Left To Run

by Blake Pierce

  The seamless way Adele switched from nearly perfect French to flawless English seemed to take the woman with the curly hair back a bit. “Are you—” she began.

  Adele said, “On assignment. It’s a long story.” Normally people didn’t understand what it was to be American, German, and French. The idea of having three citizenships was lost on most and Adele didn’t want to get into it.

  She heard footsteps behind her, and with a weary collapse of her shoulders, she glanced back to notice Paige approaching, glaring in her direction.

  Adele returned her attention to the police vehicle once more. She still didn’t enter the vehicle, figuring it might be perceived as threatening, so instead she leaned forward, her arms pressed on the top of the door, in a sort of sheltering posture, hoping the way she positioned herself would communicate protectiveness to the woman within.

  Adele cleared her throat and said, “I’m very sorry you had to come back here, and I’m sorry that we wanted to bring you back upstairs. That was my oversight.”

  Melissa Robinson nodded, smiling in a small, sad way as if accepting the apology. Adele felt a bit of weight lift from her chest at the American’s expression as she continued, “But I was wondering if perhaps you could tell me anything about the victim. Her name was Amanda, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Melissa said, her voice quavering.

  Adele continued to lean in, but she could now hear more footsteps, and could feel Agent Paige coming even closer.

  Melissa’s gaze flicked from Adele, over her shoulder toward the approaching agent.

  “You mind giving us a moment?” Adele said, tight-lipped, to her partner.

  Agent Paige leaned against the front of the vehicle, though, peering into the back without greeting the witness. “Go right ahead,” she said. Paige made no move to leave. The two officers watched the agents, but stayed where they were on the sidewalk.

  With a frustrated sigh, Adele turned back, keeping her expression as pleasant as possible. “Is there anything else you might be able to tell us about Amanda?”

  Melissa shook her head almost immediately. “Nothing,” she said, stammering a bit. “I barely knew her. We were going to meet for the second time today.”

  Adele frowned. “Today?”

  “I’m sorry, I mean yesterday. It’s been rough… Yesterday, early on, before she… when she died.” The woman shook her head again, wincing, and she glanced back through the window, up toward the third floor of the apartment building.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Adele. “But do you mind helping me out; what do you mean you were going to meet yesterday?”

  “I mean,” said the woman, “that we met at a supermarket briefly, but for the most part only ever spoke online.”

  “Online?” said Paige, gruffly, leaning past Adele and shouldering her out of the way so she could peer into the back seat. “What do you mean online?”

  Melissa glanced between the two women. “I mean on the Internet. We have a chat room for expats from America. She wanted to meet up; it can be lonely sometimes in a new country if you don’t know anyone.”

  “There are a lot of you here?” Agent Paige said. Adele didn’t like the disapproving tone in her partner’s voice. Paige issued a soft snort of air, but she kept herself mostly in check. “Don’t like the home country, is that it?”

  Melissa fidgeted uncomfortably, twisting the seatbelt in her hands. She still had it attached, even though the car was parked. Adele didn’t blame her; sometimes people latched onto anything for a feeling of safety.

  The woman shifted again and seemed unsure whom she ought to address. At last, she settled on looking at Adele. “We don’t dislike our country. At least, not all of us. Not really. There are a lot of reasons someone might move away. Culture, changing jobs. I can’t tell you how many hours most of us had to work back home. Sometimes it feels like in America you just live to work. In France, it feels like there is more of a life. Plus there are so many different people you can meet; a common history and architectural beauty…” She trailed off, shaking her head slightly. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling. Don’t get me wrong; I do like America too, sometimes,” she added quickly. “But everyone has their priorities and tastes. Some people love to travel. Some people want to start over. I can’t imagine it’s that strange.”

  Adele shook her head. “It isn’t,” she said, “but you said you met Amanda briefly before. How?”

  Melissa brightened at this. “I… I met her while shopping. We…” She hesitated, her tone slipping. And she swallowed. “We met in a checkout line at Le Grande Epicerie de Paris…”

  “The grocery store?” Adele asked.

  Melissa’s eyes were sad, but a bit of humor crept into her tone as she said, “It’s—it’s a bit of a joke among our community. The USA section at the store only carries things like peanut butter cups, popcorn, beef jerky—a funny interpretation of what Paris believes are the staples back home…” Melissa hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s not uncommon for Americans to shop there. Some of us find it ironic; others…”

  “Like the peanut butter cups and beef jerky?”

  Both women smiled. But Melissa’s faded first. “I’m one of the moderators of our online community. I heard Amanda checking out, speaking to a friend in English. I’m-I’m the one”—her voice cracked, but she pushed through—“who invited her to our group.”

  “Moderator?” Agent Paige said.

  “She keeps the community running,” Adele replied quickly, then looked back at Melissa.

  Melissa interjected. “I’m one of ten. There are quite a few moderators. I don’t usually deal with new members, but Amanda was… she seemed so friendly.”

  Adele nodded sympathetically and allowed an appropriate amount of time to pass before asking, “Is there anything else you can tell us about her?”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “The victim had a strange injury,” Agent Paige said, carefully. “Do you know…” She hesitated, as if trying to find a delicate way to put it, but then shrugged and continued, “…why her kidney was missing?”

