by Blake Pierce
“I like your perfume,” he said, quietly. “It smells nice mixed with your sweat… Like flowers and sulfur…” He giggled and inhaled again, pressing her shirt against his mouth and nose now, his eyes rolling back in pleasure.
For a flash of a moment, there was an opening—he wasn’t looking. But the moment passed as quickly as it came.
Adele couldn’t risk her father. She didn’t react, listening, allowing him to speak. The more he talked, the less he hurt the Sergeant. For now, that was a win. Eventually, though, he would lash out. She knew men like this. Killers always thought they were special. People romanticized serial killers—some people fantasized about being like them. TV shows, movies, books—serial killers were revered world ’round.
But really, deep down, killers were all the same.
Scared, vain, desperately alone, and looking to spread their own misery, like a contagion, to the rest of the world.
Adele was a surgeon. It was her job to remove the contagion—whatever the cost.
Her eyes narrowed as she slipped, once more, ever so slightly to the right. Now her shadow no longer played across the killer’s chest. The moonlight struck him solid, illuminating his red hair and structured features.
“Forty-one,” he said. “That was the Spade Killer’s first, you know—Elise… your mother. His cuts are prettier than mine—I’ll be the first to admit it.” He waved a hand, distractedly. “I’m a humble student—I don’t desire to overtake the true savant of the trade.” He shook his head. “But I did continue his work. He stopped at thirty, you know that? I picked up where he left off. Like Kepler finishing the work of Copernicus. Do you know who they are?”
Adele bobbed her head. “Astronomers. Both of them old. Both of them long dead.” Her tone carried no undercurrent, but the killer still frowned at her words.
“Yes—yes, but immortal too, don’t you see? You know them.” His eyes had creased again and his brow furrowed in a summoned rage.
She needed to cut him off at the pass. Talking was fine, but eventually he’d hurt her father. Eventually, he’d kill her too—there was no way he didn’t. The killer saw their meeting as fate. She needed to put him off guard, to give herself an opportunity, to turn the killer’s violent attention from her father to herself.
Adele said, “Death scares you, doesn’t it? Somehow, in that twisted brain of yours, you think by murdering these young, innocent people, that you’re retaining your youth. Is that it? Whoever did the work on your nose, though, didn’t do you any favors in that department.”
The man’s cheeks turned from red to white. He stared at her, his eyes bugging in his skull. The knife wavered for a moment as if his fingertips were trembling from sheer rage. “What did you say?” he said.
But Adele was tired of standing there, scared and shirtless in the dark, her father bleeding, her side aching, allowing the killer to toy with them. It was a gamble; but her father would die soon without medical attention. She couldn’t keep stalling, or he’d bleed out.
“The gardener did your mother right,” said the killer, seething now. “Honestly, it’s funny you left Paris, you know that? Especially given where you worked. He who came before created a masterpiece. I may not be the artist he is, but there’s a poetry to it, isn’t there? It started at forty-one with Elise, and once you’re out of the way I’ll continue all the way down to… Well, until it ends.”
Adele snorted in disdain. “Ends? You won’t end shit. You’re a murderer addicted to your own arrogance. You couldn’t stop killing if you wanted to. A friend of mine, his name is Robert—he thinks that people like you can change. Maybe he’s right; he taught me a lot, but you want to know what I think, Mr. Schmidt?”
The man’s eyes narrowed across the room.
“I think you’re too stupid, too normal, too ordinary and too old to change.” She shrugged in a gesture of disdainful dismissal. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks. And hells, you’re ancient.”
The killer loosed a mewling snarl that started in the back of his throat as a whimper, but then exploded, shoved to the front of his lips with a surging vehemence that caught Adele off guard.
He screamed and lunged toward her, knife flashing, just as she turned, grabbing for her gun.
But he reached her first and kicked her in the chest, sending her stumbling away from her weapon and careening into the wall beneath the window. Her head clattered against the glass and her shoulders slumped as they scraped past the sill and she came to a stop against the plaster.
