by Blake Pierce
John breathed a shallow puff, then moved on to the next window. His feet padded against damp grass next to a large, whirring air-conditioning unit. He paused by the next window and peered into the house. For a moment, he thought he heard something. Movement? A quiet whimper?
His spine tingled and John’s hand instinctively went to his gun. But again, though he pressed his cheek against the cool glass, he couldn’t see inside the house.
Picking up the pace a bit, still half-crouched, he made his way around the back of the house, coming face to face with a sliding glass door next to a series of plants in ceramic pots. Then John froze.
A light was on inside, pulsing in the kitchen. No curtain on the glass door. The fence behind the yard was large enough to block any prying eyes.
And the scene that confronted him was like something out of a nightmare.
A figure was standing over another person. The first figure held something glinting in their right hand and wore black gloves and a black face mask, now lowered to their chin. Andrew?
The second person lay on the kitchen table. Their hands were bound to the tops of the chairs which were wedged beneath the table. Their shirt was missing and their chest was covered in blood.
“Merde!” John cursed and his instincts kicked in a micro-second later. He’d been right about Mr. Maldonado! The factory worker was in the middle of killing someone right now!
John shouted, raised his gun, fired twice. But Andrew was quick. He spun as the glass window shattered and crystalline shards scattered over the ground. He gripped his knife, speckling blood drops across the kitchen floor. For a moment, a pale face peered out over the lowered mask. John stared into the eyes of the killer.
“Stop!” John screamed.
But Andrew ignored him, turning on his heel and bolting to safety, behind the table laden with his victim. John shouted, but Andrew darted through the only available door remaining—into the pantry. The door clicked shut a second later and John rushed into the house, squeezing off another shot, but the bullet slammed into the wall next to the now sealed pantry door.
John felt his heart hammering in his chest. He could hear the sound of scrambling in the small closet space. For a moment, he thought to bully his way through the door, flinging his body at the wooden barricade. But what if Maldonado was armed?
John breathed a shallow sigh, listening to the sounds of movement turning to quiet stillness. Still staring at the sealed door, he heard a faint dripping and looked back to the kitchen table, watching as a line of crimson streaked down the surface of the table, spilled over the edge, and fell, tumbling one droplet at a time to splash across the tiled floor.
John gritted his teeth. The figure on the table moved again, groaning in pain. He was on a timer.
“You’re trapped in there,” John howled toward the pantry door. “Come out with your hands up!”
No sounds were forthcoming. For a moment, John wondered if perhaps there was an exit he hadn’t seen in the brief moments he’d glimpsed the interior of the food storage space. Amidst the cereal boxes, the noodles, and the dry goods, was there a back exit? He’d never heard of such a thing. No, he decided. The killer was still in there playing possum.
“I’m serious,” John said, growling. “I know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up, now, or I’m going to start shooting at the door and plug you through the wood.”
He raised his gun, aiming, deciding to go center mass, and then take another couple of shots toward the base of the door in case the killer had gone prone on the ground.
He heard another couple of dripping sounds, and wanted to scream. He had to hurry. The victim was bleeding out. But on the other hand, if he let the killer get away, Adele would never forgive him. He knew, deep in his bones, deep near where certainty was born, that he had found her mother’s killer. There was no other explanation.
Suddenly, a soft, lilting voice probed out from the dark pantry, through the shut wooden door, and John shivered at the sound. There was just something too calm, too cajoling about that voice. It was the voice of a kindly teacher, a mother at play with her children. The voice of a favorite older brother or sister. The gender was hard to determine. It was a high-pitched, lilting voice.
“Agent Renee,” came the voice, followed by a soft sigh. “Is that you?”
The chills along John’s spine only increased at the creepy tone of voice. The prickles had now reached his cheeks, and he resisted the urge to scream.
“Maldonado, come out of there now!”
“We could be friends, you know. We have a friend in common, you and I.”
“Shut up,” John howled. He wasn’t in the mood for games. “Come out here with your hands up.”
