Left To Die

Before she could reply with a scathing remark, however, the radio buzzed again and Agent Marshall’s voice blared out, far too loudly, “It isn’t Mr. Ozturk,” Marshall said. “He lives in an apartment and his landlord and three separate neighbors all claim they’ve seen him in the last week. Plus, well…” Here Marshall trailed off for a moment as if she were gathering her thoughts then, in a tactful tone, she continued, “I’m not sure he’s in the physical capacity to subdue or harm anyone.”

John snickered and said, “Is he a fatty? Are you talking normal chub or American fat?”

Adele pressed the button again. “John, please, could you just hurry up?”

A pause. Static, then, “What about you, American Princess; we’re down to two, it sounds like. Is your man a red-haired devil?”

“Don’t know yet,” said Adele, glancing back up toward the old, well-maintained home. It was a busy street with cars zipping by every few moments, but otherwise, the house was normal looking enough. The grass was cut, the leaves raked, two trash cans were set out on the curb for collection.

“Should I come meet one of you?” said Agent Marshall’s voice.

Adele began to reply, but John beat her to it. “I’m closer. Come meet me. Afterwards, you can show me the best place to get drinks.”

Adele resisted the urge to gag. “Could you stop flirting, finish your coffee, and go check your man?”

John snickered. “Don’t forget the donut. It’s almost ready.”

Adele shook her head in defeat, but lowered her hand from the radio to her holster as she stalked toward the house. Her other hand went to her identification, preparing to lift it in introduction as she’d done many times before.

The investigative part was always easier. Adele had never been comfortable with a firearm, and even now she could feel old nerves coming back, threatening to derail her.

She inhaled deeply, then exhaled for a second longer, focusing on her breathing as she took the steps to the porch and raised a hand to knock on the door.

No answer.

She reached out and pushed the bell. A brief spurt of guilt caused her to cringe as she did. Her father’s influence had extended to bell-pushing. Christ, she thought to herself. How pathetic.

She pushed the bell a second time with more confidence, holding it longer this time.

But again, there was no answer.

Adele slowly unbuttoned her holster and sidestepped to the nearest window. She frowned, pressing her forehead against the cool glass.

Through the window, she spotted a tidy room with an old grandfather chair facing a fireplace and a long kitchen table with a laptop.

Her eyes narrowed, staring at the laptop, trying to register what she was seeing.

A face on the laptop stared back at her.

A face she knew.

“Shit,” she said, uttering the word in tandem with a huffing breath.

The laptop had a picture of her father’s face displayed on the LED screen. Adele’s gun ripped from its holster and she kicked at the door. Once, twice, leading with her heavy boot, but the door held firm. With an urgent huff of air, she sprinted around the side of the house and hopped a low, ridged wooden fence. Ignoring a bed of roses, she tore through the flowers and circled the backyard. A home gym was stationed beneath a tree, complete with a workout bench, weights and an old rowing machine beneath a tarp.

She ignored the strange set-up and surged toward the back door. This one was brittle, old—a wooden affair with chipped, flecked paint and a small glass semicircle which reminded her of the sections of an orange.

She kicked this door again, and again, desperately wishing she’d had John for backup.

Finally, with the third kick, on what felt like a sprained ankle, there was a splintering sound.

Adele felt a surge of exhilaration, coupled with dawning horror as she slammed her shoulder into the door and, with one final protesting crack, it gave way and swung inward.

She rushed into the room, sprinting over three neat sets of male shoes. She reached the kitchen table, her gun still raised, trained on the kitchen, then switching to the living room.

No one in sight.

She didn’t announce herself, but spun around the rectangular kitchen table and, breathing heavy, her shoulder and ankle pulsing with aches, she stared at the computer screen.

It was open to the Berlin PD website. Her father’s name and face filled the screen and her eyes flicked to the tabs of the browser: Google Maps was open. With a trembling hand, she lowered her gun, placing it on the table, and clicked the tab for the map.

A small red dot, like the laser on a sniper’s scope pulsed over a house in the suburbs.

She stared, scanning the map and her eyes flicking to the search bar.

It was her father’s address.

“Dear God,” she murmured, backing away from the table. Her hand fumbled in her pocket, but she finally managed to rip her phone from her pants and dial her father’s number. The cold blue screen blinked back a single word: Dad.