by Blake Pierce
And now, his escape vehicle was on the move.
“Adele,” John said, slowly.
“Next stop?” she yelled, louder. “Where?”
“Adele!”
“What?” She snapped, spinning around and fixing her partner with a furious glare.
But John was ignoring her, his phone still in his pocket. “Forget the next stop. Look, there!”
She frowned, staring, and then went still. Three pleasure crafts were roped off at a smaller dock, about a hundred yards away from the River Metro's port. Two of them were secured to the dock and bobbing vaguely on the water.
One, though, had three young men stepping into it, laughing and clinking glass bottles. Loud music blared from this boat's radio. One of the young men, shirtless—though he probably shouldn't have been—was busy untying the boat, looping a rope around and around.
“Adele... We might not have time to wait for it to reach the next port,” John said, insistently. “If he's targeting someone else—chances are, she's on that boat. He might have timed it so he would get off in time to reach his next victim.”
“Damn it, we don't know that.”
“We have reason to assume,” John returned.
Adele winced. The music was blaring louder now from the small, green speed boat with the three frat boys. One of them had dropped his swim trunks and was now peeing into the river.
The River Metro Eight was now well up the river, heading away from the dock and the agents, carrying its passengers and, most likely, its CEO out onto the water.
“Adele, follow me, hurry!” John broke into a sprint, racing towards the three young men and their speedboat.
Reluctantly, Adele heaved a sigh, but broke into a jog as well. She supposed she'd already admitted to herself why John's methods were so effective. No point in putting up a fuss now. Besides, it wasn't like commandeering a civilian vehicle was unprecedented. At least there were no paparazzi involved this time.
John had already reached the boat as Adele hurried over, glancing every so often in the direction of the riverboat, as if making sure it wouldn't vanish on the horizon.
John was busy trying to communicate to the three drunk frat boys. “Too early to be drinking,” John was saying, wincing against the blasting music. The man who'd been trying to untie the boat was protesting, his words slurred. But one look at the holster on John's hip, and he went white.
The man stuttered to his friends on the boat. The one peeing into the river, glanced back, but the second one, who'd been reclining in the back of the speedboat, yelped at the sight of John and Adele and quickly darted to the dock, accidentally jostling his urinating friend.
This unfortunate fellow tumbled, splashing into the river. The other two stood on the dock, staring at John, wide-eyed and horrified.
“Keys!” John demanded, jutting out a hand. “Please. Keys! Now! We need them!”
“Interpol,” Adele added, wincing.
The shirtless fellow, who was already developing a bit of a sunburn, slowly reached into his swimming trunks and pulled out a key with a small, black buoy on the ring. He handed it to John. “Don't hurt her,” he said in German, his voice shaking. “She's all I have! Please!”
John patted the man on the bare shoulder, a bit harder than perhaps the fellow had been expecting, though, at least, Adele knew he'd meant it to be an encouraging gesture. Where Renee was involved, it was hard not to interpret intimidation.
But now, John was already stepping into the boat. It rocked, where it was now untethered from the dock. He reached the wheel, jamming the keys and lowering the outboard motor a second later, into the water.
Adele followed, nodding in gratitude towards the three frat boys. Two of them were now helping their friend out of the river. John pushed the throttle, slowly at first, guiding the motorboat away from the dock, and then, once they were clear, he gunned it.
The boat jolted, jarring forward, and Adele stumbled back, bracing herself against one of the cushioned seats. Cold spray and warm sunlight met on her skin, and Adele winced against the sudden flurry of wind. She glanced back at the white trail left in their wake, and the three forlorn figures standing on the dock.
John clicked the music off, leaving the only sounds to come from the churning engine and the splashing water and the rising wind as they tore up the river in pursuit of River Metro Eight.
Had the CEO found his next victim? Were they too late already?
“Come on,” Adele murmured. “John! Is that how fast it goes?”
