by Blake Pierce
“Only two miles,” he stammered.
“Take us.”
A short trip later, John and Adele once again stepped out of the vehicle. Agent Carter also disembarked, and now, seemingly intent on earning Renee’s trust, he was trying to be more helpful than before. This, Adele knew, would only irritate John further. But she decided to let it play out.
“Here, Agent Renee, I can help with the door.”
“Stop,” John grunted.
Agent Carter had to jerk his hand back before getting it slammed in the doorjamb. John looked at the younger agent. “Which one is the victim’s car?”
Agent Carter looked delighted he had something to offer that John needed. “Here,” he said, quickly, “look, just right here.” He gestured toward a vehicle in the nearly empty lot.
A couple of other cars were tucked around beside the building, and Adele’s eyes flicked up, noticing a white security camera facing the parking lot. She nudged John and pointed.
He nodded, but then approached the indicated vehicle—an old, white sedan.
“I was told she left a pile of supplies nearby,” John said.
Agent Carter replied, “Already back at the lab. It was wine-making stuff—a glass carboy, and double-level corker. They’re tagging and bagging, but they don’t think the killer touched it. It looked like she bought it from the store, then dropped it. Clerk confirms the purchase.”
John nodded once, and Agent Carter looked like he’d been awarded a medal. He began beaming again, and John’s mood seemed to darken a little more. Adele rolled her eyes and began circling the car, her eyes flitting. Nothing of note. Just an old vehicle. The plates had already been run. Everything was legal. Not even a traffic ticket outstanding.
She looked back toward the store, her gaze darting to the camera again.
She stood for a moment, beneath the gray clouds still pulling across the sky. She breathed softly and closed her eyes. The woman had been taken here. Killed somewhere else, then dumped on a road two miles away. The person had done so quickly. They must have known the area and planned it out. Were they a local? They’d killed in Germany, then France, and now in California. How familiar were they with these places?
Adele shivered a bit and rubbed at her sleeves. She was in a new suit, thankfully, no longer boasting wrinkles from sleeping overnight in a motel room.
She glanced at John. “See anything in the car?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Didn’t think so. I’m going to talk to the clerk. You guys can keep flirting out here, or follow me.” She glanced back up at the security camera for a moment, certain she glimpsed a small red light.
Maybe the eye in the sky had spotted something they’d missed.
She moved toward the wine-making shop and approached the sliding glass doors, onto a pink brick walkway. A couple of other stores flanked the wine shop on either side, and Adele took note before passing through the sliding doors into an air-conditioned room, in desperate hope the security camera had spotted anything.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Artisan’s Supplies was in a much better state than the facade of the building. The sign had shown peeling letters, and the pink bricks looked like they’d been red once upon a time. Inside, though, whoever owned the store kept the place immaculate.
Adele spotted various accoutrements lining the wall. Large, wooden barrels neatly arranged against the back wall, with small hooks attached to bungee cords holding the containers in place in such a way that would allow one to remove the lower containers in the stack without toppling the entire display.
Adele even detected a faint hint of pumpkin spice on the air, and she glanced toward the counter, listening to the quiet whistle of woodwick candles placed in an arrangement around a cash register half-hidden behind a row of pamphlets and magazines boasting subjects one might expect to find in such a store.
“Can I help you?” the clerk behind the counter asked.
The clerk had a thin torso, but large, round cheeks. She was smiling genially, but her eyes kept glancing between Adele, Agent Carter, and Agent Renee with flicking motions that almost seemed to match the soft sputter of the candles.
“I hope so,” Adele said, displaying her credentials and then reaching the front of the counter. She absentmindedly poked at a dangling car-scent ornament—a foam tracing of red triangles in a plastic wrapper which boasted the ability to fill one’s car with the scent of strawberry wine.
The clerk winced, scanning Adele and flicking her eyes over her rosy cheeks toward the two other agents. “Is this about the girl again?”
Adele nodded once. “What can you tell us?”
The clerk simply shook her head. “As I told the officers who came in a few hours ago—I remember her purchasing some supplies, saw her move out into the parking lot, but that’s about it.”
Adele stared at the clerk for a second. The woman was glancing off to the side every couple of words, though she seemed to be trying to fix her gaze on Adele. A nervous tic? A dishonest one?
“Is that all you saw?” Adele asked.
The clerk shrugged, muttered to herself, then sighed and crossed her arms over her crisp white uniform in a defensive posture. Her silver earrings caught the light cast by the candles, and she cleared her throat and said, “Look—I’m not one to pry. I did notice she dropped one of the items she’d purchased. A glass decanter by the looks of things. But I had other customers to attend to.”
“She dropped it? As in someone assaulted her and she—”
“No, no certainly not!” the woman exclaimed. “I would have immediately called the police if I’d seen anything like that. No—rather, she seemed a bit overburdened with everything she purchased. Newer customers can be like that sometimes.” She shrugged. “Two trips instead of one can save a world of headache.” The clerk nodded sagely at her own advice.
Adele mirrored the gesture if only to further put the clerk at ease for what she asked next. Adele didn’t doubt the woman’s story. Perhaps the victim really had dropped her item by accident. Perhaps the killer had spotted this and taken advantage of a vulnerable situation.
