by Blake Pierce
Adele paused for a moment, studying him. “That anger… it doesn’t go away, you know…”
“That’s not true,” he returned.
Adele blinked.
“You never did get the bastard who did your mother, did you?”
Adele went still, motionless, just watching.
“Nah, you didn’t. Otherwise you’d know. It feels like bliss. When you see the cause of everything breathing and gasping on the ground. And then breathing no more. Dead the way they did your dad—or I guess, your mother. It does make you feel better. Anyone who says otherwise is a damn liar.”
“It does?” Adele said, hoarsely, swallowing back the dryness in her throat.
“One hundred percent…” His eyes gleamed wickedly for a moment, his lips curved into a small smile. But then he leaned back and shrugged. “Just… well… it doesn’t last as long as you’d like. You just kinda… have to keep going, you know?”
“I was worried you’d say that.”
“The one who killed your mother. You know who did it? Is he behind bars?”
“Not yet,” Adele said, still quiet. “Maybe never.”
“Never?” the valet asked, watching her curiously. “Never because you can’t find him? Or never because when you do, he won’t make it to lock-up?”
Adele sat there, allowing the question to linger in the still space of the cramped car for a moment. Then she reached out, patted the valet on the leg. “I’m sorry for your loss.” And before he could say anything, she pushed open the door, slipped out into the parking lot, and slammed it shut behind her.
She felt a chill shiver shudder down her spine, even though the sun was out and the air was warm. The conversation from her two partners and the German police officer seemed to have finally wound down. Judging by the look of resignation on the German officer’s face, it seemed he’d finally conceded to be the one to shuttle the killer back to their precinct and finalize any paperwork.
Leoni turned, glancing around the parking lot for a moment, and then he spotted Adele once more and beamed.
“Well,” he said, approaching her—though still limping—and taking both her hands. His fingers were smooth against hers and he eased his weight off his injured foot. His hands were warm and tender to the touch; she met Leoni’s smiling gaze. For a moment, the sheer kindness emanating from his eyes seemed to swallow her. A kindness so unfamiliar, she almost missed it. There were no demands in those eyes—no requirements. Simply an odd affection. She felt butterflies flutter in her stomach and could feel her cheeks heating up.
“Two for two,” he said with a nod. “We make a good duo, yes?”
Adele hoped desperately she wasn’t blushing all of a sudden. She smiled quickly, nodding once and coughing delicately. Then she began to turn, leaving the chill emanating from the SUV behind her as she moved, leading the two men away from the German cruiser. “We do make a good team,” she said.
Leoni released one of her hands but held the other, as if they were simply strolling through a park. “Ah,” he said, in a tired voice. “It will be nice to sleep in my own bed again.”
Adele tried not to think too much about anyone sleeping in Leoni’s bed. “I understand that,” she said. “You’re heading back to Italy?”
“Right away, I’m afraid. The job never sleeps.”
She smiled genuinely now, pushing aside her other emotions. “Neither does the agent, it seems.”
Leoni let out a delicious crow of laughter, which creased his features in laugh lines. John stalked along behind both of them and his expression wasn’t quite a glower, but seemed close. Adele felt uncomfortable all at once, and released Leoni’s hand. She said, “Well—I certainly hope to see you again soon.”
“A shared sentiment. Well, here’s my ride. Do you need a lift to the airport?”
“We’ve got our own,” John said before Adele could answer.
Leoni shrugged, indicating the black limousine that had pulled up outside the train station. A man in a white uniform stood by the doors, glancing around and pulling out a cigarette. When he noted Leoni walking over, the driver sighed, stowed his cigarette, and moved around the vehicle to open the passenger door.
Leoni waved one last time before entering the car.
Adele watched as he did, and John looked away nearly instantly, glaring at his phone and muttering to himself about damned reception.
“Everything okay?” Adele asked in as innocent a voice as she could muster.
“Fine,” he retorted. “Taxi is on its way.”
“To the airport?”
“Unless you want to take a train…”
Adele shook her head adamantly. “I think I’m done with trains.”
“That we can agree on,” John said.
They stood next to each other on the curb, facing the street outside the train station. For a moment, the silence stretched between them and Adele was reminded of how obnoxious she’d found Agent Renee when they’d first met. He had a prickly nature. If John decided someone was cut out of his life, he did everything in his power to keep them out.
And yet, as she stood next to the tall Frenchman, other images and memories flashed through her mind. Thoughts of when she’d first heard about Robert’s illness… The way he’d comforted her, the shared moment of solace. The time when she’d been in her father’s house, attacked by a killer. He’d come then too, rescuing both of them. He’d been there when they’d chased the exsanguinator, and had been there when she’d wept at the new evidence in her mother’s case.
The only reason he’d been the one to glimpse her mother’s killer had been because he’d wanted to solve the case… for her.
She shivered and took a half step closer to him. More a subconscious gesture than anything. She watched as Leoni’s limousine pulled onto the highway, disappearing from sight.
“You all right?” John said, at last, a tinge of gentleness to his otherwise rigid tone.
“I think so,” she replied, softly. “And you?”
“Fine. Taxi should be here in five.”
