by Blake Pierce
She didn’t take it back though. She meant it. “What are you going to do?” she demanded.
“You are a sinner?” he said. “Then you should enter with me.” He pointed past her. “Did you complete the pilgrimage? Did you walk the way?”
“You didn’t walk,” she snapped. “You biked. You can’t even play fair at your own game.”
“The Lord allows it!” he snapped. “Who are you to judge me?”
“Who are you?” she yelled back. The streets had cleared, night had captured this section of the city. The cathedral was quiet. Only the janitors, some security remained, but they were further in. No one came to investigate the raised voices. No one even seemed to notice.
“I sin,” she said, wagging her head, gun clutched in one hand. “I sin all the time. When I was fifteen, my first swimming coach, he was gorgeous. Absolutely stunning. A six-pack like you wouldn’t believe. I can’t tell you how many times I lusted after him. I lusted after him poolside. I lusted after him in the shower at home. Sometimes, I still imagine him. I imagine him slipping off those tight swim trunks. I imagine what he has beneath. Hmm? Is that all right? Is that sin enough for you?”
He was staring at her, red-faced now, gaping like a suffocating fish.
“I lie too,” she said, emphatically. “I lied to my father just last week about where I’d hidden his beer. I drink also. Lots of times. I’ve been drunk. What do you think about that? Hmm?”
“Stop it!” he snarled. “Stop talking!”
“Sometimes when I was young I would lust and drink. Together. Astonishing, really. Want to know what else? I’ve also killed. More than once. I’ve shot men like you dead. I’ve watched them bleed out.” Here, trembling, her finger still shaky on the trigger, she leaned in, her face jutting over her extended weapon. She dropped her voice to a stage whisper, feeling something rising in her chest that made the fury all the more potent. “Want to know something? Something secret? Something I’m never supposed to say?”
“Quiet, whore! Be quiet!”
“Sometimes,” she pressed on, even louder than him, “sometimes, I enjoy it when they die. I try to pretend I don’t. I want to be a good person. I hate when I feel that way. But sometimes… sometime I like it. I like watching monsters who have killed and murdered and maimed bleed out. I like it when they die. And so, bitch,” she spat, “I’m not letting you in. I don’t give a fucking shit, you ugly piece of wasted life. I am not fucking letting you in! So what are you going to do? Huh?” She was yelling now. “What? What are you going to do?”
For a moment, the man just stared at her, stunned, clearly in some sort of shock. She wasn’t sure if he’d ever been spoken to like this before. Part of her felt an odd thrill of satisfaction. Another part of her only felt horror at her own words. Did she even realize what she was saying? Her heart hammered wildly. Did she really mean all of that?
She supposed part of her did. At least now. At least in this moment, a part of her meant every word. Another part of her felt only shame she’d said any of it—mostly the last parts. The part about enjoying the death of a suspect. It was true, though.
She knew it was true. She hated that it was true. More often than not, her better nature won out. She had once administered first aid to a serial killer, trying to save him after he’d tried to murder her. She’d saved the life of a rapist before too, protecting him from drowning.
But there had been other times… She didn’t shed tears for the monsters of the night.
Should she? Did that make her evil? Maybe she was a sinner after all…
But she’d said her piece, and she’d meant it.
She wasn’t going to step aside. Of that, she was certain.
He licked his lips, eyes circling inside their sockets, and then, snuffling and growling, he pulled out the item he’d been fingering in his pocket.
A seashell.
A scallop—Adele recognized it briefly. One of the symbols of St. James—she’d done her research now.
“That’s what you use,” she said, breathlessly, staring at the scallop. “You killed them with a fucking seashell.”
“Stop swearing. Stop it, whore!”
She stared at the scallop, and then, eyes hooded, she looked the killer dead in the face. “Or what?”
Finally, he seemed to lose it. He snarled, screaming at the sky, and then he lunged at her, ducking low under the line of fire and whipping his scallop toward her hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Luca Vargas lunged at Adele, and she felt her finger tighten on the trigger.