The Frenchman shoved at the throttle in explanation. It was already full speed. It felt so, so very slow, but as they cut through the water, hurrying up the river, they were drawing nearer and nearer to the large riverboat.
Adele's hair whipped around her as John guided their speedboat up alongside the large touring vessel. A few passengers stared over the rail, watching in curiosity at the rapidly approaching watercraft. Adele raised her voice over the sound of the choppy water and the rising wind, "John, pull alongside!" she shouted.
But Agent Renee had another idea; he kept the throttle maxed and pulled in front of the large boat. He started zigzagging back and forth in front of the vessel, churning up water.
The larger vessel leaned on its horn, and it sounded like someone had set off a bomb. Adele's hands clapped to her ears against the explosive noise, but John was undeterred, and he continued to zip back and forth, slowing as he did, and waving one hand over his head wildly, gesturing for the vessel behind them to stop.
Adele licked her lips nervously, looking back, and examining the nearing riverboat. If it didn't stop, it would run over them like a tank over a toy car.
John began to lean on his own horn, though it sounded like the yapping of a chihuahua in comparison to the roar of a lion. River Metro Eight's horn blared again, and Adele grit her teeth, her hands still clasped to the side of her face.
John, though, continued to slow. Soon, they were matching the riverboat's speed. More passengers and some crew members were now staring at them from all three decks.
Was the CEO one of them?
The riverboat seemed to realize the horn wasn't doing the trick and began to try and move around John. But the tall Frenchman directed his speedboat, tongue tucked inside his cheek in concentration. Adele knew how much John hated the water, but he was also masterful when given something to pilot or drive. A boat wasn't his vehicle of choice, but John was a wizard at any wheel. He continued slowing down, blockading the larger vessel; the riverboat was also stalling, trying not to crush the small speedboat.
At last, after two more attempts on a blaring horn, and another attempt to try and move around the smaller boat, the larger vessel behind them came to an idling pace, its engines grumbling quietly, like the growl of some woken grizzly. The river's current lazed in the opposite direction of the boat's momentum, counteracting, and seeming to stall the boat for a moment.
"Now!" John said, hurriedly. He turned the vessel back and moved alongside the riverboat now, their nose bumped against the much larger, metal hull. A dangling, rubber safety barrier, bounced against the side of them, preventing collision, and John grabbed the prickly, sodden rope, tethering the speedboat to the rubber guard.
Then, breathing heavily, his eyes wide with excitement, John gestured at Adele, one hand gripping the rope and the other extended towards his partner.
Adele accepted John's help, and moved across the rocking, swaying boat. Together, they pulled up, latching onto the bottom of the rail, and then clambering onto the vessel itself.
Passengers watched with wide eyes. A couple of crew members were approaching rapidly, scowling. But one look at John, and a flash of Adele's badge, they pulled up, their expressions morphing from fury and outrage to worry.
Just then, a voice peeled out, "What is the meaning of this? You're going to jail! How dare you!"
The voice bellowed and accompanied a small man, who couldn't have been much taller than five feet. He moved with a waddl
e, and his back was hunched, his shoulders broad, giving him a look like a small troll doll. The man's hair was spiky and gelled back, and he wore two earrings in the shape of butterflies. He was shaking his spiky head wildly, his voice booming from his small body, and he was gesturing at the crew. "Grab them. Hold them until the police get here!"
Adele blinked, but John, frowning, stepped forward. He pointed towards the small man. "Are you Eicke Rohm?"
The short fellow frowned, crossing his small arms over his thick chest. "I don't answer to you. What the hell do you think you were doing out there? You could've gotten yourself killed. You could've gotten us killed." He trailed off, muttering darkly, and cursing a few times, and Adele caught words like, "travesty...investors..." and "...nightmare."
"You're the CEO of Sightseeing Incorporated?" Adele said, pointing at him.
The man looked at her, frowning. The fact that one of them knew his name, and the other knew his position clearly put him off. Adele pulled her wallet out again, showing her ID once more, and the man's bluster and fury faded. He stared and started to stammer.
