Left to Fear (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Ten)

by Blake Pierce

  Then, suddenly, from behind her, she heard the noise of quickly approaching feet.

  She turned, looking past her luggage and frowning as a shadowy form neared. “There you are,” she began. “I've been waiting for hours. Well? When can I move into my new roo—”

  She trailed off. It wasn't the bellhop.

  The approaching figure only picked up pace though, running now. She took a hesitant step back, frowning. “Stop!” she said, suddenly, her voice rising. “Hey—you. Stop!”

  But the form kept coming, fast. An arm shot out, grabbing her neck. A voice whispered in her ear, “You look so lovely tonight.” And then the fingers around her throat began to squeeze.

  She yelped, struggling, gasping, trying to strike with her hands. Her fingers flashed forward, and one of her pasted-on nails broke off. The man had her throat tight. Another hand reached towards her neck, though, grabbing the strand of pearls around her throat. There were diamonds inlaid in the pearls.

  “Thief!” she tried to choke out. But the words were muted. She could still hear, muffled and faint, the sound of passengers above. But no one seemed to hear her. No one else was around.

  The shadowed form above her ripped the necklace from her throat.

  “Thief,” she groaned again. “Stop! Stop it!”

  But he didn't take the pearls and run. Instead, still holding her neck, his other hand descended, clutching the pearls between thick fingers. He jammed the strand of pearls and diamonds against her lips.

  “I'll tell daddy you miss him,” the man whispered in her ear.

  She gagged now, choking. What was he doing? What was—

  The pearls jammed past her lips, into her mouth. The fingers followed and she tried to bite, but now his hand around her throat squeezed at her cheeks, holding her jaw open. He shoved the necklace into her mouth and kept pushing, hard, shoving the invaluable piece of jewelry further back until it tickled her throat.

  She started gagging, retching, trying to bend over. But the thick hands kept her upright, gasping, unable to breath, unable to scream.

  “I'll tell him,” the man was whispering. “I'll tell your family. I'll tell them you miss them.”

  And then, choking on her own necklace, darkness descended.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “This is your idea of a date?” Adele said, trying to hide her smirk.

  John paused, one hand extended, holding a pair of orange earmuffs. He was wearing a second set askew, his left ear protruding past the padding so he could still hear her.

  “You don't?” he said, hesitantly.

  The sound of loud bangs retorted through the underground shooting range. Two men, on the far side of the room, facing down twin ranges, peppered cardboard cutouts with lead. The veneer of barely concealed excitement across John's features diminished somewhat at Adele's words.

  She rolled her eyes, allowing the grin to show now, so John would know she was kidding. She snagged the second set of earmuffs from him, then turned to face the range, brushing her blonde hair out of her eyes, and pulling her full frame upright. She was a few inches taller than most women, but Agent Renee was taller still, dwarfing her with his six-foot-five frame. The tall, muscular Frenchman faced the range next to her. One hand rested on his holster, but out of the corner of his eye he was watching her.

  “How about a little wager?” Adele said, her hand on her own firearm.

  John's eyebrows went up; the burn scar under his chin was pale beneath the glow of unnatural lights in the underground bunker. The place, apparently, was operated by one of Agent Renee's old military buddies. Shooting ranges weren't commonplace in France, but for law enforcement and active military, sometimes special licenses were issued. Not that anyone had checked to see if John or Adele qualified for the range. They hadn't even had to show ID when John had walked into the place. A couple of grunts had served as greeting, and John had provided his own ammunition.

  “Your friend didn't seem too concerned about letting us back here,” Adele said.

  “That's the wager?”

  “No, I was just observing.”

  John shrugged one massive shoulder. “Jacques owes me. I get in free, plus anyone I bring with.”

  “I spotted him wiggle his eyebrows as I passed.”

  John snorted. “Jacques has a nervous twitch.”

  “Mhmm, likely.”