Adele indicated the front glass panes and gestured with her fingers. “Any chance I could get a look at that security footage?”
The clerk chewed on her lip for a moment. She half glanced back across the store, as if looking for a manager or some form of permission. But then she sighed and said, “Can’t see that it would hurt. Here, step around.” She pushed open a small, swinging wooden door, allowing Adele entry behind the counter.
Agent Carter tried to follow, but John stepped in front, bumping past him and crowding the area behind the counter, forcing the younger agent from the San Francisco office to wait on the other side of the divide.
The clerk pulled open a drawer beneath the cash register and fiddled with a large black box, muttering and cursing a couple of times. Adele resisted the sudden urge to scream, clenching a fist to hold back her sudden rush of frustration. Finally, though, after what felt like a year, the woman pulled out an LED display screen, placed it next to the register, and muttered, “We only have the one. And it’s as old as bones. But here it is.”
After another few muttered expletives and some more fiddling, the clerk finally managed to project the image from the security footage onto the small display screen. Adele and John both leaned forward so far their shoulders pressed against each other. The clerk gave a nervous little chuckle and then waited as the image played.
Adele witnessed extraordinarily grainy footage as a woman carrying a brown box walked into frame. She watched as the woman placed the box on the trunk of her car, and then accidentally dropped something out of the bottom.
A few seconds later, she witnessed someone just out of frame, talking to the woman.
Adele frowned. “Any way we can see who that is?” she asked, jabbing a finger.
The clerk winced and shook her head. “Only the one camera—sorry.”
Ade
le sighed and returned her attention to the screen. The person out of frame didn’t seem to have alarmed Ms. Wagner. She was smiling genially, even gratefully, nodding quickly and then pushing her box beneath the car.
Adele watched as she moved off with the person toward another vehicle.
“Hang on—there!” John said, sharply. “Can you rewind?”
The clerk’s cheeks reddened a bit, and it seemed like she might be holding back a burst of frustration, but after another few moments of finagling, she managed to rewind to the portion John had wanted. “There, stop!” he said.
The woman sighed and did just that. John tapped a calloused trigger finger against the screen. “There,” he said. “See?”
Adele did. The corner of a man’s shoulder, the very edge of his neck. She watched as the man led the victim away toward another parked vehicle. This second vehicle was nearly entirely out of the camera’s view—but Adele did notice two things.
“A white van,” she said, quietly. “Too wide to be a sedan. Definitely white.”
John nodded as well, confirming the observation.
They watched the tape through until the figures disappeared, then watched it again. At last, Adele looked up, addressing Agent Carter this time. “We need the office to run people in the area who own a white van.”
“Could be a truck,” John said, quickly. “Americans like trucks, yes?”
Adele snorted, but said, “If that’s where he bled her out and dumped her, it’s more likely a van. A truck wouldn’t suit his purposes.”
John shrugged, stepping back through the swinging wooden door set behind the counter. “Could be a truck,” he insisted.
They both turned now to Agent Carter, who was hesitating, looking at them with an expression caught somewhere between apologetic and worried. The second part of the emotion seemed mostly directed toward John. He winced as he said, “Actually, not sure we can do that. I already spoke to the office before you guys arrived. Was looking for some help tracking down recent arrivals from France.”
Adele nodded once, impressed. “Good call,” she said. “So why the long face?”
He winced at her again, seemingly glad to address Adele rather than her surly partner. “They’re already checking passengers that flew from France to San Francisco in the time frame between your last murder and this one. Already an enormous undertaking, even given the resources we have.” He shrugged. “I spent a good amount of time as an analyst and data engineer before moving into this position. I know how much leg work goes into it.”
“You’re saying they won’t be able to look for a van? Can you ask?”
Carter just shook his head. “I’m saying there’s no point in even asking. I know the lead on the data side of this case. She won’t force anyone to work overtime—not this week. Scanning passengers that flew in from France is already wearing them thin.”
Adele puffed her cheeks. “So the van is a no go?”
Agent Carter hesitated, but then clicked his fingers. “Well—not as a new search… But, if you’re okay with it, they might be willing to attach it to the search they’re already running. Could help narrow it down—finding out locals from France who own a van in the area.”
John snorted and spoke, but his accent caused Carter to lean forward to hear better. “Might also completely miss our culprit. We don’t know the van is his—nor do we know he’s a local. Could be from France, or from Germany. What is it you Americans say—this is a… pickle?”
“Might not be from any of those countries,” Adele replied. “Could be killing for fun in foreign nations.”
John tapped his nose and pointed toward his partner. They both looked at Agent Carter, waiting. The young man winced and said, “It’s worth a shot. I promise, they won’t take on a separate search. Already they’re trying to run hundreds of people in the next forty-eight hours. Best we can do is send them the van parameter, and help them narrow.”
Adele sighed. “Could you at least ask?”
Agent Carter shrugged. “Sure—but I know what they’ll say.” He turned, pulling his phone from his pocket and moving toward the large glass windows.