The killer continued to emit his shriek as he dropped on top of her, smothering her and holding her down. His one hand pressed against the exposed flesh of her abdomen, twisting against the blood and slipping along her ribs. The other raised the scalpel, trying to slash down.
Adele’s hand was all that kept the knife from her throat. She had the killer gripped by the wrist, holding tight, keeping both their hands elevated.
She gritted her teeth, emitting a growl of her own to match the killer’s snarl. Like a couple of huffing animals, they lay there, him on top of her, both of them struggling for control of the other’s hand.
The Sergeant was shouting and thrashing now, but his movements had weakened as his wounds took their toll and blood loss had its say.
Adele screamed in pain as she felt a finger jam into the cut at her side, trying to twist the flesh open further. She howled and the killer screamed back at her, their noses almost touching. He managed to jerk his hand free from hers and shove his shoulder down, trapping her wrist against her chest and pinning it beneath his weight.
He was too strong, too agile.
She tried to kick out, but he was straddling her now, securing his grip before lifting the knife a second time, like an artist with a paint brush, holding their tool of choice aloft before setting to their next work.
Then there was a distant bang.
Followed, in near perfect succession by another.
The killer’s hand was illuminated in moonlight—the only part of him still visible over the windowsill. The first bang saw the window shatter as a bullet broke the glass and sent pieces tumbling onto both Adele and Porter.
The second bullet slammed into the killer’s hand, demolishing a couple of knuckles and severing a finger at the joint. The killer howled as his finger fell from his injured hand and blood poured from his new wound.
The knife fell, landing next to Adele’s cheek, along with more shards of glass, which nicked her face, but missed her eyes.
She grunted and shoved.
The killer was still staring at his disfigured hand, a look of horror across his features. Adele didn’t hesitate. As some of his pressure lifted from the shock of being shot, she flung out her left hand, grabbed the scalpel, gripped it and brought it slashing forward. Once, twice, a third time, she used it like a knife, jamming the blade into the killer’s neck.
Blood poured from the wounds and Adele felt his strength fading as he stared down at her, a quizzical look replacing his one of horror. His injured hand fell against his thigh and then, with a slight, questioning sigh, he toppled over, scalpel buried in his throat, falling from Adele.
Breathing heavily, covered in both her blood and the killer’s, Adele slowly eased up, trying her best to avoid the falling glass.
“American Princess!” a voice shouted from the street outside. “Are you all right!”
An impossible shot. A perfect shot. One to clear the glass, a second to hit Schmidt’s upraised hand. Adele shook her head in disbelief, shock running its course through her body.
Adele pushed doggedly to her feet, stumbling over to her father, shards of glass tumbling from her with each step and scattering on the ground. She reached her father, whose head was now lolled against his chest, his eyes half-closed.
“Stay with me!” she snapped, grabbing a nearby pillow and ripping off the case to press it against the cuts along her father’s face and neck. Her father emitted a quiet moan, and his chest rose and fell, flooding Adel
e with relief. “John!” she shouted over her shoulder, toward the window. “John—call EMS! Now!”
She heard a muffled shout in response, but couldn’t quite make out the words. Her own head was now spinning too. Slowly, she slid down the side of the bed, reaching out and snaring a piece of glass to start sawing at the duct tape around her father’s wrists.
He moaned again. “Sorry about the carpet,” she muttered.
Then, once her father’s hands were free, she had him press another pillowcase to the wounds on his thigh.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, next to her father, they remained in silence, hands pressed to his wounds, staring at the open door, neither of them paying much mind to the body beneath the window. Adele had nearly forgotten he was there.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Adele sat in the chair facing the opaque glass of Executive Foucault’s door. Her feet were crossed, the fuzzy pink slippers Robert had given her poked toward the ceiling.
A voice cleared down the hall, and Adele glanced over at John striding toward her, a smirk on his face. “Nice slippers,” he said.