Adele nodded softly. The sense of foreboding she’d felt had come to nothing. Maybe she really was losing her edge. The thoughts of John, the memories, came as a comfort. But also a reminder. The time she’d cried in his arms in that hotel room, learning about Robert’s illness.
Robert… she needed to speak with him, and soon. She’d forgotten to touch base before leaving. He hadn’t been at headquarters. She made a mental note to visit him first thing back.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
The painter shivered in giddy delight, his eyes once again fixed on the mansion settled behind the black gate and hedges, winking with the white marble of statuary arranged around the lawn. The lights were off now inside the mansion, though glowing orange coals could be seen, distorted through the lowest window peering into the study.
Tonight was a night of friendship. Tonight was a night of artistry.
And the savant of the Seine had eyes on his next masterpiece.
He adjusted the metallic mask he’d affixed to his face—a spit shield more than a disguise. Disguises were only needed for those who might tell tales. And the occupants of the French mansion wouldn’t be speaking to anyone but the painter himself following tonight.
The painter hefted his black bag, striding forward now, feeling the odd way in which the fabric of his two sweaters rubbed against each other and against his hairless arms. His eyebrows were gone, his legs waxed. No DNA evidence left behind.
The painter didn’t believe in half measures. A man of finality knew the risks, weighed the cost, and then set the bid.
And for him, the bid was well worth it.
He didn’t hum, he didn’t whistle, he didn’t speak at all as he moved to the old black gate. His small, fragile form might—on the offset—look ill-suited toward acrobatic ventures. But while the painter was wire-thin, he was also fit, in a reedy sort of way, like an insect or the rigid bones found in an unearthed tomb.
; He climbed the gate in three quick motions: one—a foot to the ivy-strewn wall. Two: a hand latched on the cool black metal. And finally, a pull, bringing his light form up and over, tumbling to the other side where he landed, bracing against his small, black bag.
For a moment, his single good eye fixed on a marble statue. An angel with a missing wing and a half halo stared sightlessly back at him.
The painter paused, rising slowly to his feet, staring at the statue. Then, with a snort, he reached out, shoving the angel down, burying its sculpted face into the mud, before stalking around the side of the mansion, moving toward the windows of the study. Already, his gloved fingers dipped into the satchel on his hip, moving about for the tools of the trade.
***
Robert jerked awake, frowning in the night. He blinked, shaking his head, and then glanced over to the old, whittled cuckoo clock above his bed. Moonlight streamed through the window of his second-floor room, illuminating the clock and the ticking hands. The bird itself had long lain dormant, the feature disabled. But Robert liked the way the clock looked and so he kept it across from the bed. Digital sorts had never much appealed to the Frenchman.
His phone lay next to his bed, where he kept it in case of emergencies. Given recent health issues, he’d kept emergency services on speed dial. Now, though, as he lay against his pillow, staring at the moon-streaked cuckoo clock, he felt a cough forming in his throat. One a.m. Exactly.
A strange time to wake. Robert Henry had always been a bit of a night owl, but he’d also been a fastidious sleeper.
During this illness, things had changed. Basic things, like his ability to ascend the stairs to the second floor without pausing to regain his breath. Even some of the foods he’d used to enjoy would no longer stay down. He’d been minimized recently to little more than a meal of white rice and chicken broth.
Not much longer, though. Not according to the doctors.
Still, Robert wasn’t the sort to give up without a fight. He wasn’t particularly large, nor what others might perceive as a fighter. But he knew the game—knew how to tussle. He’d built a career off of it.
Such a silly thing, though, it seemed now. A career. So much of his life spent on a job…
But no, he reminded himself as he leaned back, holding off a cough. Not just a job. A purpose. Killers had been put to justice. And other agents he’d adopted as his own. Adele… He smiled at the memory of his pupil. She was the best of them all. He’d have to remember to give her the envelope tomorrow.
He felt a jolt of sadness she hadn’t come to visit him recently, but undoubtedly the job had taken her away as it often did. Still, according to the text she’d sent the previous night, she was returning to Paris and wanted to stop by on the morrow.
Robert closed his eyes, nodding to himself, having held back the cough sufficiently. As he lay still, hoping sleep would claim him quick again, he heard the faintest of noises.
Robert’s eyes snapped open. He sat up sharply, glancing toward the door. Sleep faded from him like sand drifting through a sieve, trickling out slow at first, but then in rapid proportion.
Robert’s eyes fixed on the door to his room, his hand inched toward the cell phone by his bed.
No more sounds, though.
Nothing.
He shook his head, muttering to himself darkly, then leaning hesitantly back and closing his eyes again. Just the wind, then.
As Robert lay back, though, he frowned, then sat up again with a sigh. Trust your instincts. That’s what he’d often told Adele. And his instincts were heightened now. He flung his legs over the bed, sliding his feet into his fuzzy slippers. He pulled his robe around him and then, snatching his phone, but not ringing anyone just yet, he moved slowly from his room, heading out to investigate the source of the disturbance.
