John glanced at his marked piece of notepad paper, studying the next name on the list. Andrew Maldonado. The guy was too jumpy, too nervous not to know something. No—he’d been holding out. If anyone on the list was suspect, it was Mr. Maldonado.
John folded the piece of paper across the four indented square sections, and then tucked the list into his pocket. He pulled out his phone, checking the email he’d requested. Records for Mr. Maldonado. And an address.
He confirmed the location, then glanced up at the small, two-story home in the center of Vitry-sur-Seine. The lights were off, and the curtains drawn. John stepped along the curb, to the small pathway leading up to the blue metal door. He noted a piece of tape over the doorbell.
John didn’t approach the door, though. He wasn’t here to announce his presence. No. Playing by the rules? That was Adele’s way. John had other tactics. And they’d served him well, long before he’d met Agent Sharp.
He circled around the house now, half-crouched, shooting glances toward the streets. His head dipped below the windows as he lowered his large frame and then, every few moments, looked up, peeking through the first window.
But the glass set in the aluminum siding was dark; still no lights and again shuttered by a curtain. He heard a quiet screech and stiffened, glancing sharply over his shoulder. A car trundled past, and he could hear music blaring from the open windows. The vehicle didn’t stop, though, and the headlights flashed, disappearing around the T-intersection at the end of the street.
John breathed a shallow puff, then moved on to the next window. His feet padded against damp grass next to a large, whirring air-conditioning unit. He paused by the next window and peered into the house. For a moment, he thought he heard something. Movement? A quiet whimper?
His spine tingled and John’s hand instinctively went to his gun. But again, though he pressed his cheek against the cool glass, he couldn’t see inside the house.
Picking up the pace a bit, still half-crouched, he made his way around the back of the house, coming face to face with a sliding glass door next to a series of plants in ceramic pots. Then John froze.
A light was on inside, pulsing in the kitchen. No curtain on the glass door. The fence behind the yard was large enough to block any prying eyes.
And the scene that confronted him was like something out of a nightmare.
A figure was standing over another person. The first figure held something glinting in their right hand and wore black gloves and a black face mask, now lowered to their chin. Andrew?
The second person lay on the kitchen table. Their hands were bound to the tops of the chairs which were wedged beneath the table. Their shirt was missing and their chest was covered in blood.
“Merde!” John cursed and his instincts kicked in a micro-second later. He’d been right about Mr. Maldonado! The factory worker was in the middle of killing someone right now!
John shouted, raised his gun, fired twice. But Andrew was quick. He spun as the glass window shattered and crystalline shards scattered over the ground. He gripped his knife, speckling blood drops across the kitchen floor. For a moment, a pale face peered out over the lowered mask. John stared into the eyes of the killer.
“Stop!” John screamed.
But Andrew ignored him, turning on his heel and bolting to safety, behind the table laden with his victim. John shouted, but Andrew darted through the only available door remaining—into the pantry. The door clicked shut a second later and John rushed into the house, squeezing off another shot, but the bullet slammed into the wall next to the now sealed pantry door.
John felt his heart hammering in his chest. He could hear the sound of scrambling in the small closet space. For a moment, he thought to bully his way through the door, flinging his body at the wooden barricade. But what if Maldonado was armed?
John breathed a shallow sigh, listening to the sounds of movement turning to quiet stillness. Still staring at the sealed door, he heard a faint dripping and looked back to the kitchen table, watching as a line of crimson streaked down the surface of the table, spilled over the edge, and fell, tumbling one droplet at a time to splash across the tiled floor.
John gritted his teeth. The figure on the table moved again, groaning in pain. He was on a timer.
“You’re trapped in there,” John howled toward the pantry door. “Come out with your hands up!”
No sounds were forthcoming. For a moment, John wondered if perhaps there was an exit he hadn’t seen in the brief moments he’d glimpsed the interior of the food storage space. Amidst the cereal boxes, the noodles, and the dry goods, was there a back exit? He’d never heard of such a thing. No, he decided. The killer was still in there playing possum.
“I’m serious,” John said, growling. “I know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up, now, or I’m going to start shooting at the door and plug you through the wood.”
He raised his gun, aiming, deciding to go center mass, and then take another couple of shots toward the base of the door in case the killer had gone prone on the ground.
He heard another couple of dripping sounds, and wanted to scream. He had to hurry. The victim was bleeding out. But on the other hand, if he let the killer get away, Adele would never forgive him. He knew, deep in his bones, deep near where certainty was born, that he had found her mother’s killer. There was no other explanation.
Suddenly, a soft, lilting voice probed out from the dark pantry, through the shut wooden door, and John shivered at the sound. There was just something too calm, too cajoling about that voice. It was the voice of a kindly teacher, a mother at play with her children. The voice of a favorite older brother or sister. The gender was hard to determine. It was a high-pitched, lilting voice.
“Agent Renee,” came the voice, followed by a soft sigh. “Is that you?”
The chills along John’s spine only increased at the creepy tone of voice. The prickles had now reached his cheeks, and he resisted the urge to scream.
“Maldonado, come out of there now!”
“We could be friends, you know. We have a friend in common, you and I.”
“Shut up,” John howled. He wasn’t in the mood for games. “Come out here with your hands up.”
“She’s very marked, you know,” the voice continued as if it hadn’t heard John. “Do you think she knows you’re here? Do you think she can sense it? I’ve often wondered at that sort of thing.”
John kept his gun on the door and stepped forward. For one sickly moment, though, he decided that if he flung open the door, and the man inside was armed, then he would be putting himself in danger.
He heard the low, croaking groan of the victim behind him on the table. He heard the tap of crimson droplets against the tiled floor, as if increasing in tempo, suggesting his time was nearly fully spent.
“He is still alive,” said the soft voice. “You should call for help. He’s in a bad way. He’s been through a lot of pain.”
“Pain you put him through, bastard. Get out here now!” John was tired of asking and squeezed off a shot through the wooden door; splinters flew everywhere, a bullet hole punching through the center of the frame.
The voice continued as if it hadn’t even heard the gunshot.
“You think you could deliver a message to her—I mean, of course, after I get away and you’re left here, desperate and frustrated with yourself.”