Left To Die

Porter paused, reaching back with the hand not pressed to the Sergeant’s throat and running a hand through his vibrant, red hair. “It’s not what you think,” he said, shaking his head, still smiling like a child discussing their favorite superhero. “I didn’t kill your mother…”

“But you know who did?” Adele’s voice rasped.

The killer frowned. “A gardener,” he said. “They called him the Spade Killer. You should know that. He honored your mother—you owe him a debt of gratitude.”

Adele rolled her fingers, clenching them into fists. She brushed her right foot back, seeking an anchor point with her gun, in case she needed to lunge for it.

The killer noticed this movement though and shook his head. He beckoned with a finger at her. “Come here. Give me your shirt and your radio.”

Adele stared at him, and the Sergeant began thrashing again, indifferent to the blade against his neck.

The killer wiggled his pointer finger, gesturing at her. “I’m serious. Come on—give them, or I open a second smile in daddy dearest.”

Adele stared over her father’s shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes.

The killer rolled his eyes. “Puh-lease,” he said, blowing air from out of a jutting lip and causing his red bangs to lift like dandelion fluff. “I’m not a perv—I just don’t want you making any inappropriate calls, and I need to check you for a wire.” His carefree tone morphed without notice and, with steel, he snapped, “Give me your shirt and your radio, now!”

He began to cut her father again, but Adele quickly ripped her shirt off, which took the shoulder radio and its wires with it. She flung both at Porter.

She glanced down, noticing the streak of blood along her ribs where she’d scraped against the glass window. She looked up and noticed the killer staring at her too, ogling the cut along her ribs. She’d worn a sports bra, modest enough—but Adele had never been embarrassed by her body, and if the killer was hoping to shame her, it wouldn’t work.

His eyes weren’t drawn to her chest, but rather remained fixed on her ribs, staring at the blood swirling down her abdomen. He let out a quiet sound of gurgling pleasure from the back of his throat.

As he stared, he was distracted. He extracted the radio from Adele’s shirt and tossed it onto the bed, behind her father’s bound form. But he didn’t check it, nor did he flick the off-switch. If anyone was listening, they could still hear everything.

“I feel uncomfortable with my back to the window like this,” Adele said, choosing her words carefully. “The moon is in your eyes; you have a pretty good look out the window, don’t you? I bet that was intentional. And you kept the curtain open so you could see me coming. Clever,” she said.

The killer frowned, listening to her, still mesmerized by the cut along her ribs.

Shirtless, Adele felt a chill now in the room. Her father’s eyes were fixed on hers, wide, the whites stretched in the dark. She looked away, though. She needed her wits about her; long, meaningful looks of melancholy or unstated love wouldn’t save them now.

“Second floor,” she continued, speaking a bit louder than necessary, but refusing to look in the direction of the radio. “Smart to hole up here in the room facing the street. Gives you the perfect vantage point, and you’ve been one step ahead this entire time. No wire—can I have my shirt back? You’re making my dad uncomfortable.”

She stared, unblinking, unyielding at the killer.

At this, he tore his gaze away from the blood across her ribs and studied her for a moment. Then he began to giggle. He stood up, still keeping the knife to her father’s throat, but now with his calf muscles against the frame of the bed. He watched her across the room. “You have a nice body,” he said. “But I bet you don’t have to work as hard as I do for it. See?”

He lifted the edge of his shirt, revealing his abdomen, and he flexed, grunting from exertion. Still flexing, in a strained voice, he repeated, “See? How old do you think I am—no, really, take your best guess.” Now he was studying her eyes, staring out across the dark room and the bleeding sergeant.

She met his gaze, stepping, ever so slightly to the right.

“Hey!” he snapped. “None of that now; kick it away. Do it!”

Adele held up her hands in deference and reached back with a foot, kick-shoving her gun across the floor and sending it into the corner of the room beneath the chair. She used the motion, however, to take another, hesitant step to the right, out of the line of fire through the window.

Please be listening, John. If you stopped for another donut, I’ll kill you myself!

“You never met my muse, did you?” said Porter, still studying her. “How old are you?”

“Does it matter?” she said.

He scowled, his smile disappearing. “What a stupid bloody question,” he spat. “What a stupid question. Yes!” Spittle flew from his lips, speckling the back of her father’s head. “Of course it matters. How old are you!”