In a brief moment, she knew she had a clear shot. She could have taken it. But another, smaller part of her rejected this. She’d goaded him, hadn’t she? He wouldn’t have attacked if she hadn’t said all those things. If she killed him… what did that make her?
She hesitated a second too long, finger on the trigger, but not tightening. In that moment, he managed to shove her gun to the side and surge toward her, shoulder first.
She yelled in pain as his body caught her chest like a battering ram, sending her skidding back on the top step. Something slashed across her throat, and she yelled. For a moment, standing in the shadow of the cathedral entrance, she reached up with trembling fingers, trying to collect herself, to aim once more. Her fingers came away with blood.
He’d cut her. Not too deep, but he’d cut her all the same.
Adele breathed, staring at where her fingers held droplets of red. At the same time, her eyes refocused on the man at the top step. He came charging at her, trying to lurch past her into the cathedral. But she wouldn’t let him. She lunged forward as well. Again, if she’d waited, she could’ve had a clear shot. But also, if she’d waited, it would have allowed him into the cathedral. This wasn’t an option. So instead, she barreled into him, sending her shoulder into his chest, returning the favor. The man howled, stumbling back, tripping and cursing as his leg bent under him. His right side was weak. Something had hurt him. Now, gasping, he tried to regain his feet, pushing up on one knee. His scallop had fallen on the ground, resting on the marble floor between them.
Adele’s eyes narrowed. She stepped forward and slammed her foot down. A piece of evidence—she knew she shouldn’t have done it. In that moment, though, she wasn’t acting as an FBI agent. This was what he’d used to kill—this thing was precious to him. So she smashed it. The scallop crushed into a dozen pieces. She kicked them, sending them scattering.
For a moment, one hand on the ground, trying to regain his balance, Luca just stared at what she’d done. He gaped, shaking, and then burst into a rage. His face went red, his eyes bloodshot. He screamed incoherently and dove at her. This time, he knocked her gun to the side. Her weapon went scattering into the cathedral itself. Instead of lunging after it, though, she dragged her fingers across the man’s face, scraping flash, gripping the collar of his shirt and dragging him back away from the door. Again, he seemed to try to ignore her, stepping past her to reach the cathedral and again, she refused to let him. He yelped, shouting, “Let me go. Lord help me. Let me go.”
But she held on for dear life. He kicked back at her, once, twice. Her lip exploded, blood pooled into her mouth with a salty tang.
But still she held on. He managed to scramble over her, crushing her forearm against the marble step. He tried to crawl on his knees, surging toward the door. But she, gasping, got on top of him. Pulling herself onto him, sitting on his back and holding him down so he couldn’t reach the cathedral.
He extended his hand, fingers scrambling toward the shadow of the archway. But she grabbed this too, yanking him back and shoving him. Again, he slipped down the top two steps. And again he let out a horrible scream. Gasping, growling, he pulled himself to his full height. He was bleeding from his face, limping horribly, and now had slash marks across his throat from where she’d dragged her fingernails. Adele glanced over her shoulder, into the cathedral. Her gun was lying on the tiles. She could see it just within. She also knew if she went f
or it, the killer would have ample time to enter after her.
Certainly this wasn’t by the book. She could only imagine what Agent Renee would think when he found out. But she wasn’t going for her gun. She refused to let him enter. So she stood, arms raised, waiting in the threshold of the cathedral, glaring. The killer was disarmed, his seashell shattered. Her gun was behind her. The two of them glared at each other, both of them injured, both of them bleeding. Adele spotted a drop of red from her hand spatter toward the ground. Luca stared at this and screamed, “Desecration!” and lunged.
She waited for him to reach her and then kicked, hard, catching him in the gut and sending him doubled over. Wheezing, he tried to grab her throat. Fingers pressed against her neck, but she pushed him back once more. Gasping at the ground, half dead already, he tried to stay on his feet. His leg wasn’t responding, though. His right ankle looked in a bad way, bent and crooked off to the side. His face twisted in agony every time he stepped on it. Now, breathing heavily, he let out a horrible shout and tried to charge again. And again, she refused to give him passage.
