Left to Prey (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eleven)

by Blake Pierce

  “No, I’ll walk. Go away.”

  He held up one finger, pointing it through the clean window. “A lie.” He held up a second finger. “Promiscuity.” He held up a third finger. “And using foul language. Haven’t you heard? Do not let any unwholesome speech come from your mouth.” He shook his head. “Child, you should know better.”

  She began to walk back in the direction of the abbey. She didn’t need this shit. Who was this guy, coming along all self-righteous? She needed to get to Madrid. And she certainly didn’t want to do it in his car. As she stalked back up the road, trying to distance herself, he continued to follow at a snail’s pace.

  “I will not drive you, but I can give you this,” he said.

  She hesitated, walking, but feeling a prickle up her spine. She should have just kept going. She didn’t know why she didn’t. But she was desperate. She needed money. She needed to get to Madrid. So she turned, slowly, still walking, but glancing through the front windshield. To her surprise, in his hand, he clutched a role of euro bills.

  She went still, eyes wide. “I’m not a prostitute,” she said, insistently.

  “This is charity, dear. Compassion. I don’t want anything from you.”

  She wet her lips with her tongue, feeling suddenly nervous. She needed the money. But the man was strange. He’d accused her of being a prostitute. He’d called her a sinner. Did she really want his money? Then again, hadn’t that been what had gotten her into the situation? Pride? An unwillingness to accept help from her family? She sighed, swallowing her pride and extending a tentative hand toward the money. “You sure, señor?”

  “It’s the Lord’s work.”

  She extended a hand through his window, her fingers brushing the crisp bills. The money would change a lot. It looked like a month of rent. Maybe there were still good people around, even somewhat strange ones.

  Her fingers rested on the money and that’s when his demeanor shifted. Calm, rigid, all of it suddenly faded to sudden rapid motion. His hand shot forward, snaring her wrist and yanking her forward. At the same time, his other hand hit the button to the window, and the glass started to rise toward her neck. Her head had now yanked through the window. She cursed, trying to jerk back, yelling as she did. But he held her tight, pressing the money into her hand. He gripped her halfway through the window. The glass now pressed against her arm, then slipping past, rubbing raw against her skin with a flash of heat. It hit her neck, pressing her head up, up.

  “Stop!” she gasped. “Please, stop!”

  He said, in the same calm, soothing voice, “The Lord sees it all. We cannot hide.”

  The window was now pressed tight against her throat; she was choking. It was difficult to breathe. She tried to yank her head through, but she was stuck, her chin jabbing against the glass.

  “He sees it all,” the man said, seething. And then he put the car in park. He turned off the vehicle. She yelled, trying to kick and scream. Why had she gone down the hill, out of sight from the abbey? Where were the other vehicles? Why wouldn’t they come by when she needed them most? Panic flooded her, adrenaline racing through her system. She screamed, but he ignored the sound, reaching toward the door handle and opening it.

  He shoved, sending her shuffling back, kicking up dust on the side of the road as she moved with the door, helpless, her head trapped.

  “Please,” she said, sobbing, “please don’t hurt me. I’m not a prostitute. Please!”

  He slipped from the front seat, moving behind her, out of sight now. What was he going to do? She’d heard stories like this. Was he going to rape her? She felt a chill at the thought. She should have been more careful. Should have waited or asked her sister to send money so she could travel to Madrid.

  She was sobbing now, tears streaking down her cheek, one staining his pristine window. “Please,” she said, her fingers scrambling against the metal frame.

  One of his hands snatched her wrist, bending it back. “Don’t smudge,” he snapped.

  His breath was hot against her ear, and her screaming was replaced by choking sobs, the window so tight to her neck she felt like it was spraining something. Whatever he wanted, she hoped he would make it quick. It wouldn’t have been the first time a man had taken her body by force.

  Now he was out of sight. She couldn’t turn to look at him. He was standing directly behind her. She felt his hand on her shoulder. She yelped, trying to swipe back. She tried to kick, but suddenly his body pressed against her.

