by Blake Pierce
And now, she had the killer’s response. Another woman butchered in an empty park.
Though her eyes were now open, the same images flashed across her mind. Bleeding… bleeding… always bleeding.
She saw her own mother, pictures from that crime scene playing like a slideshow through her subconscious. She shivered and rolled in the bed, facing the blue wall as if to block out the procession of horror.
The thoughts had chased her from France to Germany.
Medical leave. Mental health.
Adele actually winced at the memory of speaking to Foucault, requesting time off. He’d been more than understanding, but her own pride had taken a hit. What did the others think of her? Agent Paige? John? Robert?
She should have dived headfirst into the case—gone after the killer. But… but she simply hadn’t been able to. For a week now, she felt weakened, beleaguered. An exhaustion and fatigue she’d rarely felt before. Once, perhaps. Depression, they’d said. After her mother’s death.
Now, she was squarely back in the horrible, dark, lonely room of her own mind.
Back in her father’s house. The two of them hadn’t really even reconciled yet, not after he’d concealed information on her mother’s case. The same case now haunting her. But she’d had nowhere else to go, and, to his credit, he hadn’t turned her away. They’d even managed a couple of cordial conversations over bowls of soup—about anything besides work.
As if summoning him with thought alone, Adele heard the creak of the stairs outside her room. She jarred, blinking, looking over at her closed door.
Knuckles knocked quietly.
She shivered.
“Adele?” her father said. She’d flat out refused to be called by her last name any longer, and, though it had taken some getting used to, her father had finally relented.
“Busy,” she called to the door.
“Just—just checking. Are you all right?”
Adele drew her blanket up around her shoulders, her eyes sealed shut for a moment, staving off a sudden headache.
“Fine… I’m fine,” she said.
“Look, Adele, I—I…” Her father stumbled over the words. “It’s been a week. You’ve barely left your room. I just wanted to—”
“We had dinner together last night,” she retorted, frowning now.
“That was two nights ago, Adele. I’m beginning to worry about you.”
Adele breathed slowly, feeling a flutter of unease in her chest. Even the thought of fear seemed to bring it raging back for no reason at all. She quelled the sense and exhaled through her nose, breathing slowly. “I’m fine, Dad. It’s fine.”
Another long, awkward pause. For a moment, she thought perhaps he’d left, though she hadn’t heard his footsteps on the stairs.
Then he spoke rapidly, as if worried he might not get the words out. “Look, Adele, if this is about your mother’s case…”
She rolled her eyes up and puffed a geyser of exasperated breath at the ceiling. “Damn it, Dad—not now. I said I’m busy.” She felt a flash of regret at the words. Was she being harsh? It was hard to tell. Confusion was part of the panic, she’d been told. Still, just in case, she added, “Sorry. Look, I’d love to chat in an hour. Would that be okay? We can watch TV or something.”
Her father seemed relieved at this olive branch and cleared his throat—a muffled, gurgling sound through the wooden door. “Great, sounds great, Sharp—er, Adele. Yes. I’ll make some chowder soup.”
Then, mercifully, at last, she heard his retreating footsteps moving back down the stairs and leaving her to her solace.
Adele breathed again, in for five seconds, out for seven, slow, calm…
Her father was the only other person who understood the pain, the horror of it all. He processed it in other ways, but there was something about grief that required company.
Adele sighed, sitting up now and massaging her head. She felt a shuddering headache where she sat, and blinked. For six days now, languishing around the house, she didn’t feel better for it. She felt stuck, like a car in mud, spinning its wheels.
John Renee had offered some words earlier in the week, speaking from his own past of loss and pain. But she didn’t need a shrink. Every other area with John seemed to be stuck also. Maybe even in the same mud pit. Except in that circumstance, instead of a car, she felt like a stick. Completely helpless.
“Christ,” she muttered, remembering their last conversation.
“…Are you sure?” he’d said, his voice over the phone. “If there’s anything I can do…”
“No, John,” she’d said, in the same bed she now found herself in, watching videos on her phone. “Maybe… maybe I need some space. It’s all so heavy.”
“Right,” he said. “Space.”
“I think”—she had coughed—“I think maybe we need to back off, you know? What do you think?”
“Sounds appropriate. All right, Adele. If there’s anything you need.”
That had been the last she’d spoken with her partner. She’d worried that by asking for space, he’d want to do the opposite. John Renee was notorious for defying expectations. But he’d actually respected her words. She appreciated this at the least. Some battles were best fought alone. John wouldn’t understand—he couldn’t.
Adele sighed again in frustration, lying in bed. She wasn’t sure what else to do—it felt like she’d curled up, allowing her emotions to pummel her, ganging up with her thoughts.
Just then, a quiet buzzing sound emanated from the chest across from her bed.
She blinked and looked over, spotting a glowing blue light, then groaned.
For a moment, she considered ignoring the phone. But then, deciding whoever was on the other end couldn’t be worse than her own subconscious, she got up, still groaning, and, with what felt like lead in her feet, she stumbled over to the chest and snagged the phone.
“What?” she said.
“Hello, Adele,” said a familiar voice.