This time, though, he saw her kick coming. He avoided it, throwing himself onto his busted ankle. He screamed in agony. Adele hadn’t thought he would favor that ankle. This was a man who didn’t mind pain. He avoided her enough to shove past her. He sent her stumbling to the side, and then, bleeding, gasping, with desperate shouts, he dragged himself up the top step. He crawled, pulling himself toward the open cathedral door. His fingers were a foot away. Half a foot. A few inches. She snarled, lunged, grabbing his ankle with both hands and pulling until it felt like her arms might yank from their sockets. The man howled in horror as he was dragged back once more.
“No!” she snapped. “No,” she said, louder, repeating the word. “That’s not for you. It’s not.”
She was breathing heavily, gasping the words like some sort of mantra or battle cry, trying to keep herself focused.
The killer was sobbing now, trying to kick on his floppy right leg. But his ankle was causing him more pain than it did her. She gripped this ankle, holding tight. For a moment she wanted to twist. Just to cause more pain.
But then she realized what she was thinking. Horror welled up in her. She swallowed, shaking, and moved her hands to his other ankle, leaving the injured one. She couldn’t. She simply couldn’t. If she did, maybe he was right about them. About all of them. Humans. Maybe he was right.
She held his uninjured ankle, holding him in place—and pulled her cuffs out.
The fight seemed to have fled him now, as he was sobbing and bleeding and sweating on the stairs. One hand still stretched, desperately, only a foot away from the entrance to the cathedral. He was crying like a baby, pleading for his mother.
She cuffed him, not too gently. But she was careful to avoid hurting his bad ankle. The man shook, pleading with her. “Please,” he said. “Please, let me in. Just a step. That’s all. Please. Do what you want with me. But just let me in.”
Adele hesitated. She could feel an icy sensation in her stomach, twisting. Could feel the cold fury.
She paused, let out a long sigh, and said, quietly, “What were their names?”
“What?”
“Their names. The ones you killed. What were their names?” She spoke softly now, tired all of a sudden; she just stared down at where his hands were now cuffed behind him. He twisted, whimpering, and staring up at her. “Please, please,” he said, desperately.
She wondered if his victims had pleaded. She wondered how it had felt for him to ignore them. He saw them as sinners. He’d seen them as evil. And so he had treated them without mercy. He brutalized them
But he was truly evil. She saw him in the way he had seen the others. He didn’t even remember their names.
“Please,” he said, sobbing again. “I’m begging you. Just a pinky. Just a toe. Just let me in just for a second. I’ll do whatever you want. Please.”
His shirt had pulled up in the back. She could still see the tapestry of scars all over his body. Had he administered all of these? Had someone else helped?
Her gun was still lying on the tiles in the cathedral.
She glanced at him, glanced toward the door. She leaned in, whispering in his ear, “Rosa Alvarez. Matthew Icardi. Gabriel Fernando. You had no right.”
He was crying now. Not for the victims. Not for anyone but himself. He didn’t care. He had done what he done because he wanted to.
She let out a long sigh, standing on the top steps. John was nowhere nearby. Normally, this was the time he would come in, rushing to the rescue. But she hadn’t told him where she was going. She hadn’t told anyone. It was as if she’d been working something out for herself. As she stared at the bloody mass of Luca Vargas, she only felt sad. She said, “I have to get my gun. You do what you have to. If you run, you’re not going to get far on that ankle. I’ll have an ambulance here in a few minutes. They can take care of you.”
She didn’t feel a single one of those words. All she felt was anger. But it didn’t really matter what she felt. The feelings would go and come and go again. What mattered was something else. But she wasn’t a theologian. She wasn’t a priest. She wasn’t a philosopher. She just got bad guys.
