by Blake Pierce
She moaned and lowered the box completely now, quickly, so that nothing else would fall through the gap. She glanced back toward the clerk through the shop’s window, and realized that she was now looking pointedly away. Clearly, replacing the smashed item was off the table.
“Excuse me,” said a voice from behind her, “are you okay?”
Nina turned, and raised an eyebrow. A very handsome man was walking toward her. A bit of his charm was lost on her, of course. Nina hadn’t been with a man in twenty years. Like wine, everyone had their taste, and hers tended to veer toward a sweet Moscato rather than the expected Rosette. Still, she could appreciate beauty, and this fellow certainly had it in spades. His eyes were a marvelous blue, and his smile, set in that masculine jawline, looked like something off a billboard.
“Hello,” she said, gasping and wheezing a bit. “It’s nothing, nothing. Just a little accident. I’ll be fine.”
He leaned against a van, his shoulder pressing against the cool metal. “Oh,” he said, “want me to give a hand?”
She waved away the offer, still bent over. He seemed friendly enough, and there didn’t seem to be judgment in his eyes as he watched her try to wrangle her perforated box of wine supplies.
“You’re an amateur or professional?” he asked.
She looked up. “You partake yourself?”
He smirked. “You could say that. You have all the right ingredients, but it looks like you broke your decanter. I actually have a spare one. If you’d like.”
She stared at him and nearly felt a tear of gratitude reached the corner of her eye. “Truly? I’d replace it, but I don’t think they’ll accept the broken return. You have an extra?”
He nodded, still smiling. “Certainly. Here, come. My car is just over this way. I always carry an extra.”
She glanced at the box and then give it a little kick, partly to stow it under her car in the shade as much as possible, but also in a gesture of resentment. The box could wait. She followed after the nice man, stepping along in his shadow. They moved around the side of the store toward the parking lot behind the building. Fewer cars were parked here, and a row of dumpsters lined the wall, obscuring the view from the rest of the parking lot.
It was as she passed the dumpsters that Nina paused for a moment. Then again, if the man had wanted her purse, he could’ve just snatched it earlier. And now, as she moved with him, she felt caught between indecision. She really did want that decanter.
“Don’t worry,” he said, genially, waving, “I’ll just get it for you if you’d like.”
She paused, but then felt silly and pushed aside the fear. “No, no. Here, thank you. It’s so very kind of you. I won’t make you carry it. I really, really do appreciate it. Do you also—”
She trailed off as she reached the back of a white van. The man opened the door. Inside, there was an array of tubing, a metal pole pressed from the bottom of the floor to the ceiling. An IV bag dangled with plastic tubing. She wrinkled her nose.
“What’s that?” she said, curiously.
The man was looking at her now, a strange gleam in his eye. And then, as she stared, he burst forward in the flurry of rapid motion. Moving fast, far too fast. He covered the distance between them before she could even shout out. Athletic, feral, wild. His eyes pulsed, no longer so much blue as a violet blaze. His hand shot out, and her scream was caught in a gurgle. His thumb pressed hard, with practiced ease, against something in her throat. Her eyes rolled back. Dark splotches across her vision. No more vision. No more thought.
Her consciousness fled.
***
Gabriel breathed heavily, closing the back of the van door and looking quickly over his shoulder. He scanned the side parking lot next to the old shops.
No one was watching. People rarely did.
Gabriel rounded toward the front of the vehicle, got in the front seat, and glanced over his shoulder toward the back. The old, middle-aged woman was lying on her belly. She was a bit round. But then again, he wasn’t looking for ideal health. He was looking for life. And life could only be found on the other side of death. But if one cheated, the gatekeepers would block entry. Meticulous, careful, a constructed path—he had to follow it.
He pulled out of the parking spot, his breathing steadying a bit. He stretched his shoulders and pressed his hands against the steering wheel. He’d practiced unarmed combat for years. Years as a child, then an adult. He’d always known it would serve him one day. He had sensed destiny even at a young age.
