Left To Die

John gave a harsh, barking laugh. “We’re better than those Americans,” he snapped, an undercurrent of anger to his words. “We sacrifice more and take harder jobs.”

Adele didn’t see the point in arguing.

“Well, I should’ve figured you for a military guy. You have the manners of a soldier.”

John flicked an eyebrow up and downed another glass in two quick swallows. He poured himself a third from the distillery spigot.

“We still have work tomorrow,” Adele reminded him.

“Never stopped me before,” John said with a shrug. This time, he took the glass back to the couch. He once more sat on the armrest, facing Adele, his dirty shoes pressed on the dusty cushion.

“Thanks for inviting me here,” she said.

She couldn’t get a good read on John. Was he trying to make a move on her? If so, he was sitting far enough away for them to be siblings. She had no interest in becoming romantically involved with anyone at this point. John wasn’t bad looking, but he was ill-mannered and seemed to hate his job. She wasn’t sure the career path that led from special forces to DGSI agent. The way he carried himself, his weapon drawn, back at the hotel, had suggested more than basic field training.

The memory of the hotel room came rushing back. Adele visibly winced, shaking her head and taking a long sip from her cup. She swallowed, savoring the burn as the alcohol did its work.

Stupid. So stupid. Redheaded tourists—just a john and a prostitute. Adele refused to see the humor in the situation.

The killer was out there, probably preparing to strike again. She needed another clue, a directional signal. The APB had been a bust. A wig, then? Probably. Red hair was too obvious. Robert had been right. She was back to square one. Nothing to show for it.

She felt her hand squeezing tightly around the cold glass and she resisted the urge to chuck the thing across the room.

A replay of some soccer goal displayed itself on the small color TV. She watched, mesmerized by the lights, looking for some source of distraction. What next?

She stared at the glass in her hand, at the clear, trembling liquid. She was missing something. There had to be a way in; some way to break the killer’s defenses. To figure out where he’d made a mistake. He was clever, but he couldn’t be that clever.

“You really love the work, don’t you?” John said, breaking the silence.

She glanced over and noted no change in his appearance. His voice wasn’t slurred either. But, by her count, he was almost finished with his third glass.

“It’s what I do,” she said.

“You’re obsessed. I used to know men like that. Back in, well… where I used to work. Obsession got them killed.”

His voice choked for a moment, and Adele look sharply away, hoping to spare his pride. John did not seem like the sort who would appreciate sympathy or pity.

“I don’t know what that life is like,” she said, softly. “But I do know what it’s like to lose someone.”

She thought of the overgrown grass next to the bike trail. The sheltered portion of the park, hidden from eyes. She thought of cuts and intricate patterns, like some patchwork art, lacing up and down her mother’s body. She thought of the mutilation, the pain, the loneliness, the terror. She thought of how helpless she’d been to do anything. And, afterward, how miserable she’d been in solving the case.

This case taunted her in the same way. There were eerie similarities between the two. Of course, Adele highly doubted they had anything to do with each other. Still, she could feel the killer, the one from ten years ago, and the one now, teasing her, mocking her, leering at her from the dark, waiting for her to fail again.

“Death comes for us all,” said John. He tipped his glass in a sort of mock salute toward Adele, and downed the rest. “You think, sometimes, that if you’re skilled enough, trained enough, if you put in more hours than everyone around you, that you will be able to protect them. You know? Pitiable thing. Much easier not to care. Either way, the outcome is the same.”

Adele kept her gaze on the TV. She hadn’t heard John speak like this before. It made him seem a little less annoying. He was now staring off at the wall, his eyes fixated on the two photographs of military men.

“I…” she began to say, not sure where the sentence would lead. She paused, though, staring now at the glass in her hand. She frowned, slightly. “You said the tox report would be on your desk tonight?”

John didn’t seem to have heard her and continued to stare blankly at the wall.

“John?”

He grunted.

“The toxicology report. From the lab. You said it would be on your desk?”

“That’s what I was told by the technician. He said by tonight.” John shrugged. “The lab is good at their job. I don’t expect there was a delay.”

“Have you read it yet?”

Some of the sarcasm and scorn returned to Agent Renee’s gaze. “I said it would be on my desk by tonight. I’ve been out with you all day. When would I have had time to read it, hmm?”

Adele was getting to her feet, though, ignoring his comment. “We need to see what it says. Now.”

John shrugged, rose from his seat, and poured himself a fourth glass, nearly to the brim. Then, ignoring the concerned look on Adele’s face, he sidled past her with steady movements and pushed open the door. Adele followed him back up the stairs to the seventh floor—by the fourth he’d already finished his fourth glass and yet, somehow, it didn’t seem to affect his surefooted movements.

Either he knew how to hold his liquor very well, or years of training his physical body had a greater effect than that of the alcohol.

John’s office was far larger than Adele’s, and there were no pictures or photos here. Instead, his walls displayed posters of scantily clad models and actresses that most agencies would’ve considered grossly inappropriate.

John played his role well—just enough to keep people offended and at arm’s length. But Adele was starting to discern more about the man.

Still, right now, the source of her curiosity wasn’t the man himself, but what lay on his desk. She spotted the manila envelope the moment she stepped into the room.

John left the door ajar behind them and approached the desk with her. She beat him to the envelope and opened it with quick, deft motions.

She scanned the document a few times, hesitating, trying to place the results. It wasn’t formatted the same way the FBI did, so it took her a moment, but at last she found what she was looking for.

“Dammit,” she muttered. She lowered the report.

“What?” said John, sounding bored again.

Adele gnawed on the corner of her lip, shaking her head slightly from side to side, her hair swishing against her ears.

“It’s the same as the FBI. They know the chemical compound; a powerful paralytic, but they don’t know what it is.”

John sat on the edge of his desk, massaging his forehead. “What do you mean?”

“I mean they can identify its components, but they don’t know where it would be sold. It’s not over-the-counter, obviously. But it’s not even in medical distributions. They’ve not seen anything like it.”

Adele tapped her fingers against the manila folder, grinding her teeth in frustration. A clear, powerful liquid. Not unlike John’s alcohol.

Could the killer be making it himself? She highly doubted it. Whatever substance he used was powerful and immediately effective. To make that sort of stuff from scratch would take a level of clearance and competence the killer couldn’t have possessed while simultaneously maintaining anonymity. But then where was he getting it?

John asked, “FBI didn’t know?”

Adele shook her head.