  “The Lord was watching and you have been found wanting. There is no redemption for those who continue in the error of their ways. You must pay.”

  Something sharp suddenly pressed against her neck. The sharp thing gouged deep. She tried to fight it, but she was trapped. One of her arms bent behind her back, the rest of her pressed hard against the metal. The door slammed as she was shoved toward the car again.

  “Please,” she said, desperate. “Please, don’t.”

  But her pleas fell on deaf ears. The sharp sensation against her neck suddenly felt like fire. Something hot and warm began to spew down her throat. She choked, unable to shout. Pain like she’d never felt before accompanied the sensation of his body against her from behind, holding her still. The window gripping her neck, preventing her from moving.

  Dark spots danced across her vision.

  “Three sins,” the man murmured in her ear. But even this sound was fading now. She could barely hear him. She felt the man pushing something into her pocket, and heard the crinkle of euro notes. The money. He was giving it to her. Even as she died, the man paid her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Adele watched where the Sergeant sat by the window in her small apartment, glued to the tiny black-and-white TV he’d managed to barter from the landlord.

  “He really likes that thing,” a voice murmured in her ear.

  She glanced back toward where Agent John Renee was standing by the stove, a spatula in one hand, the scent of green peppers and onions lingering on the air.

  She smiled at the tall man. “No pickles this time, I hope.”

  John pressed a hand to his chest and opened his mouth in mock surprise. “Pickles? From me? No, no, American Princess, only the best for you and the TV-watcher.”

  Adele glanced at Renee, trying not to smile. She still needed to keep him on his toes, and though she was hesitant to admit it, things were going well between them. Not just with John, but also with the aforementioned TV-watcher. Her father was now pounding his fist against the windowsill in excitement, pausing only long enough to wince, rubbing his hand.

  “Is he still recovering?” John dropped his voice, his tone turning from light-hearted to concerned.

  “Yeah,” she said, just as softly, not wanting to attract the attention of the Sergeant. “He’s recuperated mostly—it’s only been a month since the attack, though. I’m just glad he agreed to come stay for a bit. And I know he likes your eggs. Thanks again… You really don’t have to keep coming over just to make breakfast.”

  John snorted. Still whispering, he said, “If you think I’m coming over simply to help take care of your father, then you’re not half the investigator I assumed. As for the eggs, if I remember correctly, last time he called them suitably adequate.”

  “Trust me, from him that’s a five-star review.”

  John hid a smirk, returning his attention to the food on the stove, spatula clutched tightly in one hand. He went to work, and Adele turned to her father, grabbing a beer from the fridge to place on the nightstand at his elbow. Already, he’d drained two. It wasn’t even ten in the morning. Then again, things were going so well between them, Adele decided she had to pick her battles.

  At that moment, John’s phone began to ring. He glanced at the device, then quickly turned it off, flashing Adele a quick smile. She returned the expression, though her gaze flicked to the phone.

  Adele liked to think she was learning not to ruin contentment with a sense of foreboding. It would have been a lie to sugge
st she’d had an easy life. Too many graveyards carried headstones to the contrary, but now, standing in her small apartment in the heart of Paris, in the same complex where she had once lived with her mother, Adele felt a sense of contentment.

  She couldn’t choose the people she loved. At least not always. Her father, with his walrus mustache, thick, sailor arms, and white T-shirts stained with mushroom soup cut an amusing figure where he pounded a hand while watching reruns of a soccer match. John, now more than a friend, had softened around the edges a bit. He was still the cantankerous, grumpy agent, but not around her as much. He seemed to trust her, letting her in. Standing there, she felt an odd tingle of warmth in her stomach.

  At that moment, she heard a sizzle and a curse. She glanced over to see John sucking on his thumb and wiping at his eye, blinking while hastily lowering the temperature for the fried peppers. The fragrance of the food made her mouth water, and she took a seat at the kitchen table, crossing her hands. She watched as John rubbed his eye. “I survived two tours in Iraq,” he snapped, “but I’m going to lose my good looks to a pan of peppers. What a tragedy.”