And of course, he couldn’t possibly sedate the donors. It would spoil their blood. Taint the elixir. Such sacrilege would never be forgiven. Damnation would be complete.
He glanced back in the mirror, looking at the form of his unconscious livestock. Her body jiggled a little, the extra poundage wobbling as the car moved down the road and up the side street.
The van wasn’t even his. His alibi was in place already. Hunting this close to his home had never been part of the plan. But perhaps that’s why it wasn’t working. Perhaps that’s why his hair had yet to gray. Perhaps that’s why the wrinkles hadn’t yet set in. The natural progression of the elixir, leading him through death to life. Perhaps he’d been operating in fear. And fear would never yield good results. No.
He swallowed, glancing back. He’d picked the perfect spot nearby, but far enough that no one would watch.
The tires spun, and the van pulled away, along the gray roads, between forest paths in Sonoma County. Wine region. Close to the city of fallen angels, but far enough away that hope remained.
***
The needle in her arm. The lifeblood spilling, drops at a time, pooling through the tube into the bag. He unlatched the small toolbox sitting next to the IV stand. They had come to a halt. In a forest, an old preservation. Nearby, he knew summer camps would take place. But the camps wouldn’t be in session for a while longer. They would have all the privacy they needed. He would have the time required.
He watched the steady stream of red, smiling as he did. Such a beautiful sight; he wondered if this was how Picasso felt when melding colors together on his palette.
The woman began to shudder. She looked up, one eye blearily fluttering.
He cursed and lashed out again, his arm like a piston, his thumb slamming into her neck, cutting off the supply of the carotid artery.
She collapsed again, unconscious once more. He didn’t want them to suffer. There was no sense in that. But he needed more this time. Not just the small amount he could smuggle in. More, far, far more.
One IV bag filled. He reached over and began to replace it with the next one. He would take every last ounce he could find. It was necessary, an important step.
“Accept the sacrifice,” he murmured, quietly.
He needed more. Much, much more.
But as he fiddled with the next IV bag, the tubing slipped. The back of the van was cramped. He was used to more space. The tube fell, and red liquid began spilling, pooling in the bottom of the van. He cursed and quickly yanked it up, trying to put it back in. But this time, he pulled the tube out from the needle. Blood began pouring down the woman’s arm, sliding along the van’s floor, getting between the cracks in the plastic, sliding beneath the back seats.
He huffed now, looking desperately through the van windows, the doors open. No one nearby. Just trees and leaves to witness the frailty of this poor, fractured vessel.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “Forgive me.”
He scrambled, desperately scooping some of the blood, looking at his fingers and wincing against the sudden shiver of pleasure.
Scrambling fingers, he reattached the hose, pressing it to the needle, and led the line back into the second IV bag. He would have to be more careful. More careful, or he could spoil the recipe entirely. The list would check out. Nina had been on the list. He just needed more. So very much more.
A slow, cool breeze swirled through the back of the van, wafting across his cheeks, over the fallen, uncons
cious form of the amateur winemaker. It was all going to be over soon. It had to be. But he was patient. He was faithful. Even if it took months, he would walk the path set before him. He would finish the race well.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I don’t like you, and you smell funny; I just want to get that out of the way to begin.” John looked straight into the eyes of the man he was insulting, and gave a slight little shake of his head.
Mr. Glaude scratched his cheek, his chained hands rattling a bit. He looked from John to Adele and snorted a bit, swallowing before saying, “Is he allowed to talk to me like that?”
Adele shrugged. “He talks to me like that. Not really much I can do about it.”
Jean Glaude looked at Adele. His hair was still pulled back in a ponytail, and the bald spot across his head shimmered with sweat beneath the pulsing LED lights above. This interrogation room was nicer than most of the ones Adele had been in. Much like everything in this region, comfort seemed to matter. Even the chairs were cushioned, and the table, to her astonishment, wasn’t even metal. The handcuffs as well had padding on the inside.
John was leaning back in his chair, hands crossed behind his head, seemingly content he’d said everything he wanted to.
