Left To Die

Trees on either side of this trail sheltered it from view and from the elements. It had also sheltered the scene that had occurred nearly ten years ago.

Adele stared at the patch of dirt and the rivet by the trail. She could see the way the brush had overgrown, covering what had once been clean-cut grass. Had this been intentional?

To her, it felt disrespectful.

Adele fidgeted, tugging at her sleeve, then glancing toward the sky as if looking for insight.

“This was never my home,” she said quietly. She listened to the wind and found silence, as she knew she would. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking suddenly.

Her legs felt very weak all at once, and her throat felt scratchy. She reached up and adjusted the sleeves of her jacket, scraping one foot against the dusty trail.

“I don’t know what happened,” she said toward the weeds and brambles. “I should’ve found out—I should’ve. If I was better at my job. If I could have just focused…”

Adele shook her head and turned as if to leave, but something held her firm. She glanced back toward the now overgrown patch of grass on the side of the trail.

She remembered when she had first seen her mother’s corpse. Blood, lacing the cuts up and down her body. The killer had let her bleed out, much like the Benjamin Killer was doing with his victims.

Adele felt a slow shudder at the memories. Loathing, like she had only known once before, filled her. A familiar loathing coupled with a familiar reason.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

What else was there to say? She had failed her mother. She had never caught the killer responsible. And now the Benjamin Killer was also bleeding people. Like her mother. And again, like with that case, she was failing. He would get away. They always got away. Adele snarled, emitting a sound like a wounded creature, and then winced. She didn’t like it when her mind went to places like these.

He couldn’t get away. Not this time. Men like this, people who did things like this, couldn’t be allowed to exist. It wasn’t right.

“It’s not fair,” she said, her teeth clenching at the end of the word, biting the sound off in a short spasming surge of emotion. “I’m not your Cara anymore,” she said softly.

The breeze seemed to pick up, wrestling at her hair, glossing her skin with the cool touch of the swaying breeze.

Her hand felt sweaty all of a sudden, and she glanced down toward the candies. She hadn’t even realized why she bought them.

She unwrapped one of the candies and popped it in her mouth, wincing at the flavor. She had never liked these caramels. As much as her mother had adored the candy, it was the jokes on the inside of the wrapper that she loved most.

Adele raised the wrapper, about to read it, but then she hesitated. The killer couldn’t get away. And she wasn’t little Cara anymore. This was not her home. She was a girl without a home. And that was okay. She crumpled the wrapper and tossed it toward the opposite side of the trail, away from where her mother had once been.

She knelt and pressed her forearms against her protruding leg, resting her chin against the back of one hand. She took the other Carambar that she’d bought from the small store and placed it on the trail, next to where her mother had died.

The killer had cut her skin in shallow, intricate patterns, almost like carving some piece of art into a canvas. But Adele’s mother had been a work of art in and of herself. The killer had been a vandal, drawing cartoons on a masterpiece.

Adele turned away from the trail, standing still, not walking, but with her back toward where her mother had perished. She couldn’t let the Benjamin Killer escape as well.

He had come here, obsessed with mortality, with the descending ages of victims. Someone obsessed with death. And then he had killed again. He would kill soon. But Adele was determined to stop him before he could.

Robert had been right. She knew it now, in her bones. She had gotten close. Far closer than had made him comfortable. Last time, he’d been spooked enough to leave the country. This time, if he could feel her closing in, he could feel the noose tightening, what would he do? A desperate man, with no moral code. What sort of measures would he take?

Adele clenched her teeth in grim resolve. Then she stepped back up the trail, her eyes fixed ahead. She’d walked a great distance from where she’d left the borrowed car. But Adele liked the exercise, she liked the exertion, the effort. It helped her think, to focus. The Benjamin Killer would pay for what he did, and she would see to it that he knew exactly who had brought him down.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Pick a card, my friend, any card,” he said, his voice purring through teeth stretched in a Cheshire grin. The man reached up, adjusting his wool cap over his red hair. Now was not the time for conspicuous behavior.

He met the smiling face of a fellow with olive skin, and he winked. The young Parisian frowned in confusion and turned back toward his friends, sipping on a beer.