Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,32
red, smiling as he did. Such a beautiful sight; he wondered if this was how Picasso felt when melding colors together on his palette.
The woman began to shudder. She looked up, one eye blearily fluttering.
He cursed and lashed out again, his arm like a piston, his thumb slamming into her neck, cutting off the supply of the carotid artery.
She collapsed again, unconscious once more. He didn’t want them to suffer. There was no sense in that. But he needed more this time. Not just the small amount he could smuggle in. More, far, far more.
One IV bag filled. He reached over and began to replace it with the next one. He would take every last ounce he could find. It was necessary, an important step.
“Accept the sacrifice,” he murmured, quietly.
He needed more. Much, much more.
But as he fiddled with the next IV bag, the tubing slipped. The back of the van was cramped. He was used to more space. The tube fell, and red liquid began spilling, pooling in the bottom of the van. He cursed and quickly yanked it up, trying to put it back in. But this time, he pulled the tube out from the needle. Blood began pouring down the woman’s arm, sliding along the van’s floor, getting between the cracks in the plastic, sliding beneath the back seats.
He huffed now, looking desperately through the van windows, the doors open. No one nearby. Just trees and leaves to witness the frailty of this poor, fractured vessel.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “Forgive me.”
He scrambled, desperately scooping some of the blood, looking at his fingers and wincing against the sudden shiver of pleasure.
Scrambling fingers, he reattached the hose, pressing it to the needle, and led the line back into the second IV bag. He would have to be more careful. More careful, or he could spoil the recipe entirely. The list would check out. Nina had been on the list. He just needed more. So very much more.
A slow, cool breeze swirled through the back of the van, wafting across his cheeks, over the fallen, unconscious form of the amateur winemaker. It was all going to be over soon. It had to be. But he was patient. He was faithful. Even if it took months, he would walk the path set before him. He would finish the race well.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I don’t like you, and you smell funny; I just want to get that out of the way to begin.” John looked straight into the eyes of the man he was insulting, and gave a slight little shake of his head.
Mr. Glaude scratched his cheek, his chained hands rattling a bit. He looked from John to Adele and snorted a bit, swallowing before saying, “Is he allowed to talk to me like that?”
Adele shrugged. “He talks to me like that. Not really much I can do about it.”
Jean Glaude looked at Adele. His hair was still pulled back in a ponytail, and the bald spot across his head shimmered with sweat beneath the pulsing LED lights above. This interrogation room was nicer than most of the ones Adele had been in. Much like everything in this region, comfort seemed to matter. Even the chairs were cushioned, and the table, to her astonishment, wasn’t even metal. The handcuffs as well had padding on the inside.
John was leaning back in his chair, hands crossed behind his head, seemingly content he’d said everything he wanted to.
Adele regarded their suspect. “I can keep asking you, if you’d like. But we know you knew Ms. Gueyen.”
“No clue who that is.” He spoke in a voice that suggested a permanent slur. Or, perhaps, permanent inebriation. He’d had enough bottles in his apartment to floor a grizzly bear.
“You don’t look in a very good state,” she said, bluntly.
He raised an eyebrow at her, as if the hairs were trying to escape up toward his bald spot. “This is how they teach you to speak to people?” He just shook his head, looked away. “You’re trying to bait me. I’m not stupid.”
“Where did you get those bottles?”
He looked at her, held her gaze, and then, some of the slur fading from his voice, he enunciated, “From Chateau Bordeaux. Maybe even this Ms. Gueyen. I don’t know. I’m from Bordeaux, and I’m French. We drink wine. That’s not a crime.”
“I read your file, it’s very interesting. Not a particularly pleasant read. What would your mother think in Cologne if we read it to her?”