Adele regarded their suspect. “I can keep asking you, if you’d like. But we know you knew Ms. Gueyen.”
“No clue who that is.” He spoke in a voice that suggested a permanent slur. Or, perhaps, permanent inebriation. He’d had enough bottles in his apartment to floor a grizzly bear.
“You don’t look in a very good state,” she said, bluntly.
He raised an eyebrow at her, as if the hairs were trying to escape up toward his bald spot. “This is how they teach you to speak to people?” He just shook his head, looked away. “You’re trying to bait me. I’m not stupid.”
“Where did you get those bottles?”
He looked at her, held her gaze, and then, some of the slur fading from his voice, he enunciated, “From Chateau Bordeaux. Maybe even this Ms. Gueyen. I don’t know. I’m from Bordeaux, and I’m French. We drink wine. That’s not a crime.”
“I read your file, it’s very interesting. Not a particularly pleasant read. What would your mother think in Cologne if we read it to her?”
She seemed to hit a nerve. He glared at her. “What does my mother have to do with this? Have some respect.”
She shrugged. “I wonder if your victims felt the same way. When you forced yourself on them.”
The man snorted. “I didn’t murder anyone.”
John said, “That’s not what your file suggests. Seems like you got away with it, but you definitely murdered those two college kids nearly a decade ago. You were seen.”
The greasy, half-drunk felon muttered, “Just like you folks; always pinning something on those who’ve already serve their time. I paid for my crimes. Just let me live my life.”
“Happy to,” John said. “Long as you do the same for others. Then again, maybe I’m not so happy to. You know what, I’m not sure I even care if you did it.” He lowered his voice, and in a conspiratorial whisper, he added, glancing at Adele, “Honestly, I’m tired. I want to go home. Let’s just pin it on him. The judge will believe us. Send him away for life. Keep that stink away from others.”
“Hang on—look. This Ms. Gueyen. Really, no clue who that is. I’ve been on a three-day bender,” he retorted. “I don’t even remember where I keep my pants.”
John was staring at the man across the table. He spoke in a low voice. “I don’t even care that you’re a rapist. I don’t care that you’re probably a murderer. I just don’t like how you look. It’s the smell. It’s your eyes. I used to put people down just for looking at me the way you do. It’ll be nice to find you, one day, outside the precinct, just the two of us. My partner here,” he glanced at her, and tilted his head to indicate, “she’s nice. I’m not.”
“John, relax,” Adele murmured softly. But her partner ignored her.
Mr. Glaude was staring, his mouth half open. The threat was heavy in the air, and the attempted intimidation seemed to stretch between them. His handcuffs rattled a bit, but then Mr. Glaude seemed to snap out of the spell, as if he remembered where they were. He snorted, and actually spat now, onto the table, some of the droplets getting on John’s hands.
Mr. Glaude returned John’s smirk. “You think you’re the only one that knows how to have a good time? You think you’re the only one that has played with people’s insides before? You don’t scare me; you’re a poser! Those two bodies, I didn’t do it,” he added quickly. “Never touched a hair. What you’re accusing me of now, never did it either.” But then his face broke into a skeletal leer, a smile stretching his cheeks like taffy. “If I did, though, I would’ve liked them big. Big and stupid, like you. I would’ve used a small little knife, rusty, blunt. Tear the skin. Maximum pain. They’d squeal like a bunch of little stuck piggies. Ever heard a pig squeal like that before?” he said, still leering at John. “Maybe you have a sister, a mother, or,” he shuddered in delight, “a little daughter.” He gasped, making a sort of orgasmic sound that made Adele clench her teeth. “I would spend so much time enjoying their company. Not that I ever did. But, one can imagine,” he said, and after finishing, he leaned back, shoulders pressed against the cushioned chair, hands limp against the table. The thin veneer of spit still streaked the table.
John went suddenly cold. Through hooded eyes, the eyes of an actual killer, he looked at Adele. “Sounds to me like he’s saying he did those murders from last decade. Think that’s a confession?”
