Left To Die

Once upon a time, she’d stored his name only as Joseph. But things had improved since then. At least, so she hoped.

Five rings. Six. Seven.

No answer.

She dialed again. Sometimes her dad ignored the phone, fearing telemarketers.

Another five. Six. Seven. Dial tone.

No answer.

A third try—still no answer.

Adele rammed her phone back into her pocket and she darted forward, one arm extended as she grabbed her gun; rapidly, she gave the house a cursory scan, one last time, then broke into a sprint, back out the rear door, hopping the splintered frame and racing back through the rose garden.

“John!” she shouted into her radio, “John—it’s Porter! Porter Schmidt is the killer. He’s going after the Sergea—my dad! John!”

She reached her car, swung open the door, and spilled into the seat, tossing her gun onto the passenger side. It took her three tries with trembling fingers to jam the key into the ignition and another couple of tries, with the engine groaning, for her to realize she still had the vehicle in neutral.

Cursing, Adele put the car in gear and tried to focus on breathing, to calm herself.

But the trick didn’t work this time.

Adrenaline met terror and did a number on her mind, sending her into a vortex of worry and fear. A physical clot of anxiety pulsed in her chest. Her dad. The killer was going after her dad.

She thought of her norther. Ribbons of red extending from the once beautiful woman, staining the clover leaves and blades of grass, spilling into the sodden ground in the park. A tapestry of swirling scars up and down her body.

“Fuck!” Adele shouted as she ripped from the curb and nearly hit a park bench. “Dammit!” She tore up the street, ignoring a vehicle half-pulled out of the driveway. The driver leaned on his horn in protest, but Adele ignored that too and floored the gas pedal, tearing through a stop sign and roaring up the street.

She’d just been at her father’s place. Had she missed him? Would she be too late?

No. No, she couldn’t think like that. She couldn’t be too late. Not this time. Please, God, not this time…

“John!” she repeated, slapping at the radio. “Where are you?”

A buzz, some static. Then, “Sharp? What is it?” Some of the joviality had faded from John’s voice.  “Adele, are you okay?”

Tears were now streaming down her face. For a moment, Adele felt twenty again. Little more than a child, weeping at the news of her mother.

No. Not this time. Not her father too.

Still, she sobbed, trying to maintain professionalism, trying to suppress the emotions like she always did and always could. Emotions caused weakness. Emotions were distractions for an investigator.

But she couldn’t push back the kaleidoscope of horrible images now playing themselves across her brain, suggesting all the coulds and what-ifs of the immediate future. Each thought brought a new wave of emotion and a new surge of speed as Adele ripped through traffic, receiving more than one blare from a horn. At last, she remembered to flip on her lights and siren—the BKA had been kind enough to at least supply that.

Siren wailing now, blue and red flashing across the glinting windshield and hood of her car, she zipped beneath a red light, surging back onto the highway, heading in the direction of her father’s house.

“No,” she said. “John—John he’s going after my dad. It’s Porter. He’s going after my father!”

A pause. Then, a serious voice. “You’re sure?”

Her voice cracked. “ Yes, John, please—”

“Where does your father live?” he rattled off, his voice becoming colder, more calculated. The voice of a military man in the middle of a high-stakes operation.

Adele recited her father’s address from memory, her eyes glued to the road as she wove in and out of traffic.

There was a staticky buzz, then John, sounding out of breath now as if he were running, said, “I’m on my way. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“John, it’s my dad.”

“Damn it, Adele, I know.” The distant slamming sound of a car door interrupted through the static. “Just wait for me. Okay? Promise me you’ll wait.”

Adele didn’t reply. She gripped the steering wheel, no longer attempting to suppress her emotions, but stewing in them as she sped through the city, racing toward her father’s house and into the waiting arms of a killer.

CHAPTER THIRTY

She tore into the driveway, heralded by the yipping sound of the neighbor’s dogs. She flung open the car door, not bothering to close it, only pausing for a second as she remembered to grab her gun from the passenger’s seat.

She sprinted up the steps and reached the house, pausing only to glance through the windows, searching the interior of the house. But most the windows were shuttered.

Her dad was the type to shoot first and ask questions later, but Adele wasn’t worried about being on the wrong end of a hair-trigger. Had she beat the killer here? She needed to enter the house.