“She’s very marked, you know,” the voice continued as if it hadn’t heard John. “Do you think she knows you’re here? Do you think she can sense it? I’ve often wondered at that sort of thing.”
John kept his gun on the door and stepped forward. For one sickly moment, though, he decided that if he flung open the door, and the man inside was armed, then he would be putting himself in danger.
He heard the low, croaking groan of the victim behind him on the table. He heard the tap of crimson droplets against the tiled floor, as if increasing in tempo, suggesting his time was nearly fully spent.
“He is still alive,” said the soft voice. “You should call for help. He’s in a bad way. He’s been through a lot of pain.”
“Pain you put him through, bastard. Get out here now!” John was tired of asking and squeezed off a shot through the wooden door; splinters flew everywhere, a bullet hole punching through the center of the frame.
The voice continued as if it hadn’t even heard the gunshot.
“You think you could deliver a message to her—I mean, of course, after I get away and you’re left here, desperate and frustrated with yourself.”
“You’re cocky, aren’t you? Let’s see if you can get away from this.”
John fired two more shots. This time toward the floor, in case the killer had gone prone, but again, the killer’s voice kept coming from the pantry. The door, now punctured with holes, with splinters strewn across the ground, creaked open on old hinges. The door stood ajar, just enough to give John a glimpse of the shadows within. But not so much he could make out movement from inside the small compartment.
“You really should be careful. Our friend on that table doesn’t have much time left. We were playing together for nearly an hour before you showed up.”
John shivered at the sound. He felt a prickle meet the shiver along his spine. Fear in different forms, and yet, a fear he recognized. The scar across his chin itched, and the fear increased. But John had been in these situations before. He wasn’t about to let some deranged man get into his mind.
“I’m warning you, come out, now.”
“Do you remember Gerard?” said the voice.
John went stiff. His shoulder blades pressed against the counter, and he could feel his own chest thumping, his chin jutting forward now, his eyes wide, unblinking.
“What did you say?”
“Gerard; he was your copilot, wasn’t he? Six of you in total, wasn’t it? Does it weigh on you? You call me a monster, Agent Renee. But you’ve killed more people than I have. And you enjoy it, too, don’t you? I can always tell. You dirty dog.” The voice was laughing now.
John roared, and surged to his feet now. He wasn’t sure how Maldonado knew the names of his deceased brother copilot. That information about the helicopter crash was classified.
With a bellow like a wounded grizzly, John surged toward the shut door, flung open the frame, and pointed his gun into the dark.
Nobody on the floor. None sidled against the shelves. He stared, breathing heavily for a moment.
He heard a soft, quiet giggle still emanating from within the room, but the closed, shadowed nature of the pantry made it difficult for him to place the source of the sound. The laughter grew louder, and John cursed, gun ra
ised as he stepped into the pantry, his weapon pointing toward a particularly dark portion behind the stack of old cereal boxes.
And then John heard movement before he saw it. His eyes flicked up. Impossible. Too small. The person couldn’t have been much larger than a child to fit into the space on the top shelf to his left. Just over the door, out of sight. Two eyes stared back—one of them strange, reflecting light in an odd way as if dulled somehow. John didn’t have time to take much notice though. In his anger and fury, he’d missed it. The figure dropped fast, moving quick like a snake. John whirled around, squeezing off another shot, but the figure was already darting toward the pantry door, flinging himself through the gap.
With a bellow, John gave chase.
But the figure moved around the side of the pantry, into the distant hall.
John began to run after him, but then heard a particularly loud groan coming from the figure strapped to the kitchen table, still bleeding out, his features slicked with blood, pale. He froze, a prickle of horror spreading down him. He glanced to the table and realized his mistake.
Andrew Maldonado wasn’t the killer.