Adele sighed. John’s tactics were never protocol, but often effective. “Certainly enough for a judge to want to take another look at his case. I’ll make sure to tell the locals.”
Adele looked at her partner and then glanced back at the felon. “I think you did those other two. The ones you got away with. Now, you’ve been recently released, and one of the workers at a vineyard you visit was also killed, also exsanguinated.”
The man across the table was now shaking his head wildly, his ponytail shifting back and forth. “You’re insane,” he said. “Absolutely insane. I didn’t do it.”
Adele’s phone began to buzz.
She frowned, her eyes narrowed. She hated when she was interrupted when they had a suspect rattled. John had played his cards perfectly. Adele was not someone averse to mercy. She didn’t consider herself a bloodthirsty person. Even someone like Mr. Glaude, in her opinion, could be redeemed. She didn’t give a damn if no one else agreed with her. There were some, like Agent Paige, who would scream at her just for holding the thought. Adele wasn’t interested in vengeance or revenge, or making people pay. She was interested in solving crimes. But if he really had gotten away with two murders, that meant justice hadn’t found him yet. Redemption or not, the law spoke first. And in this case, she thought, perhaps it had forgotten its lines. It was up to her to provide them. If he had killed before, perhaps he had killed again. He had the opportunity, the motive.
The phone continued to buzz, and she fished it out. She held up a finger toward John, then turned and moved to the door, pushing out into the hall. The hall was empty; the small department hadn’t provided anyone to guard the door. This suited her just fine. Adele preferred working without much oversight.
Then again, on the subject of oversight, her eyes widened at the name on the screen. She cleared her throat and tried to look less tired and haggard. She answered and said, “Ms. Jayne, a pleasure to hear from you.”
The face on her screen was of a woman with a neat and tidy appearance. She had white hair, trimmed and combed, and a very thin application of makeup across a sincere, round face. She was a bit heavier than most field agents, but had an intelligent gaze, peering out from behind her glasses.
In crisp, curt tones, suggesting a mastery of a language not her native tongue, Miss Jayne said, “Agent Sharp, the pleasure is mine. I wish I could be calling you under better circumstances, but something has come up.
”
Adele frowned. She half glanced back toward the door closing behind her and sealing the interrogation room. “Something else? What?”
Ms. Jayne pursed her lips, her eyes practically seeming to pop out of the screen, seeing Adele and holding her gaze. “A third body. The same MO.”
Adele frowned. The suspect had been in cuffs, and when they’d found him he’d been in no state to kill anyone. Perhaps, though, it had been from earlier. Maybe he’d done it, and raced back to his apartment to get drunk as an alibi.
“Where?” she said.
“You’re not going to like it,” said Ms. Jayne. “California.”
Adele stared. She stammered, “But, but that’s impossible. He couldn’t have possibly.” She trailed off, glancing toward the sealed door, then back to her phone. Then, in a weakened voice, she said, “When?”
Ms. Jayne didn’t blink, her tone precise. “This morning, behind a small winemaker’s shop in Sonoma County. I assume you’re familiar?”
“Are… are you sure?” she stammered. “What were the conditions?”
Ms. Jayne responded, speaking the gruesome details without batting an eyelid, ever the consummate professional. “Her body was found off a stretch of highway in the Sonoma Valley in California. The woman was seen leaving a wine-making supply store—her car is still there. She was found with her throat cut, but almost no blood at the scene. She bled somewhere else, then was dumped on the road—nearly completely drained.”
Adele could feel her hand curling, forming a fist. This was the worst part of any investigation—a false trail, leading to another body. She swallowed, breathed, unclenching her fist. “The locals—they find anyone?”
Ms. Jayne shook her head in one swift motion. “No trail,” she said.
Adele winced. “Are we sure it’s not a copycat?”
Ms. Jayne shook her head again. “We were intentional to keep a lid on the details of this case for that very reason. A globe-trotting murderer doesn’t need help from the media. I’ve already spoken with Agent Grant from your old field office. She’s happy to host you and provide whatever is needed so Interpol and DGSI can correspond with the FBI.”