  The tall man grinned but returned his attention to the range. “So, what's the wager?”

  “Most shots in the bullseye,” Adele said. “Loser buys lunch.”

  John nodded as if in gratitude. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For lunch.”

  He drew his weapon, aimed, sighting and firing all in one smooth motion. He emptied the clip in a matter of seconds and, by the end, the two other shooters were both looking over. They frowned at first, but when John hit the red button next to his lane, and the target whirred on the track, drawing nearer, both other shooters' frowns turned into looks of mild admiration. They hid the expressions quick enough.

  John's finger tapped the bullseye on the yellow and black target. “Looks like a full dozen, hmm?” he said, smirking. “How do you feel about pizza?”

  “Hang on,” Adele retorted. “I haven't gone yet.” She shifted uncomfortably, squaring her shoulders, one hand still resting on her firearm. For a moment, she was grateful for the ability to focus on something else for the moment.

  Not that she didn't like looking at John.

  But things between them... had never been normal. Certainly not average. For one, who took a girl to a legally questionable shooting range on a first date?

  But then again, that's what she'd signed up for, and she'd made her peace with it. She liked John, and she was relatively confident the feelings were mutual. Besides, dating Agent Renee came with perks. Adele knew she was often too hard on herself, and also too hard on others.

  For a moment, firearm rising in her grip, aiming down the range, she exhaled slowly, closing her eyes for a second if only to force herself to concentrate. Not on the target, not even on the weapon. But to focus on allowing herself to enjoy the moment.

  Enjoyment was all too easy to lose amidst distraction. She was standing next to a handsome man who was interested in her. Her career was going well. Her closure rate on cases for the DGSI and Interpol was at an all-time high.

  She smiled, nodding to herself.

  And then she unloaded. The first two shots winged the target. The next missed entirely. Bullet four hit the outer circle. By the time she'd finished, though, two of the shots had struck center eye. Most found the target's outer rings. Solidly average—that's what she'd been told about her shooting during field training, and things clearly hadn't improved.

  “One,” John said before the target had even reached them.

  This time, Adele didn't have to feign her offense. “One? That's two!” She said, adamantly, jabbing a finger towards the swishing target moving towards them on the track. The two other shooters were no longer looking over. One of them seemed to be trying to hide a snicker.

  Adele's mood only darkened further, and she lowered her earmuffs and pointed angrily towards the center mark. “See. Two.”

  “That second one barely hit.”

  “It's two,” she insisted.

  John snorted but then swallowed as if trying to hide the sound. He nodded delicately, and said, “Alright, two...”

  For someone like John, this was nearly the same as an apology. He really was trying to make it work. He'd even picked her up outside her place in a regular sedan for once, instead of one of the sports cars he used government money to lease. He'd also brought her flowers.

  Well, really, one of them had been a flower. The others were technically weeds but John clearly hadn't known. The Frenchman got credit for trying in Adele's book.

  She looked up at him, smiling now, and shaking her head. “Maybe one and a half.”

  He chuckled. “We can split lunch.”

  �
��Psh. No. Fair and square; a wager is a wager. I'll pay.” She reached up, holstering her weapon and patting John affectionately on the cheek. “I might have to take out a loan, though, with the portion sizes you order.”

  John snorted. “They'd deny the loan. You're a shifty character, Agent Sharp.”

  For a moment, one hand still grazing John's stubble, the other resting on her holster, Adele met her partner's gaze. His eyes twinkled with mirth and his lips twitched with a smile. More loud retorts echoed from the two lanes further down the track.

  A strange place for a first date, but also fitting after a fashion. She supposed violence and flying bullets were only another feature of whatever this between them was. Still, standing there, her hand trailing down to rest against John's chest, she found her own smile returning, a soft warmth of contentment in her chest.

  Sometimes, she decided, it was nice to simply enjoy life, to enjoy this moment with John, and not concern herself with killers and murderers and victims...

