by Blake Pierce
John, with fire in his eyes, glared at Adele. “You’re damn right I’m gonna be there.” He turned away, muttering beneath his breath about stupid Americans and their stupid plans.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
He whistled softly, allowing the notes to calm his mood. It wasn’t going to work. The last volunteer who’d been interested in donating to save his father couldn’t be met with. Her routine was too erratic. Her housemates were always home. No, it was a bust.
The young man glared at his computer. He stood, rather than sat. He knew well enough the problems with circulation if someone sat too long. He was nothing if not health-conscious, especially given what had happened to his father.
What had happened?
He glanced over his shoulder toward the couch where his father sat watching TV. He smiled in the old man’s direction, still whistling, still humming, and giving a little wave.
His father waved back.
“Soon,” the young man said, loud enough for both of them to hear. He saw his father nod, a sleepy expression on his face.
The young man winced and reached down, pressing his fingers against the tender portion of his abdomen. It would be fine. He would be fine. His father would be fine. He clicked through the computer, scanning the information the man he’d hired had sent him.
It would have been too risky to join the group himself. But thankfully, his time at university had connected him with all sorts. One particularly smart fellow, who wasn’t as interested in following the law as most, was willing to hack into any site for a certain fee.
That had been the rest of the man’s savings for medical school. But it was worth it. It was how he had found the last three volunteers. This fourth one wasn’t going to work out, though. There had to be someone else. Someone else, who…
The man paused, reading the messages through the wall of black and green text which his hacker friend had supplied. He leaned in. Just this morning, someone had posted something about a party at their house. They were only newly arrived in France. They would be having the party tomorrow.
“Hello there,” he murmured quietly. The man began to hum, murmuring to himself like a mother swaddling a child and putting it to sleep.
“Oh dear, would you like to help my father?” he asked beneath his breath.
He clicked on the woman’s information and went to her profile. Thirty-three, golden hair. She gave her name as Adele Vermeal.
She had a pleasant face. Younger women had smaller bodies. This meant less strain on their organs. They would save his father.
“Thank you,” he whispered at the computer screen. He reached out a trembling finger and touched the face of Adele Vermeal. His finger trailed along her chin, and he found that he was starting to cry. “Thank you,” he said with a sob.
He looked back to his father.
A flash of pain shot through the son’s abdomen. He blinked, and, for the barest of moments, instead of his father, a ghoulish, skeletal face stared out from the couch. He blinked again. And the horrible visage was gone just as quickly as it had come. The faded, wrinkled, shriveled flesh was replaced by healthy, smooth skin. The sunken, empty, milky eyes reformed again, replaced by his father’s tender gaze. The crushed, broken fingers returned to their soft, trembling fleshy form, gripping the remote to the TV.
The young man shook his head. He winced as another flash of pain jolted through his right side, and he reached down, clasping it with his hand.
“This will all be over soon,” he murmured. He started humming again, whistling. She said the party would be tomorrow. But she had posted her address already.
Perfect. The man would just have to prepare his tools.
He loved volunteers.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Adele sat in the dark upstairs room of the safe house. Her eyes glazed over as she reclined by the window, staring out into the street. No traffic. Earlier, she’d seen a red jalopy with strangely tinted windows trundle by. But it hadn’t parked, and instead had continued around the block.
She’d been avoiding sleep for days, but now it seemed intent on collecting its due. She could barely keep her eyes open.
John was in the other room, hidden, waiting. He still thought this venture foolish. She was starting to think maybe he was right. She had posted on the message board hours ago. But nothing since—no surprise visits, no messages in return, no one seemed to care save a few likes on her post.
“Just a few more hours,” she said, trying to talk herself awake.
And yet, still, sleep drifted on her shoulders, weighing her down where she sat by the silent window. Her head lolled…
…her eyes closed…
…A sound jolted her awake.
Adele’s eyes snapped open. From the direction of the side room where John was hiding, she could hear snoring. So much for attentiveness. They’d both fallen asleep.
She immediately pushed out of the chair by the window and stood in the small, cloistered bedroom, glancing around. Vaguely, she wondered who had lived here before. There were small drawings on the wall, against the paint itself. The DGSI hadn’t taken the time to cover the sketches. They looked like the drawings of a child. A lot of blue, and monsters with fangs.
Adele smiled at the etchings. She glanced around the darkened room, then paused. She thought she heard a quiet engine, a rattling sound and a red streak moved up the street, visible through the window. She peered out at the car, but it disappeared around the block.
She stood still for a passing moment, but then shook her head, reaching up to wipe sleep from her eyes. She turned toward the window again, looking out into the streets once more.
No one. Not a soul moving along the smooth asphalt or segmented sidewalk divided by benches, bus stops, and natural ornamentation. She glanced at her smart watch: 3 AM. The dead of night.
She could still hear John snoring and made a mental note to tease him about it later.
She inhaled the still room’s air, her nose twitching. Whoever had used the safe house before had worn a powerful cologne. The lingering odor of a far too sweet citrusy smell clung to the walls and circulated the vents. Adele thought she detected mothballs as well.