  Adele smirked. “I think you look fine.”

  “Keep it down, lovebirds,” her father called out over the sound of his TV. A second later, the volume increased, and the faint static of the screaming soccer fans filled her unit.

  As John rubbed at his eye, though, grumbling to himself, Adele’s mind was tugged from the solace of her apartment. For a moment, the cold swished through her as she remembered…

  A small man, also touching at his eye. A dull, unseeing eye. A man with frail bones, but quick movements.

  Her stomach twisted at the memory. He hadn’t resurfaced after he’d dove into the water—they hadn’t found the body. Part of her suspected he was long gone. Another part of her hoped he was so injured, he wouldn’t hurt anyone again. Maybe he had drowned. For now, though, he seemed to have chosen to leave her alone. She felt an odd sense of satisfaction at this which saw her hand curl on the table in front of her. She’d made the same fist her father was now slamming against the windowsill again. Maybe the two of them weren’t so different after all.

  “Dammit, sorry, I should take this,” Renee said quickly. He pulled out his phone as it began to chirp again. Renee hurried around the edge of the kitchen, toward the hall which led to the bathroom. Adele frowned as he left, listening to his voice as it dropped to a whisper and he muttered into the phone.

  She waited a few seconds, her frown turning to a scowl as he returned.

  “Who was that?” she said.

  He looked at her innocently. “Wrong number. I thought it was work.”

  She shook her head. “That’s the third strange call you’ve gotten this week.”

  “You keeping count of my calls? Bah. It’s nothing—just a wrong number.” John gave an innocent shrug and returned his attention to the peppers.

  Adele kept her hand clenched on the table. Part of her wanted to believe Renee. It wasn’t any of her business, was it? She didn’t want to turn into the stereotype of a nagging girlfriend. Dating someone like John always came with baggage. He was a cagey man, a dangerous one. That was partly why she enjoyed his company.

  With a sigh, she got to her feet and grabbed a few plates, arranging them around the table. She began to move toward the silverware drawer, when John’s phone began to ring again.

  A few times now, in recent memory, he’d fielded phone calls that he’d explained in suspicious ways. Now he winced, holding up the phone and turning his back to her, blocking his mouth with his shoulder. “Hello?” he said, his voice barely a murmur.

  She glared at the back of his head, waiting for him to turn around.

  She didn’t want to be the nagging girlfriend but she also didn’t want to be the idiot girlfriend.

  She waited tentatively, wondering if it would be rude to step closer to listen in. John responded in a hushed tone, followed by the faint crackle of a voice she couldn’t make out. The last relationship she’d been in had ended in a surprise. She had thought she was going to get a wedding ring. Instead, Angus had broken up with her.

  Adele brushed a hand through her blonde hair, crossing her arms. While Agent Renee cut an intimidating figure, standing a head and shoulders taller than most, the scar along his chin, down his neck into his chest giving him the look of a dangerous man, Adele wasn’t exactly a shrinking violet. She was five-foot-nine, taller than most women and the average man. She worked out, preferring to run, a routine she observed religiously, waking up at five and getting in a good two hours before the day demanded her attention.

  Now, as she studied John, she refused to back down. As he lowered the phone, she said, firmly, “All right, big guy, who was that? And no, don’t dodge.”

  John looked at her, wrinkling his nose. He scratched at the underside of his chin, his neatly gelled hair brushed to the side with only a single strand loose against his forehead, like a Superman curl. “Work,” he said. “They need us in, right away.”

  He turned off the stove, grabbed a handful of peppers, hot, as if to prove some sort of macho point, and tossed them in his mouth. Then, with the same hand he’d touched the greasy vegetables with, he patted her on the shoulder and stalked toward the door.

  Adele gaped, turning after him. She felt stupid. Why couldn’t she just trust him? He had been receiving strange phone calls, but maybe her own suspicions were getting ahead of her. She felt a slight jolt of guilt as she said, “Right now?”

