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

by Blake Pierce

  Her hand went to her holster, and slowly, she approached.

  She didn't speak, didn't warn. Instead, she moved quickly, shoving the tent open, and pointing her gun.

  Empty. The smell of sweat met her nose, and she pulled back sharply.

  Adele frowned, but then moved away from the tent, heading deeper into the shadows beneath the bridge.

  Something glinted.

  She stiffened, her pulse racing.

  There, she spotted a small service ladder; it moved up to the higher portions of the bridge above.

  She stared. The lock was broken on the security gate.

  Her fingers tingled as she approached, and she gripped the gun even more tightly in one hand.

  Adele looked up, her eyes tracing the ladder towards a metal service platform above. She licked her lips, remembering the last time she'd ascended a ladder, behind a building in search of the Spade killer. He had trapped the exit.

  Was he up there?

  Adele approached, slowly, one hand still gripping her gun; the other pulled open the safety gate, and she moved into the small cage. She stared up, exhaled, and then holstered her weapon. She would need both hands to climb.

  The rungs were cold and still had dust on them. Had he been this way? It didn't seem like it.

  There weren't many places left for him to hide.

  And so she climbed, one hand in front of the other, the cold metal dusty and rigid beneath her fingers.

  ***

  He'd been clever. No one would find him here. The canvases were all too stupid. They played in two dimensions, while he was on the way to discover a fourth.

  The painter smiled to himself, staring at his fingers.

  They were stained with dry blood. How had that happened? He frowned.

  Oh, yes, the police officer whose neck he'd slit.

  Pity that. A rushed work.

  Still, his pulse hammered from the adrenaline, from the excitement of it all. He shivered beneath the shadow of the structure above, crouched on the metal platform like a gargoyle. He peered over the railing, down, down, down, watching, in the distance, small canvases move about.

  He'd lay low until nightfall, maybe even a couple of days. Then, he'd slip out right beneath their noses.

  He'd been so very, very clev—

  A sudden noise behind him. He frowned, glancing back—but no motion. Just the strain of metal in heat, no doubt. Still, he'd have to keep his wits about him. At least for another couple of days.

  ***

  Adele moved slowly at first, but then picking up her pace. The soft clanging and slaps of her hands against the rungs seemed far too loud now.

  She shivered in anticipation as she reached the top.

  No shouts, no movement, no sudden sound of clattering footsteps.

  She reached up, her fingers braced against the metal platform.

  She gave another sigh, and then pulled herself, moving into the darker shadows beneath the bridge above.

  She froze.

  And so did he.

  For a moment, she stared, unable to believe her eyes.

  His eyes widened, one of them dull, the other vibrant and excited all of a sudden.

  He was there. The small, childish form of the Spade killer hunched over the edge of the platform, staring towards the river, like some leering vulture.

  The moment her fingers had hit the platform, he turned, and now, for a brief instant, Adele Sharp locked eyes with her mother's killer. Robert's killer.

  And now, like an animal let out of its cage, the Spade killer went stiff, staring right back at her, a hood raised, casting his face in shadow, except for his eyes.

  The pause didn't last long, though. With a sudden yell, Adele burst into action, adrenaline fueling her.

  The killer cursed, and reached down, grabbing a discarded brown bottle and he threw it at her, hard.

  It ricocheted off the platform next to her knuckles, shattering against the wall behind her.

  Adele ignored it completely, yelling at the top of her lungs. It didn't even cross her mind to try to retreat and call for backup. There was no retreating.

  "Hang on," the killer began to shout, "One moment!"

  She ignored him. The time for talk was long over. All that was left was action.

  She surged up the ladder, clambering like a spider from a drainpipe.

  The killer didn't react in fear, though, calm as ever, calculating. As she neared him, her hand reaching towards her holster, he turned and began to sprint along the walkway beneath the bridge above.

  Rust was beginning to eat at some of the bars, and a portion of the platform was completely worried through, an orange-ringed crater staring down at the river below.

  "Stop!" she yelled.

  But he didn't call back. He kept sprinting, his footsteps clanging against the metal, and he leapt over the gap in the platform, bridging it with one giant surge.

  She spotted a small ladder at the other end of the bridge and knew that's where he was headed.

  She cursed, raised her gun. And for a moment, she sited. A clean shot. No way she could miss. He couldn't dodge left or right; the platform forced him to run in a straight line.

  Her finger squeezed on the trigger, but just as she fired, she jerked to the right.

  She didn't want to kill him. Not now, not this way. He needed to pay for what he'd done. This would be too quick. Too clinical. Too painless.

  He needed to suffer. The way she'd suffered. He needed to face what he'd done. The way she had to every night.

  She fired, winging him, aiming for the same arm she'd shot on Mr. Moffat.

  She hit the Spade killer.

  He yelped, twirling like a top, and slamming to the rail. She fired again, a warning. "Stop!" she screamed, all self-control gone from her voice.

  The Spade killer breathed heavily, leaning against the rail, bleeding. He seemed to realize if he broke into a run again, she'd shoot once more. He stared at her, shaking his head, his one dull eye not quite looking in the right direction. He gasped, his voice croaking, "This isn't how it was supposed to be, friend," he said, his voice low, and singsong, sending chills up her back.

