Left to Harm, page 2
“P-please… I need help! Help me! Look, I’m in the train station. You have to let me out!”
At this, she stiffened. She’d been in the middle of hovering her thumb over the red button. She swallowed and said, “I can call the police!”
“No!” the voice said sharply. “Help me. I’m very close. Very close. Just—look behind the locker room. There’s a hall. Can you find it?”
The voice still spoke in a sing-song, shaking, childish tone. But now, in the longer sentences, she detected the mistakes. An older voice—a male voice. A man. He was putting on some pretense. For what twisted reason, she didn’t know. Already, she realized she’d stumbled into something horrible.
Right now, all she wanted to do was grab her daughter’s overnight bag, call the cops, and run.
“Help!” the voice said.
On the other hand, what if he really did need help? But no… no, she refused. She hung up. She dialed the number for the police, waiting quietly. “Hello!” she said, once the ringtone stopped and she heard a breath. Before the operator could even reply, she was shouting, “I’m in the L’aderu train station! Please—send help. Someone’s down here in trouble. I found a finger!”
She listened to a hurried response and repeated her details, but then her hand shook from the phone’s vibration. Another incoming call from a blocked number. She stared at the device, allowing it to ring… ring…
Help…
What if she was wrong about the voice? What if someone was in trouble? She shot a look toward the finger, wincing. Then, feeling a bit better that the police were on their way, she reluctantly put the police on hold and answered the call again.
“Alright,” she said hurriedly. “I’m behind the lockers. Where are you?”
She moved around the small, three-sided space. A small hall led behind another large, beige column. She spotted a supply closet. Not unlike the one the janitor had locked on the other side of the platform.
With quick footsteps, double-checking the police were still on the line, though on hold, she hastened toward the small doorway.
“Yes,” the voice was saying. “Just down the hall. See the door? Let me out. I trapped myself in the closet. Please help me!”
“I… the police are coming,” she said. “Can we wait?”
“I can’t breathe!” the voice protested. It began to hyperventilate.
Amber gritted her teeth, trying to think clearly. But she felt disoriented from the long day, the exhaustion, the blinking light on the camera. She just wanted to get home.
So carefully, at arm’s distance in case she had to make a break for it, she reached out, gripping the handle to the closet.
And that’s when she spotted the blood. A puddle of red liquid spreading from under the door, across the tiles. She stared and slowly tugged the closet handle.
The hinges creaked as the door swung slowly open, revealing a janitorial supply closet.
And there, tucked beneath a row of cleaning supplies, under a wooden shelf, she spotted a body.
“Thank you,” the voice on the other line said with a chuckle. “Thank you for helping…” And then the line went dead.
She just stared at the corpse, lifeless eyes gaping back at her. The dead woman’s hand was missing a finger. Barely thinking, she put the police back on the line but couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“Hello?” a voice was calling from the receiver. “Hello, ma’am, can you hear us?”
The corpse leered at her. But by opening the door, she’d allowed a broom to fall. The jarring motion dislodged one of the corpse’s arms. And suddenly, the head slumped as if drifting off to sleep, long hair cascading toward a disheveled, flower-patterned dress.
This was too much for Amber.
She gulped air, gaped into the closet, and let out a shrill, ear-splitting scream.
CHAPTER TWO
“Keep your voice down,” Adele insisted. “I’m fine, John. Really, I am.” Agent Adele Sharp winced as she pushed from the couch in her apartment’s living room and maneuvered around her boyfriend to try and approach the small half-fridge she’d installed weeks ago for the exclusive purpose of holding her father’s stash of beer. The first rays of morning sunlight beamed through the window over the kitchen table, warming her skin.
Now, she used the fridge mostly for ice packs and pistachio ice cream. Either of them, in that moment, would have been better medicine than the small bottle of painkillers John was shaking beneath her nose.
Adele brushed past him, hiding her grimace of pain as best she could. She couldn’t help her fingers instinctively fluttering to her ribs, though, testing the bandage beneath her simple, white cotton shirt.
“Be reasonable, American Princess!” John growled. “I’m trying to help. The doctor said—”
“I know what the doctor said!” Adele snapped. She moved right past the half-fridge, if only to escape proximity with that cursed pill bottle. Instead, she approached the window, pretending to adjust the blinds.
The pain in her side no longer lanced every time she moved. She could walk—even jog short distances without too much discomfort—as long as she didn’t twist at the waist. It had been nearly two weeks since the intruder had broken into her apartment and stabbed her, leaving her for dead on her own apartment floor.
She’d managed to chase the bastard out, though.
But there was still neither hide nor hair of the home invader. No one had managed to find him. No cameras had spotted him. Agent Renee had personally been up and down the street she lived on, looking at every ounce of footage he could find. The DGSI had mobilized a unit to try and find the culprit.
But two weeks later, they hadn’t made much progress.
Thankfully, the same couldn’t be said for her wound. The killer had narrowly missed piercing anything vital. The pain remained, but the stitches, the bandages, the two weeks of repeated hospital visits had done their work. She could move again without gasping in pain.
At least that was something.
