Left To Die

She chewed on the corner of her lip, a look of discomfort spreading over her features.

“No,” she said, quietly. “Not today.”

She turned to the right again and began marching purposefully toward Marion’s apartment. But again, before she stepped off the sidewalk into the crossing, she pulled up once more.

Her hands balled at her sides. John was still keeping track of reports of redheaded tourists. So far, the APB had turned up nothing, but Adele held hope. The clue was specific. Specific enough to matter.

She sighed again, huffing slightly. And then she turned sharply; she began striding rapidly up the sidewalk, away from Marion’s apartment, away from the crime scene, away from the path the poor young girl had taken before she’d been drugged and bled to death. Away from it all.

As she walked, for a moment, she fell in lockstep with the killer.

She felt like she too was descending in age. Memories from a past life—twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six… Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen… memories from her youth flooded her mind. She could remember walking these streets before. She turned up one sidewalk, then down another street, cutting between large, looming buildings on either side, the bricks stained red, the windows glinting dully, protected by curtains on the inside.

Adele continued to walk. She missed the city.

She missed the bells tolling in the distance, the smell of the river on the air, the sound of the nightlife, even in the tourist districts. Marion’s friends had said she was far too kind to tourists. Far more compassionate than anyone else would normally be.

A girl like that didn’t deserve to end up like this.

Adele allowed her own thoughts to propel her further and deeper into the city, walking like a mechanical construct, without tiring, without lagging, and without hesitating.

At long last, she pulled up short.

Adele faced a small store, little more than a curio shop. She stepped inside, and the bell jangled overhead. It didn’t take her long to spot the candies she knew would be offered in a place like this. She pointed them out and fished a couple of dollars from her pocket. Then she cursed beneath her breath. Not everyone accepted US currency in France; she waved the dollars toward the man behind the counter. He had olive skin and a soft smile. He nodded once, noting her chagrined look, and graciously bowed his head in her direction.

He wore prayer beads around one wrist, and a red vest with gold lace along the trim. He had kind eyes that studied her, before he reached over and took the dollar bills from her hand.

Marion hesitated, wondering if she should wait for change, but then thought better of it. She nodded her thanks, took the candies, and headed out the door.

She could feel the crinkling of the wrapper in her hand, around the toffee of the Carambars.

Cara. That’s what her mother had often called her. Cara—sweet on the inside, witty on the outside. A description that had made her blush as a child.

She didn’t blush anymore, though.

Adele took two more streets and then came to a stop in the park. Slow, creeping dread tickled her spine, crawling up toward the nape of her neck with pinpricks of motion.

She shivered, trembling, the air cool but not cold. A few couples were making their rounds along the red cobblestone paths, their arms looped together, their umbrellas protruding skyward. Adele waited for one such couple to pass, rounding behind a series of uniform trees and neatly kept brush.

Then she too stepped into the park, moving past the fountains, along the circular trails around twin ponds, one larger than the other. Some called it the figure eight. To Adele, that path had always looked more like a noose.

She went deeper into the park, toward the back. She knew youngsters would often make out on the picnic tables in the distance, beneath the low-hanging yellow and orange leaves of the park trees. She headed along the bicycle path, the candy bars crinkling in her right hand, her left hand balled into a fist. Then, at long last, she pulled up short.

No one was in sight. She could hear birds still chirping around her, calling to each other, indicating the rain had passed.

And yet, an even deeper, more wretched gloom had settled on her shoulders like a weight.

She stood at the trail head, staring at dirt and mud and patches of dust that had been protected by overhanging branches from the rain.

Trees on either side of this trail sheltered it from view and from the elements. It had also sheltered the scene that had occurred nearly ten years ago.

Adele stared at the patch of dirt and the rivet by the trail. She could see the way the brush had overgrown, covering what had once been clean-cut grass. Had this been intentional?

To her, it felt disrespectful.

Adele fidgeted, tugging at her sleeve, then glancing toward the sky as if looking for insight.

“This was never my home,” she said quietly. She listened to the wind and found silence, as she knew she would. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking suddenly.

Her legs felt very weak all at once, and her throat felt scratchy. She reached up and adjusted the sleeves of her jacket, scraping one foot against the dusty trail.

“I don’t know what happened,” she said toward the weeds and brambles. “I should’ve found out—I should’ve. If I was better at my job. If I could have just focused…”

Adele shook her head and turned as if to leave, but something held her firm. She glanced back toward the now overgrown patch of grass on the side of the trail.

She remembered when she had first seen her mother’s corpse. Blood, lacing the cuts up and down her body. The killer had let her bleed out, much like the Benjamin Killer was doing with his victims.

Adele felt a slow shudder at the memories. Loathing, like she had only known once before, filled her. A familiar loathing coupled with a familiar reason.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

What else was there to say? She had failed her mother. She had never caught the killer responsible. And now the Benjamin Killer was also bleeding people. Like her mother. And again, like with that case, she was failing. He would get away. They always got away. Adele snarled, emitting a sound like a wounded creature, and then winced. She didn’t like it when her mind went to places like these.

He couldn’t get away. Not this time. Men like this, people who did things like this, couldn’t be allowed to exist. It wasn’t right.

“It’s not fair,” she said, her teeth clenching at the end of the word, biting the sound off in a short spasming surge of emotion. “I’m not your Cara anymore,” she said softly.

The breeze seemed to pick up, wrestling at her hair, glossing her skin with the cool touch of the swaying breeze.

Her hand felt sweaty all of a sudden, and she glanced down toward the candies. She hadn’t even realized why she bought them.

She unwrapped one of the candies and popped it in her mouth, wincing at the flavor. She had never liked these caramels. As much as her mother had adored the candy, it was the jokes on the inside of the wrapper that she loved most.

Adele raised the wrapper, about to read it, but then she hesitated. The killer couldn’t get away. And she wasn’t little Cara anymore. This was not her home. She was a girl without a home. And that was okay. She crumpled the wrapper and tossed it toward the opposite side of the trail, away from where her mother had once been.

She knelt and pressed her forearms against her protruding leg, resting her chin against the back of one hand. She took the other Carambar that she’d bought from the small store and placed it on the trail, next to where her mother had died.

The killer had cut her skin in shallow, intricate patterns, almost like carving some piece of art into a canvas. But Adele’s mother had been a work of art in and of herself. The killer had been a vandal, drawing cartoons on a masterpiece.

Adele turned away from the trail, standing still, not walking, but with her back toward where her mother had perished. She couldn’t let the Benjamin Killer escape as well.

He had come here, obsessed with mortality, with the descending ages of victims. Someone obsessed with death. And then he had killed again. He would kill soon. But Adele was determined to stop him before he could.

Robert had been right. She knew it now, in her bones. She had gotten close. Far closer than had made him comfortable. Last time, he’d been spooked enough to leave the country. This time, if he could feel her closing in, he could feel the noose tightening, what would he do? A desperate man, with no moral code. What sort of measures would he take?

Adele clenched her teeth in grim resolve. Then she stepped back up the trail, her eyes fixed ahead. She’d walked a great distance from where she’d left the borrowed car. But Adele liked the exercise, she liked the exertion, the effort. It helped her think, to focus. The Benjamin Killer would pay for what he did, and she would see to it that he knew exactly who had brought him down.

CHAPTER TWELVE