The Nosferatu Scroll (38 page)

Bronson flinched, but his reaction had nothing to do with the firing of his weapon. What stunned him was the sight that had been illuminated for the barest fraction of a second by the muzzle flash of his pistol. Less than six feet in front of him, he’d seen the appalling specter of the leader of the group who had abducted Angela, his arms outstretched and his hands formed into clutching claws as he felt around for his prey. The hood of his robe was thrown back to reveal his totally bald head, black
eyes sunk deep into their sockets, and his mouth open to reveal a row of pointed teeth, the two canines so long they extended beneath his lower lip.

It was an image that burned itself into Bronson’s brain.

He lowered the pistol, aimed it where he thought the figure should be, and pulled the trigger.

On the other side of the stone wall, Inspector Bianchi and his men clearly heard the shot. He now had four men inspecting the wall, probing for a catch, and pressing on the old stones, all without result.

“Find that bloody lever,” Bianchi shouted, “and quickly. If Bronson could find it by himself in the dark, I can’t think of any good reason why the four of you can’t do the same thing. At least you can see what you’re doing.”

This time the muzzle flash of the Browning revealed nothing apart from the darkness of the cellar. Bronson stepped backward, turned to his right and fired the pistol again, with exactly the same result. The nightmare figure had vanished. And the stench, the rotting corpse smell, was now little more than a disgusting memory in his nostrils.

There was a sudden creaking sound from somewhere ahead, and almost immediately a faint light illuminated the oblong shape of a doorway perhaps thirty feet in front of him. A door to the outside had obviously been
opened. And almost simultaneously, Bronson heard a dull thud from behind him as one of the Italian police officers finally stood on exactly the right stone in the cellar. Instantly, light from the battery-powered floodlight poured in, and for the first time he could see his surroundings.

He was standing in a chamber about half the size of the one used for the ceremonies, but this one was devoid of all structures and furnishings. Rats, frightened away by the sound of the shots, were now reappearing, scuttling around the perimeter of the chamber, and a handful of small bats wheeled and banked near the ceiling.

Now that Bronson could see what he was doing, he ran forward, straight toward the doorway in the opposite wall. He could hear Inspector Bianchi calling out for him to stop, but that wasn’t an option.

Bronson slammed to a halt beside the doorway. Ahead of him was a short, empty passage, two doors opening off it on the left-hand side, and a heavy wooden door, half open, at the end. He guessed that the leader had probably gone through that door to the outside of the building. With Angela.

He wrenched open the outside door. In front of him, the waters of the Venetian lagoon, black in the moonlight, lapped at a small muddy beach. He glanced quickly in all directions, but there was nobody in sight. A path, little more than flattened grass and compressed earth, led away to his right. On his left, an almost vertical bank rose, blocking his way.

Bronson turned right, the only way out, and ran up the path. The moonlight cast a pale white glow over his surroundings, and was sufficiently bright for him to see exactly where he was. The house was over to his right, and the ruined church almost directly in front of him. Near the house he could see several figures, clad in dark clothes and carrying weapons: obviously other Italian police officers, so he knew that his quarry wouldn’t have gone to the main landing stage in front of the house. In fact, the only place the leader could possibly have gone was to the old jetty, at the other end of the island, where Bronson had seen the small speedboat. It was his only viable avenue of escape.

Turning away from the house, Bronson started to run, but after only a few seconds he saw a dark shape lying to one side of the path.

Bronson stopped in his tracks and aimed the pistol directly at it. He took a couple of tentative steps forward, then muttered an oath. The police officer had obviously had time to draw his weapon, because Bronson could see a Beretta nine-millimeter pistol lying on the ground beside him. But the weapon had clearly done him no good at all, because he was dead, his throat ripped apart, his head resting in a huge pool of blood.

Fearing for Angela, his blood pounding in his ears, Bronson ran on, checking left and right as he did so, and occasionally glancing behind him, just in case his quarry had decided to double back. He heard a commotion some way back, and guessed that Bianchi and his officers
had followed him out of the chamber, and had just found the dead policeman.

