Left To Run

by Blake Pierce

  Melissa stared.

  She would have to make sure Amanda knew about the dangers of leaving her door unlocked downtown. Even in a city like Paris, caution preceded safety. Melissa hesitated for a moment, caught in a crisis of conscience, but then, at last, she eased the door open completely with a gentle prod of her forefinger.

  “Hello,” she called into the dark apartment. Perhaps Amanda was out shopping. Maybe she’d forgotten the appointment. “Hello, Amanda? It’s me, Melissa from the forum…”

  No answer.

  Melissa didn’t consider herself a particularly nosy sort. But when it came to Americans in Paris, she had a sense of kinship. Almost like they belonged to the same family. It didn’t feel so much like intruding as checking in on a little sister. She nodded to herself, justifying the decision in her mind before she stepped into the apartment of a woman she’d only met once before.

  The door creaked again as her elbow brushed against the frame, causing it to shift open even more. She hesitated and thought she heard voices from down the hall. She popped her head back out and looked up the hallway toward the edge of the stairs.

  A young couple moved along the banister, noted her, and instead of nodding or waving, continued on their merry way. Melissa sighed and moved back into the apartment—and then froze. The fridge was open. A strange slant of yellow light extended from the compartment across the kitchen floor.

  Amanda was there. Sitting on the floor, facing the opposite wall. Her back was half against the cabinet, one shoulder blade pressed against the wood, the other extending past, her left arm resting on the floor.

  “Did you spill something?” Melissa asked, stepping even further into the darkened room.

  Wine puddled on the ground beneath Amanda’s left arm. Melissa took another few steps and turned to face Amanda, still smiling.

  Her smile froze. Amanda’s dead eyes stared up at her, gaping over a thick slit in her neck. Cold blood stained the front of her shirt, spilling down to the floor where it had thickened against the linoleum.

  Melissa didn’t scream, nor did she shout. She merely gasped, her fingers trembling as she struggled to fish out her inhaler. She stumbled toward the door, grabbing her inhaler with one hand and snagging her phone with the other.

  After a few puffs of air, she loosed a gurgled groan and, with trembling fingers on her flip phone buttons, she tapped 1-7 for the police.

  Still gasping, back against the wall outside the open door to the apartment, she swallowed and waited for the operator to pick up. Behind her, she thought she could hear the vague, fading sound of liquid dripping against the floor.

  Only then did she scream.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Adele checked her smart watch, cycling through the different screens that kept an eye on her heart rate, movement, music… She inhaled through her nose where she stood in the doorway of her apartment and glanced up at the clock. Four AM exactly. Plenty of time to get in a two-hour run before work. She adjusted the sweatband holding back her hair and glanced over her shoulder toward the sink.

  She had left her plastic Mickey Mouse bowl sitting on the metal partition between the sink and the counter. Normally, Adele cleaned up the moment she made a mess. But today, in the small, quiet apartment…

  “It can wait,” she said to no one in particular. Which, of course, was part of the problem.

  Last night had been one of fitful rest, sleep eluding her. Adele stood in the doorway as the digital watch ticked to 4:01. She glanced back at the sink, then muttered beneath her breath and reluctantly strode into the kitchen, grabbed her plastic bowl, and turned on the water with an irritated snap of her wrist. She rinsed out the milky residue in the bottom, placed the bowl in the dryer rack, and headed back toward the door.

  Before she could turn the doorknob, though, a quiet chirping sound caught her attention. Adele’s eyes darted to the kitchen table. Her phone was vibrating.

  She frowned. The only people who would call her this early were her father in Germany, or work.

  And she had just spoken to her father a couple of days ago. It was little surprise, then, when she glanced down at the glowing blue green screen depicting a single word in white letters.

  Office.

  She picked up her phone as the buzzing noise faded. Adele read three simple words in black text flashing across her screen. Urgent. Come in.

  Adele removed her sweatband and hurried back to her room to change into work clothes. The jog would have to wait.