Agent Renee, though, wasn’t nearly so impressed. “I see you in pain when you think I’m not looking,” John insisted. “Just take half.” He shook the bottle again. “Please.”
But Adele kept her back to her partner, staring out the window onto the Parisian streets below, her eyes trailing over bus stops and wide sidewalks. “I don’t need those things,” she said. “They muddy my mind.”
John let out a snort of exasperation. “And I don’t suppose staying at the site of the attempted murder also is somehow compromising your ability as an investigator? Come on, Adele. Be reasonable.”
She turned now, her eyes flashing. At five-foot-nine, Adele was taller than most women, and could generally meet the eyes of most men at an even level.
But Agent Renee was well over six foot. His handsome, sharp features were now twisted into a glower. A single Superman curl of dark hair angled down his forehead. A scar twisted up the side of his neck, teasing the base of his chin. She’d often likened him to a James Bond villain—usually in affectionate terms.
Now, though, he was just a nuisance.
“I’m fine here,” she said. “I don’t need those.” She pointed to the painkillers. “And I already told Foucault I’m cleared for duty. Doc signed off on it.”
John threw his hands up. “Foucault agreed? Is he insane?”
Adele just rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and holding back a wince. “As for my apartment,” she said, “it’s mine. I’m not going to let some random creep scare me away. Besides, he’s not coming back.”
“You don’t know that!”
“No? That’s what the officer standing outside my door is for, isn’t it?” she retorted. If she looked beneath the door, she could just about make out the shadow of the police officer stationed outside.
It had been part of her deal with Foucault to get him off her back. He’d seemed intent on relocating her also, just like John. But Adele didn’t need to move. Didn’t want to move. This was her home, dammit. She rarely felt comfortable in any given place, and she wasn’t about to give this one up so easily.
Granted, the home was starting to feel a bit like a prison. Sooner or later, she hoped Foucault would assign her a case. She’d been cleared for nearly a week now, though admittedly had exaggerated the progress of her healing.
But if there was one thing Adele Sharp hated more than knife wounds, it was lingering around her apartment with nothing to do except sulk.
She needed a case. She also needed Agent Renee to drop the damn issue.
Which, of course, meant he did the exact opposite.
“Fine,” he said, slamming the bottle of pills on the table. “You won’t take these. You won’t move out. I’ll sleep in my car on the street then. Is that what you want?”
“Suit yourself,” Adele muttered. “Make sure you have a lot of leg room—I hear sleeping in cars can cause cramps.”
The two of them glared at each other across the room, John’s massive hand resting on the back of a cheap, wooden chair Adele had bought online and assembled herself. One of the screws was missing in the frame, but she’d found a piece of wire to jam into place instead. Perhaps she wasn’t the best homemaker, but she’d never claimed to be anything besides an investigator.
And now, even that was on hold.
They still had no clue who the attacker had been. No clue what he’d wanted. He’d been wearing a ski mask. Had known to check her door hinges for tape, had known to avoid the cameras, had entered the building without being seen.
A professional? Or just an experienced pervert?
An acolyte of the Painter? This was what worried her most. She’d killed the serial killer who’d hunted her mother and Robert and her ex, and while she still dealt with the guilt of her choices, she hadn’t considered there might be others who’d want to make her pay for what she’d done.
But the Painter had always taunted or played with his prey. The attacker in her apartment hadn’t said a word. So if not the Painter, then what?
As much as she put a bold face on it, Adele had spent many sleepless nights running through the attack. The sudden sharp pain. The realization that someone was in the dark with her. Then the ensuing fight.
He’d gotten away, barely. She’d lived.
Also barely. Luckily, she’d had her phone to call for help.
It wasn’t like she blamed John for his concern. In a way it was touching… in a somewhat overbearing, mildly obtrusive sort of way. He’d been pestering her for days now to move out of the apartment.
Whenever the subject came up, though, she could feel her temper rising. And today was no exception, evident by the faint knock on the door.
“Hello?” the officer in the hall called. “Everything alright?”
“We’re fine!” John and Adele snapped at the same time.
The cop cleared his throat but went quiet, likely realizing he wasn’t needed. Adele and John met each other’s gaze, each of them like an iron bar, refusing to bend. Robert Henry, Adele’s old mentor, had once used the phrase iron sharpens iron… But in Adele’s experience, strong-willed people just pissed her off.
She inhaled shakily, forcing herself to calm. “I’m not going to abandoned this place, John. My mother used to…” She trailed off, biting back any further retort. She had no interest in opening this can of worms.
John, though, displayed no such aversion. “I know your mother and you used to live here,” he said with a long sigh. He ran his calloused trigger finger through his dark hair, pushing the errant strand of bangs back into place. The moment his hand lifted, though, the tuft of hair fell promptly back over his eyes.
His gaze softened somewhat as he studied her. The hand in his hair moved to scratch at his scarred chin. Adele knew bits and pieces concerning his past. She knew he’d once served on French special forces, and that his last tour had ended poorly. People had died. John had survived. It haunted him still.
