. We let down the people most vulnerable.” His voice still strained with emotion. “It hurt me to do it. It hurt all of us. But Mr. Vargas was sick. He wasn’t well. He needed help and he couldn’t be trusted in his priestly duties. Not everyone is meant to be a priest. The Lord gifts us all in different ways, Agent Sharp. Like you. You’re gifted to find people that hurt others.”

  “And this Mr. Vargas, after he was excommunicated, how did he react?”

  Father Paul sighed wearily. “He left. He was angry, of course. He saw his practices as righteous atonement. But it was practically torture. He believed no one was without sin. We agree with this, of course. All have fallen short of the glory of God. But it’s with outreached arms, a desire to serve and love and offer mercy, that we approach the hurting and the wounded. With a giant dose of humility, knowing none of us have any right to judge others… There but for the grace of God go I… Do you know this saying?”

  “I’ve heard it before,” Adele said quietly, remembering Robert Henry saying those very words to her not long ago in his home office. “Would this Luca Vargas be in our system? Did he get arrested?”

  “It wasn’t taken that far,” Father Paul replied. “The child he whipped refused to press charges. Eventually, after he was excommunicated, it was dropped.”

  “Do you happen to have a photo of Luca Vargas?”

  “I can send one. Yes. We have our own files. It will take me a bit to get to the library. Maybe half an hour.”

  Adele was already stalking toward their borrowed police car, frowning as she moved. “Can you make it fifteen? I’m in a hurry.”

  “I can try, child. Be safe, Agent Sharp. I’ll send you his photo when I can. Please—please consider, Mr. Vargas is not well. Whatever harm he’s caused, I assure you he’s suffered too.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Paul. Please, send me that photo. Quickly.”

  Adele hung up, throwing open the front door to the waiting vehicle and sliding into the seat, already jamming the keys into the ignition.

  Luca Vargas.

  That was their killer. She knew it as deep as her bones.

  Now she just had to find him.

  Thankfully, she knew exactly where he was going.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  His breath came in broken gasps, his eyes stinging from the sweat and blood intermingling and pouring down his face. The scrape marks from where his cheek had rubbed off on the road now also stung with the evidence of his exertion.

  He wheeled the no-gear bike along at his side, puffing and limping. Ahead, as he looked up, he thought he spotted the outline of some structure against the night. He narrowed his eyes, staring in the direction of the protrusion. The many jutting spires stood out like fingers against the sky. He went still for a moment. His legs felt like fire, his eyes and cuts in pain. The throbbing sensation from his ankle up his th
igh had worsened.

  And yet, as he stared at the structure in the distance, he felt like a man in the desert stumbling on an oasis.

  The cathedral. He’d arrived in Santiago de Compostela.

  A soft sob escaped his lips. Tears formed in his eyes despite his dehydration. His hand lifted from the handlebars of the bike, allowing the cotton handkerchief to flutter as it fell along with the bicycle toward the ground.

  One shouldn’t litter.

  He knew this.

  And yet he was so close now.

  Absolution wasn’t just a matter of the conscience, it was one of the soul.

  He let out a whimpering little sigh, taking a tottering step forward on weak legs, moving down the dusty path. His back ached, his body ached, but his eyes—stinging still—were glued to the front steps of the incredible Santiago de Compostela Cathedral. The thing seemed to have been taken from the days long past. A magnificent structure, an architectural wonder of its time, with sky-high turrets and spires and a beige, multi-faceted facade. A thing of beauty and awe. An imposing, powerful structure. He could feel the power even now, emanating from within. St. James had been buried here—at least that’s what the rumors held. Though he didn’t consider them rumors—he knew they were true. How could they not be?

  He’d come this far—come so long. Even in the dark, against the night, the beauty of the magnificent architectural achievement beckoned him closer. Both ancient but rigid, worn but strong.

  He sobbed then stepped, sobbed then stepped. His ankle didn’t just feel sprained—perhaps it was even broken. All his time as a priest, once upon a time, in another life, had given him knowledge of many things. Including, at times, first aid. It helped him now how to properly break down a body. Often his own. The Lord supplied the knowledge he’d needed.

  Once upon a time, he’d been confronted by another priest from his old church in the old commune. But the man hadn’t understood, had he? A narrow-focused man, throwing accusations about…

  He sobbed, his shoulders heavy under the weight of sin, of guilt…

  Ten years he’d carried the burden. Ten years he’d carried what he’d done.