She grunted in reply, shifting slightly, but wincing as her bandaged side moved against the armrest. “I’ll give you one,” she said. “I do owe you.”
He nodded. “Yes. Definitely you’re in my debt, hmm?”
She rolled her eyes. “Seriously though, that was a hell of a shot. I never did properly thank you.”
John flashed a schoolboy smile. “I can think of some ways you could express your gratitude.”
“You’re a pig,” she said, but her tone was devoid of any ill will.
John leaned against the executive’s door, seemingly indifferent to the long, dark shadow he would cast through the glass into his boss’s office. “Nice of you to advise me over the radio,” he said, conversationally. “Gave me the information I needed to make the shot. To be honest, for a moment there, I thought I was too late.”
Adele shrugged one shoulder, glancing back through the opaque glass.
John stared at her slippers again. “Not exactly professional,” he said, raising a dark eyebrow.
Adele smiled. “I’m on vacation.”
“Yeah? Good for you.”
“What?” Adele teased. “That’s all I get? No jokes about how lazy American princesses are?”
But John didn’t smile this time; he glanced off down the hall, his face darkening for a moment. “You deserve a break,” he said, softly. “Don’t let them drag you back too soon, hear?”
Adele sighed, feeling some tension leave her shoulders. “I’ve just got a last meeting with Foucault, then I’m off for the week.”
“Going to spend it in Paris?”
Adele hesitated. “I think so, yes. An old friend offered me room and board for the week.” She lowered her voice and winked conspiratorially. “He has a private swimming pool, so I think I might take him up on the offer.” Adele didn’t add the more important part. Her teeth pressed against each other and she felt her mood darken for a moment. The killer had said, “Honestly, it’s funny you left Paris, you know that?” He’d been talking about her mother’s killer. Why had it been funny, though? The way he’d said it kept repeating in Adele’s mind… Almost… almost as if the killer she’d been looking for all along had been in Paris.
Adele had known he’d killed in the city, but she’d never known where he’d been from. Funny you left Paris… Maybe what she had been longing for was beneath her nose the whole time. A week of vacation wasn’t a long time, but… enough time to turn up a new clue? Perhaps.
“How’s the old man?” John asked, still leaning against the glass.
Adele paused for a moment. Only three days had passed since closing the case of the German vacationing killer. Her father had emailed her earlier; he’d returned from the hospital to more than one can of condensed soup waiting for him on his front porch: gifts from his work buddies. She shrugged toward John. “Tougher than me,” she said. “But he agreed to video call me later today—so that’s progress.” She chuckled and shook her head in incredulity. “By the sound of things, though, he’s heading back to work tomorrow.”
John nodded, no longer smiling. “I doubt it,” he said, softly.
She frowned. “For all the things he is, my dad isn’t a liar.”
“No—not the work part. I doubt he’s tougher than you.”
Adele hesitated, studying her French partner. “John, am I hallucinating, or did you just compliment me?”
He studied her, his eyes laden with something she couldn’t quite place… A sorrow, but also a relief. Just as quickly, he covered with a chuckle and a wink. “The way to a princess’s heart; lavish with compliments. This could be the start to an illicit French romance, hmm?”
Adele didn’t react at first. She looked at the tall agent leaning like a tomcat against the door, his eyes hooded as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He really was quite handsome, even with that burn mark. “Maybe we can test that theory,” she said with a smirk of her own. “Indoor pools are always more fun with two people.”
John blinked, taken aback for a moment, and Adele hid her smile of satisfaction.
After a bit too long of a pause, John finally retorted, “I’m a really good swimmer.”
“We’ll see,” Adele said, sweetly. Then she got to her feet, stretching her long legs as she did and rolling her shoulders.
John, still staring at her, hadn’t noticed the shadow approaching from the other side. He jolted like a scalded cat as the door to the executive’s office opened.
Foucault glanced out in the hall. He looked up at the tall agent, frowning, then turned his attention to Adele. “Agent Sharp,” he said, “join me, if you please.”