Andrew was bleeding out on the table. He recognized the bearded, pasty-faced man from his visit to the factory. Except his features were even more pale now, and blood stained the underside of his beard. In a weak, whimpering voice, Andrew tried to speak, but couldn’t seem to manage it. He started gurgling, his eyes fluttering up. His body was covered in cuts and wounds. Blood stained the table, the floor and even, somehow, the ceiling.
Andrew tried to speak again, straining as he did, the ropes around his wrists and ankles, anchoring him to the chairs wedged beneath the table. He only managed to eke out a single syllable. “…Help.”
John heard the flurry of footsteps as the unknown killer beat a retreat toward the door, fleeing the scene. For a moment, John was caught in an impossible choice.
Andrew was still alive, not dead yet. If John pursued the killer, then the factory worker would bleed out. John knew enough field medicine to know he needed direct pressure on Maldonado’s bigger cuts, immediately, followed by a series of desperate prayers the ambulance reached them in time. John snarled, hearing the front door slam open, hearing the sound of scampering feet.
He cursed desperately, and then made up his mind, grabbing dishcloths from the counter next to an old microwave and quickly clamping down on the visibly worst injuries.
“Hang on,” John muttered. “You’re going to be okay. Hang tight.”
Andrew gasped again at the pain of the bandages. John used a utility knife to cut the bonds around Andrew’s wrists. “Hold this in place if you want to live. This one too. As hard as you can. I know it hurts. Look at me, no look. I know it hurts. You’re going to die if you don’t. Hold them. Now!”
The booming commands of John’s voice seemed to jar some consciousness, if only a little, back into Andrew. The factory worker gasped, but with weak fingers did his best to press the cloths to the indicated positions. John kept one hand holding the makeshift bandage against the worst wound and with his other, he fished a phone from his pocket, quickly dialing 112.
“…Help. Please…”
Two words, better than one.
“Trying,” John retorted. Then the operator answered. “Hey,” John snapped. “Vitry-sur-Seine, house number thirty two, east. Man bleeding out. Agent John Renee, DGSI. Send EMTS now!” He then hung up in order to put more pressure on the factory worker’s wounds. John clenched his teeth and glanced again toward the now empty hall. He could practically feel the warm night air moving through the house. The killer was gone. Escaped. And John had let it happen. He’d have a hell of a time explaining that one to Adele.
“Who was that?” John demanded. “Hey, listen, tell me. Who the hell was that?”
Andrew’s eyes fluttered and he tried to stammer out a response, but couldn’t seem to manage.
For a moment, John felt a flash of sympathy. But while he wasn’t the bloodhound Adele was, he wasn’t stupid either. He could smell a pile of shit eventually. Andrew Maldonado was the seventh name on his list. Out of all the names he’d been given, how come Andrew had been targeted? By a copycat? By the murderer from ten years ago, the one they called the Spade Killer?
He’d been targeted specifically before John could interview him properly. Why?
Because she kicked over the hornet’s nest, his subconscious told him. Because Adele was onto something.
“Hey!” John snapped. “Tell me who that was, or I’m leaving you here to bleed out.” Of course, he knew he wouldn’t. But Andrew didn’t. John’s sympathy only went so far. He’d been through worse injuries than this. He’d been through worse pain. Agony wasn’t an excuse. “Tell me who that was!” John demanded.
Andrew stumbled over his words again. But this time, John caught a flicker in the man’s eye. Suggesting perhaps there was a spark beneath the facade. Perhaps he wasn’t as poorly off as he seemed.
“Don’t test me. I’ll let you bleed out. I’ve killed suspects before!” Of course, they’d been shooting at him at the time, but Andrew didn’t need to know that.
“No, please,” he said, weakly now. A bit more strength in his voice. Not much, but enough.
“Ah, so you can talk. Who was that? How are you involved?”
“I don’t know,” Andrew gasped.
“Not good enough!” John snapped, twisting one hand on a bandage threateningly.
Andrew whimpered. “Please…”
“No please. Tell me.”
