Left To Die

“I think you’re too stupid, too normal, too ordinary and too old to change.” She shrugged in a gesture of disdainful dismissal. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks. And hells, you’re ancient.”

The killer loosed a mewling snarl that started in the back of his throat as a whimper, but then exploded, shoved to the front of his lips with a surging vehemence that caught Adele off guard.

He screamed and lunged toward her, knife flashing, just as she turned, grabbing for her gun.

But he reached her first and kicked her in the chest, sending her stumbling away from her weapon and careening into the wall beneath the window. Her head clattered against the glass and her shoulders slumped as they scraped past the sill and she came to a stop against the plaster.

The killer continued to emit his shriek as he dropped on top of her, smothering her and holding her down. His one hand pressed against the exposed flesh of her abdomen, twisting against the blood and slipping along her ribs. The other raised the scalpel, trying to slash down.

Adele’s hand was all that kept the knife from her throat. She had the killer gripped by the wrist, holding tight, keeping both their hands elevated.

She gritted her teeth, emitting a growl of her own to match the killer’s snarl. Like a couple of huffing animals, they lay there, him on top of her, both of them struggling for control of the other’s hand.

The Sergeant was shouting and thrashing now, but his movements had weakened as his wounds took their toll and blood loss had its say.

Adele screamed in pain as she felt a finger jam into the cut at her side, trying to twist the flesh open further. She howled and the killer screamed back at her, their noses almost touching. He managed to jerk his hand free from hers and shove his shoulder down, trapping her wrist against her chest and pinning it beneath his weight.

He was too strong, too agile.

She tried to kick out, but he was straddling her now, securing his grip before lifting the knife a second time, like an artist with a paint brush, holding their tool of choice aloft before setting to their next work.

Then there was a distant bang.

Followed, in near perfect succession by another.

The killer’s hand was illuminated in moonlight—the only part of him still visible over the windowsill. The first bang saw the window shatter as a bullet broke the glass and sent pieces tumbling onto both Adele and Porter.

The second bullet slammed into the killer’s hand, demolishing a couple of knuckles and severing a finger at the joint. The killer howled as his finger fell from his injured hand and blood poured from his new wound.

The knife fell, landing next to Adele’s cheek, along with more shards of glass, which nicked her face, but missed her eyes.

She grunted and shoved.

The killer was still staring at his disfigured hand, a look of horror across his features. Adele didn’t hesitate. As some of his pressure lifted from the shock of being shot, she flung out her left hand, grabbed the scalpel, gripped it and brought it slashing forward. Once, twice, a third time, she used it like a knife, jamming the blade into the killer’s neck.

Blood poured from the wounds and Adele felt his strength fading as he stared down at her, a quizzical look replacing his one of horror. His injured hand fell against his thigh and then, with a slight, questioning sigh, he toppled over, scalpel buried in his throat, falling from Adele.

Breathing heavily, covered in both her blood and the killer’s, Adele slowly eased up, trying her best to avoid the falling glass.

“American Princess!” a voice shouted from the street outside. “Are you all right!”

An impossible shot. A perfect shot. One to clear the glass, a second to hit Schmidt’s upraised hand. Adele shook her head in disbelief, shock running its course through her body.

Adele pushed doggedly to her feet, stumbling over to her father, shards of glass tumbling from her with each step and scattering on the ground. She reached her father, whose head was now lolled against his chest, his eyes half-closed.

“Stay with me!” she snapped, grabbing a nearby pillow and ripping off the case to press it against the cuts along her father’s face and neck. Her father emitted a quiet moan, and his chest rose and fell, flooding Adele with relief. “John!” she shouted over her shoulder, toward the window. “John—call EMS! Now!”

She heard a muffled shout in response, but couldn’t quite make out the words. Her own head was now spinning too. Slowly, she slid down the side of the bed, reaching out and snaring a piece of glass to start sawing at the duct tape around her father’s wrists.

He moaned again. “Sorry about the carpet,” she muttered.

Then, once her father’s hands were free, she had him press another pillowcase to the wounds on his thigh.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, next to her father, they remained in silence, hands pressed to his wounds, staring at the open door, neither of them paying much mind to the body beneath the window. Adele had nearly forgotten he was there.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Adele sat in the chair facing the opaque glass of Executive Foucault’s door. Her feet were crossed, the fuzzy pink slippers Robert had given her poked toward the ceiling.

A voice cleared down the hall, and Adele glanced over at John striding toward her, a smirk on his face. “Nice slippers,” he said.

She grunted in reply, shifting slightly, but wincing as her bandaged side moved against the armrest. “I’ll give you one,” she said. “I do owe you.”

He nodded. “Yes. Definitely you’re in my debt, hmm?”

She rolled her eyes. “Seriously though, that was a hell of a shot. I never did properly thank you.”

John flashed a schoolboy smile. “I can think of some ways you could express your gratitude.”

“You’re a pig,” she said, but her tone was devoid of any ill will.

John leaned against the executive’s door, seemingly indifferent to the long, dark shadow he would cast through the glass into his boss’s office. “Nice of you to advise me over the radio,” he said, conversationally. “Gave me the information I needed to make the shot. To be honest, for a moment there, I thought I was too late.”

Adele shrugged one shoulder, glancing back through the opaque glass.

John stared at her slippers again. “Not exactly professional,” he said, raising a dark eyebrow.

Adele smiled. “I’m on vacation.”

“Yeah? Good for you.”

“What?” Adele teased. “That’s all I get? No jokes about how lazy American princesses are?”

But John didn’t smile this time; he glanced off down the hall, his face darkening for a moment. “You deserve a break,” he said, softly. “Don’t let them drag you back too soon, hear?”

Adele sighed, feeling some tension leave her shoulders. “I’ve just got a last meeting with Foucault, then I’m off for the week.”

“Going to spend it in Paris?”

Adele hesitated. “I think so, yes. An old friend offered me room and board for the week.” She lowered her voice and winked conspiratorially. “He has a private swimming pool, so I think I might take him up on the offer.” Adele didn’t add the more important part. Her teeth pressed against each other and she felt her mood darken for a moment. The killer had said, “Honestly, it’s funny you left Paris, you know that?” He’d been talking about her mother’s killer. Why had it been funny, though? The way he’d said it kept repeating in Adele’s mind… Almost… almost as if the killer she’d been looking for all along had been in Paris.

Adele had known he’d killed in the city, but she’d never known where he’d been from. Funny you left Paris… Maybe what she had been longing for was beneath her nose the whole time. A week of vacation wasn’t a long time, but… enough time to turn up a new clue? Perhaps.

“How’s the old man?” John asked, still leaning against the glass.

Adele paused for a moment. Only three days had passed since closing the case of the German vacationing killer. Her father had emailed her earlier; he’d returned from the hospital to more than one can of condensed soup waiting for him on his front porch: gifts from his work buddies. She shrugged toward John. “Tougher than me,” she said. “But he agreed to video call me later today—so that’s progress.” She chuckled and shook her head in incredulity. “By the sound of things, though, he’s heading back to work tomorrow.”

John nodded, no longer smiling. “I doubt it,” he said, softly.