  Melissa’s eyes widened in horror, and she stared past Adele now, transfixed by the older agent. Melissa stammered and shook her head, but she turned away again, staring out the window. This time, she didn’t turn back.

  Adele exhaled deeply, but then waved at the two police officers, gesturing back toward the vehicle. She stepped from the street onto the curb and called out, “Thank you for your time, Ms. Robinson.”

  Agent Paige followed after her. Muttering beneath her breath, and stepping up the sidewalk, Adele whispered, “What’s wrong with you?”

  Paige frowned. “Careful who you’re talking to.”

  “Are you trying to scare our witness?”

  “No, I was asking a valid question. I waited until the end of the interrogation.”

  “She’s not a suspect.” Adele glanced toward the figure in the back of the police car once more and tried to suppress her frown. “It wasn’t an interrogation. We were questioning a witness.”

  “Be that as it may, I waited until the end of the questions to ask her. It’s an important point. We still don’t know why the kidneys are missing.”

  Adele couldn’t disagree with this, but she still felt a sense of frustration. At her partner’s comment, though, her eyes widened. “Wait, what do you mean kidneys? More than one? I thought only one kidney was missing.”

  Agent Paige looked at her fingernails. “Yes, one. But also from the second victim.”

  Wait,” Adele said. “Both of them were missing a kidney? How come I wasn’t told this sooner? When did you find out?”

  Agent Paige waved airily. “I just received the call a few minutes ago. I wonder why they called me instead of you.” Adele glared at her, and Agent Paige shrugged and began to move back toward her vehicle. “We should check back at headquarters and see if we can get the social media platform to release the information about this e
xpat group.”

  Adele continued to stare at her partner. “Were you even planning to tell me about the second kidney if I hadn’t asked?”

  Paige was already opening the driver’s door of her car. “I’m telling you now. They emailed the report. I’ll send it along in a minute.”

  Adele braced herself, shaking her head. The two police officers were already getting back into their vehicle, preparing to take Amanda back home. Adele stood between the police vehicles and the old apartment building. It was starting to feel like she was in over her head. The killer was still out there. He killed at a three-day pace. That meant he could strike again within the next forty-eight hours.

  She shivered at the thought and tried to avoid looking in Agent Paige’s direction. The sight of the older woman only set her blood boiling.

  Still, perhaps Paige was right about one thing. They needed to talk with the online forum service provider to figure out if they could get information about the users. Adele wondered about the reasons why Americans were coming to France. Amanda had been polite about her thoughts of America, but perhaps there were others who weren’t so fond of their home country.

  Did that have something to do with it? Maybe the motive for why the two victims had left American to come to France would be a connecting point. Adele watched the two vehicles pull from the curb; first Agent Paige’s SUV, and then the police car.

  Still frowning to herself, Adele moved back over to her own vehicle. She felt her phone chirp, and glanced down as she slid into the front seat. An email attachment had been sent by Paige.

  Adele wondered again if Paige was intentionally going out of her way to sabotage the investigation. But of course, if Adele went to complain to Foucault, she would never hear the end of it. She couldn’t afford to make an even greater enemy out of Paige. Right now, it was a matter of petty nuisance and annoyance, but further escalation could prove dangerous.

  Vaguely, Adele wondered how that woman had five adopted kids and a husband. She seemed insufferable.

  She sighed through her nose, opened the email attachment, and began to scan the reports. They would have to send a request to Foucault to get permission to approach the social media company for information on the expat forum. Right now, it felt like a race against the clock. What tied these two victims together? Why were they both missing kidneys?

  Adele examined the photos and felt a shiver up her arms. The cuts had been small; the incisions clean. They’d been done hurriedly, though. On both victims, the incisions were matching.

  Adele texted Robert: Meet you at the office. Something came up—housewarming will have to wait. She lowered her phone, tossing it over onto the passenger seat, then buckled up, put the keys in the ignition, and set the car in gear, pulling away from the curb and heading back toward the DGSI headquarters. Questions swirled through her mind, and the sense of urgency pressed on her like a cloud.

  With matching incisions, it meant it was the same killer, then. There had still been a possibility it wasn’t serial. But now, that notion seemed far-fetched. It was the same person killing these women. The only question was why? For pleasure or compulsion? Or some other reason? And when would they kill again?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Shiloah Watkins stood by the door to her new apartment, adjusting the security chain. She felt a buzz in her pocket and sighed, pressing her hand against the rectangular form of her phone. She didn’t need to check to guess it was her mother texting for the millionth time about the two murders in the city. An entire ocean separated them now, but her mother only seemed more interested in Shiloah’s business. An echo of her mother’s voice nagged in her head, and Shiloah checked the locks again, then turned away from the door and moved through the small hallway in the direction of her bedroom.

  She paused by the bathroom door and glanced in, noting her towel had fallen and was now bunched up beneath the rack. She muttered softly to herself and approached the towel, lifted it, and hung it again.

  The shower itself was notably devoid of shampoos, and only had a single, whittled yellow bar of soap.