A desperate gasp of air, then, his eyes flickering shut, Andrew said, “…Jokes…didn’t know… Just jokes…”
Then he passed out.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Like a butterfly returning to a cocoon, Adele sat entrapped by glass and metal beneath a steady flow of cool air from the nozzles set in the ceiling above. A much smaller plane. But one that Leoni’s connection had agreed to loan them, pilot included.
Leoni sat in the cockpit, chatting away with an old friend. Which left Adele in the back, sitting in the first passenger’s seat, studying the sky through the window. They were headed to England. Stonehenge.
Defying Ms. Jayne, the Italians, the Greeks, DGSI—everyone. Defiance wasn’t natural to Adele, but she could play the part when it was most needed.
She felt a flicker of worry in her gut. She missed John. Missed her old partner.
But now wasn’t the time for hang-ups. Now she couldn’t afford a mistake. Night was coming quick and she’d gambled someone’s life. If she was wrong, and the killer struck somewhere else, then the death was hers to own.
She was the only one who seemed convinced they’d caught the wrong man. But she wasn’t as convinced with Stonehenge. It fit the riddle. It did. But… something Leoni had said bothered her.
She gnawed on her lip, sitting perked up, not leaning against the chair, nor leaning too far forward. Her legs weren’t crossed, but rather braced, set against the ground as if preparing for impact. She didn’t even realize her posture until her back began to cramp.
Adele huffed and leaned back now, glancing through the darkened window. Only a few hours left until midnight. Then, the killer would strike in the dead of night. At Stonehenge? Or somewhere else?
Why was she second-guessing? A lot was on the line. But also… something else.
What was it Leoni had said?
Stonehenge fit the bill, didn’t it? It fit her theory about religion and sacrifice, believed to have been a sacrificial spot for druids. But… Leoni had said it was a theory. Unconfirmed. People didn’t actually know Stonehenge’s use.
Why did that matter?
Because it mattered to the killer. It had to. This wasn’t a man playing fiction, nor was it a man playing in half-truths. A theory? Would a theory motivate someone like this? Everyone else operated under the assumption he was targeting tourists. But Adele wasn’t nearly so convinced.
She could hear voices talking from the front of the small
plane, the cockpit door ajar so she could just see the back half of Leoni’s suited form. Even from this angle, he looked handsome. Stonehenge had been his guess. He was smart, brilliant, even. He knew more languages than her, had more connections, probably even a photographic memory.
So why did the guess bother her?
The killer wouldn’t desecrate his mission with a theory. That’s why. Leoni knew facts and information and language. He knew how to relate kindly and politely to decent folk.
But Adele knew the less-than-decent sorts. She knew people. Not normal people. Not good humans. She knew the twisted, nasty, broken sort. She’d been touched by such killers. She’d seen them face to face, again and again. She knew how they thought, a gift given to her nearly a decade ago.
She knew what they wanted.
And it wouldn’t be found in a theory.
Which meant what?
It meant the second thought she’d been considering bobbed to the surface of her mind. She had never visited Stonehenge as a child. A popular location, for sure. Her parents, desperate to keep her cultured, despite the family break, had taken her all over Europe. But never to Stonehenge.
However, her father had taken her, once upon a time, to place in Germany. Not nearly as well known. Not the sort that might arouse attention from a global set of gawkers. Not the sort that a tourist industry might fear disruption in.
There was another henge. She could remember it now. She’d been thirteen at the time. Back for a summer to visit her father, briefly. The Pömmelte Henge in Germany. A rather obscure place, sometimes called the “Stonehenge of Germany.”
Why did this matter? Why did she think this carried any weight?
“Because,” she said, speaking out loud to herself as if in an effort to convince her own mind. “That place isn’t a theory. They found more than fifty skeletons buried there.”
She nodded to herself, her eyes unblinking, once again sitting upright as she stared at the back of the open cockpit door.
Stonehenge was speculation. The religious implications were guessed. Not certain. Pömmelte, on the other hand, was certainly a sacrificial spot.