by Blake Pierce
She shivered again. It would be just like the Spade killer to taunt her by living this close.
She stared up the fire escape, her eyes tracing the grooves in the brickwork as she acknowledged the fourth floor. An external air conditioning unit whirred and rattled, two fluttering blue ribbons whistling from the small window unit's fan.
"Someone's home," she murmured to herself.
She was off duty and, technically during a leave of bereavement, carrying her service weapon in France wasn't strictly by the book. But now her fingers traced beneath her jacket, falling on the rigid grip of the gun. Both cold and reassuring against her fingertips.
She exhaled slowly, her nostrils flaring and blinked a couple of times against the stray cloud of dust drifting through the alley. Could it really be so easy?
Her DGSI friends had traced the video feed to the fourth floor of the building across the street from her own apartment.
What were the odds the Spade killer was brash enough to rent this unit?
Even as she thought it, she shivered.
A month had passed since Robert's death. A month of focused work, outside the bounds of legislation and bureaucracy that would only tie her hands with yellow and red tape.
Now on her own, for the first time in a decade, she felt like she was drawing near.
Could it be so simple? Someone was home. The running air conditioning unit said as much. She couldn't just go through the front doors, though. Announcing her presence would be a surefire way to get anyone watching those cameras aimed at her apartment to run. Rather, now was the time for caution, and a quiet approach.
Hence the alley. Her fingers brushed her weapon once more, but then retreated, lifting towards the fire escape.
She tested the sliding ladder against the brick structure. This building was old, just like her apartment, and as such didn't boast the normal security features of more modern constructions.
She rattled the stairwell, stretched to her full height, and then spotted the two interlocking pins holding the thing in place. Of course, she'd come prepared for this too.
Two weeks of preparation, of hunting, of impatient nights while waiting for reports from her colleagues. She wasn't about to let some stupid fire escape get in her way.
She grabbed the orange extension wire she had picked up from the hardware store the previous day. She lifted it from where it rested against the plastic lid of the dumpster. Then she pulled the rigid black metal attachment from the front of the circular orange device. The extension wire protruded up, like an elongating finger towards the pins on the fire escape.
In the past, Adele had seen the same device used to run wiring and electrical lines through the outlets in her building. But while she wasn't running wire, the extending mechanism would have to serve on the old, poorly maintained fire escape.
The black wire tapped against the metal frame of the lowest level, sending flakes of rust fluttering towards the ground.
Adele looked away, coughing, trying her best not to inhale too deeply. She ran the extended black wire towards the nearest clasp, poking it up and under the latch.
Wincing, sweat beading on her forehead, Adele's heart hammered.
Bleeding... bleeding.... always bleeding...
Old images bobbed to the surface of her mind, attempting, it seemed, in her subconscious to try and distract her from the task at hand. But Adele refused the intrusion.
She redoubled her efforts, tongue in cheek, eyes narrowed, arm trembling from the strain of trying to keep the extension wire on track.
And then, a soft click.
She nearly yelled in victory. The wire had slipped between the clasp and the ladder. The lowest rungs were jutting just below the slots in the bottom of the fire escape.
Again, Adele glanced up, staring at the fourth floor. The two blue ribbons attached to the air conditioning unit continued to flutter.
She hadn't taken the normal route through the front doors and the stairs because she had little doubt that the Spade killer would have been prepared for that. But now, her tongue lodged in her cheek, her face stretched and stiff with focus, she paused briefly, wondering perhaps that she was underestimating her opponent.
Would he have cameras in the alleyway as well?
What if he was watching her that very moment? What if, while she fiddled with the fire escape, he was already escaping out the front?
She shivered at the thought, and glanced frantically around, keeping her arm extended, sweat still beading on her forehead, but her eyes tracing the alley walls, the many different metal balconies of the apartment units on either side. At the base of the wall, a few steps from her, settled a green exit door to the small building.
No sign of cameras, no winking red lights.
Maybe she was missing something.
Or maybe, even killers sometimes had blind spots.
She redoubled her effort, un-clasping the first latch, and feeling the wire go taught as the entirety of the ladder's weight was now wedged by the final clasp beneath the lowest rung. It took her a bit longer on the second one, and she was now breathing heavily as if she had been running.
She cursed a couple of times, the wire slipping both times from the extension.
She could feel her frustration mounting. The extra weight from the single clasp made it impossible to wedge the wire between the clasp and the scaffold.
There wasn't enough space.
"Come on," she murmured. "Come—"
The rusted latch snapped.
Adele yelped, darting back just in time as the extension ladder slammed into the alley floor with a reverberating clang.
She gritted her teeth, feeling horror pulse through her, and her eyes darted up towards the fourth floor window, watching carefully, frozen in place, one hand still gripping the orange handle of the extension wire tool, and her other darting towards her weapon.
No movement. No shouts. No eyes glancing into the alley from the street either. She looked through the path between the buildings, watching as a bus chugged by, and a pedestrian on the very opposite side of the street hefted two brown paper bags.
