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

by Blake Pierce

  The woman breathed, her chest rising and falling against the red dress, her eyes wide. Her lovely curls framed her now pale face, and one hand braced against the sink, as if looking for something to throw.

  "You have to understand," he said, quietly, "this isn't about you. Perhaps it is. But it shouldn't be. Not everything is about your kind. Though you live as if it is."

  He wasn't sure why he was talking. The last two times he'd snuck up behind them, fast. Now, though, in a locked room, with no witnesses, it almost felt cathartic to get some of these words off his chest. How often had he wanted to talk with one of them? To tell them his piece?

  She glanced uncomfortably around the bathroom, her eyes moving to the stalls now as well. But where he had been looking for witnesses, she was looking for aid. Neither of them found anything. “The letter?” she said, carefully. “For me? Please, I'll talk to you outside." She spoke confidently, firmly. The voice of the woman who'd been trained to be in charge.

  Unearned authority, of course. Authority bought, and authority paid for.

  He spat to the side, feeling his temper flare, his teeth set together.

  "I'm lying," he said, growling and taking a step into the room. "This isn't for you. It's for someone else. Someone like you. I made a promise, and I keep my promises."

  The woman was shaking her head, one of her hands still lathered with soap, the faucet still running, with a quiet swishing sound. The boat was moving now, and he could feel the quiet rumble of the engines through the vessel. A faint, quiet tremor.

  But sometimes, even the softest of motions could have the greatest impact.

  He took another step towards her, and now she held out her hands, shouting. "Leave me alone!"

  Loud. Too loud. He couldn't let her scream. He darted forward, fast. She tried to yell. The sound died on her lips.

  He tossed the rose and the note against the faucet, grabbing at her neck. He squeezed, and she slapped at his wrists. Long nails gouged against his arm. But he slammed his hand against her wrist, breaking her grip.

  "Stop!" he commanded. "I'll tell your parents you miss them. I'll tell them how much you mean to them. Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay."

  She tried to gasp, struggling where his hand wrapped around her throat. She whimpered, shaking her head, her curls shifting against the bathroom wall. He held her firm, though, like a butterfly pinned to a page. So pretty, so useless, so defenseless. Given beauty at birth, her wings rising from the cocoon that she had never built. A cocoon she didn't deserve. And yet compared to the moth, how much more appreciated?

  And he held her there, tearing at her red dress. He reached down, ripping at the hem, and she screamed again, but the sound was muffled by his hand.

  "Don't be dramatic," he sneered. "I don't want that."

  He ripped part of the fabric of her dress, and as she tried to struggle, he held her fast with one hand. His other jammed the piece of her dress against her lips. But she closed her mouth, seemingly sensing what he intended.

  She locked her teeth. And he snapped, "Open your mouth! Open!"

  Desperately, she jutted her chin forward, but he squeezed hard against her throat and finally she opened, gasping, and he jammed the fabric past her teeth.

  She tried to bite him, but he was expecting it, and jerked his fingers back. He squeezed on either side of her mouth now, releasing her throat with his other hand, and he shoved a piece of her own dress down the back of her throat until she started gagging.

  It wasn't a pleasant sound. He could remember, though, that very sound for hours, weeks, months. He could remember the noise echoing in the small room, off the white walls. Could remember her eyes fluttering. The gagging, the choking, the desperation. And what had any of them done?

  He growled towards the sink, and then shoved her to the ground. She was no longer struggling, his hand against her lips, the choking sound switching to a horrible, gagging noise.

  Sometimes they threw up, choking on their own vomit. Other times the item did it entirely.

  He held her there until the sounds stopped completely, and then, he stood up, breathing heavily. He wiped a hand across his forehead, his pricked thumb throbbing. A small streak of blood trailed over his cheek, and he stared into the mirror, breathing heavily.

  He didn't consider himself a killer. But perhaps what he thought didn't matter. With shaking fingers, he reached for the soap, lathered his hands, washed them, and then reached for the card and the rose. He lowered them, placing them on the crumpled woman on the bathroom floor.

