by Blake Pierce
But it was obscure. No one really knew about this German Stonehenge. So were the bosses right? Was this a tourist angle? If so, the killer’s path was clear. The Stonehenge in England would be the obvious target. Everyone knew about it. Postcards, video games, online posts.
But if she was right… if this wasn’t about tourism, but about beliefs. About desecration. About something personal to the killer himself…
Then he wouldn’t care how many people knew the place. In fact, the riddles themselves suggested the killer liked being a step ahead. Liked subverting expectations. Liked unpredictability.
Which meant, if Adele was right, he wouldn’t be in England tonight. He would be in Pömmelte. No theories, actual skeletons. No legends, an actual history of buried corpses.
She shivered at the thought and reached up, shutting the nozzle to the air flow. Still, she continued to shiver, and wrapped her arms around her, leaning back in the seat. Adele sighed slowly. But maybe it was all in her head.
She’d fled Paris to Germany to avoid a case. Maybe her subconscious was betraying her, trying to avoid a conclusion to this case all the same. Maybe she didn’t want to catch the killer… If she could continue the chase, it would allow her to avoid what awaited her back home.
She gnawed on her lip. Ms. Jayne had told her not to be arrogant. And maybe the Interpol boss was right. Adele didn’t know everything. She couldn’t.
For a moment, she considered stepping to the cockpit, catching the attention of Leoni and his pilot friend, demanding they turn to Germany.
But then she puffed a breath, closed her eyes, and leaned back. Maybe it was all in her head. Ms. Jayne had been doing this sort of thing longer than Adele ever had. Everyone else seemed to think this was about tourism. About spectacle. They were calling him the Monument Killer, after all.
She breathed and then relaxed, settling in for the rest of the flight. Her mind was just playing tricks. He would be at Stonehenge. He would be in England. Everyone else was probably right.
And though she tried to soothe herself with such thoughts, Adele couldn’t help but shake the terrible sensation that they were making a mistake.
But still, she kept her mouth shut. She was too close to it. Too distracted. Maybe it was time to let someone else take the lead. At least in theory.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Adele stayed to the trees, peering out at the open hilltop in the shadows of the cresting night. At her side, she felt Leoni shift, readjusting and grunting, massaging roughly at one of his legs, which, judging by her own aches, likely had fallen asleep.
She glanced at her watch. 10:32. The pillars of old stone topped by boulders circled the old clearing. Tourists had long since cleared out. The police had been notified of Adele’s and Leoni’s presence and had even provided a lift from the private airport where they’d landed.
But now, they’d been waiting for near an hour.
Nothing. No sign of the killer. No sign of anything.
Adele leaned back, pressing her back against the bark of the tree where she leaned, staring into the night, eyes peeled, desperately seeking. She could feel Leoni next to her, vigilant, but in a polite way. He wasn’t engaged in his vigilance, suggesting, perhaps, that he was simply here on her call.
A call, it seemed, that was turning up nothing.
“Anything?” Leoni whispered behind her.
Adele crouched now, wincing and readjusting. A pang in her back from the flight over had intensified and she shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position.
“Not yet,” she said.
“Yet?”
“Yet.”
“All right,” he said, his tone betraying nothing.
She glanced around the old stones, her eyes darting through shadows. No movement. No sound. She’d been wrong. Then again, maybe they were just early. She shifted again, gnawing on her lip. Yes, that had to be it. They were early.
“Do you think—” Leoni began, but Adele snapped, cutting him off.
“I don’t know.”
Leoni didn’t reply this time. Even nice guys have an end to their patience. He breathed a soft sigh and continued to watch, dutiful but detached. Vigilant but with an air of long-suffering.
She missed John. Renee didn’t doubt her. They’d been through too much.
But the only reason it mattered, doubt or otherwise, was because she was now doubting herself. She got to her feet now, stretching, pausing for a moment. Then, with a growl of frustration, she stomped forward, heading directly toward the historical site.