  "Shut up and get on the ground. Now!"

  She stood, gun in hand, pointed towards the little monster.

  He was still bleeding, but instead of trying to stop the blood, he stared at it; he reached out with a finger, tracing it through the liquid, and lifted it up. Then, he pressed his finger to his forehead, winced against the pain in his arm, but using the blood from his own body to make a swirling pattern. Then he tapped the symbol. "I have plans," he said, in that same singsong voice. "This isn't how it ends, my friend. Not yet."

  "Shut up. Get on the ground," she screamed. "I will kill you. I will."

  He looked her deep in the eyes. She refused to look away, but neither did he. Neither of them blinked for a moment, one of them holding a gun, pointing towards the other's head. But the other gave a simple, soft shake of his head.

  "No you won't."

  And then, he bowed, like a stage performer after a production. With his uninjured arm, he raised his hand, and gave a flickering little wave.

  "I'm warning you," she began, taking a step closer.

  But then, he pushed himself over the edge of the rail.

  She yelled in frustration, firing. She missed. She watched the Spade killer fall like a ragdoll, plummeting nearly a hundred feet.

  And then, he hit the water below, with a splash.

  Adele cursed, surging to the rail, gun in her hands, pointing towards the ring of white spreading in the churning blue.

  She waited, but there was no motion.

  She watched for him to surface. But he didn't.

  "Dammit!" she yelled. "Shit!" she said even louder.

  For a moment, she just stood there, gun in hand, pointing towards the water, waiting, watching, breathing heavily.

  No movement. No motion. No one resurfaced from the water.

  The river
was traveling fast, the current quickening.

  Nothing.

  She'd shot him, hadn't she?

  A hundred-foot fall. He couldn't have survived that, could he?

  She felt a vibrant flutter of, something, but she couldn't quite place the emotion in her chest.

  Had she killed the Spade killer?

  Was it finally over?

  She gritted her teeth. She needed to know. They needed to search the bottom of that river. She needed divers, searchlights, watchdogs. She needed everything.

  With trembling fingers, she reached for her phone.

  To her surprise, she felt moisture curling down the inside of her cheek.

  She reached up, quizzically, wiping away a tear.

  What was that for?

  This wasn't over yet. She needed to see his corpse. Only then, then, would she take a moment to grieve everything he'd cost her.

  ***

  Three hours of searching well into the night turned up nothing. Not even with the floodlights blaring down, or the helicopters above, searching back and forth and back and forth.

  Adele stood by the river, arms crossed, watching as three new divers emerged from the water and looked up at the police captain next to her. The divers winced, shaking their heads.

  "Just once more," Adele said, through gritted teeth, "he's down there. They have to find him."

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked over to see John standing next to her, staring across the river.

  The police captain sighed. "It's night, Agent Sharp. We won't be able—"

  "One more time," she insisted. She didn't yell, but the force of her words struck like hammer blows.

  The captain met her gaze but seemed to find something there. He nodded once, and said, "All right, one more search. I'll have the helicopters go back down river and check the banks. We have police cars searching within three miles of here, Agent Sharp. We're not going to find him tonight. It may take days to drag the river.”

  "Once more."

  The police captain nodded. The divers readjusted their masks, and turned, dipping back beneath the water.

  Three hours.

  No sign of the body.

  No sign of the Spade killer.

  Maybe she really had killed him.

  She wasn't sure if she wanted that to be true or not.

  EPILOGUE

  Adele stepped from the taxi out onto the curb in front of her old childhood house. She paused for a moment, staring up at the two-story affair, with the white porch. Along the side of the house, she spotted a window, with cardboard covering it, and caution tape used to secure it in place.

  She sighed, allowing the car door to swing shut behind her with a quiet thump. And then she marched forward. She waved towards the two, burly men sitting in an unmarked vehicle in front of the house. They waved back. She wondered if they recognized her.

  She wasn't sure her father talked much about her with his friends. Still, they didn't move to intercept. She wondered, also, if they'd heard the news about the Spade killer. Alive or dead—no one knew. They'd have to drag the river in the morning.

  But she wasn't optimistic about what they'd find.

  Still, she was alive. John was alive, and on a plane, heading back to France.

  And her father...

  Also alive.

  She took the creaking stairs and reached the front door. She raised a hand, but before she could knock, the door suddenly opened, the screen creaked, and a man wearing a plain white t-shirt and boasting an impressive walrus mustache, stepped out onto the porch, carrying two bowls.

  One of the bowls sloshed, and a green, gunky substance dripped down his fingers. Her father winced and placed the bowls on the glass table on the porch.

  “Er, hi Dad,” she said.

  “Soup,” he replied.

  He sat in one of the spindle-backed chairs, and then looked at her, waving towards another chair. “I made extra.”

  “What type?”

  “Pea.”

  “Hmm. Thanks. I'm not hungry.”

  “Eat.”

  A sigh. “Alright. It's good to see you moving about.”

  “The rat got my arm, not my legs.”