  ***

  From the parking lot, through the security checkpoints, Adele only paused once to drop off coffee to Doug, one of her friends on the security team. By the time she reached the fourth floor, and Supervising Agent Grant’s office, she could already hear voices through the opaque glass door.

  Adele pushed in and pulled up short.

  Two large TV monitors set in the wall depicted faces Adele recognized. On the left, over Grant’s desk, Executive Foucault, the DGSI supervisor. On the right, situated near a blue-tinted window with a view of the city, Adele spotted Ms. Jayne, a correspondent for Interpol who had first proposed the idea of a joint task force headed up by Adele.

  Agent Lee Grant, who’d been named after the two generals in the Civil War, stood behind a metal standing desk, her fingertips steepled beneath her chin, a troubled expression on her face. She glanced up at Adele, waving her in with quick scattered gestures. Agent Grant’s office was sparse, with a yoga mat in one corner and a pile of workout DVDs hidden beneath a blue plastic binder next to her desk.

  Agent Grant gestured to one of the empty stools in front of her standing desk and waited for Adele to sit. At last, she cleared her throat, regarding Adele with a nod, and said, “They need you back in France.”

  Adele looked between the TV monitors. Ms. Jayne’s and Foucault’s gazes were just a bit off, each of them glancing at the various screens at their disposal rather than looking directly into their cameras. Still, Adele couldn’t help but search the gaze of Ms. Jayne and the DGSI executive, trying to discern their motives.

  “Is it bad?” Adele asked, hesitantly.

  Ms. Jayne cleared her throat, and in a clear, crisp voice, said, “Only two victims so far. I’ll let Foucault fill you in on the details.” Ms. Jayne was an older woman, with bright, intelligent eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. She had silver hair and was a bit heavier than most field agents. She spoke without an accent, suggesting she’d mastered the English language, but it didn’t seem as if it were her native tongue.

  On the other screen, Executive Foucault’s dark eyes narrowed over a hawkish nose; he shook his head and seemed to be glancing down off screen—there was the sound of rummaging papers.

  “Yes, yes,” he said in heavily accented English. “Two dead. So far. Two Americans,” he added, glancing up at the screen. “Or, at least, were Americans.”

  Adele frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Foucault’s gaze flitted across the screen one way then the other, not quite lining up with anyone in the room, but suggesting that perhaps he was glancing between portions of his own computer screen.

  “Expatriates,” he said. “Americans now living in France. Both had visas, but were applying for citizenship, or at least one of the victims did. The other only recently arrived.”

  Adele nodded to show she’d heard. “So why do you need me?”

  Ms. Jayne cleared her throat. Her voice came clear, even through the crackle of the speakers. “We need someone who’s familiar with the DGSI, but who America is comfortable investigating their own. The unique nature of the crimes could also use someone with your expertise.”

  Adele frowned. “What unique nature?”

  Foucault replied, “Two dead so far. Throats slit, nearly ear to ear.” He adopted a grim tone and continued, “I’ll send the files along as soon as I’m cleared by the coroner. Both young women, both recent arrivals. We’re investigating, of course, and I’m sure our agents will come up with some good leads, but,” he frowned ag
ain, glancing at his computer screen, “Ms. Jayne seems to think it would be wise to involve you early on. I can’t say I fully agree, but it’s not my hill to die on.”

  Adele raised a hand while he spoke, waiting for him to finish. He noticed this, and nodded for her to speak.

  “How long between the murders?” she said.

  The executive replied without hesitation. “Three days. The killer is quick. It’s worth noting there’s no physical evidence at the scene.”

  Adele shifted in her seat, realizing this chair didn’t make as much noise as the one back in her kitchen. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there’s no physical evidence.”

  “None?”

  Foucault’s frown deepened, his bushy eyebrows pressing together. “None at all. No fingerprints, no traces of hair or saliva. No sexual assault that we could find. The cuts alone, according to the coroner’s initial report, were strange. Whoever did this slit their necks, but did so without a quavering hand—a practiced motion.”