Then, perhaps fifty yards ahead, he saw a figure, a blacker shape against the darkness of the sky. He caught a sudden whiff of decaying flesh, and knew he’d guessed right. The man was making for the jetty and the speedboat.

Bronson stepped off the path and onto the grass at the side. The man was still much too far away for him to use his pistol, and he couldn’t see whether or not he had Angela with him.

Making maximum use of the moonlight to pick his route over the tussocky grass, Bronson ran on, closing the distance as quickly as he could. Then he saw a tumble of blond hair on the right-hand side of the dark robe the figure was wearing, and knew the man was carrying Angela. She seemed to be unconscious or at least, as far as Bronson could see, her head appeared to be hanging limply.

He’d gotten within about twenty yards of them when the man clearly sensed his presence and glanced back at him. Bronson saw his face, saw the blood staining his mouth and chin. He brought the Browning up to the aim, wondering if he dared risk a shot. The moon disappeared suddenly, almost instantly, it seemed, behind a thick cloud, and the figure vanished. The path in front of him appeared completely empty.

Bronson shook his head in disbelief, then carried on. He saw nothing for another hundred yards or so and
then, as he approached the inlet that contained the old jetty, he heard the rumble of an engine and saw the man again. He was already standing in the bow of the powerboat and releasing the painter. Angela was lying in the center of the boat, her body draped over one of the seats.

Bronson stopped, took careful aim at the standing figure and squeezed the trigger.

The Browning recoiled in his hand, but it was too late. The man had ducked down, stepped to the stern of the boat and opened the throttle. Bronson didn’t dare fire again, because the man was now too close to Angela. He holstered the weapon and ran for his own boat, beached only about fifteen yards away.

Bronson pushed on the bow of his craft, but for several agonizing seconds it remained immobile. Then he changed his grip, lifted the bow slightly and pushed again, and this time the boat moved. He scrambled on board and, gasping for breath, started the engine and swung the craft around in a tight circle and set off in pursuit of the other boat.

Inspector Bianchi had just ordered his men to begin a line search of the whole island when he heard the rising scream of a boat engine fairly close by. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw two powerboats carving
white wakes through the dark waters of the Venetian lagoon. As far as he could see, each boat contained a single figure, and it was immediately obvious to him what had happened.

“You four,” he ordered, “take a police launch and catch those two boats. You three, come with me. We’ll use the other boat.”

A couple of minutes later, the deep rumble of the marine diesel engines of the launches echoed around the landing stage, as the two boats set off in pursuit.

Bronson had pushed the throttle as far forward as it would go, and as he swung around the end of the island, he saw the other boat about seventy yards ahead of him. From over to his right, he heard the sound of another engine starting, and guessed that at least one of the police launches was following them.

Within moments he knew that his craft was faster than the one he was chasing. Only a little faster, but enough. Inexorably the distance between them closed: fifty yards, forty, thirty…

Then a police launch powered across the water directly in front of him, the driver obviously intent on reaching the fleeing craft first.

Bronson cursed and swung around the stern of the launch, then turned the vessel back in pursuit. He’d lost some ground, but he was still gaining on the other boat. The police launch was almost matching speed with him, and running parallel.

Bronson took one hand off the steering wheel, pulled the Browning out of the holster and aimed it at the boat in front of him, waiting for a clear shot.

Twenty yards…ten. The leader obviously knew that Bronson and the police launch were behind him, but there was nothing he could do to get away from the faster boats.

As Bronson’s boat closed to a matter of a few feet, the leader swung his wheel hard over to the right, diving straight across his bow. Bronson reacted instantly, mirroring the man’s actions, so that his vessel turned just as sharply. But it was too late—there was a screech of tearing fiberglass as the two boats collided, the port side of Bronson’s boat smashing into the starboard side of the other vessel.

The two boats jammed together, the gunwale of Bronson’s slightly smaller craft riding up over the side of the larger vessel. Instinctively, he reached out and pulled back the throttle. As he did so, he lost his grip on the Browning, which fell from his hand and clattered to the floor.