  A slow chill crept up her spine at the thought, though, and her fingers left the warmth of John's chest, lowering to her side now. Her other hand still brushed the leather of her holster, her skin touching the cold metal of her weapon.

  Not all killers could be ignored, though...

  Not for Adele. Not until it was all said and done. She'd always known one of them would end up in the other's sights. When the time came, she knew it would all depend on whoever squeezed the trigger first.

  Her mother's killer was still out there.

  “Best of two?” Adele said, finding her voice a bit more hoarse, her tone grim.

  “You sure, Sharp? I don't want to take your money.”

  “Best of two,” she snapped back. She reattached another target, hit the button and listened to the whir as the outline of the bullseye got further and further away, carried off on the spinning metal wheels towards the darker portion of the underground shooting range.

  Even at a distance, though, no matter how many shots it took, Adele eventually always found her target.

  This would be no exception. She'd check in with Foucault before bed to see if there were any leads on the Spade killer—a nighttime habit she'd started to develop in recent weeks. No hits yet, but maybe, just maybe, tonight would be different.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sculptors often used knives, as did some painters. A whittler might do the same, and in the old days, authors, when preparing their pages, would incline to a blade as well.

  The painter smiled at his own tool of choice. A fisherman's knife, this time. A special blade for a special target. No masterpiece could be completed without the proper medium.

  His car was parked two streets over, a rental, under a false name. He'd walked the rest of the way, limping against his frail leg. He was sweaty and breathing heavily. Sometimes, the drawbacks of his own body would bother him, but tonight wasn't a night for despair. Soon, it would be one of celebration and crowning achievement.

  He inhaled the night air, his feet firmly on German soil as he faced the small house, his eyes trailing up the steps to the porch, and the two white painted columns on either side of the rail.

  "Hello there," he murmured softly.

  A pulsing blue light emanated from the front window through the blinds. Someone watching TV. His favorite friend's father lived alone. The painter had been scouting for the last three days, and he knew well enough how careful he had to be for this particular painting.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the other houses along the street. No witnesses. No one watching at all as he waited for night to fall. Sergeant Sharp always woke at exactly seven AM. The man liked to make soup, and he liked to watch TV late into the night.

  Not that it mattered. A sleeping target would be easier to subdue. But someone in a stupor in front of a buzzing screen was nearly the same thing anyway.

  Besides, he'd already planned his entry point. A window, in the dining room, on the side of the house, always left half ajar.

  The painter winced as he stepped onto the curb, adjusting his balance, and putting most of his weight on his good leg. He blinked his good eye, and reached up, adjusting the fake, glass eyeball into a more comfortable position. He pressed the fish knife into his sweater pocket, and then slowly limped up the driveway, onto the grass, around the side of the house.

  Part of him wanted to whistle, wanted to listen to music. Oftentimes, he would play one of his favorite symphonies as the prelude to a kill.

  But this time, he knew his full attention would be required. Besides, there would be time enough for music, punctuated by the shrill screams of Adele Sharp when she saw the corpse of her daddy.

  "I'm coming home, friend," he muttered beneath his breath.

  The painter reached the window. And while his bones were weak, and he was small of stature, he was still wiry. He reached up, his fingers pressing on the flecked paint, and the window emitted a soft scraping sound as he shoved it a bit further.

  He waited, listening. No alarm, as he'd determined earlier.

  Now, though, the silence from the dark house was deafening. The painter pulled his frail form up and then, sliding through the gap in the window—head followed by torso—he rolled into a bit of a somersault as he deposited himself on the carpeted ground in the dining room.

  There, head against the wall, body on the floor, he let out a loose little sigh of relief.

  Even now, he could feel his fingers twitching, could envision the swirling patterns, the beautiful work of ornamentation he would inflict. He would make it slow. Very, very slow. This time, he was determined to record the process itself. A behind-the-scenes look into a master craftsman and his procedure.