Adele let loose a small whisper of air, and then, lowering the extension tool back onto the lid of the trashcan, she reached for the nearest rung.
The rusty metal was cold beneath her fingers. But in that coldness, a frigid certainty also fell across her. She was getting closer.
Even killers had blind spots it seemed.
She pulled herself hand over hand, rising up the fire escape, and then up to the second floor, the third, and, finally, rust flecking her fingers, her hands reddened from the powder, she pulled herself onto the small, cramped balcony of the fourth floor.
Her heart pounded. Perhaps she should call for backup...
What backup, though? Technically, until tomorrow morning, she was still on leave.
Besides, if the killer was in there, she wasn't sure she wanted other agents around.
Why not? A small voice probed at her. What are you going to do to him?
Adele felt a lance of guilt, followed equally by a cold, unyielding sense of righteous fury.
The killer had gotten away for more than a decade. One way or another, she was going to end it.
He had made it clear he could get to her. He had killed her mother. Killed Robert. He had gone to the length of installing a camera across from her apartment.
She paused, one hand reaching towards the balcony door.
She frowned, her expression flickering. What if the killer wasn't the one who'd placed the camera? What if it was someone else? What if the camera had nothing to do with her?
Her lips pressed together and she gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head.
No. It couldn't be. Who else would be the target of surveillance across the street? She had already checked with local police, with Interpol, with DGSI, with federal agencies that reported through her headquarters. No one knew anything about a surveillance tab on her building. No one had a clue what the camera had
been there for.
What about some weird peeping tom?
Again, she shook her head. The camera itself had been too high-end, too expensive. No, whoever had used it came from means and had a purpose besides lechery.
The killer had put it there. She felt certain. And it was just like him to rent the property across the street from her. Taunting her without her even knowing it. Playing with her, without her even realizing she was in the game.
"Through the gates of hell," she muttered to herself, and then pushed hard against the balcony's door handle.
CHAPTER THREE
The door didn't budge.
She huffed in frustration, pushing harder.
Still no movement.
The air conditioning unit next to her was still whirring, the fan churning along, the two bits of blue ribbon fluttering on the breeze.
She glanced at the ribbon, frowning in thought for a moment.
The door was locked. The window was completely covered, too, blocked by thick drapes. For a moment, she stood on the balcony outside the fourth floor. What if the killer wasn't home?
No risk no reward, she decided.
She extended a hand, hesitantly, her fingers probing towards the two blue ribbons, which looked like painter's tape of all things. She spotted a couple of paint splotches on top of the air conditioning unit.
For a moment, she hesitated, glancing between her feet. A line of beige paint, encircling the small balcony and up the wiring box, seemingly trying to blend into the wall, then made its way to the air conditioning unit itself.
Her eyes trailed from the blue paint strips, which looked like they'd been used to keep the paint within bounds. And she trailed her gaze along the electrical wiring sheath, around the balcony, up, and beneath the fifth-floor balcony.
Her eyes stopped, fixated on some small, black device in the corner of the base of the fifth floor.
She stared, and it stared back.
The blinking red light of a camera fixated on her.
A chill shot down her spine. She cursed, suddenly, slamming her foot hard into the electrical sheath, crushing it where it circled the edge of the balcony. Gray and blue wires exposed, and then the weapon met her hands, whipping up. Hard, she slammed the butt of the gun into the window.
A shattering sound.
No more time for subtlety. Someone was watching.
"DGSI!" she shouted. Not for the sake of the killer, but just in case she had missed it. Just in case there was someone inside who deserved to live.
The glass scattered, and she reached desperately in, feeling the shards scrape against the back of her thumb. She ignored the sudden pain and gripped the door handle on the inside. She suddenly yelped, yanking her fingers back. Something sharp had been embedded in the handle.
Two things were realized in that moment.
She hadn't taken him by surprise. But also, whoever was inside this fourth-floor apartment had gone to great lengths to guard their back entrance.
All of it was coming together now.
He was here. He had to be.
She snarled, gun still raised, using the edge of her shirt now to protect her fingers, as she reached for the inside handle again. She felt the rigid edge, as if someone had soldered razors there.
She yanked the door handle open from the inside, and it spun in. She took a second, allowing it to careen forward just in case the door was wired.
No explosion. No alarm.
Whoever had booby-trapped the door hadn't gone too far, it seemed.
She didn't shout; she didn't announce herself. The certainty was now rising in her. An inevitability. What was she walking in to?
For a moment she went still, breathing in, out, all too aware of the sound of her own ragged gasping. He was in there. She knew he was. The devil himself.
She swallowed, pushing back her rising sense of worry. Then, Adele stumbled in through the door, and found herself in a dark room.
Across from her, a sealed door and a painted smiley face in pink and blue colors stared at her. The walls were covered with other painted things. Some of them childlike drawings of houses, others like the sorts of art a proud parent might display on their refrigerator. None of them particularly good. None of them looked like they had been done by anyone much older than a six-year-old.