She winced, scratched at her nose, moving away from the chair toward the door. She needed a breath of fresh air. Night was safe. The killer only struck during the day, posing as a maintenance man. His victims had died in the afternoon.
Convincing herself, Adele moved out of the room, and with quiet steps took the stairs, then turned down the short hall to the front door.
She checked the locks and the security camera array set up by the door. Four screens watched all four directions. No movement. On the camera facing the backyard, she thought she glimpsed the edge of a bumper behind the garage. A red bumper? Adele leaned in, peering closer, but shook her head. The car wasn’t moving. It was hard to tell anything. Probably just one of the neighbors. The killer struck in the afternoon. He wouldn’t change his MO.
He was harvesting organs. People in the business of greed and murder for profit were often reliable. They were scared of being caught. And they would remain predictable, because they thought their routine made them invincible.
She pushed out the front door and found her first step onto the patio sent a jolt of trembling up her spine.
Adele reached up, placing a hand against her cheek, half preparing to slap herself out of it. She was not a fearful woman. So why was she acting so scared all of a sudden?
Adele lowered her hand and rubbed her arms in quick, jerking motions to get the blood flowing once more. She needed to stay alert. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen asleep on the job. She thought of John’s snoring and smirked to herself. So much for the killing machine she’d partnered with. Her expression softened as she took the two steps onto the sidewalk and began moving up the empty street.
France at night was beautiful, but eerie. The large, looming structures in the distance cut jagged shapes of shadow against the skyline. The quie
t of the sidewalks and streets, the empty businesses, and the silent houses stood sentry in the dark, witnessing her progress up the sidewalk. She traced the cracks, stepping over the gaps in the stones, circling the planted trees, her eyes fixed ahead.
She heard something.
Adele turned sharply, her hand darting to the weapon on her hip. Someone was coming toward her. Someone in a hood. She stared and began to raise a hand, calling out.
A flash of silver in the person’s hand. Her weapon jerked from its holster, pointing toward the oncoming aggressor. “Don’t,” she began, but then she froze, and just as quickly stowed her gun before the person noticed.
A young woman was staring at the sidewalk, hood up, earbuds in, muttering to herself beneath her breath as she strode purposefully up the nighttime streets. Suddenly, as if catching a look of Adele out of the corner of her eye, she pulled up sharply and stared, wide-eyed from beneath her hood. It didn’t seem like she’d noticed the gun.
The young woman stopped a few paces away, took one look at Adele, then cautiously moved across to the other side of the street, making a big deal as if she’d intended to cross all along.
Adele watched the young woman put earbuds deep in her ears again, adjust her hood, then set off at a jog. Adele wanted to call out, to tell her it wasn’t safe wandering the streets at night. But another part of her knew most people didn’t live in her world. Most weren’t confronted with murder and death on the daily. The chances of something happening to that young woman in this part of the neighborhood was relatively low. Adele couldn’t protect everyone. People had to make their own choices.
She turned back to the house, still inhaling deeply through her nose and wandering up the street.
It took her a few more minutes to gather her breath and completely rid herself of the scent of strong cologne and mothballs which lingered on her clothes. Finally, brushing her sleeves and turning back to the safe house, Adele moved once more.
A sudden scraping sound drifted down the street from behind her; again Adele whirled around, heart in her throat.
This time, though, it was just a metal sign across the way, advertising a shoe store on the other block. Buffeted by the pawing wind, the sign scratched against the sidewalk, one of its rope fastenings having loosened.
Adele stared at the metal sign and smiled grimly to herself. This time, she did reach up and slap gently against her face. Focus, she thought. She shook her head and then turned, moving back to the house and taking the patio steps.
Just seeing ghosts, she thought. Adele grabbed the door handle and turned it.
She stepped into the dark house, wishing she had left a light on. But she hadn’t wanted to alert anyone. If the killer did decide to change his MO, she had wanted to catch him off guard.
Darkness was a close ally of ambush.
She stepped further into the hall, felt a sudden breezy chill, and quickly closed the door behind her. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst idea to get at least a little light. It wasn’t like she’d seen anyone on the streets anyway. Adele reached toward the light switch by the living room door frame.
Then, a sudden sound of shuffling movement.
Her heart invaded her throat.
A pale hand snaked around the doorway and snared her wrist. With a powerful yank, the hand dragged her forward.
Adele yelled in surprise and horror. She caught a glimpse of a young man, wearing a bright hat. But she couldn’t see much else except for a flash of metal arcing toward her neck.
She yelled and jerked back.
Adele managed to dodge the swiping blade, but the man still gripped her by the wrist. For the briefest moment, they struggled, and Adele heard something… something strange.
The man was humming.
She winced, her blood pumping, terror fueling her.
“John!” she screamed. “John, downstairs!” Adele wanted to move, but she couldn’t distance herself. The young man’s grip was too strong.
The strange humming continued, interrupted only by grunts of exertion as he began tugging at her. His eyes were vacant as he stared at her and smiled like a jack-o’-lantern.
“Let go of me!” she screeched.