  Then, wiping his hands off on his shirt, he moved towards the door, clicked the locks, glanced up and down, and froze.

  Two eyes were looking at him. "Sorry," said the person. An older woman, maybe in her fifties. "Is this one out of order?"

  He could feel his heart pounding. He blocked the slit in the door with his body, preventing her from looking beyond. He nodded once. "Sorry, maintenance. You'll have to use the one on the lower deck.”

  The older woman was already shaking her head and grumbling to herself, moving away, down the stairs.

  He scowled, watching her leave, and then turned, shutting the door with a click. Hastily, he stepped away, moving as quickly as he could without drawing attention.

  She'd seen his face. Not good. Would she remember, though?

  Unlikely. It depended. It depended when the body was found.

  He moved even faster now, his footsteps loud against the deck. Whatever the case, this would all be over soon.

  He moved down the stairs, amidst the gathering passengers on the lower deck, blending in, disappearing, once more, into the crowd.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Adele raced from the taxi, the red brake lights illuminating the concrete in front of her rapid footfalls. Her eyes fixed on the large riverboat, the sound of the horn blaring in the air as the mooring ropes were lowered.

  Adele cursed, hissing beneath her breath as she raced across the tarmac, angling towards the boat. Her phone pressed to her ear, and she muttered beneath her breath. “Come on... Come on!”

  But Renee wasn't picking up; likely his phone was still on silent while ducking Executive Foucault's calls.

  Adele growled, yanking her Interpol identification from her pocket and folding her wallet so it was front and center as she hastened towards the departing ship. A ticket collector standing by the raised, concrete ramp was frowning as she neared, one of his hands braced against a boarding rail. He began to shake his head, holding out a halting hand. “Sorry,” the man said in German, “you're too late!”

  “Out of my way,” Adele said, firmly, flashing her credentials.

  The ticket collector paused for a moment, frowning at her wallet, but a second later, his thick, woolly eyebrows inched up, and he stepped hastily to the side, allowing her access to the ramp. A couple of passengers on the lower deck peered over the railing, watching her with curiosity etched across their countenances, but Adele was already hastening forward, moving towards the white rail. The small entry gate was already latched and the boat—now free of its bonds—began to drift away from the rubber bumpers, moving back out onto the swishing waters. The gap began to widen between the rail and the dock, and Adele knew if she waited a second longer, it'd be too late.

  “Careful!” the ticket collector called in warning behind her, but she was already cautious enough.

  She took one giant step, her fingers scrambling, her wallet tumbling, nearly falling into the churning water beneath her. The overcast skies above only further darkened the already gloomy nighttime river.

  Adele swallowed once, hanging onto the closed latch-gate, and exhaling slowly, her hands gripping the rail. She paused, on the exact wrong side of the gate, her back to the water as the boat continued to pull away. With one foot, she carefully reached down, edging her wallet back beneath the rail, and onto the dry deck.

  A few of the passengers were still watching her curiously. One older couple were shaking their heads in
disapproval. A young woman was snickering behind her hand, watching the scene in fascination.

  Adele frowned, throwing one leg over the gate, and only taking a moment to inhale once both her feet were safely on the deck. She bent over, picking up her wallet and jamming it in her pocket before fixing all the looky-loos with an intense glare as if daring any of them to make something of it.

  “You,” she said, firmly, pointing at the snickering young woman. “Have you seen a tall Frenchman around? Probably avoiding the water. He's scared of it.”

  Before the woman could reply, a voice cleared behind her. “Not sure that last part needed mentioning,” John muttered.

  Adele whirled around, her gaze fixed on the tall Frenchman. He shot a look uncomfortably up at the second level, but then turned his attention back towards her, flashing an uneasy smile. “Everything okay?” he said, gesturing towards the railing. “Didn't know you were trying out for hurdles.”