Sighing again, she moved through the cathedral’s entrance, over toward where her gun was lying on the flagstones. She picked it up, slowly, pushing it into her holster. She waited a few moments, looking around, staring up. It was so dark, night so thick, she could barely make out so much as an archway. It felt fitting, this… She couldn’t see the beauty. Couldn’t see the splendor. It was just dark.
She let out a long breath, staring into the cathedral. She didn’t want to look back. She could hear him moving. Could even hear the soft, whimpering sigh of gratitude. She didn’t want to see. She couldn’t watch. It wasn’t up to her if he crawled across the threshold or not. If that was all it took to absolve someone, if that was what it took to make it right, Adele wasn’t sure that any of this mattered anyway. She turned back around after another few moments. She waited long enough so she wouldn’t have to see. He was still on the top steps, but he looked relieved now, sighing, no longer sobbing. His eyes were closed, his head resting against the top marble step. Had he crawled across? Had he then pulled back? Had he given up?
She wasn’t sure. She was glad she didn’t know. She stepped back out of the cathedral, gun back in her holster, and stooped, dropping to the steps next to Luca Vargas. His hands were cuffed behind him, and she sat, carefully avoiding blood on one of the steps. Was it hers, his?
She pulled her phone out, calling the paramedics. She sat facing the same direction as Luca. His eyes were still closed. It was as if he was dead, motionless.
She sat on the same step as him, not higher, not lower. She just stared out. She didn’t want to hurt him. That wouldn’t change anything. She was so sick of it. So sick of them all. People who did this. Who justified what they did. If they could make a monster out of the people they hated, it made violence so much easier. Sometimes there really were monsters, though.
Adele held her head in her hands, phone against her cheek as she mumbled into the receiver, but her heart wasn’t in it.
The world really had monsters. But that didn’t mean she had to enjoy it when they were hurt. That didn’t mean her life had to be defined by what they did and how she reacted.
She stared out across the city, sitting on a marble step next to the killer. Her shoulders began to shake. Tears leaked from her eyes, down her cheeks. It wasn’t fair.
None of it was fair.
She couldn’t make it right. John couldn’t make it right. The DGSI couldn’t make it right.
She glanced over her shoulder toward the cathedral, staring into the darkness. It seemed so empty. She looked away, tears now falling from her chin and tapping against the bloody steps. She closed her eyes, waiting, sitting next to Luca Vargas and listening for the sounds of approaching sirens.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Ad
ele hadn’t slept the night. Almost two days had passed with less than three hours of sleep. She could feel the exhaustion weighing heavy on her. But now, standing outside the precinct, she watched as Mr. Segura took the steps slowly, two at a time, rubbing his wrists.
She watched as he paused at the bottom step and looked up at her. “Thank you,” he said, softly.
She nodded once, looking past him across the parking lot. “You gave me your word,” Adele said, looking back again. “You’re going to finish the pilgrimage.”
He swallowed, hesitating for a moment. His emotions were still buried deep. He still didn’t seem to react to the same cues one might normally expect in conversational conditioning. But at last, he said, “I’ll finish the pilgrimage.”
Adele stared at him. Had he killed his brother-in-law? Had it really been an accident? Either way, he knew the victim’s name. She could see the horror, the grief in his eyes. That wouldn’t change what he had done. But she just didn’t have it in her to play judge anymore. He’d been acquitted. And now, he’d said he would finish the pilgrimage. He had threatened to kill himself. But after a night of observation he had been cleared medically. He would finish the pilgrimage. Afterwards, he could do what he wanted. Adele couldn’t save everyone. She turned away as the man began to walk, heading toward the street, strolling slowly, hands in his pockets.
Adele’s phone began to ring, and she frowned, pulling out the device. Thankfully, it wasn’t Agent Paige. “Hello?”
“Agent Sharp?”
“Father Paul.”
“Yes, yes, it’s me. I apologize for calling you so early.” The man cleared his throat on the other end. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Adele sighed, rubbing at her eyes. “No, you didn’t. Part of me wish you had. How can I help you, Father?”
