Robert jerked awake, frowning in the night. He blinked, shaking his head, and then glanced over to the old, whittled cuckoo clock above his bed. Moonlight streamed through the window of his second-floor room, illuminating the clock and the ticking hands. The bird itself had long lain dormant, the feature disabled. But Robert liked the way the clock looked and so he kept it across from the bed. Digital sorts had never much appealed to the Frenchman.
His phone lay next to his bed, where he kept it in case of emergencies. Given recent health issues, he’d kept emergency services on speed dial. Now, though, as he lay against his pillow, staring at the moon-streaked cuckoo clock, he felt a cough forming in his throat. One a.m. Exactly.
A strange time to wake. Robert Henry had always been a bit of a night owl, but he’d also been a fastidious sleeper.
During this illness, things had changed. Basic things, like his ability to ascend the stairs to the second floor without pausing to regain his breath. Even some of the foods he’d used to enjoy would no longer stay down. He’d been minimized recently to little more than a meal of white rice and chicken broth.
Not much longer, though. Not according to the doctors.
Still, Robert wasn’t the sort to give up without a fight. He wasn’t particularly large, nor what others might perceive as a fighter. But he knew the game—knew how to tussle. He’d built a career off of it.
Such a silly thing, though, it seemed now. A career. So much of his life spent on a job…
But no, he reminded himself as he leaned back, holding off a cough. Not just a job. A purpose. Killers had been put to justice. And other agents he’d adopted as his own. Adele… He smiled at the memory of his pupil. She was the best of them all. He’d have to remember to give her the envelope tomorrow.
He felt a jolt of sadness she hadn’t come to visit him recently, but undoubtedly the job had taken her away as it often did. Still, according to the text she’d sent the previous night, she was returning to Paris and wanted to stop by on the morrow.
Robert closed his eyes, nodding to himself, having held back the cough sufficiently. As he lay still, hoping sleep would claim him quick again, he heard the faintest of noises.
Robert’s eyes snapped open. He sat up sharply, glancing toward the door. Sleep faded from him like sand drifting through a sieve, trickling out slow at first, but then in rapid proportion.
Robert’s eyes fixed on the door to his room, his hand inched toward the cell phone by his bed.
No more sounds, though.
Nothing.
He shook his head, muttering to himself darkly, then leaning hesitantly back and closing his eyes again. Just the wind, then.
As Robert lay back, though, he frowned, then sat up again with a sigh. Trust your instincts. That’s what he’d often told Adele. And his instincts were heightened now. He flung his legs over the bed, sliding his feet into his fuzzy slippers. He pulled his robe around him and then, snatching his phone, but not ringing anyone just yet, he moved slowly from his room, heading out to investigate the source of the disturbance.
***
Oh dear. Who the hell kept that many books stacked so precariously by the window ledge? The painter glared at the books blocking him from easy entry. Then, with a frown, he reached out, his fingers touching the leather spines…
He pushed, and the books tumbled to the floor. He smiled softly—sometimes art was messy. And sometimes his friends deserved a warning or two… It made it more fun that way.
The pile of fallen tomes scattered over the wooden floorboards beneath one of the red leather seats facing the dim fireplace. One of his legs was thrown through the window, the other still dangling outside, half pressed against the brick wall. He paused, listening for movement in the house.
Nothing. He couldn’t hear anyone.
The painter felt a slow, growing warmth in his belly. Was he rushing this, though? Art should never be treated that way. Ought he come back? Maybe tomorrow night? No sense in rushing a masterpiece, was there? Not something this valuable. Something this connected to his best of friends—Adele herself. They were bound together, he’d known this for a while. And this venture into her mentor’s home was a reminder of what was at stake. The only relationship that truly mattered to him.
Still, why rush perfection?
He remained with one leg inside the mansion, the other out, caught at a crossroads, considering his options. No one had seen him—he’d avoided the two cameras in the courtyard. The only witness—the mud-streaked angel statue—was blind and dumb. Most of his friends were—at least now.
He waited a moment longer, his leg still dangling inside Robert Henry’s mansion. The painter wasn’t a tall man, and his foot barely brushed the floorboards beneath it.
…Could he wait longer?
No… No, art couldn’t be postponed like this. Not again. He’d already waited.
No more waiting. Now was the time for work.
And with a bob of his shaved head beneath his mask, he slid fully into the study with the two red leather chairs, bringing his other leg in as well and sliding off the windowsill. He daintily stepped around the collapsed pile of books, avoiding them and slowly shutting the window until it was only cracked. He still might need the getaway—no sense providing himself an obstacle.
But still, as he glanced around the study, his single good eye flicking toward the glimmering coals in the hearth, one hand delicately braced, his glove in contact against the headrest of one of the red chairs, he allowed himself a soft smile behind his metallic mask.
It felt like a homecoming.
He looked around the silent, darkened room. Now, though, it was time to find the guest of honor. He hefted his black bag, which held the tools he’d used to enter through the window, sifting with his gloved fingers in search of other, far sharper utilities.
***
Robert’s face creased in a frown. No more sounds that he could hear. No further movement. Was he just being paranoid? Were his instincts off? He’d often taught younger agents to trust their gut instincts only if their gut instincts had proven true in the past. Adele was a prime example. Once upon a time, he had been also. But Robert wasn’t so sure anymore.
Sickness had taken much of what he’d once been. His lungs weren’t as they’d used to be. Still, if someone was in the house, it would be easy enough to find them, surely. An intruder? A burglar? For a moment, he considered grabbing a knife from his office—more a letter-opener, really. But what if it was Sergeant Sharp having returned for some reason? Or maybe Adele had gotten back early and wanted to visit him.
He smiled at the thought, still holding his phone pressed against the leg of his bathrobe. He nodded to himself. Maybe it was just the wind after all. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check.
Robert took the stairs now, feeling the wood creak beneath his frail steps as he rounded the banister and moved down toward the first floor.
The sound had been muffled… the kitchen, perhaps? Maybe the study. Yes, he’d check the study first.
***
The painter could hear the creak of footsteps against the stairs. He let out a silent curse, frozen, his back pressed in the shadowy alcove behind a bookcase nearest the mantelpiece. He lodged himself in the dark, his small, frail form gifting him the ability to fit in tight spaces. His friends never expected the sorts of places he could hide. Once, even, in a suitcase beneath an older woman’s bed.