Left To Die

Absentmindedly, his hand reached up and massaged at the burn mark on his neck. The handsome man shrugged and murmured quietly, “Once upon a time.”

“My father served in the military.”

John nodded to show he’d heard, but offered no comment himself. He took another long swallow from his drink, downing the rest in a giant gulp, and then swung his legs over the couch to retrieve some more.

“I’ve heard stories about you guys,” she said, nodding toward the picture. “Some people say you’re the Navy SEALs of France.”

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.