Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,61
bark as he leaned and inhaled the odor of oak and sap. Next to him, a small swing dangled, swaying in the late afternoon breeze. He inched forward, edging his nose around the trunk and peering up at the orange glow emanating from the open windows.
He spotted figures moving about the house. A family? Not ideal—but would have to do in a pinch. He doubled-checked the information he’d gotten from work, his eyes flicking down to the folded binder paper in his hand. With a trembling finger, he untucked the corners of the parchment and stared, scanning the note.
He had the right address. He glanced back up to the house, his eyes curving over the hill. The husband was his target. The next code year. The final vintage. According to Gabriel’s notes, the man had ordered a case of Peach Moscato not long ago. A tentative connection—but crucial that the mortal and divine collide. Wine was crucial, and while this new victim wasn’t directly involved in the making of it, he still consumed it enough. His blood would be properly tended, then.
Gabriel reached up, delicately brushing at his bangs as if coaxing in a budding plant. The gray had come—he should have trusted it would. His forehead had wrinkled, and soon… soon the aging would set in. Soon, he would be propelled onward.
He sighed, exhaling a deep gusting breath at the thought of this all finally being over.
And then his phone buzzed.
Gabriel cursed and snatched his phone from his pocket, lifting it and eyeing the number. He’d intended to hang up, but then he spotted the name.
His nephew—his late sister’s son.
He hesitated and then answered the call. “Yes?” he said, in a curt whisper. He leaned back, hiding his silhouette behind the tree once more, no longer visible from the house.
“Uncle Jon?” said Ken’s voice.
“What?” he replied, still curt.
“Where you at?” It sounded like his nephew was licking his lips.
His tone, the question—it sent a prickle along Gabriel’s neck.
“Are you all right?” he asked, closing his eyes now to listen close.
His nephew swallowed again, clearing his throat. Then he spoke in a way that caused the speakers to fill with static, as if he were cupping his hand over the speaker and whispering fiercely.
“What did you do with my van?” he said. “Cops came by—dragged me off. Said you killed someone.”
Gabriel felt the slow prickle of panic creep along his back, but then sighed, swallowing back the fear, allowing it to coax him into the realm of inevitability. He’d always known it was a chance—a likelihood.
“The van? Used it to drop off furniture—like I told you. Cops, you say?”
“Yeah,” another hiss. “I’m at the station right now.”
Gabriel wet his lips but kept his tone neutral. “You tell them anything?”
“Nah, course not. You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”
Gabriel sighed. “No—you know me, Ken. I couldn’t do something like that. Look, hang tight. I’ll figure out how to post bail. We’ll sort this out soon. Just… just don’t say anything, all right?”
“Fine… Yeah—fine… They seemed really certain that—”
“The pigs are lying!” Gabriel gritted his teeth. “You know they’re liars, right?”
“Right… Of course. Sorry. I just… Never mind.”
“Stay strong,” Gabriel said, breathing heavily into the speaker. And then he hung up. He glanced back up at the house and then moved away, heading back toward where he’d parked his vehicle. He would have to plan quickly. He didn’t have time to stalk, to track, to plan. Not this time. This time, he needed one last hit. That would sustain him—that would be enough. It had to be. It would set his soul free…
And if not… A cop’s bullet could do the same. But first he preferred the elixir.
As for his nephew… Sometimes sacrifices had to be made.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Doors slammed on multiple cars as the Adele and John led a procession of boys and girls in blue trampling across the front yard of a quaint, two-story home in the heart of Sonoma Valley.
“This it?” Adele shouted over to Carter.
The young FBI agent called out, “This is Mr. Davis’s address!”
Adele pointed at two officers and commanded, “Check the back! The rest of you, follow me… Or, I guess, follow him.”
She’d been in the middle of taking the lead up the asphalt and concrete driveway, when John burst ahead of her, thundering toward the door. He carried a breaching ram on his lonesome and rushed to the metal and wood barrier in the threshold of the house.
“Clear!” he called. “Mr. Davis, FBI—open up!”
No response.
John didn’t