  “Yes. Now. That’s what they said.”

  “A case?”

  John was already pulling on his shoes, nodding his head while wiping his greasy hand off on his pants. “I’m guessing it’s not a birthday party. I’ll drive.”

  “Of course you will,” she muttered beneath her breath. Adele sighed, double-checking the stove was turned off. “Dad,” she called, “I’m going to take some eggs to go; the rest is all yours. Mind putting the extras in the fridge when you’re done?”

  Her father raised a hand toward the ceiling, his thumb parallel to the floor.

  “You okay? Need anything else?”

  “Another beer.”

  Adele wrinkled her nose. “You can get that yourself. Have a nice day. I’ll call you if anything else comes up. You have my number, right?”

  Joseph Sharp turned in the chair, glowering at his daughter. He wagged his head, his bushy eyebrows dancing up and down almost comically. “I’m fine, Adele. Go do your job.”

  There was nothing more like her father than this last sentence. He wasn’t high on affection, but when it came to dutifulness there were few better.

  Adele sighed, feeling silly that she’d called John out, feeling uncomfortable that she hadn’t hidden the beer from her father. Still, as she hastened to the stove to grab a plate of eggs and toast, she wondered what was so urgent.

  She glanced at her phone, noticing she’d left it on silent before clicking it back on. Two missed calls. Both from work.

  Once she grabbed the eggs and took a bite, mouth full, she raced back to the door, which John kept half ajar, waiting patiently for her.

  Maybe another case would be nice. Another case would help distract her from the small man with the dull eye. Another case would give her a chance to let her father have some time to himself. While she enjoyed the company, it was also nice to be on the hunt once again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Adele tapped her foot nervously against the floor in Executive Foucault’s office. She glanced around the room and then at the small window behind the desk. The window was closed. The normal wreath of smoke was absent from the room. In fact, the executive himself was absent.

  Now, the person sitting behind the large, oak desk was the cause of Adele’s rapidly tapping foot. She fidgeted nervously, rubbing her thumb across the inside of her palm as she stared in the direction of Agent Sophie Paige.

  John leaned back in the chair at her side, far more at ease. His long legs stretched in front of him, o
ne boot resting against the top of the oak table. Sophie glanced at the shoe but sighed, ignoring it, looking over the laptop lid at both of them.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” said Agent Paige. She had pinched features and neat, silver hair, without a single strand out of place. She smelled of soap, but nothing flowery or ostentatious. She didn’t wear makeup and preferred sweaters to suits. In Adele’s assessment, she looked a bit like a stern substitute teacher, or a nun.

  Though, of course she would never say this to Paige. The two of them had somewhat of a history. They had worked cases before together. But things between them had never completely mended.

  “Sorry,” Adele said, hesitantly, “but where’s the executive?”

  Sophie lowered the lid of the laptop, the blue glow from the screen emanating off her chin and chest. “Indisposed. I’m taking his place for the morning. He’ll be back later.”

  “Is he all right?” Renee said, his tone more curious than concerned.

  “Foucault is fine,” Paige said, crisply. “Could one of you close the door.”

  Adele glanced back, realizing in her surprise at seeing who was sitting behind the desk, she had forgotten to shut the opaque glass door, which led to the hall of the third floor of the DGSI headquarters.

  She sighed but got quickly to her feet, moved over, shut the door, and returned. As she settled again, Agent Paige said, “Like I said, thank you for coming quickly. We’re not sure what we have, but it’s a matter of concern.”

  John crossed his other foot over the shoe that was already resting on the oak table. Paige glanced at the feet, her eyebrows narrowing a bit, and shot John a look as if to say, really?

  Renee just folded his arms over his chest and watched her back, as if daring her to make a big deal of it.

  He was always pushing boundaries, always testing authority, and Adele could only hope John wouldn’t push it too far. If there was one person she didn’t want to irritate further, it was Paige. This was the sort of woman who was ruthless if crossed. Still, at least for the moment, Sophie wasn’t glaring at her.