“Hang on,” Leoni called after her.
She didn’t bother to reply. She had to know. She marched up the trail, away from the very sparse tree line, across open flatland and toward the old, towering stones. She felt the wind pick up, moving over the unencumbered terrain, across the flat marshy ground, her feet pressing into the soft grass and the rippled earth, like waves in a pond. Her breath came haggard by the time she reached the landmark. The shadows of the stones swallowed her as she approached, the giant boulders rising, weathered, like pudgy fingers groping at the sky. A slow flicker of awe settled in her gut, but she pushed it aside. Emotions now would only distract.
She stepped into the ring of stones, looking around, desperately seeking.
Nothing. No one. No one approaching, no one in hiding.
She’d been wrong.
Maybe we’re just early.
But she shook her head. It felt wrong. It all felt wrong. So why wasn’t she trusting her instincts? Did she really think the killer was caught back in Austria? Did she think this was over?
“No,” she muttered, firm but with finality.
Standing in the cold, beneath a glaring moon, witnessed only by the night, the circle of massive stones and her Italian partner, Adele stood still. Still was a risk. Still allowed thoughts to rise. And as she stood, surveying the stones, left to her thoughts for the briefest moment of solitude, the familiar creeping chill began to rise up her spine.
She nibbled the corner of her lip and felt an urge to scream, but stoppered the cry. She huffed a breath as images of her mother now flashed across her mind. The images she’d been fleeing. The thoughts she’d hoped to abandon back in Paris. That was stupid. There was no leaving these thoughts behind, not in Paris, not in Germany, not in England in the dead of night.
They were hers. Part of her, latched into her skin as deep as any parasite.
She didn’t want them to go away. Because they were a reminder, too. A reminder of what was at stake. If she failed, if she guessed wrong, others would be cursed with a decade of torment. Others would have mothers ripped apart and ripped away. No more running.
She didn’t shut off the images this time. Instead, she stood straight-backed, tall and firm, watching the scenes flash across her mind’s eye. She didn’t recoil, nor did she flee. She felt the horror rise in her gut, but weathered the storm.
She stood there, breathing shallowly. Leoni was now calling out to her, but she ignored him. Her feet didn’t move, set at shoulder width, a fighter’s stance. Bleeding, bleeding always bleeding. She saw the wounds, the cuts, the injuries. She saw her mother’s lifeless form. She remembered her own scream at the news. Remembered her father sobbing on the phone. Remembered the look of pity and sympathy of the policeman. Remembered the terror, the trembling, horrible, frigid terror that had settled on her shoulders a decade ago and refused to leave.
The fear had made her strong. So why was she doubting herself now?
Another few minutes passed and Leoni was now behind her, trying to catch her attention. He murmured, “Are you all right?”
But she kept her eyes ahead, focused. She could feel the fear fading now. Not suppressed, not thrown aside, not ignored. But fading, receding like a tide. Inevitable in its arrival, but, also, inevitable in its retreat.
A part of her. A part that couldn’t be severed. So why had she tried?
And why, now, had she second-guessed herself? Her instincts were honed
in a crucible of agony.
“It’s not here,” she said, softly.
Leoni seemed relieved she was speaking again. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not here,” she murmured. She glanced back at him, her gaze peering out in the night. The stones around them wreathed the land in shadow, distant lights from traffic and structures glowed in the dark.
“The killer?”
“The crime scene,” she said. “The killer isn’t here either. I was wrong.”
He swallowed. “Well, no shame in trying. I don’t blame you. At least we know now that Mr. Von Ziegler—”
But she shook her head, a short jerking motion. Her instincts hadn’t failed her before. And she couldn’t doubt them now. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps everyone else had been right. But Adele wasn’t everyone else. She needed to stop being so scared. Scared of Paris. Scared of the higher-ups. Scared of failing.
“It isn’t him,” she said. “I know it isn’t.”