  She’d only been in France for a few days now and had yet to muster the courage to go grocery shopping. Shiloah reached up and tugged at her hair, she emitting a grunt of disgust as her fingers rubbed against the grainy texture.

  It was a scary thing, coming to France. She’d only graduated with a bachelor’s in linguistics two months before. Now, she’d be working as an English tutor.

  Shiloah moved away from the towel rack and over to the sink, peering into the mirror and studying her expression. She had always possessed a fondness for France—ever since a study-abroad program two years ago. Now, she hoped to live here permanently.

  Shiloah heard a quiet buzzing from her pocket and reached down, pulling her phone out. As she’d expected, there were three missed calls from her mother.

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but then noticed another red number next to a blue blip on the screen. She frowned. The messenger app displayed a notification from the Yankees in Paris.

  It was a silly title for a group, but a couple of blogs she’d read—in preparation for the big move—had suggested the online community as a way to make connections in the new city.

  Shiloah scanned the group and noticed a message from one of the moderators. They’d accepted her application to the group. There would be a get-together sometime in the next week.

  It took her a moment to translate the message. A lot of them could speak English perfectly well as they were from America for the most part, but preferred to communicate in French to help acclimate new members. Shiloah struggled with a couple of the words, but managed to finally translate the message and determine the location and time of the coming meet-up.

  She typed, “Thank you. See you then!” and turned from the bathroom door, heading toward her room.

  She again brushed her hair behind her ear, wincing as her knuckles trailed against her bangs. Three days without a proper conditioner did that to someone. In the past, her mother had often sent her soaps and shampoos in care packages to her dorm room. A lot of her friends often joked that twenty-two was the new fifteen, but in her case, Shiloah was now in another country, living on her own for the first time with no dorm mates to speak of.

  As she turned, walking toward her bedroom, trying to put thoughts of her dry hair behind her, she heard a quiet tap on the door.

  Shiloah frowned and turned.

  Another quiet tap.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  A pause, and for a moment she thought she’d been hearing things.

  But then a voice replied, “Maintenance.”

  Her frown deepened. She hadn’t requested any maintenance. Still, she supposed perhaps this was routine for new tenants. “Coming!” she called.

  She opened the door and reached for the chain. Her hand hovered for a moment before she unhooked it. She thought of the murders her mother had read about in the news.

  Her hand lowered for second, and she pressed an eye to the peephole, peering out into the apartment hallway and noticing a man standing there in uniform with a name tag she couldn’t quite read. He wore a yellow hat and carried a toolbox which now rested on the banister.

  The man had a young face boasting no facial hair. He almost looked as if he might be her age. For some reason, this put her a bit more at ease. Shiloah adjusted the chain and slid the bolt before twisting the knob and pulling the door open.

  “Hello,” she said in French.

  The young man in the maintenance uniform nodded at her.

  She now read on his chest the name Freddie. She wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t a particularly French name. “Did the landlord send you?” she asked. She kept the door open, wide enough so it wasn’t rude, but she still stood in the way, one hand braced against the frame in a sort of protective posture, preparing to shut it if she sensed anything awry.

  But the man was smiling now. He made eye contact, held it, and said, “Yes, just routine. I�
��m supposed to check on the pipes. I hear there’s been a leak.”

  She frowned and began to shake her head, but then hesitated. “Not aware I am that of,” she said, slowly. “I did—no, sorry, did not—hmm, yes, did not ask for anything.” She struggled to find the words in French, but managed to eventually complete the sentence to her satisfaction.

  The young man gazed at her in an expression of confusion. He had a very pleasant face with nearly feminine features. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled, and the slope of his nose was smooth and cherubic. He displayed kind eyes with the suggestion of crow’s feet at the corners; perhaps he wasn’t as young as he first looked.

  “I do believe it was the downstairs complaining about a leak coming from your bathroom,” he said in slow French. Obviously he detected her accent, and was trying to communicate as best he could. He spoke the language perfectly, but with a bit of a regional dialect—like the difference between a Texan and a Californian. His words came in a musical, disarming sort of way.

  Slowly, Shiloah pushed the door open a bit more. He made no aggressive moves, his hands now at his waist, his toolbox still resting on the banister.

  “Someone downstairs said there’s a leak?” she asked.

  He winced apologetically and nodded. “Through the ceiling; there’s mold. I can come back later. I’ll go talk to the landlord if you want.”

  She paused, then quickly shook her head. “No, that won’t be necessary.” The last thing she needed was to cause trouble on her first week as a tenant. After all the trouble she’d gone through for months arguing with her mother about the move, she couldn’t stomach the thought of being evicted.

  She stepped aside, smiling at the dimple-faced man. The crow’s feet in the corners of his young eyes bunched up as he returned the expression. Yes, she thought to herself, perhaps he wasn’t as young as he first seemed.

  He had long hair pulled back in a ponytail beneath his hat, and he stepped past, nodding at her as he maneuvered into the apartment. He really was quite handsome.

  The man hitched his belt, hefting the toolbox, and pointed toward the hall. “Bathroom?” he asked.