***
Oh dear. Who the hell kept that many books stacked so precariously by the window ledge? The painter glared at the books blocking him from easy entry. Then, with a frown, he reached out, his fingers touching the leather spines…
He pushed, and the books tumbled to the floor. He smiled softly—sometimes art was messy. And sometimes his friends deserved a warning or two… It made it more fun that way.
The pile of fallen tomes scattered over the wooden floorboards beneath one of the red leather seats facing the dim fireplace. One of his legs was thrown through the window, the other still dangling outside, half pressed against the brick wall. He paused, listening for movement in the house.
Nothing. He couldn’t hear anyone.
The painter felt a slow, growing warmth in his belly. Was he rushing this, though? Art should never be treated that way. Ought he come back? Maybe tomorrow night? No sense in rushing a masterpiece, was there? Not something this valuable. Something this connected to his best of friends—Adele herself. They were bound together, he’d known this for a while. And this venture into her mentor’s home was a reminder of what was at stake. The only relationship that truly mattered to him.
Still, why rush perfection?
He remained with one leg inside the mansion, the other out, caught at a crossroads, considering his options. No one had seen him—he’d avoided the two cameras in the courtyard. The only witness—the mud-streaked angel statue—was blind and dumb. Most of his friends were—at least now.
He waited a moment longer, his leg still dangling inside Robert Henry’s mansion. The painter wasn’t a tall man, and his foot barely brushed the floorboards beneath it.
…Could he wait longer?
No… No, art couldn’t be postponed like this. Not again. He’d already waited.
No more waiting. Now was the time for work.
And with a bob of his shaved head beneath his mask, he slid fully into the study with the two red leather chairs, bringing his other leg in as well and sliding off the windowsill. He daintily stepped around the collapsed pile of books, avoiding them and slowly shutting the window until it was only cracked. He still might need the getaway—no sense providing himself an obstacle.
But still, as he glanced around the study, his single good eye flicking toward the glimmering coals in the hearth, one hand delicately braced, his glove in contact against the headrest of one of the red chairs, he allowed himself a soft smile behind his metallic mask.
It felt like a homecoming.
He looked around the silent, darkened room. Now, though, it was time to find the guest of honor. He hefted his black bag, which held the tools he’d used to enter through the window, sifting with his gloved fingers in search of other, far sharper utilities.
***
Robert’s face creased in a frown. No more sounds that he could hear. No further movement. Was he just being paranoid? Were his instincts off? He’d often taught younger agents to trust their gut instincts only if their gut instincts had proven true in the past. Adele was a prime example. Once upon a time, he had been also. But Robert wasn’t so sure anymore.
Sickness had taken much of what he’d once been. His lungs weren’t as they’d used to be. Still, if someone was in the house, it would be easy enough to find them, surely. An intruder? A burglar? For a moment, he considered grabbing a knife from his office—more a letter-opener, really. But what if it was Sergeant Sharp having returned for some reason? Or maybe Adele had gotten back early and wanted to visit him.
He smiled at the thought, still holding his phone pressed against the leg of his bathrobe. He nodded to himself. Maybe it was just the wind after all. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check.
Robert took the stairs now, feeling the wood creak beneath his frail steps as he rounded the banister and moved down toward the first floor.
The sound had been muffled… the kitchen, perhaps? Maybe the study. Yes, he’d check the study first.
***
The painter could hear the creak of footsteps against the stairs. He let out a silent curse, frozen, his back pressed in the shadowy alcove behind a bookcase nearest the mantelpiece. He lodged himself in the dark, his small, frail f
orm gifting him the ability to fit in tight spaces. His friends never expected the sorts of places he could hide. Once, even, in a suitcase beneath an older woman’s bed.
He smiled. They’d never discovered that particular masterpiece. Attributed it to an animal attack. Then again, he’d gotten much better at his work since then. Every artist developed over time, given enough practice, enough focus.
And he’d practiced. Far more times than any of his friends or fans even knew.
He waited, his eyes wide, his one good eye peering out into the dark, drinking in the black and bleak of the room in every crag and cranny.
The sound of footsteps against wood had faded now. The stairs? He heard a shuffling motion, followed by a quiet, “Merde!”
For a moment, the painter stiffened, wondering if he’d been spotted. But then he watched as a form moved into the study, shambling along in a fluffy bathrobe and slippers. A glowing device—a phone—rested against the man’s leg.
Robert Henry, in the flesh. A canvas in the offering if ever he’d seen one.
The painter waited, watching, motionless as a gargoyle perched on a stone steeple.
Still muttering to himself, Robert Henry approached the fireplace and grabbed a poker. He began prodding at the glowing coals, still orange in the hearth.
“Damn it,” the Frenchman muttered to himself. “Are you trying to burn the whole place down, you old fool?”
Robert jabbed and poked at the coals, extinguishing them as best he could as a scattering of dark ash settled across the brick ground beneath the hearth.
The painter shivered as he watched, staring at the movement of the man, the way his shoulders bunched, the way he lunged. More lively, more vibrant than any statue. More beautiful, more graceful than any painting.
Yes, this was why he chose this particular canvas. Flesh itself was the truest beauty to find. And true art required not just creativity, but cruelty. The courage to state the truth. To paint what one saw, not just what one thought they saw.