  “Har-har. Come here,” Adele said, quickly, gesturing at her partner and stepping off into a less crowded portion of the deck beneath the curling metal stairs.

  John came closer, again shooting an uncomfortable look up the stairs, but just as quickly returning his attention to Adele.

  She hesitated, her own news on the tip of her tongue, but at his hurried glances and shifting posture, she felt a sudden tinge of unease. “What?” she said, slowly. “What did you do?”

  John cleared his throat, glancing towards the nearest passengers who, it seemed, had grown bored with the French agents and were staring across the river at the nighttime countryside. “Do? Nothing. Why?”

  “You look guilty.”

  John shot another look towards the stairs, wincing. A young couple suddenly passed by, heading in the other direction and John ducked his head, coughing into his hand and bending over a bit.

  Adele sighed even more loudly now. “You didn't run in to any more paparazzi, did you?”

  John watched the young couple who were murmuring to each other and sharing a pack of chips. He winced, watching them move hurriedly in the other direction, gesturing towards one of the attendants in a black uniform at the far end of the rail. He turned his back now, his features cast in shadow from the staircase above. “No. No paparazzi,” he said, quickly.

  “Foucault call you yet?”

  “Umm. No.”

  “Is your phone off.”

  He scratched at the corner of his chin and winced.

  “John!” Adele said, gritting her teeth. “I was trying to reach you, you goon. I need you to keep your phone on!”

  “Sorry,” he muttered quickly, wincing. “It's fine. Look. I'm turning it on. Battery was running low.” He pulled his phone out, pressing at one of the buttons on the side with a thick, calloused trigger finger.

  “Right. Battery, fine,” Adele said, still frowning.

  “What's got you in a bad mood?”

  “You mean besides the murder case we're working?”

  “Yes, besides that.”

  She crossed her arms, and for a faint moment, as a breeze picked up, she thought she felt the light dappling of moisture against her cheek. She winced, glancing at the overcast skies and wondering if it was the first sign of rain.

  “Emile isn't our guy.”

  John blinked. “You found him?”

  “He was at home. It's not him. He had an alibi for both nights. I called the school and they connected me to the librarian who confirmed his story. He was in a study room until midnight on both nights. The school is an hour from here.”

  John frowned, shaking his head. “But he was connected to both victims?”

  “Yeah. Apparently they met at school. But get this, Anika Blythe? That's not her name.”

  John's eyebrows went the way of steam.

  “It's actually Anika Everett.”

  “Umm. Who?”

  “Everett. As in Everett Motors? They're a huge deal in Germany.”

  “Not all of us keep track of German motor companies, Adele. How huge of a deal?”

  “As in Akbulut huge,” Adele countered. “Wealthy—very, very wealthy.”

  Now, John looked intrigued, watching Adele carefully. “Oh.”

  “Exactly. Oh. Two young women, both of them heiresses to massive fortunes—slated to receive an inheritance to rival most powerball lotteries.”

  “Holy shit. You're serious? That's the connection then,” John said, excitedly, shifting from one foot to the other. “Someone's hunting heiresses. But why?”

  “That's the million-dollar question.”

  “More like billion-dollar,” John snickered. At Adele's expression, he quickly coughed into his hand and said, “So why did she change her name?”

  “Falling out with the family, apparently. Anika objected to some of her father's business practices. Didn't seem to think they were ethical—at least, that's how our friend Emile sees it.”

  “Reliable?”

  “Don't know. He did seem broken up about the girls.”

  “At least there's that. So if Anika was estranged from her family, maybe money has nothing to do with it. Would seem odd to target someone who has severed ties from their fortune if the point is wealth.” John frowned, crossing his large arms over his equally massive chest. His sleeves strained against his forearms, and his brow furrowed in thought as he reached up, scratching at his burn mark beneath his chin and along his neck. “You don't think they were botched kidnapping attempts, do you? Maybe our killer didn't know about the estrangement? Maybe he was after their family fortunes.”