  He would send the video to Adele. His dearest friend would appreciate it most of all.

  He wondered if she'd cry at the squeals of her father. Or maybe she might get angry. Both thoughts amused him. Slowly he pushed to his feet, one hand pressing into the soft carpet. He could hear the muted sound of the TV from the other room. Could see, through the door frame of the living room, the very top of the TV screen, flickering with colors.

  The carpet softened his footsteps as he moved forward, brushing past the doorway, and coming to a halt in the hall. There, sitting in a chair, he spotted a balding head, leaned back—Joseph Sharp. And by the looks of things, he'd fallen asleep.

  The painter smirked widely now, his pale skin stretching like taffy. He winced, briefly, though, as his teeth hurt thanks to the ice they had given him on the plane. It would take another week for his mouth to feel the same again, but all the best artists suffered. Van Gogh had cut off his own ear, after all.

  The painter frowned. Maybe that's what he'd been missing with his other sacrifices. Maybe that's what he'd failed to realize. His own pain had to be as much a part of the art as the pain of his subject. He thought about it for second, and stood in the doorway, feet on the carpet in the hall, watching the news broadcast over the top of the reclined armchair, and Joseph Sharp's sleeping form.

  They were alone in the house. No one else lived here.

  His fingers pulled the fish knife from his pocket, and he absentmindedly pressed it against his left hand. He traced his palm, following the lines with the tip of his blade. He frowned for a moment, considering Van Gogh. And then he pressed the blade, hard, into his palm. Blood immediately began to pool, and he kept his hand facing up. No droplets could be spilled. No DNA evidence.

  His eyebrows were shaved again, his eyelashes plucked like he always did before a masterpiece. Like he had done with Robert, Adele's old mentor.

  How the Frenchman had screamed.

  As the pain flushed up his arm, he smiled at the memory; the way Robert's feet had kicked. The way he had grit his teeth, snarling like a pig.

  He had cut pieces and patterns for hours.

  Could he make Joseph Sharp go even longer? Maybe he ought to restrain the man. Take it even slower. Quality couldn't be rushed.

  The painter licked his lips, glancing
down the hall, feeling the blood against his palm. He pressed his hand to his shirt, allowing the bleeding to soak into the fabric. No. He wouldn't look for ropes. He was too excited. He'd been anticipating this moment for too long to tarry any longer. For a moment, his eyes skimmed across a couple of pictures on the wall. A woman he recognized, and a smiling child he also knew.

  He grinned at the nearest portrait of Adele's family. He'd killed the mother too. One of his earlier works. And now, he would take the second. At the end of it, all three of those smiling faces would be a part of his portfolio. A true artist could only be judged by their body of work, rather than simply a snapshot at a time.

  No more time wasting. He'd come here for a reason.

  He stepped through the doorway from the hall, approaching the sleeping form of Joseph Sharp.

  The floor creaked beneath his foot, and the painter paused.

  Sharp continued to slumber. The sound from the TV droned on, drowning out any other noises.

  The painter reached the back of the reclined armchair. The fish knife extended in his hand, still slick with the warm blood from his own palm. His fingers trailed against the top of the armchair, feeling the warmth of the fabric, from Joseph Sharp's body heat.

  "Sleeping beauty," whispered the painter. "I will turn you into something magnificent."

  The knife began to descend, towards Joseph's throat.

  And just then, a hand shot up. A thick, muscled forearm went taught. Fingers squeezed around the painter's wrist, and Sergeant Sharp's head spun around, eyes wide. He'd been faking the snoring sound.

  "I thought I smelled a rat," the man snarled.

  ***

  The Sergeant had a weapon in his other hand. A silver pistol, which was rising with his arm, twisting towards the painter. The painter, though, wasn't a man given to panic. No time for emotion, only action. With a snarl, the painter lashed out, slamming his other hand into the base of Joseph's neck.

  The s Sergeant had been expecting him.