Leoni’s face was scattered in gloom as he frowned at her, his lovely features bunching. “I thought you just said—”
“This isn’t the scene,” Adele replied. “I thought so on the plane, but I second-guessed myself. I shouldn’t have. The killer is going to Germany.”
Leoni gaped at her now. She didn’t look at his face, though. It didn’t matter. Perhaps he doubted her, perhaps he was exasperated with her, perhaps he was frustrated. But it didn’t matter. She could weather his emotions. What mattered was doing what she knew was right. Even if she failed, she had to trust her instincts. She knew killers. She knew men like the Monument Killer. She knew how they thought. She’d lived, sharing mind space with such folks, for the last ten years.
Some like Leoni were blessed with fiendishly good looks. Some like Ms. Jayne were gifted with the ability to lead, manage, administrate. Some like John were tough as nails, displaying excellence in their chosen craft, be it found in books or with bullets.
Adele, though, had a different gift. Born of pain. It wasn’t a gift found in books, nor one earned through experience. It wasn’t the sort of gift honed or taught by a doting teacher. No, the tutors of her gift were harsh. And yet it was a gift.
She could think like monsters.
“He doesn’t care about this place. Tourism isn’t the point.”
Leoni sighed. “I know you’ve said that. But maybe you’re wrong.”
“I’m not. I don’t think so. And if I am, it’s my badge anyway. You’ve been more than helpful. But… I have one last request.”
She finally turned, looking Leoni in the eyes.
“What?” he said.
“That pilot friend of yours. I need him to take me to Germany. Right now.”
“What… like tonight?”
“Like now.”
Leoni stared at her. “I… He has to at least register a flight plan. It could cost him his job if—”
“No time.” She shook her head. “No time at all.”
“It will cost you your job,” he said. “If you’re wrong, both of you will lose everything.”
Another flicker of fear. Another swirl of terror rising like a creeping wave. But she didn’t push it away this time. She let it wash over her, allowed it to recede, her skin tingling. “I don’t care. Someone’s life is at stake, Leoni. That shit stays with you. If you’re on the other side of the phone call, of the knock on the door. That shit stays.” She pressed her teeth tight, unblinking, staring at her Italian partner. “It stays, get it?”
He sighed softly. “I can’t ask my friend to do that. Not an unregistered flight.”
She felt her throat constrict, felt a sudden urge to shout. Didn’t he get it? Someone’s life was on the line!
He looked at her, though, and with heavy eyes, said, “I know that it stays with you.” He nodded once, and for a moment, there was a crack in his calm, placid facade. His eyes blazed with something dark, something hidden deep. He wiped at his sweaty brow, pushing back the single Superman curl of dark hair over his eyebrows. She remembered how he’d been raised by his mother. His story about his father.
“I know you know,” she said, urgently. “You get it. Probably better than anyone else. Which means you know we have to try. We have to.”
He breathed. “I can fly.”
She blinked in the dark.
He nodded. “I don’t have my license yet. But I’ve taken enough lessons. I can get us to Germany.”
Her mouth unhinged, staring at Leoni. She muttered, more to herself than him… “Of course you can fly… Wouldn’t expect anything less from James Bond.”
His eyes still flashed, but he grunted once. “Careful with that talk.” He turned and began stalking away. “With James Bond, the girls always end up dead.”
Adele took off after her Italian partner, a skip in her step. Flying without his license, on an unregistered flight, against the direct orders of their supervisors, this only ended one of two ways. If they stopped the killer, perhaps—perhaps—a chance at forgiveness. But if she was wrong again. Wrong a second time…
Losing their jobs would be the least of their worries. She was gambling it all, and now she’d dragged Leoni into the bet with her. But at the end of the day, Adele’s job wasn’t to please Ms. Jayne. Nor Executive Foucault. Adele’s job wasn’t to make Leoni’s decisions.
She had only one task: catching killers before they murdered again. She stalked away from Stonehenge, not looking back. It was just a stupid pile of rocks. She followed Leoni, leaving the site and heading back toward where the squad car was waiting. After a few steps, she broke into a jog.