She sighed softly now. “Hey, Robert.”
Her old mentor and friend was just another one of the dishes waiting to be served from the back burner of calamity. Terminally ill. Yet he’d gone back to work during treatments. A few months left, perhaps a year? Maybe more.
She sighed as another jolt of sheer despair rattled her dwindling form.
“My dear, how are you?”
“I’m fine—how are you?”
“Marvelous. I have a job for you.”
Adele blinked. Frowned. Then cursed, loud. “Damn it, Robert. Did Foucault put you up to this?”
Her mentor cleared his throat delicately on the other side. “No, dear. No, of course not. It was a… mutual consideration.” Then, in a gentler, more personable tone, he said, “You can’t tell me you don’t want to get out of the house, dear. It’s been a week. Your father called Agent Renee yesterday. Said he was worried. Said you’ve been cooped up—”
“He did what?” she said, finding some of the anxiety in her chest replaced by a surge of fury. “Damn it. How does he even have John’s number?”
“I don’t know, dear,” Robert said in a tone suggesting he would have patted her cheek if they’d been in the same room.
“Damn it. Foucault knows I’m on leave.”
Robert swallowed delicately. “He seemed to believe that if I called, you might be more willing to listen.”
“A job? It’s not—”
“No! Not that one, of course not. Foucault is industrious, not cruel. No. A different job.”
“Robert, no. No—I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“Adele, they’re asking for you specifically.”
“And I’m refusing, specifically.”
Robert huffed in frustration on the other end. For the normally even-tempered Frenchman this was as good as a scream. “This is a career-maker, Adele. They’re asking for you specifically. Understand? The others involved are in over their heads.”
“A career-maker? Sounds like more stress, Robert. I
don’t think—”
“Adele, you’re a hunter. Hunters need to hunt. Not hunting isn’t going to stress you out less—it’ll make things worse. Do what you were made to do! Not in France,” he added quickly. “I understand. But… But they’re asking for you, Adele. Do you know how rare that is?”
She sighed, gnawing on her lip. All sorts of thoughts flashed through her mind. Robert was ill. Did she really want to disappoint him? Besides, her career mattered to her. It mattered to her family’s legacy. It mattered for more reasons than she even could properly articulate.
In a numb, quiet voice, she murmured, “Where is it?”
“You’re interested.”
“Tell me where first.”
“The Sistine Chapel.”
Adele hesitated, her eyebrows inching closer for a moment. Now, a niggling in her mind arose over the other emotions. A feeling recently foreign but which she recognized now as burgeoning curiosity. Even a bloodhound with a cold still yearned for a scent to chase. This wasn’t the same as the case in France, was it? This case would be in the Vatican, far away from the prying eyes of DGSI employees. Far away from it all. Practically a vacation. She winced. What could it hurt to hear Robert out? Just to listen, that was all. She didn’t have to take the case.
Adele breathed softly, and then, with a roll of her eyes, she said, “I’m not agreeing. No, don’t smile. I can hear you smiling. Just tell me about the case.”
CHAPTER THREE
Adele felt the cool glass of the phone against her cheek and closed her eyes in her dark, dingy upstairs room. She exhaled slowly. “I read about this one,” she said. “Details were scant. But was the victim on hooks? Dangling from the ceiling.”
“Just so. Hooks in flesh, but a noose around the neck,” said Robert on the other line. He spoke softly, but she detected a hint of zeal in his tone. Much like a fisherman, he seemed to realize she’d taken the bait. Her old mentor knew her well enough that if one thing could override despair, at least temporarily, it would be her own natural curiosity and desire for justice.
“I read about another one a few days ago—that one at Notre Dame. Connected?”
“We believe so. Same sort of thing. Body suspended from the ceiling by hooks. Also hung. There was a riddle.”
“Hang on, a riddle?”
“The killer left a clue in Notre Dame where he would strike next. Did the same in the Sistine Chapel.”
“And the clue is a riddle?”
“I’ll send them to you with the case files.”
Adele sighed. “He’s playing a game, then? Notre Dame, and then the Sistine Chapel? How’s he getting in?”
“Not sure yet. They’re calling him the Tourist, some of them are calling him the Monument Killer. No name has quite stuck yet.”
“Yuck.”
“Precisely.”
“Well… haven’t been to Italy in a while.”
Robert chuckled on the other end, but then burst into a round of coughing. Adele felt a flash of pain in her heart at the mere sound.
“Are you okay?” she said, reflexively.
He quickly covered, though, by muting his microphone and then, a few moments later, his voice weaker, he said, “Fine, fine. Look, Adele, I’m glad you’re on board.” He paused. “You are on board, aren’t you?”
She murmured a quiet oath, but then nodded in her empty room. “I guess. This once.”
“Excellente! I’ll send the case files over immediately.”
“Tickets already booked?”
“You know they are.”
Adele rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Robert. Talk to you later.”
He bid farewell and then they hung up. For a moment, Adele stood next to the chest at the foot of her bed, listening to the creaking house. She could hear her father from below, humming softly through the floorboards—likely near the kitchen by the sound of things. She glanced at the light switch on her wall. Her father had insisted she turn off the lights to conserve electricity. But even the Sergeant had eased up a little. At least this time he didn’t ask her to squeegee the shower door after use.