"Eicke Rohm," John said, growling, "you're under arrest."
The tall Frenchman stepped forward, and the diminutive CEO of the touring company just stood rooted to the spot, his eyes wide, his face pale and frightened. He kept shaking his head and muttering in disbelief.
Adele watched as John grabbed the small man, and turned him around, cuffs coming out.
Was this the killer?
She could think of a single, surefire way the man's innocence could be proven.
If she got a call about another body somewhere else.
Adele shivered, but then heard the quiet click of the cuffs, and followed after John as he began to lead the small man along the deck.
CHAPTER THIRTY
He adjusted his glass eye, wincing. Normally he liked to wash it first thing in the morning, but he had barely slept. He'd also been forced to abandon his borrowed car the night before. The police were tracking that too.
He walked along the river, moving slowly towards the dock entrance. The chain-link fence at his side gave him ample vision of the waterway beyond. He spotted River Metro Eight in the distance, the name of the boat written in looping purple letters on the front of the hull. The boat was stalled, however, short of the dock, in the middle of the Danube.
The painter scowled; he didn't think it was normal for one of the riverboats to pause before reaching its next destination. "What in the hell," he murmured beneath his breath.
He sighed in frustration, lowering his hand from his face, and rubbing his knuckles against the inside of his palm.
His injuries were beginning to ache. The cuts from being thrown through that window, the limp, the bludgeoning from the Sergeant were all cashing checks his body had reluctantly written.
A groan curdled his lips. He wished he could've stayed in that borrowed car. He needed to find another one.
The painter continued to limp along the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, head low. Small, frail, no bigger than a child.
People didn't look upon someone like him as a threat.
But he had always considered himself an artist. A misunderstood creative genius. And all geniuses suffered. Hadn't he been imagining Van Gogh's own pain? That's what he got for wanting to be like one of the greats. He had to pay the price with his own agony. So be it. He just wished it wouldn't take so long. He watched the riverboat stalled on the water, and for a moment, he thought he spotted a small speedboat moving along the side of the thing. A police boat?
He froze, motionless, staring through the chain-link fence. But no, just a civilian craft. He thought he spotted two, tiny figures, though it was hard to make out in this distance, especially through the trees and across the water.
The sun was reflecting off the river in just such a way that it made metallic hues blend with blue.
He took another step, and that's when he realized he'd been distracted. Sleepless, in pain, injured, watching the strange motion of the stalling riverboat, he hadn't been paying attention to the street.
There was a sudden whine, and then a flash of blue lights.
He turned sharply and spotted a police car pulling up behind him.
Shit.
He kept his head forward now, eyes fixed on the sidewalk, breathing in, out, slowly, with shuddering breaths. He felt the chill shiver along his spine.
"Hello?" called a voice behind him.
He just kept walking, head down, hands jammed in pockets. He could feel one hand wrapped around the blade of his backup knife.
"Excuse me, sir," said the voice behind him, suspiciously. Another cop, likely with pictures of the painter's face emanating from his phone and vehicle dashboard. Everyone seemed to be looking for him.
Dammit. He continued to stroll along as if he couldn't hear. He began humming slowly to himself, using the sound, if only for a moment, to calm himself.
"Excuse me, sir," said the voice behind him. Another voice could be heard, through one of the open windows of the police car, talking into a radio.
He picked up a couple of words, "...small man. Hang on, looking for confirmation."
They hadn't seen his face yet. They were just checking. By the sound of their weary voices, these guys hadn't had much rest either. Their night, likely, same as his, had been spent awake, on the move, on the lookout.
Looking for him.
Could he use this to his advantage?
He wasn't sure. He continued to move forward, his head still ducked, his hand still bunched, one fist tight around the grip of his knife.
He continued humming.
"Sir," said one of the voices, sharply, "I need you to turn around sir."
