Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,43

then he slit the girl’s neck and dumped her to the ground, allowing blood to splatter at Diedrich’s feet and stain the dust.

Diedrich stared in horror, watching the girl’s hands twitch. Once, twice, than fail. The blood spread out, staining Diedrich’s feet, washing toward the cage that he’d been put in.

“Go to your rooms!” the man screamed.

The others quickly raced back into their chicken wire cages. The gray-haired man dragged Diedrich into his and slammed the door, then latched it. He moved over to the breaker on the wall and flipped it. There was a quiet buzzing hum as electricity recharged the doors.

“I’m putting you on timeout,” he said. “I want you to think about what you did.”

Then the old man took the stairs again with creaking steps, closed the door at the top, locked it by the sound of things. Then was gone.

Diedrich stared at the corpse in front of his cage. He stared at number eight. Not her real name. Once a person—a human. Now a husk. Her lifeless eyes stared back, and the blood continued to spread, pooling over the dust, creeping closer to the cage door. The sounds of the others crying, whimpering, filled the basement.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When he failed, people died. A resolute, stony fact of life. The Sergeant knew this. He moved through the woods, the flashlight beam tracing the detritus, skipping from trunk to trunk, flashing through the woods. Deep. He’d gone deep. But the Sergeant had a head for direction. He always kept a keychain compass with him besides. GPS was for the younger generation—the Sergeant would do it the old way. He shivered a bit, but suppressed the feeling; he was very good at suppressing feelings. The Sergeant felt a weight, a whisper in the trees, and he knew it was his fault.

Pine cones crunched beneath his booted feet, and twigs scattered. Browning needles from the trees softened his footfalls every few steps. And he moved, following the last grid pattern they’d left off with in the search party.

He kept the flashlight swinging one way then the other. His gloved hand gripped the yellow plastic handle.

Whispers in the trees. Whispers in the woods. Then again, the same whispers could be found in his bedroom. Could be found in his car. Could be found anywhere he went.

“Lord, preserve me,” he murmured. The Sergeant was not a man given to swearing. He didn’t think highly of those who couldn’t contain their language. But sometimes life deserved a resounding fuck you.

Whispers. Whispers, reminding him. He hadn’t solved Elise’s murder. He hadn’t prevented it.

It was getting even colder. He shivered, still moving through the woods.

By now, it felt like he had traveled a kilometer, maybe two, leaving the highway far behind. Adele had wanted to come with him, search the deeper woods at his side.

But that would have been more shame. A poignant reminder. The whispers were louder when Adele was around. She was a better investigator. He had known it. He hadn’t solved her mother’s death. She would never forgive him for that, he was sure of it. She probably hated him for it. He hated himself. He frowned, hand bunching. No, only weirdos hated themselves. The Sergeant wasn’t a weirdo.

Whatever the case, he needed to solve this one. Elise’s murderer had gotten away. But this kidnapper, this person preying on young folk, would have to be caught. And the Sergeant was determined to see it through.

Resolute, shoulders set, he marched through the woods, like a hound with a scent. Dogged, unrelenting, unyielding. The cold didn’t bother him. Sleeplessness didn’t bother him. Elements didn’t bother him. Exertion didn’t bother him. Passing time didn’t bother him. One step, two-step, look here, look there. The Sergeant had never failed when it came to exertion.

He moved like a pit bull through the trees. Several kilometers passed. And then he pulled up beneath a grove. More pine needles, more leaves. Nothing. The same as the years spent looking for Elise’s killer. Nothing.

Never anything. What was the point?

But the Sergeant just as quickly severed that line of thought. It didn’t matter what he felt. Emotions were weakness. What mattered was what he did.

He lowered his head and tracked for another kilometer, checking behind every tree, every inch of dirt, two hours, three, four. By now, night had long since passed, and darkness had encroached over the forest. Perhaps it was ten PM. He didn’t know, didn’t care. He didn’t like looking at a watch when he was on the hunt.

As