Leoni, in his suit, followed and, side by side, they ran through the night, across the open flatland, toward the distant row of squat, shriveled trees where they’d parked, racing against the clock to catch a killer.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
The plane shook for the second time in the last hour, rattling, and a couple of lights flashed on the dash. Leoni’s friend had, reluctantly, allowed him to borrow the plane, but Adele was starting to wonder exactly how many lessons he’d taken.
“Are we good?” she asked, sitting in the cockpit this time, her eyes peering through the glass before her as clouds zipped past, little more than patches of dark like oil spills in the night.
“We’re good,” Leoni snapped, gritting his teeth.
She’d never seen him this flustered before, but at least he’d managed to take off. And, for the last half hour, they hadn’t crashed.
“Damn turbulence,” he said. “It’s fine.”
The plane rattled again. “Part of catching this guy requires we get to Germany in one piece.”
“I know!” he snapped.
Adele leaned back, double-checking her buckle across her chest. Not that it would matter if they careened from the sky in a flaming heap of scalding metal. But sometimes the small things brought a level of comfort.
Leoni finagled with one of the glinting lights on the dash, and Adele looked away, worrying at her lip.
Then her phone began to ring. Her plane, her rules. She’d just apologize to any flight instruments later.
She felt her phone buzzing against her thigh and every part of her wanted to leave it there, ignoring it. It was an hour before midnight now, which meant whoever was calling her knew she wasn’t asleep. Not a good sign.
But another rattle shook the plane and this time Leoni actually cursed, growling toward the nose of the infernal tin can hurtling through the sky.
If only to distract herself, Adele snagged her phone from her pocket, lifting it. “What?” she snapped.
For a moment, there came a stunned silence. Then, a single smack of someone’s lips, as if before a sudden tide of words. Adele, despite herself, recognized the sound alone. A flicker of fear whirled through her and her forehead felt very hot all of a sudden.
“Er, Ms. Jayne,” she said, quickly. “Sorry. Umm, sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
The voice on the other end of the line wasn’t so crisp, wa
sn’t so clear as usual. The words almost seemed to jumble together as the correspondent for Interpol said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Agent Sharp?”
Adele winced. She half glanced through the window, despite herself, partly expecting a drone or a jet to be flying alongside them. But there was no such company. Their plane continued to rattle.
Maybe she was just guessing. “Excuse me?” Adele said.
“Don’t you ‘excuse me,’” Ms. Jayne roared, all semblance of the calm, collected administrator fading to be replaced by the growl of a lioness. “What do you think you’re doing in that plane?”
Adele blinked. So she did know. Shit.
“Agent Sharp! Land that plane, right now!”
Adele gnawed her lip, glancing nervously toward Leoni, who was still battling with the controls and the flashing lights. The airplane rattled again, and Adele nearly bit her tongue.
“Ms. Jayne,” she said, starting a sentence she didn’t know how to end. “…I…I know I’m right about this,” she said at last. “I need you to trust me.”
The voice on the other end of the line increased in volume. “Land the plane, now! At this point, you will both be fortunate if you have jobs, no less your freedom after you disembark. German authorities are already asking why an unscheduled flight with two foreign agents is heading into their territory.”
“They know?”
“Adele, land!”
For a moment, Adele considered the command. She knew if she wasn’t careful, she would be jeopardizing not only her career, her livelihood, but Leoni’s as well; on the other hand, she knew she had to trust her instincts. She knew the cost of failing. The tourist in France, the security guard in Greece, the American at the Vatican—these weren’t just statistics to her. They weren’t just bodies to be forgotten and cases to be managed. These victims, not just these, but all her cases were mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, children. They were loved ones. And when they were snatched from the world, they left a gap so large, that it felt like it might swallow a person whole. Adele didn’t know how to manage such a gap. She didn’t know if it could be managed. And so she did the only thing she knew how. She stopped the bullet before it was fired.