He ripped the tape away again, wincing in delight at the pain and continuing to hum with the smooth jazz as his naked and bony body continued to sway and dance in the mirror… He trusted his source. Trusted the information.
She’d served food to the agents after all. A cafeteria worker, she’d said. He hadn’t known when he’d picked her up late at night across from the DGSI. And yet, he’d struck the jackpot. She’d known Adele. Known Adele’s friends.
Of course, he’d had her company for more than a week now. He’d only intended to keep her for three days, but after the first escape attempt, followed closely by a second, he’d been required to work a bit harder with the cafeteria worker. Some potter’s clay was tougher than others, needed more pressure, more force.
He paused for a moment, some of the moisture from the dampened razor now trickling down his face. He licked his lips and stared into the mirror.
He heard another whimpering sound and this time lost it.
“God damn it!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, slamming his bony hand against the mirror and shattering it. He cursed, glaring now at where blood dripped from his knuckles and speckled the porcelain sink. “Damn it,” he repeated, quieter now. The blood poured down his wrist and along his forearm, dripping off his elbow and spattering on the ground, flecking his bare toes.
“Bitch,” he muttered to himself, growling through clenched teeth.
He stomped away, leaving his clothing on top of the seat. He marched down the hall, approaching the sealed door with the many locks. The mewling was louder now, more a whimper, really.
“Shut up!” he screamed. “Shut up, shut up!” He flung his hand toward the white painted door, sending a spray of blood from his injured fingers to dapple the doorway itself. He ripped open the bolts, turned the lock, used the final key, and shoved open the door. He jammed his head into the room, like a gopher emerging in daylight, and screamed, “Shut your damned mouth!”
A woman sat strapped to a chair. Shivering, gasping, covered in injures of a different variety. No, none of her injuries had come from glass. He preferred other tools.
The woman’s eyes were sealed shut, bloody, her lips could barely move where she gasped, head tilted in the chair.
Seven days of torture had a way of limiting one’s awareness.
“Honestly,” he said, exhaling now, standing naked in the threshold of the door. “I thought you were already dead.”
The woman whimpered again, shaking, trying to cry, it seemed, but failing to emit a full sound.
He sighed, staring at her near corpse. Of course, he’d ruined this canvas. Something about his anger was harder to control when at home. It was easier to manage his emotions when he was out and about. He supposed most people had this issue. Manners were best displayed with new company, and the devil inside often was witnessed by the closest friends.
Not that he considered the cafeteria worker much of a friend. He hadn’t even properly spent time with her. He’d ruined some of the intricate patterns. Ripped more than cut in places.
He sighed. “Just die already, will you?” he said. “And in the meantime, shut the hell up.”
He slammed the door, whistling now with the saxophone music coming from the kitchen and stomping back in the direction of the bathroom to finish up. She didn’t have long for this world. Maybe an hour, tops.
The information she’d provided though… That would last. That had true implications for his real friends. For the masterpieces that actually mattered.
He couldn’t wait for night to come.
CHAPTER FIVE
Adele and John took his Cadillac lease to the Gare de Rue in Northern France where the Normandie Express had been held.
She regarded John as he exited the vehicle onto the smooth, almost glassy black cement of the parking lot. A stream of passengers moved through the train station, heading in and out in a cavalcade of daily sojourners.
“I hate trains,” John muttered as Adele slammed the door and fell into step behind him.
She perked at this sudden interest in conversation. The ride had continued in an impressive stretch of silence, with neither John nor Adele willing to break the ice. Adele hadn’t even quibbled with her tall partner about who should drive the vehicle—normally a matter of great contention. Jumping on the chance to hopefully smooth things a bit with her partner, she said, “Oh? What about them?”
“I get sick,” John said. “Sick like a dog and puke over everything. Last time, I only had one shirt on a road trip—I stank like vomit for days.”
“Lovely,” Adele said.
John often said gross or offensive things—it was his way of rattling cages. Now, though, instead of playful, his words felt barbed, as if he were interested in simply offending her for the sake of the offense rather than a shared joke or a playful tease.
Maybe she was simply reading too much into it. Adele sighed, wishing she’d had a chance to go for her usual morning run before her father had arrived, and instead contenting herself with a brisk walk after John’s long-legged form in the direction of the large train station built into the flatland of the northern country. Adele acknowledged the tall, curving structure of the station. From within, she could hear the chug of locomotives and the sound of milling passengers.
A local uniform was waiting in front of the station. When he spotted them, the young man glanced at his phone as if double-checking something, and then his expression brightened. He was a round, cherubic-faced fellow, with dimpled cheeks and a thin hairline visible beneath his police officer’s hat.
“Hello!” the man called, waving his pudgy fingers in a hyper sort of greeting.
John’s eyes narrowed and Adele smiled. Nothing pissed her partner off more than good cheer, and this jolly fellow seemed to have it in spades.
“Bonjour,” Adele replied. “Are you here for show and tell?”
The man wrinkled his nose for a moment, but then laughed, even though she wasn’t sure what at. “Ah, yes, mademoiselle. Agent Sharp and Agent Renee, yes?”
Adele nodded. John just glared.
“Well, come this way, the Normandie Express is sequestered. We transferred the passengers to their destinations, of course,” he said, more prattling than advising. As he turned to lead them away, though, Adele coughed, frowning herself now.
“You sent the passengers away?”
The man hesitated, turning back, his double chin pressing against the side of his uniform as he twisted. His dimpled cheeks seemed a bit less pronounced as he cleared his throat. “Umm, yes,” he said. “Is that… is that all right?”
Adele shook her head. Friendly and chipper was one thing. Incompetent and people-pleasing was another. Now, she noted, it was John’s turn to give a ghost of a smile. This only further darkened her mood.
“Damn it,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Oh, ah, yes… I’m Officer Allard.”
“Do you have a first name, Officer Allard?”
“Ah, yes. Francis.”
“Well,” Adele said, testily, “Francis, we’re here investigating a potential murder. Sending the passengers home is the same as sending the potential killer home with plenty of time to cook up an alibi, destroy evidence, or simply disappear to the four winds. Do you see why that might be an issue?”