  “And what does that mean?” Adele asked.

  “If I may,” said Agent Grant, speaking for the first time from behind her standing desk, “cuts and slicing wounds carry a sort of signature. Whether the attack was left-handed, or how strong they were, or how tall…”

  Foucault nodded with each passing word and cleared his throat. “Exactly. But these particular attacks were done by someone without much signature at all. There’s no physical evidence. No sign of a struggle. No forced entry. Nothing suggesting any foul play, except, of course, two corpses in downtown Paris.”

  “Well,” said Ms. Jayne, peering through the screen now. Her eyes seemed to have readjusted for a moment, now fixating firmly on Adele. “Are you ready for your flight?”

  Adele flicked her eyes to Agent Grant and raised her eyebrows.

  Grant hesitated. “You sure you don’t want to spend another couple of weeks with Agent Masse?” she said, her tone betraying no emotion whatsoever.

  Adele scowled.

  Grant’s eyes twinkled in a morbid sort of humor. “I’ll take that as a no. Already signed for your leave and reassigned Masse. You’re good to go.”

  Adele tried to suppress the sudden jolt of emotion—she was a professional, after all—but as she pushed from her chair, she couldn’t help but feel excitement at the thought of returning to France.

  “Is there anything else I should know?” she asked, glancing at Foucault.

  “I’ll send you the reports,” he said with a shrug. “But they’re short. As I told you, not much evidence. There is one thing. A strange detail, but certainly important…”

  “What?”

  “The first victim’s kidney was missing.”

  A strange silence fell over the room for a moment, and the two crackling screens and the two agents in the San Francisco office waited, all of them frowning.

  “Her kidney?” said Adele.

  “Just so,” said Foucault.

  “Is the killer taking trophies?”

  The executive shrugged, his thick brow narrowing over his sharp nose. “Well, that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? You provide the answers. It’s my job to provide the questions. I’m told Ms. Jayne has already purchased your ticket. First class. Your flight departs within the hour.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Adele frowned at her laptop, leaning back in the first-class seat provided to her by Interpol. The plane shuddered as it cut through the sky, but Adele had closed the adjacent blind, allowing the glow from the computer screen to illuminate the cramped portion of airplane cabin.

  She found herself twisting the strap to her laptop bag nervously where it rested in the empty seat next to her, surveying the information on the screen again. Once she read a case file, she rarely forgot the details.

  She settled in, leaning against the curving white wall of plastic, her eyes flicking from paragraph to photo.

  Two dead so far. Three days apart. A rapid pace, even for a serial killer. No physical evidence of any sort. A missing kidney in the first victim and a pending coroner’s report for the second. Would she also be missing a kidney?

  Young women, both. Expats—Americans now living in France. Recent arrivals, too. Both killed so quickly they hadn’t even reacted. That was the only explanation for the clean nature of the cuts. No jagged slices, no signs of a struggle. One moment, the young women had been alive, in their own apartments, the next, seemingly as if by a ghost, they had been snuffed out.

  Adele doubted the women had even seen it coming. Not much to go on—not yet anyway. Still, she kept the window blind low, listening to the churn of the engines as they hurtled through the air. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the case file again and again… and again.

  ***

  She’d been able to connect to the Charles De Gaulle Airport Wi-Fi, and her eyebrows twisted down as she looked at the most recent message from Robert Henry, her old mentor and friend. It said: Sorry, dear, I won’t be picking you up. They sent another agent. Then he’d included a series of emojis and smiley faces.

  She paused, then typed: No problem. I’ll see you at the office. Who did they send?

  No response. Adele shook her head as she exited the walkway and entered the main terminal, greeted by the odor of overpriced coffee and stale pastries from the airport restaurants. Her eyes flicked along a series of shops; one for curio items, and another a bookstore. Adele pushed her phone back into her pocket, moving quickly through the airport toward baggage claim. Last time, she’d been paired with John—likely it would happen again. But they’d left things awkward after the last visit. While she and Robert had messaged each other every few days in the month since she’d been in France, John hadn’t reached out once.

