The young victim had bruises all up and down her cheeks, and small cuts visible on her arms, just at the bottom of the frame.
“What happened?” said Adele.
“That’s what they need you to find out.”
“You don’t know what happened?” Adele asked.
Executive Foucault sighed. “All I know is what she was able to tell the Germans. The Black Forest boots brought her in only a few hours ago.”
“The Germans?” said John, frowning now.
Foucault pressed his lips together. “I’m here to make sure you don’t cause any more damage.” He nodded to John. “You’re going with her. But after the shenanigans you pulled last time in Germany, I’m here to warn you, one foot out of place, just one,” he raised a finger, wiggling it under John’s nose, “and I’ll end your career faster than you can put a bullet in a target.”
John shifted. Quietly, Adele prayed he wouldn’t say anything obnoxious. If only to help prevent this, Adele spoke quickly. “Hang on. Germany? She wasn’t found here?”
Foucault shook his head. “No. Interpol is handling it, but they want you on the case. Can’t blame them—you’re the only agent I have who has triple citizenship. As you’re technically one of my employees now, I had the final say so. John will go with you for backup. Fine as far as I’m concerned.” The Executive’s dark eyebrows dipped. “The less time he’s under my roof, the less trouble he can cause in France.”
John smiled as if he’d been complimented.
“And Ms. Jayne?” Adele pressed. “She knows about this?”
Foucault dipped his disheveled head. “She suggested it. Busy with something else, and wanted me to convey the details. Whatever the case, I don’t have many. Details, I mean. Funds have already been allocated for travel. We’ve already set up a rendezvous. You fly out tonight.”
“And the girl,” said Adele. “You said she’s alive.”
Some of the bluster and frustration faded from Foucault’s expression to be replaced by an authentic, quiet sadness. Adele wasn’t used to seeing this side of the Executive, but she waited, watching.
“The poor girl was found in the middle of the highway, half naked, bleeding from her feet. She was covered in small scrapes and cuts, which the doctors figure came from running in that state through a freezing forest. The temperatures were low enough that it did a number on her lungs.”
“She’s unconscious?” said John. “Hypothermic?”
Adele glanced in surprise at her partner, but even more surprise as Executive Foucault replied, “Yes. The truck driver who found her meant well enough, but his vehicle was too warm for her. The cold combined with rapid heating did damage. She’s in the hospital now, unconscious, on a ventilator. They hope to recover her, but it doesn’t look good.”
“She was found half naked and covered in small cuts, meaning she was in the forest, running from something. Running from what?” said Adele.
Executive Foucault shook his head and tapped a finger against the photo of the American girl where she was still smiling. “All we have is what the trucker told us. He says she kept mentioning a he. Some person, some man, had been chasing her. Someone had filled her with the fear of God Almighty himself.”
“I didn’t know you were a religious man,” said John, quirking an eyebrow.
Adele winced at the indelicate comment.
Foucault, having more experience dealing with John than Adele, ignored it completely. “She kept mentioning there were others,” the Executive continued. “That’s the part that has us worried. And one of the reasons they’re requesting Interpol.” His eyes flicked to Adele. “She kept saying he was going to kill them all. At least, that’s according to the truck driver.”
For a brief moment, Adele was reminded of her father’s notebook. Scribblings, notes, secondhand recordings of what her mother said. And now, again, the truck driver, serving as a mouthpiece after the fact of an unconscious girl who couldn’t speak for herself. A voice for a victim. Would his clues serve just as useless as her father’s had to this point?
“Others, how many others?” said John.
Foucault shrugged. “He didn’t know. She didn’t say. Hopefully, if she wakes, we can ask her. But for now, I wouldn’t rely on her making a recovery.” His voice was grim once more. “She’s in a bad way.”
Adele moved a bit, circling around John’s other side and glancing out the window into the city streets below. Many of the buildings were still streaked with lights, as Paris wasn’t the sort of city to go to bed early.
“The girl, what do we know about her?”
“Amanda Johnson,” said Foucault. “Twenty-one years old. A college student from the US, who was in Germany over the summer backpacking with some friends. She split up from the friends a month into it, to travel on her own. A missing person. Fell off the face of the radar, and wasn’t seen again.”
Adele felt a slow shudder creeping up her spine. “Amanda,” she said, softly. “She’s been here since the summer? Months?”
“Five months,” said Executive Foucault. “She’s been missing for five months.”
John handed the photo back to Foucault. “What has he been doing with them? Her? Five months? Evidence of sexual assault?”
The Executive still looked troubled, but at this, his expression lightened, if only a little. “Not that they can tell. There doesn’t seem to be evidence of that kind.”
Now Adele was shaking her head. “No sexual assault? But she couldn’t say anything else? She went missing months ago, and apparently others were missing too? Her friends, the ones who traveled with her?”
Foucault shook his head. “No. They’re all accounted for. But the Black Forest, in Germany, you hear stories,” he said with a shrug.
“What sort of stories?” said John.
This time, though, Adele answered. “Disappearances. Some say kidnappings, others say random accidents. Whatever the case, there are a lot of missing persons reports in that area. I tracked a case there once before—turned up a dead end. Still, the lore sticks with you.”
Foucault clicked his tongue. “At least that’s what the locals are saying. I don’t know. That’s as much as we know. John, I’m being serious, keep your nose clean on this one. I can’t cover for you again.”
John held his hands up in surrender. “I hear you loud and clear.”
Adele tried not to sigh too loudly. The last time they’d been to Germany together, John had thrown a camera crew’s equipment off the edge of a cliff. It had nearly cost John his job. After a series of performance reviews, he’d been reinstated the previous week, but he was on thin ice. Another incident, and it might prove fatal to his career, if not his freedom.
“We’re heading out tonight?” said Adele.
“First thing,” said Foucault. “Tickets are booked. Chauffeurs waiting. Good luck, you two. This is a bad one.” He trailed off, his countenance darkening. “I can feel it. There’s something wrong about this one.”
“Something wrong about all the cases we get,” John said.