Adele brushed past John, looking up and winking at him before following Foucault into the office. The door shut with a quiet rattle of glass.
Adele suppressed her smile at John’s startled reaction. It took her a moment to quell the satisfaction, but she finally turned to face Foucault’s desk. To her surprise, he wasn’t the only one in the room.
The TV screen was on behind him, depicting the face of Agent Lee from back in San Francisco. Additionally, the same woman from before—the one from Interpol, was standing by Foucault’s desk with a phone in one hand and a paper file in the other. The large woman eyed Adele from behind thin glasses, her intelligent eyes twinkling.
Foucault was now sitting in his chair, peering across the desk at Adele. Both the chair and the desk seemed perfectly proportioned to suit the DGSI executive’s frame.
Adele felt a sudden flash of embarrassment at her choice in footwear.
For a moment, Foucault frowned, glancing down at Adele’s slippers, but before he could say anything, Agent Lee spoke from the TV screen.
“Hey, Sharp,” she said. “I hear you’re doing good things across the pond!”
Adele smiled at her friend and gave a little wave. “Can’t complain,” she replied. “How are things stateside?”
Agent Lee nodded and flashed a thumbs-up. “Same ol’. I’ve been hearing some interesting thoughts from Ms. Jayne, here, though…”
Adele glanced at the Interpol correspondent, who had lowered the paper file and was studying Adele with a look of quiet contemplation.
For a moment, Adele felt a flash of nerves. Had she done something wrong? She cycled back through the events in Germany. The killer had died before EMS had arrived—perhaps that’s what this was about. Surely they weren’t questioning the self-defense nature of the killer’s wounds. She opened her mouth, preparing to defend herself, but before she could speak, the correspondent identified simply as Ms. Jayne, spoke first, “I’d like to offer you a job,” she said.
Adele closed her mouth, her eyebrows inching slightly up. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”
Ms. Jayne spoke in crisp, precise tones, and, without a hint of impatience, she repeated, “I would like to offer you a job.”
Adele stammered, “I-I’m afraid I don’t
understand.”
Foucault cleared his throat. “Look, Agent Sharp, I’m sorry for calling you in on your vacation, but as I promised on the phone, this won’t take long. Ms. Jayne here works, as I’m sure you’ve gathered—”
“For Interpol.” Adele nodded.
“Yes,” said Ms. Jayne. Her clear, crisp tones were devoid of any accent whatsoever. The occupants in the room spoke English, likely for Agent Lee’s benefit, but Ms. Jayne had the sort of voice that suggested while she wasn’t a native English speaker, she had perfected the craft. She continued, “Well, you’ll need to come with me to our headquarters in Lyon, once you return for work, and we’ll iron out the details there. For now, I’m simply looking for a verbal commitment to take back to my supervisors. They’re, of course, fully apprised of the idea.”
Adele glanced from the DGSI executive, to the FBI supervisor and back to the Interpol correspondent. “I’m still not sure I understand. What job?” she said.
“Ah, yes,” said Ms. Jayne. She rubbed her thumbs in small circles on the back of the paper file, in a sort of soothing motion. “You are uniquely positioned, Adele. Interpol has realized this. As a citizen of three countries, coupled with your involvement with multiple agencies, you’re a prime candidate for a program we’ve been working on.”
Adele stared, stunned. Agent Lee and Foucault were both watching her, motionless, as if waiting for her reaction.
“What program?” Adele said, her throat suddenly dry. She really wished she hadn’t worn the slippers now.
“A special license,” said Ms. Jayne, her head bobbing. “An experimental license to operate as a domestic agent in all three countries.” Her expression remained the same, her tone held only polite, matter-of-fact delivery.
And yet, Adele felt her heart skip a beat. “You mean like the CIA?” she asked.
But Ms. Jayne shook her head. “No. Rather, you’d be working as a shared resource between the United States, France, and Germany. You would be consulted whenever it is suspected that a relevant case has an international component. Do you understand?”
