Left To Die

The tourist pretended he hadn’t noticed, and he approached the officers once more. A criminal fled the scene of a crime, but an innocent civilian would be curious. Because a citizen who had nothing to do with the crime would want assurance of safety. They would want to know the comings and goings in their city. Why the flashing lights, why the sirens at night?

The man was not a stupid criminal. He wasn’t a criminal at all, but the evolution of a species.

He adopted a grin, but then notched it down and kept his expression nervous. “What’s going on? Not another terrorist attack, is it?” He knew his accent would come across, but it didn’t matter. France was filled with tourists. The gendarmerie glanced at each other and eyed him up and down, likely searching for a weapon.

But he kept his arms at his side, loose, his hands now facing open-palm toward the officers.

Inwardly, his emotions raged, but he couldn’t allow them control. The Spade Killer hadn’t been caught—it would be a pitiable testament to his hero to fail where the savant had succeeded.

“Where are you going?” one of the officers snapped.

“Back to my hotel. Is everything okay?”

The other glanced at his partner, and they whispered to each other, then addressed him again. “Hurry back to your room, you don’t want to be out at night. Go!”

“But is everything okay?” he said, selling it with a final flourish.

“We can’t discuss it. You need to leave, now!”

The man held up his hands in mock surrender and then turned, hurrying away again. His neck prickled, but he didn’t look back. He could feel the tension in the air; he could taste the fear over the city.

Now was time to go home. His feet thumped into the sidewalk in long, angry strides. He clenched his fists, then paused for a moment beneath a light post, listening vaguely before turning the corner.

The gendarmerie were whispering again, but taking less care to lower their voices.

“Did they find the man?” said one of the officers. There was a click, followed by the buzzing sound of a radio.

The static continued for a second. Then a replying, fuzzy voice said, “Agent Sharp is at the scene. She thinks she has an idea. We don’t know; keep an eye out.”

The man continued moving. Any moment, they might call after him. He had to get away. He turned down a side street, then another street.

The fuzzy radio words haunted him with each step.

He cut through a couple of alleys between tall, looming red brick buildings. His hotel wasn’t far, but he’d have to get back to the bar where he parked his car.

He was sure he’d make it, though. They wouldn’t find him. Not now. He had to head home. He wasn’t done yet in France, but his vacation had been cut short. He would have to return again some other time.

The name, though…

He knew that name.

The man ground his teeth, scowling into the black as he moved through the city streets back toward the bar. Agent Sharp. The FBI agent had been called Sharp, too. The same agent who’d interviewed his host family back in the US. The one who’d been hounding him for months now. Agent Sharp.

The name fueled him forward, out into the night, and away from the crime scene.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Christ, American Princess, you were right. I can’t believe you were right.”

Adele’s foot tapped a tattoo into the floor outside Executive Foucault’s office. Her thumbs scraped back and forth on the rigid edge of the wooden armrests in the chair facing the DGSI executive’s glass door. Through the opaque glass, lined with long seams of partitions, Adele could just barely make out the shape of the executive leaning against his desk.

Beyond that, she couldn’t see anything. But she knew he was on the phone. Most of the DGSI had been on the phone for the last two hours, after the expedited lab results had come in.

John reclined next to her, the chair serving far too small a fixture for his lanky frame. His long legs extended across the hall, his toes jutting up against the freshly painted wall, and his back hunched uncomfortably in the chair.

“How did you know?” he said. Despite his uncomfortable position, he was now looking at her, casting a sidelong glance down his long Roman nose. He had worn a turtleneck today, which disguised the burn mark across his neck. Adele hadn’t seen him wear anything to disguise the scars before, and vaguely, she wondered what had changed.

“I told you to stop calling me that,” she said.

John frowned, confused, and then he turned back to face the glass door. “Would you prefer American Queen?”

“I prefer Adele. Or Agent Sharp. Or, if you’d really like, you could call me ma’am.”

John snorted.

“But I suppose I can let this one pass,” Adele continued. “You were right about your friend at Interpol. They are quick.”