Still, it would be nice to leave Germany. Leave a house full of memories. Then again, most of her memories would come with her, carry-on. This new case, though, hopefully it would distract.
She waited for her phone to buzz, glanced at the flight itinerary, and then began moving around the room, packing the few items she’d brought with her.
***
Adele had the whole row to herself as she leaned back in the economy seat, and her eyes scanned her laptop. Normally, her partner-in-crime, John Renee, would be seated next to her, likely scarfing peanuts or snoring so loudly she couldn’t focus. Now, though, the seats next to her felt conspicuously… empty.
The crime scene photos were horrific enough. As Robert had described, the victims had been hung by a noose—wrapped around a column in one instance and through an ornamental slot in an arch in another. Hooks also stretched from the rope, looped through the victims’ flesh. The hooks seemed used to put the victims’ bodies in strange poses. Like the figure of Christ, the Sistine Chapel victim had his arms stretched out, the hooks gouged through his palms, holding his hands aloft. But the first victim, at Notre Dame—the hooks had been used to clasp the man’s hands together beneath his chin, as if in the prayers of a silent corpse.
Adele flicked through the digital images with a rising sense of unease and disgust. She shivered as she stared and felt the plane around her rattle and shudder a bit from turbulence. The killer had already made it clear he would strike again. In the first crime scene, at Notre Dame, he’d left a riddle, mentioning things like glass stained and all roads bled… Looking at it now, it hinted at the Sistine Chapel.
Papal regret sings in glass
Stained in martyrs and saints
The noble souls feast or fast
All roads bled in paints
It wasn’t clear and, in Adele’s—admittedly biased—perspective, the killer was a bit wordy and full of himself. Still, the first riddle was no longer of much use, except in interpreting the second one.
This new riddle, this new clue, held Adele’s attention even more.
The newest one, found at the last crime scene.
She moved away from the crime scene photos of death suspended in architectural beauty, and now read the second riddle in the file Robert had sent. A small, handwritten thing in crimson letters, transposed.
The high place of the Great
never the Virgin’s fault
met an empire’s fate
pillars of nations fall
Adele reread the riddle, frowning as she did. Without knowing the next crime scene, it was far more difficult to place the location. But the killer was playing games—this was clear. Games that Adele didn’t wish to participate in. Robert had taught her never to engage on their level. But sometimes, one didn’t have a choice.
Still, riddles were fine, but she’d caught killers before without the help. For all she knew, it was a distraction, an intentional, contrived attempt to dissuade the investigation.
Curious, though—certainly curious. Foucault had known what he was doing when he’d used Robert to reach out to her. The case was too interesting, too strange. He’d known she would take it—come out of hiding.
Adele sighed and flipped to the next document, wiggling a bit and rubbing her shoulders against the rough cloth covering of her economy backrest. She winced, trying to find a more comfortable position. Then, as she settled, she scanned the next item in the document.
The victims’ descriptions. In Notre Dame, a German tourist—with little else of note. The Sistine Chapel victim, though, was an American cardinal visiting from New York. No connection between them as far as Adele could tell.
Both crime scenes, though, high-profile cathedrals now turned to museums. Tourist spots, but also historical spots. The press was calling this new killer the Monument Killer. But Adele felt this was a hasty assumption that the killer was choosi
ng the locations because of some itinerant desire for spectacle. The places had other things in common: deeply religious, historically rich.
So what was the motive in it all?
She clicked back to the riddle and read it again. “The high place of the Great…” she murmured softly to herself, blinking as she thought.
It wasn’t clear to her. But she had a sinking suspicion that if she didn’t hurry, the killer would make it clear enough. This case was a career-maker, according to Robert. A vindication of all she’d been through. A vindication not only for herself, but her family. More than that, they’d asked for her specifically.
Adele felt a sudden chill at the thought. She gritted her teeth. Some cases were reputation-makers. Others were reputation-killers. Was this really the smartest move? Taking a career-maker while in the midst of a panic attack? What if she had another meltdown? What if the killer was too clever for her this time? He was wordy, obnoxious, evil—yes. But clearly also clever and shrewd. Perhaps even cleverer than any killer she’d yet faced.
Then again, it was too late to back out now. She’d already placed her career on the altar, and a knife hovered high above it, ready to plunge deep.
CHAPTER FOUR
Adele reached the front of the Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport in Rome and peered through the glass partition, waiting. She could just vaguely glimpse, past the open runways, the reflection of blue from the Tyrrhenian Sea in the coastal distance. Then she watched a slim black vehicle pull up to the curb and a few moments later, her phone buzzed, displaying an unknown number with a single word: “Outside.”
She glanced again at the text on her phone, and then moved through the sliding doors to the pickup lane of the terminal. As she did, she frowned slightly. Robert had told her that her partner for the case would pick her up. She’d simply assumed it would be John. But the number was unknown.
A new partner?
The window to the black vehicle rolled down and a hand lifted slowly in a gesture of greeting. As the hand lowered, though, Adele nearly fell over.