The siren wailed again, chirping once, then turning off. The blue and red lights were casting across the asphalt and sidewalk now. The chain-link fence, rusted in portions, and galvanized in others, carried only the faintest gossamer strands of the whirring lights.
He turned now, facing the fence, pausing, and staring through it, watching the boat. He continued to hum. He reached up with one free hand, pressing at his ear as if he had earbuds in. Earphones were so small these days, they were nearly impossible to notice. He could only hope, now, that they would think he was a jogger out for some exercise. They would have to get close.
Still, he could hear the sound of static, and the voice of the second officer in the car, saying, "...we're checking. He stopped. I'm not sure. It looks like a child. It might not be anything."
And so he stood, facing the opposite direction, frozen to the spot, feet shoulder-width against concrete.
And he waited. Waiting had always been one of his best strong suits. Planning, preparing, staving off chills and fear and doubt and worry.
Waiting was easy.
He heard the sound of a door opening, and then the screech of tires, suggesting that one of the police was already getting out of the car before it come to a complete stop. He heard another burst of static, and then the sound of footsteps, and the door slamming as one of the officers began to approach.
No one up the sidewalk, but a couple of people, down the other way, likely watching now.
Witnesses. Or, better yet, an audience. He'd never performed live before, but every true creative had to face new challenges. It was the only way to grow as an artist. To stretch himself. So, perhaps he would have to take on a live audience for a change.
From what little he knew about the police, and he knew quite a bit, the one on the radio would be in the passenger seat. The car would be turned off, momentarily. The man now approaching had been the driver.
So he waited some more.
"Excuse me, sir? Young man?" The voice spoke slowly, hesitantly.
He heard more shuffling steps. And the painter reached up again, still pretending he had an earbud in.
"Sir," the voice said, even more crisply. "Turn around, now."
But again, he ignored it.
The ball was in their court
. They wouldn't shoot him. They still weren't even sure if he was a child or not. They wouldn't want to risk everything just because he was being a little bit obstinate. And for all they knew, he couldn't hear them. Maybe listening to music, maybe deaf.
How stupid canvases could be.
He could feel eyes on him now.
The eyes of the rapidly approaching officer. The eyes of the pedestrians down the sidewalk, keeping an eye on the scene ahead of them. The eyes of the man in the passenger seat of the police car waiting for confirmation.
And then, he felt fingers rest on his shoulder, and a voice say, "Sir, please turn around. Police."
The painter began to allow himself to be wheeled, firmly, as the hand on his shoulder turned him.
But he didn't wait for the full revolution. As he was halfway, he moved, pivoting fast and sharp, whipping his knife from his pocket, and sending it slicing back.
His aim was true. He'd known it would be. Ten thousand hours to master one's craft—that's what they said. And he had mastered it.
The knife cut through the cop's throat. It wasn't a deep enough cut. And so he slashed again and again, in rapid succession.
The follow-up cuts went deeper than the first. Arteries pulsed.
Blood exploded down the police officer's neck, down into his blue uniform, soaking his walkie-talkie.
The man stared out, stunned from beneath his hat. The fellow was mid-fifties, maybe. He had a wedding ring on. Strange the things one would notice. But a painter had to pay attention to the details.
A gurgling, desperate sound, the fingers on his shoulder were no longer gripping, but scrambling, as if begging for help.
The painter just reached out and pushed.
The man fell to the ground, choking and gasping and dying. Blood pooled beneath him against the sidewalk.
The other police officer in the car screamed suddenly. "Shit. It's him! It's him!"
But the painter was now moving. He didn't have time to admire his own work. He would have to hope the audience would do it for him. He sprinted. There was a gunshot. Concrete exploded to his left. He ducked behind a row of cars parked along the street. He heard a shout and a curse behind him. The sound of a door opening. The police officer hesitated, gun in hand, seemingly caught. An old military tactic—don't ever kill the enemy outright. Rather, wound a friend. That way, instead of taking out one enemy, you take out three. The injured fellow and the two who rush to help him.