She stared at a sun, with brutish and blunt yellow lines extending away from a blotted circle. A black smile had been drawn into the yellow center as if watching her. She snarled, slamming her shoulder into the opposite door, and it banged open into a hall.
And then...
... she heard a flurry of footsteps.
"Stop!" she screamed.
She heard a gasping sound but no words.
For a moment, Adele stayed half concealed in the doorway of the strangely painted room. If she burst forward, and the killer was armed, she would be shot. But if she waited too long, he might make good his getaway.
Suddenly, Adele heard a gunshot.
She cursed, ducking back out of sight. Breathing heavily, she waited, her shoulder pressed hard against the oddly painted wall. The paints were dry, suggesting the killer had been here for a while.
"Show yourself!" she yelled. "I know you're there!"
For a moment, there was no sound. And then, another loud bang!
Adele realized her mistake. Those weren't gunshots.
She poked her head back around the door, growling. A third bang. This time, she realized.
Someone was using a hammer.
She wrinkled her nose in confusion, gun raised, heart pounding, breath coming in ragged gasps. She now stepped into the hall, her weapon pointed towards the opposite end of the dark entrance. She spotted movement all of a sudden. A small, shadowy form, darting across.
Had it been her imagination, or had the person been no larger than a child? Bony, rail thin, with gaunt, ghoulish features. It had only been a brief glimpse, but more than she'd ever had before. Was this the killer? A victim?
"Stop!" she yelled. Now, her fear was replaced by fury. With reckless abandon she broke into a sprint, gun still in her hand as she raced up the hall.
After a few footsteps, she careened out into an entryway.
And then she saw him. Hammer in one hand, whipping forward and slamming into the final plank of wood that had been nailed across the door. The wood ripped, splinters scattered. And then, the killer reached out, tearing the door handle down and flinging it open.
Adele raised, fired twice. But the killer was quick, darting forward.
She'd been aiming for center mass. But he was small. Very small.
For a moment, as she stared at the doorway, gasping, aiming at where the man had disappeared, she glimpsed a head suddenly dart back into the room, like an odd whack-a-mole, staring back at her through the frame of the door.
Two eyes didn't quite match. One of them didn't reflect light, nor did it move or twitch as if perhaps it was a painted marble.
The man was missing hair. No eyebrows, no hairline, nothing on his face, no eyelashes even. Adele stared at the strange face, and it stared back. And then, where it was half jutted through the doorway, it smiled once and winked with its good eye. But didn't say a word, as he turned, and ran.
Adele heard the clap of feet against the stairwell outside. She growled and sprinted forward.
She supposed she should have realized he'd been goading her. Why come back at all?
To get her to chase, obviously.
She landed on what she thought was solid ground directly in front of the door, but her foot slammed through the floorboards.
Adele yelled in horror as wood splintered around her, and in a shower of debris and dust and splinters, she plummeted from the fourth floor through the ceiling of the third floor.
Gasping, groaning, she tried to push to her feet, and found her arms, while aching, still worked. Breathing heavily, she sat up, blinking, dust still swirling about her.
Groaning, and shaking more dust from her blonde h
air, she looked left and right, and spotted three old men sitting around a small table with a backgammon board between them. All of the men had small tea glasses in their hands, and they were staring at Adele, wide-eyed. Two women, behind the men, were standing next to the television, with children hidden behind them, sheltered. One of the women was rattling off something in a language Adele didn't understand.
Adele blinked, blearily, groaning. He's getting away... a small, focused part of her tried to speak to her more dazed self.
A groan and grimace and she tried to reach her feet. Her ankles weren't sprained, her elbows were bruised, but all she had really hurt in her fall, it seemed, was her pride and her knee.
"Sorry," she said, rattling off. "Sorry." She held out a placating hand.
And then, the men saw the gun.
One of them yelled in horror and started chucking backgammon chips at her face. Another threw his tea in her eyes.
"DGSI!” she tried to scream, but then the hot liquid reached her, and she had just enough time to look away before it splashed across her cheeks.
It hissed, and it hurt; she yelled, scraping at her face, but this only rubbed the dust from her fall into her eyes. And now, she was blinking both hot tea and dust. She heard more shouting in a language she didn't understand. She felt hands, old, frail hands shove at her, trying to push her away.
She could hear screaming now. The children were crying.
"Stop!" she said, desperately. "Please. Stop."
And then, something which felt suspiciously like a frying pan struck her across the back.
She was sent tumbling.
"Don't!" she yelled, trying English now. And then German. "I'm a friend! Stop. I need water. My eyes."
But then, she heard a whistling sound, the pan swinging again.
A loud thunk across the back of her head. It all went black.
CHAPTER FOUR
Adele woke slowly, wincing and blinking and pushing up from her couch, propping on one elbow. Back in her apartment? Strange... How had she gotten here? She rubbed the back of her head, probing gingerly where her neighbors had clocked her with the heavy saucepan, and made a mental note to learn Turkish at the first chance possible. She did her best to suppress the rising tide of ill will towards the unfortunate family whose early morning tea party she'd accidentally dropped in on.