  She spotted the thick bandage wrapped around her father's forearm. “They said he stabbed you.”

  “Shallow cuts.”

  “Are you on pain meds?”

  “Don't trust 'em.”

  Adele slowly lowered into the seat, inhaling the salty scent of pea soup. “You really should be at the hospital.”

  “Adele, you promised. I said no talking about hospitals. You're welcome on that one condition.”

  “Welcome on your porch, more like. You're worried I'm going to see the mess he made, aren't you?”

  She glanced towards the door, which her father had shut behind him. “Is it really that bad?”

  Joseph Sharp grunted. “His thick skull busted my window. Couple of chairs. Not horrible.” He grinned. “I have a new fishing knife.”

  Adele frowned, but then felt a shiver up her spine as she realized what he meant. She massaged her nose and shook her head in disbelief. “You're not keeping that, are you?”

  “Psh. Not going to waste a good knife. How are you, Adele? I heard you winged the scum bag.”

  “I shot him. Yeah. In the arm.”

  “So that's that, then.”

  “I... I'm not sure. But he jumped off something high... I, I think he might be dead, Dad... I think I might've got him. We'll know soon enough. They'll drag the river tomorrow. But it all might be over.”

  Even as she said it, she wasn't sure she believed it. Adele let out a little sigh, leaning even further back in her chair. She tapped a finger against the side of the pea soup, watching the surface tension shiver.

  Her father took a sip of his own, wiping a hand across his mustache and saying nothing.

  “Good,” he managed to eke out at last. “Good on you, Adele. I knew you had it in you.”

  She blinked. This was suspiciously close to praise. “I... Thanks. Mom deserved better.”

  “Damn right.”

  “Thought you didn't cuss, Dad.”

  “Sometimes you have to. Elise deserved better.” He shook his head and sniffed softly. For a moment, it almost seemed like his eyes had gone misty, but just as quickly, he cleared his throat and glanced across the porch, sighing once more. At last, Joseph Sharp looked his daughter in the eyes.

  “I always knew you were smart, Adele. I'm proud of you. I hope you know that.”

  She blinked. “Umm... You are?” She didn't mean to fish, but the words were surprising.

  “Of course. You're the best they have. I've tracked your closure rate. I know how good you are.”

  “Right. Well, thanks, Dad. That means a lot coming from you.” She wasn't sure how much she meant it. On one hand, she felt a flicker of pride at her father's words. She was good at her job. On the other, though, she wished it didn't take a career to make him proud. She'd never much liked performing for someone's affection, least of all her father's.

  Still... Maybe she was being too hard on him.

  He'd started that trend, though. In this very house. He'd been a hard man—a cold man. But wasn't that what she'd needed? To become the person she'd become? Would her mother's killer have been caught if not for her?

  She doubted it.

  Her father, in a way, had helped train her, guide her.

  She stared past her father now, her eyes tracing the cheap siding, flicking to the windows, to the closed door.

  Maybe, just maybe, the place wasn't so intimidating as it had once been.

  But it wasn't home.

  She knew that now. Sitting there, in front of two bowls of pea soup, facing her father.

  This wasn't home.

  She thought back to her small apartment, the one she used to share with her mother back in France. A whisper of a smile tempted her lips. She thought about Agent Renee. He'd promised to clear up the report he'd made with
Foucault, though she doubted he would. Still, it was the thought that counted. Whenever things got hard, he was always there, by her side.

  Plus, it didn't hurt that he was tall and handsome and tough.

  She couldn't hold back the smile now, but she tilted her head, staring at her hands in her lap. No, this wasn't home.

  Paris was. France was. She'd come to think of it as home, because the people who cared most about her in the world were from France. John, her mother, Robert... Two of them were dead, now. But that didn't rob the memories.

  Memories made in Paris. And with John, memories still to be made.

  She wasn't sure why, but this realization almost seemed to lift a burden from her shoulders. She swallowed once, looked at her father, and said, “You did a good job, raising me. As best you knew how. I'm proud of you too.”

  He stared at her, as if he'd been smacked. This time, she was certain a tear had crept into his eye. And also, this time, he didn't look away.

  “I mean it,” she murmured. “Things weren't perfect. But you did the best you could. I... I like my life. And in part, I have you to thank for what I've been able to build. So thank you.”

  Her father let out a little sigh, and then turned his attention to his pea soup.

  Silence stretched, and the emotions seemed to dwindle like sparks caught in the wind. Daughter and father sat on the porch, one of them sipping soup, the other staring at the bowl in suspicion.

  NOW AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER!

  LEFT TO PREY

  (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book 11)

  “When you think that life cannot get better, Blake Pierce comes up with another masterpiece of thriller and mystery! This book is full of twists and the end brings a surprising revelation. I strongly recommend this book to the permanent library of any reader that enjoys a very well written thriller.”

  --Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos (re Almost Gone)

  LEFT TO PREY is book #11 in a new FBI thriller series featuring Adele Sharp (the series begins with LEFT TO DIE, book #1) by USA Today bestselling author Blake Pierce, whose #1 bestseller Once Gone (a free download) has received over 1,000 five star reviews.