Her off-hand reached for her gun. Despite his grip, she still twisted, trying to reach across her waist to the holster on her opposite hip. She had to stop, though, as the blade sliced toward her neck a second time, but this time Adele kicked out, catching her assailant in the knee. He released his grip and stumbled back.
Adele rapidly pulled her firearm from her hip and took aim, but before she could squeeze off a shot, the man lunged toward her again with a snarl. He tackled her, sending her clattering to the ground with a painful grunt. Her head whipped back, slamming into the floorboards, and dark spots danced across her vision. She lay stunned for a moment, but found it difficult to breathe.
As the fog cleared, she realized his full weight was pressed on her, crushing her chest, impeding her lungs. “Get—get off!” she tried to shout, but the words came out jumbled, and she continued to gasp, unable to draw breath.
The man’s hand fumbled against the floorboards, reaching past her, his body still thick against her, holding her down.
“Thank you,” he said in a wheezing voice, “thank you so much for volunteering! Thank you!”
Then he began humming again. Adele felt shivers up the back of her spine, angling her head and extending her fingers toward her weapon which had landed in the threshold of the dining room against the floorboards. Her fingers scrabbled against the wood, and her eyes widened. Even with shallow breaths, she could feel the fear flooding her. Her fingers brushed the butt of the gun, just as the man lashed out with his knife again.
This time, though, he’d seen her groping hand and had aimed toward her fingers.
A flash of pain. She jerked her hand just in time to avoid losing a finger, but the knife had sliced her middle finger and forefinger. A deep, deep cut, she could already tell by the pain and the sudden warm wetness pulsing down her fingers and hand.
The pain was secondary, though, to her need to breathe.
She no longer cried out or protested; she needed what little air was left in her lungs to stay conscious. If she passed out now, it would all be over.
The man’s knife moved again, this time angling toward her throat. He sat on her, straddling her chest, his legs on either side of her, pinning one of her arms and trapping her abdomen. Her bleeding hand jutted forward, catching the knife before it sliced her throat.
It cut her palm this time, sending another spasm of pain through her already mangled hand.
A squeak of pain escaped her lips, and the man stopped humming to snarl in frustration. He sliced down again, but this time, with her bloody hand, Adele managed to fling her palm out and catch his wrist.
He was strong, but not unusually so. She held his wrist tight, shoving his hand back.
The man whimpered like a scalded child. He tried to dislodge her grip, shifting a bit, pushing even more air from Adele’s body.
Now, the black spots had returned. She was gasping, but no air managed to enter her crushed, compressed lungs. Where is John? she thought, vaguely.
The man kept yanking his arm, trying to dislodge it. And, in one last, desperate play, as darkness closed in and consciousness fled, Adele released her grip and flung her bleeding hand toward the man’s face. Hot droplets of crimson speckled his nose and cheek. Her hand slapped against his eyes and the blood pouring from her fingers drenched his face, momentarily filling his eyes.
The man howled and reflexively, his hands darted to clear his gaze. A human could always be expected to maintain their vision—it was a primal instinct Adele had been counting on.
Now, with both his hands arching toward his eyes, she had a brief window where the knife wasn’t a threat. She lunged again for her gun, no longer breathing. Her head pounded in pain from a lack of oxygen. Her motion was weak—in this fading state, she’d overestimated her ability to move quickly.
With sluggish motions, though, her fingers, still slick with blood, grappled the butt of her firearm. But the blood made the gun slick. Her fingers slipped off it.
The man had managed to wipe his eyes now. And he took only the faintest moment to steady himself and blink, before slashing at her again with the blade.
Nothing for it. She simply turned her head and jerked to the side. A necessary sacrifice.
She felt pain across her cheek and down her ear. The slice was deep—the knife sharp. Still, if she’d tried to catch it again, she would have died in moments. Only a few seconds of air left. Her fingers scraped the slippery gun again. The man began to cut again, this time leaning forward a bit to reach her neck.
At the same moment, she finally managed to snare her gun—he was single-mindedly focused now on her throat.
A costly mistake.
Another cut now across her neck, shallow at first, but she could feel the blade dragging almost in slow motion as she brought her weapon around at the same time.
She couldn’t angle her arm, due to his extended hands, to get a clean shot. Now, the sound was all she needed. Distraction. Wake John. Desperation.
She fired twice.
The man and his knife jerked back as if he’d been torched. But he moved too quickly to have been hit. Far too quickly.
Adele, gasping now, desperately gulping in air, lay on the floor, her vision still clearing. It took her a moment to clear her vision; as she did, she glimpsed a shadow of motion hurtling toward the kitchen.
Gasping, chest heaving, she pushed herself up as quickly as possible, but the rapid motion caused her head to swim and she jerked back down, half sitting, half lying, still gathering her thoughts in a pool of blood widening down her cheek and beneath her hand.
Still, pain was secondary.
The bastard couldn’t be allowed to escape.
He’d fled toward the kitchen: a mistake. The windows in the kitchen were barred, the door reinforced per agency standards. He didn’t have the key; he was trapped. Or was she the one trapped?