  Neither did you, a small voice reminded her.

  But she pushed it away with a slight shrug. She reached the baggage claim and watched as the luggage circled the metal slatted conveyor belt; she waited patiently, but still never fully managed to shake the anticipation clotting her chest.

  At last, she managed to retrieve her bag, waiting for a space to clear around the claim.

  She found herself brushing her hair behind her ears and straightening her outfit even while she approached customs and waited for the border agent to survey her special detail passport and papers. Get a grip, she thought scathingly. Why was she so concerned about her appearance all of a sudden? John or not, why did it matter? Adele was taller than most woman, but not unusually so—her long, dirty-blonde hair framed features that hinted of her French-American heritage. Exotic, some said. A single mole stippled the top of her lip, a source of insecurity as a teenager, but no longer.

  Adele thought of the last night she’d seen John, swimming in Robert’s private pool on his estate. The way John had been at the start of the evening, followed by how he’d behaved toward the end. He had tried to kiss her, hadn’t he? Had she misinterpreted the gesture? Whatever the case, when she’d pulled back, he’d been offended. He’d left shortly after.

  In defiance to her burbling emotions, Adele messed her hair, intentionally disheveling her bangs. Then, setting her jaw, she wheeled her suitcase through customs and out into the receiving area of the airport.

  Her eyes scanned the crowd, looking for the tall, lanky form of her previous French partner. But as her gaze looked over the waiting crowd, there was no sign of John. Her smile—which she hadn’t realized was displayed—became rather fixed as her gaze settled on a suited woman standing against the tinted glass of the window facing the streets outside the airport.

  Her smile faded completely as she recognized the woman’s pursed lips and her silver hair pulled into a bun. The woman resembled a no-nonsense supply teacher, or perhaps a nun out of smock. Not a single strand of hair was out of place, and even the wrinkles along the edge of her eyes seemed to stretch as if attempting to stand to attention.

  An agent she’d worked with before… But not John.

  This particular agent had been Adele’s supervisor back w
hen she’d worked for the DGSI. She also had been demoted, an unfortunate scenario whose blame had been placed solely on Adele’s shoulders. Every ounce of scorn and impatience displayed itself in every crease and glint in Agent Sophie Paige’s eyes, but at last, she raised a hand and gave a quick jerking gesture in Adele’s direction.

  Not a wave, but more a beckoning call like a master calling their pet hound. Adele stood frozen for a moment, feeling people jostle past her as they moved to greet waiting family or friends. The still air swelled with laughter, the sound of bodies embracing, the quiet murmurings of exhausted travelers retreating from the airport and hurrying with relief toward waiting cabs or cars on the curb.

  For the briefest moment, Adele had to resist the urge to turn right around and march back onto the plane, leaving Sophie Paige and her scowl standing by the window.

  But at last, she mustered up the residue of her courage, quickly brushed her hair back into place with furtive motions, and moved toward the waiting form of her past supervisor and new partner.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Removed from the center of Paris, in the northwestern suburbs of the Ile-de-France region of the capital, Adele kept her eyes forward as the car pulled up to the fourth floor of the DGSI parking structure. The afternoon drive had proceeded in complete silence; now, Agent Paige brusquely exited the vehicle, calling something over her shoulder about meeting with Foucault. She left Adele alone to meander her way through security to her old mentor’s office.

  Stepping into Robert’s office was a relief.

  Adele could feel her shoulders sagging as if a weight were lifted as she stepped through the door with a quiet knock on the frame. The day’s travel weighed heavy, but her spirits lifted as she scanned the familiar room. The walls still carried the same framed pictures of old race cars and beneath them shelves of dusty books with cracked leather covers. Two desks now sat in the room. The second desk had been placed by the window with an upright leather swivel chair behind it. On the desk a small, golden nameplate read, Adele Sharp.