“Thirty-two,” Adele said, quietly.

The killer hesitated. His mood shifted again, just as rapidly as before. Instead of fury, his eyes now held awe. He glanced out the window, catching the reflection of the moon and glancing up as if looking to the stars. “Truly,” he said. “It’s fate. Elise faded away at forty-one, you know? The numbers equal five.”

“A lot of numbers equal five.”

The killer’s eyes narrowed. “It’s fate.”

What is?” said Adele, still keeping calm, trying to stall, to give her backup as much time as they needed. What if they didn’t come? What if they came too late? She suppressed these thoughts, forcing them, willing them from her mind.

The killer hadn’t handed her shirt back, but still clutched it in one fist, bunched around his hand. He lifted it slowly, and sniffed at the fabric, especially lingering, his nostrils flaring, along the stretches streaked with blood.

“I like your perfume,” he said, quietly. “It smells nice mixed with your sweat… Like flowers and sulfur…” He giggled and inhaled again, pressing her shirt against his mouth and nose now, his eyes rolling back in pleasure.

For a flash of a moment, there was an opening—he wasn’t looking. But the moment passed as quickly as it came.

Adele couldn’t risk her father. She didn’t react, listening, allowing him to speak. The more he talked, the less he hurt the Sergeant. For now, that was a win. Eventually, though, he would lash out. She knew men like this. Killers always thought they were special. People romanticized serial killers—some people fantasized about being like them. TV shows, movies, books—serial killers were revered world ’round.

But really, deep down, killers were all the same.

Scared, vain, desperately alone, and looking to spread their own misery, like a contagion, to the rest of the world.

Adele was a surgeon. It was her job to remove the contagion—whatever the cost.

Her eyes narrowed as she slipped, once more, ever so slightly to the right. Now her shadow no longer played across the killer’s chest. The moonlight struck him solid, illuminating his red hair and structured features.

“Forty-one,” he said. “That was the Spade Killer’s first, you know—Elise… your mother. His cuts are prettier than mine—I’ll be the first to admit it.” He waved a hand, distractedly. “I’m a humble student—I don’t desire to overtake the true savant of the trade.” He shook his head. “But I did continue his work. He stopped at thirty, you know that? I picked up where he left off. Like Kepler finishing the work of Copernicus. Do you know who they are?”

Adele bobbed her head. “Astronomers. Both of them old. Both of them long dead.” Her tone carried no undercurrent, but the killer still frowned at her words.

“Yes—yes, but immortal too, don’t you see? You know them.” His eyes had creased again and his brow furrowed in a summoned rage.

She needed to cut him off at the pass. Talking was fine, but eventually he’d hurt her father. Eventually, he’d kill her too—there was no way he didn’t. The killer saw their meeting as fate. She needed to put him off guard, to give herself an opportunity, to turn the killer’s violent attention from her father to herself.

Adele said, “Death scares you, doesn’t it? Somehow, in that twisted brain of yours, you think by murdering these young, innocent people, that you’re retaining your youth. Is that it? Whoever did the work on your nose, though, didn’t do you any favors in that department.”

The man’s cheeks turned from red to white. He stared at her, his eyes bugging in his skull. The knife wavered for a moment as if his fingertips were trembling from sheer rage. “What did you say?” he said.

But Adele was tired of standing there, scared and shirtless in the dark, her father bleeding, her side aching, allowing the killer to toy with them. It was a gamble; but her father would die soon without medical attention. She couldn’t keep stalling, or he’d bleed out.

“The gardener did your mother right,” said the killer, seething now. “Honestly, it’s funny you left Paris, you know that? Especially given where you worked. He who came before created a masterpiece. I may not be the artist he is, but there’s a poetry to it, isn’t there? It started at forty-one with Elise, and once you’re out of the way I’ll continue all the way down to… Well, until it ends.”

Adele snorted in disdain. “Ends? You won’t end shit. You’re a murderer addicted to your own arrogance. You couldn’t stop killing if you wanted to. A friend of mine, his name is Robert—he thinks that people like you can change. Maybe he’s right; he taught me a lot, but you want to know what I think, Mr. Schmidt?”

The man’s eyes narrowed across the room.