There was something similar to a haunted quality in his gaze as he watched her. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bouncing. Then he just gave a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Have it your way,” he muttered. “Just… just take care of yourself, alright?”
Adele opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, her phone began to ring. A second later, John’s also began to chirp.
Frowning, the two of them lifted the devices to their ears. Adele answered with a curt, “Yes?” She waited impatiently. “Mhmm,” she said. “Alright. Now?”
John looked at her as he lowered his own phone. Adele clicked hers off a second later. “Work?” John said.
Adele nodded curtly.
John bit his lip. “So Foucault wants you on the case? You sure you’re ready?”
Adele reached out, patting John on the arm. “I appreciate the concern, Renee. But I’m coming. We can drive together or separately. Your call.”
He muttered darkly, but then fished his keys from his pocket, moving toward the door. Adele followed after him, grabbing her jacket and wallet from the counter by the door. She passed the bottle of painkillers on her kitchen table without a second glance.
CHAPTER THREE
The opaque door swung shut behind her as Adele entered Foucault’s office. The place had grown familiar over the years. She slowly settled in a chair in front of the large oak desk. The scent of air fresheners no longer gave her a headache as it once did.
As she settled into the chair, she moved with very slow motions. Bending and rising exacerbated the pain in her side more than anything.
Agent Renee flopped into the chair next to her, flinging his large feet up onto the coffee table and crossing his legs and arms. He looked every bit a petulant child as he shot her angry glances, especially looking toward her side. Her hand hovered over the area of the wound just in case the bandage had started seeping. The last thing she needed was for Foucault to see blood.
She’d been itching for a case for weeks and wasn’t about to let John’s bad mood—even a bad mood on her behalf—ruin the opportunity.
Foucault eyed her over his oak table, one dark brow quirked. He had features like a bird of prey, with a hooked nose and a sharp chin. His lips pressed into a thin line and when he spoke, he did so with the rasp that accompanied a lifetime of chain-smoking.
“Moving slowly there, Sharp. Are you alright?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. Absolutely fine.”
John rolled his eyes. Adele ignored it.
Foucault folded his hands, elbows in his neat blue suit resting on the lacquered surface of his oversized table. “Right then,” he said, “to business.” He glanced between the two of them, both his eyebrows dropping now and forming a furry, dark angry caterpillar across his forehead. “Two victims so far. One of them in our backyard.”
“Paris?” John said, leaning forward now.
“Yes, Renee. At a train station here. The other victim was at a train station in Hamburg.”
“Germany and France?” Adele said, also perking up now. “What’s the MO?”
“He…” Foucault nibbled a lip. “Ah… How do I say this delicately… The killer is leaving parts of his victims in lockers to be found. He then guides, by phone, the discoverer of said part to the bodies.”
“Parts?” John grimaced.
Foucault nodded. “An ear was left in a depot office. A finger in a locker. Both the bodies were hidden elsewhere.”
John lowered his feet from the coffee table now, frowning at their boss. Adele sat straight-backed, not so much as twitching.
“Suffice it to say,” Foucault said, “both victims share an MO. A severed body part, both women, and both found with a cheap phone near the appendage, camera on, light blinking. The killer seems to enjoy guiding unsuspecting passengers to find the bodies he’s hidden.”
“A pervert then?” Adele asked.
John just snorted. “Definitely a pervert.”
“There has been no sign of sexual assault,” Foucault replied. “I’ll let you comb through the coroner reports yourselves, though.”
Adele said, “If he’s calling them by phone, have we been able to track the numbers?”
“No—he’s using disposable phones. In addition, when he speaks, we think he’s using a voice scrambler. The first victim said an old man was on the line. The second said a child spoke to her.”
John gave a visible shudder, but was already pushing to his feet.
Foucault, used to Agent Renee’s lack of decorum, just sighed and leaned back. “Both bodies have been found in major train stations in major cities,” he called out. “The transportation authority is breathing down my neck. We had three trains ground to a halt yesterday. We can’t afford this to continue.” He leaned in now, staring directly at Adele. “This office has been cast in somewhat of an unfavorable light in the news recently…”
She cringed, thinking of her shooting of the Painter.
“Whether or not we deserve such treatment,” he said softly, “we have to tread lightly on this one. And give the media—and the politicians—a reason to leave the DGSI alone. Is that clear?”
“Crystal, sir,” Adele said. She pushed to her feet, standing next to John.
Foucault gave a dismissive wave. “Files are on your phones. Good luck, Agents. The Paris station is still cordoned off. Start there.” He watched Adele for a moment. In a quieter voice, he said, “Are you sure you’re feeling alright, Agent Sharp?”
“Fine,” she said stiffly, though rising from the chair had caused another lance of pain. “Just fine, sir. We’ll start at the train station. Thank you.”
And with that, before he could change his mind or John could lodge a complaint, she pushed through the opaque door and back out into the hall of the DGSI headquarters.
John joined her a second later, but as the two of them began to move, Foucault’s voice rang out behind them. “Agent Sharp! A word if you please.”
She hesitated, shooting John a quick, uncomfortable glance.
He shrugged. “No clue,” he whispered.
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