Just feet away, the hooded man stared at him, his face white in the moonlight, the streaks of blood down his chin clearly visible. He obviously saw that Bronson didn’t have a weapon in his hand, and rose up from the boat, his arms outstretched as he reached for his next victim.

And at that moment Angela recovered consciousness, and screamed.

Bronson looked in sheer terror at the appalling specter looming over him, then bent down, both hands scrabbling
desperately to try to find the pistol. The stench of decomposition rolled over him in a nauseous wave as his hand closed around cold metal. He snapped off the safety catch on the Browning, pointed it straight in the center of the dark shape in front of him, and squeezed the trigger.

Once, twice, three times, he fired, the sound of the shots rolling across the dark waters. As he fired, Bronson knew that the nine-millimeter copper-jacketed bullets couldn’t possibly have missed the target. Not at less than six-feet range.

But still the figure came on, his black robe blotting out the moon, as he reached for Bronson.

Bronson was never quite sure what happened next. He fired again as he was enveloped by the dark shape, then tumbled backward, the back of his head cracking sharply against the seat as he fell.

When he came to, Angela was beside him, cradling his head in her hands in the stern of the boat.

“Wake up, Chris, damn you. Wake up,” she muttered. Then, as his eyes flicked open, she bent down and kissed him on the lips. “Thank God,” she said simply.

In the distance, Bronson heard the rumble of another boat’s engine. A police launch was just drawing alongside, Inspector Bianchi standing in the stern and staring at the two boats, still locked together and rocking in the chop disturbing the surface of the lagoon.

“Where is he?” Bianchi called over to them.

Bronson looked up at Angela. “Where did he go?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I saw him jump at you after the boats collided, and then you shot at him. He
seemed to fall right on top of you, but when I reached the end of the boat he’d gone, and all I could see was his robe. There was no body, and no blood. I didn’t hear him fall into the water, but he must have.”

Bronson sat up, ran his palm over the tender bruise on the back of his head—it was already noticeably swollen and bleeding—and looked across at the inspector.

“I don’t know,” Bronson explained in Italian. “I banged my head when he leaped onto the boat so I didn’t see. Angela says he must have jumped into the water and got away.”

“Right,” Bianchi snapped, and turned to the police officer driving the boat. “Tell the other crew to start quartering the area. We’re probably looking for a body, but it’s possible the man is still alive. Either way, I want him found.”

With a throaty roar from its turbo-charged diesel engine, the second police boat swung away, two searchlights snapping into life as the crew started their search.

“You shot him,” Bianchi said, a statement rather than a question.

“I shot
at
him, Inspector,” Bronson replied, “and that’s not quite the same thing. He dropped his robe,” he added, passing it over to the police officer.

“You’d better get back to Venice, Signor Bronson. That looks like a nasty wound on your head, and you need to get it checked. We’ll stay out here until we find the body, and I’ll send somebody round to your hotel to take a statement in the morning. It’s been a long night
for all of us. Oh, before you go, you’d better give me that pistol, unless you’ve managed to acquire a license for it in the last twelve hours. And any ammunition you might have picked up as well.”

Bronson handed over the pistol, holster and spare magazines, then spent a couple of minutes separating his powerboat from the one the cult leader had been driving. Once he’d freed the gunwale, he waved a hand at Bianchi, started the boat’s engine again and motored away.

As they headed back toward the lights of Venice, Bronson slipped his arm around Angela’s shoulders and she nestled her head against him.

“How’s your head?” she asked.

“I’ll live,” Bronson said. “It feels like a bad bruise, but I don’t think it needs stitches. All I really want to do is get back to the hotel and lock the door against the world. It’s been a hell of a night for us all, and especially for you.”

Angela shivered. “Thank God it’s all over. I really thought I was going to die in that bloody cellar. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you there—and carrying a gun.”

“Well, we’re safe now. Just don’t think about what happened tonight.”