Adele and John waited in silence, save the sputter from the woodwick candles. After a few moments, Carter turned, shrugging and shaking his head apologetically. “They’ll add the van to their search,” he said, “but aren’t willing to conduct a new one. Not enough resources. Sorry.”
Adele closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of pumpkin spice and fresh wood in the small shop. It wasn’t ideal… but it would have to do.
If the killer wasn’t from the area—it would be a huge waste of time. She could only hope he was a local… But if so, he knew this area, which meant catching him before he killed again might be an impossibility.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Not all angels had wings, nor did their servants fly, yet Gabriel felt downright buoyant as he stood stark naked in his backyard, staring at the flames flickering up from the small stone pit in the center of the grass. He watched as his clothing burned. The cool air against his unclothed body sent chills and prickles across his exposed skin.
Gabriel looked to the sky, watching as gray clouds pulled close. Those who served Odin often were fond of gray. Those who thought of Zeus knew that clouds heralded destiny. Those who followed Ra thought it an ill omen, though.
Gabriel looked at the burning clothing in the fire pit. His hands were rubbed raw and stained—he could even smell the faint odor of cleaning chemicals which had rubbed into his skin. His eyes flicked along the side of his home, toward the empty spot outside the house. He’d spent nearly an hour scrubbing the van—removing every last drop of precious elixir. Now, the van was returned back to its owner, who remained none the wiser.
His garden pressed up against a forest—no eyes would be watching him. No one would see a thing. No one could know.
The smell of burnt cloth soon overtook the faint lingering scent of chemicals on his fingers. He’d covered his bases. Scrubbed the van, burned his clothes. Returned the van fresh, clean.
The cargo, of course, he’d kept. He glanced down at the small cooler at his feet. Three liters of elixir… Three liters was precious few. Would it be enough? The gray clouds above suggested so—even the heavens now wished to conceal his actions, hiding them from the witness of the sun.
The lands beyond called to him—he could practically hear them screaming his name, beckoning him home. The gray hairs would come, the wrinkles would stretch… To die is gain…
The elixir would prepare his body…
He could feel the craving arising in his chest. He turned, still stark naked, grabbed the cooler, and strode purposefully back toward the house. He punched in the security code, slid open the glass door, and moved into the basement, down the final set of stairs, into the studio.
He passed under a sputtering yellow bulb and frowned up at it. He would have to change the light soon enough—darkness was only for the deserving.
He came to a halt in front of the small wooden table set into the display case of wine bottles. His eyes scanned the display, searching. The woman had been forty-three according to the information he’d received. His eyes flicked from the white labels with sharpie numbers. Where was it… the right vintage…the right year—
There. Perfect.
He snatched the bottle from the case and uncorked it with his bare hand. Then he grabbed his mixing goblet, poured a respectable amount of wine, and swished it around. He retrieved the small cooler, confronted by the odor of bittersweet liquid on the air. He grabbed a one-liter bag, and, without bothering to take care, he ripped the top with his teeth.
He tasted iron and a coppery tint. He winced against the sudden bolt of hunger. His soul was weary—it needed to revitalize. He needed this.
Gabriel poured, with trembling fingers, the contents of the blood bag into the wine.
He whispered softly, a prayer, offering it to anyone who might be listening. Then, once the mixture was blended together,
he tipped the glass and began to drink, slowly.
The trembling in his hand only grew worse. He gritted his teeth, growling against the liquid sloshing them.
“Preserve me,” he muttered and grabbed a second bag from the cooler. As he did, his elbow knocked into the wine bottle on the table. It crashed to the stone floor, shattering, sending purple liquid spewing over the floor.
“Damn it!” he shouted. His hands still trembled. His soul was still weak. He could feel it, lurking in his stomach. The flesh could only be destroyed by the spirit! But his spirit was too weak—too weak to even fight!
He grabbed one of the blood bags, ignoring the wine now, and ripped it with his teeth, shoveling the elixir into his mouth, allowing it to run down his cheeks, splash against his nose. He swallowed, gargling, and then gasping.
The warm liquid spewed into his mouth but a second later, he hiccupped and… hesitating, feeling a wave of pressure rise to his throat, his eyes widened in fear.
His spirit rejected the elixir.
He threw up, doubling over and gasping at the ground, strings of blood and saliva and puke dangling from his lips toward the floor.
“Damn it!” he screamed at the floor. “Damn you—damn you!”
Slow…. he had to take it slow. Careful… The process of eternity couldn’t be rushed… He knew this. Why was he acting like a fool? His spirit remained weak in him—his flesh was still strong. Too strong. It was forbidden to weaken himself naturally. Once, as a child, he’d tried to take his own life—pills and poison.
Swill. It would have killed his spirit as well. Luckily, he’d been fortunate. His spirit had survived. Now—his flesh was trying to control him once more. But he wouldn’t allow it.
He dropped to his knees, retrieved the third and final bag, and then he retrieved a shard of glass from the base of the wine bottle. A few precious droplets of the wine remained. The mixture was important. Slow—careful. Strength came to the patient.
He exhaled, puffing his cheeks, still naked, leaning in a puddle of puke and blood and wine. It would all be over soon—it had to be. One way or another, this had to end.