  “If so, he's not a very good kidnapper,” Adele returned. “Besides, the murders weren't done with a gun or a knife. He used...” She winced. “Zeynep's own necklace and Anika's wallet. Choking them of all things. I mean, who does that?”

  John watched her for a moment, his expression softening in the shadows of the curling stairs above them. Now, Adele could definitely feel flecks of moisture against her cheek and forearm. A light drizzle rising over the river as they moved into night, moved further into the domain of the killer. When would he strike again?

  Adele shivered, meeting John's searching gaze.

  “Are you alright?” He murmured, softly, reaching out a tentative hand, and taking her hand cautiously in his. His large, calloused fingers felt rough, like whittled sticks. Everything about John Renee seemed tough, calloused—everything except his eyes. Normally, those too, would be like granite—especially when killers were involved.

  But not when he looked at her. Not when his guard lowered—as rare an occasion as that was. And for now, in the shadow, on the riverboat beneath overcast skies at night, John's eyes were searching hers, as if looking for anything he might be able to do. Any way he could help.

  Sometimes it was hard to remember exactly why she'd agreed to start seeing the man. Other times, it was nearly impossible to forget.

  She sighed, and leaned in for a moment, resting her head against John's chest and inhaling softly. He smelled like soap and aftershave. She closed her eyes and felt his hand move over her shoulders, his large arm holding her close, gentle and sturdy at the same time.

  She needed to think—needed to find another angle. The killer wasn't after money, that seemed clear enough. Why was he targeting these women, though? The family fortunes couldn't be a coincidence. But how did that help? What sort of psycho went after power, influence, and wealth? It was just begging to get caught.

  Unless the killer didn't care if he was caught.

  Or worse, unless he expected it.

  She winced, frowning. If the killer was looking to get nabbed, then they were in bigger trouble than she'd first anticipated. There was no telling what someone that desperate might do.

  As she leaned against John, in the shadow of the stairs, inhaling softly, she felt her pocket begin to vibrate.

  “John,” she said, slowly. “Are you—”

  “Not me,” he said, quickly. “Phones. Mine's ringing too.”

  Frowning, they both extric
ated, glancing down at their devices. Adele answered hers first, while John watched his with suspicion. She raised the phone, pressing it tightly to her ear. “Hello?” she said, quickly. “Who is this?”

  “Am I speaking to Agent Sharp?” said a voice on the other end.

  It took her a moment, but then she recognized Mr. Larsen—the lawyer for Sightseeing Incorporated. “This is she.”

  There was a long sigh on the other end, then an awkward pause. “I—I know how this looks,” Mr. Larsen said, slowly, clearing his throat. “I know that you said—well, you said a lot of things. Perhaps I should have listened. You have to understand, though, Agent Sharp, that it's my job to—”

  “Larsen,” she said, cutting him off, frowning now. “What happened?”

  The liaison sighed on the other end of the line. And for a moment, the wind seemed to pick up, carrying the first few droplets of drizzling water scattering across the deck. Then, Mr. Larsen muttered, so quietly Adele winced, struggling to hear.

  “A third victim,” she managed to make out. “We have a third body. It's on River Metro Seven. Currently docked at Steinheim.”

  Adele swallowed once, but then her spine tingled. “Have the passengers disembarked yet?”

  “I—what, no. Not yet. But they're looking for—”

  “Larsen, whatever you do, keep those passengers on that boat. We're on our way.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The skies seemed in indecision. Clouds rolled, lumbering with rain, but only flecks and pulses of the occasional drizzle dispersed from the heavens. The night stretched deeper beneath scarce moonlight as Adele and John marched towards a slew of flashing blue and red strobes. More than ten police cars and SUVS lined the docks, the glare and glow of the lights reflecting off the white paint and tinted glass of the riverboat docked there.

  Adele glimpsed passengers against the railings, watching the six police officers and three squad cars preventing entry or exit from the large ship.

  Adele picked up her pace, feeling flecks of rain droplets dappling her cheeks as she marched towards the stalled ship.