by James Becker
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-millimetre 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 speed boat.
Bronson stepped off the path and on to 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 blonde 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 got 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 centre of the boat, her body draped over one of the seats.
Bronson stopped, took careful aim at the standing figure and squeezed the trigger.
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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 him.
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 fibreglass 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 spectre 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 centre 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-millimetre 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.
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Bronson was never quite sure what happened next. He fired again as he was enveloped by the dark shape, then tumbled backwards, 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.
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‘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 done.’
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 leapt on to 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 licence 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 towards 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.’
Angela was silent for a few moments, then looked up at Bronson again. ‘Are you sure he’s dead? That foul creature?’
Bronson nodded. ‘At that range, I couldn’t possibly have missed. I fired four or five shots into him at a range of about six feet. If that didn’t kill him outright, he’d bleed to death in minutes. He’s dead, that’s for sure. Tomorrow, Bianchi will tell us he’s recovered the body, and that’ll be the end of it.’
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Bronson and Angela walked into the hotel dining room the next morning only a few minutes before breakfast stopped being served. Angela had bathed and dressed the wound on his head as soon as they got back to the hotel the previous night and then they’d fallen into bed. They’d talked for a few minutes about the traumatic events of the previous few days, and especially the last frantic hours out in the lagoon, then exhaustion had overtaken them both and they’d quickly fallen asleep.
Bronson collected a coffee pot, a couple of cups and the last remaining basket of bread and croissants from the serving table and took everything over to the table by the window where Angela was sitting. She fell on the food as if she was starving.
‘God, I’m famished,’ she said, between mouthfuls of croissant.
‘I’m not surprised.’ Bronson poured her a cup of coffee, then sat back in his chair and looked at her.
‘What?’ she said, smiling.
‘I just like looking at you, that’s all,’ Bronson replied, ‘and for a while there I really didn’t think that was something I was ever going to be able to do again.’
Angela shuddered. ‘Don’t remind me,’ she said. ‘I never thought I was going to get out alive. You know, I still can’t believe you managed to find me.’
Bronson had explained about his visit to the Isola di San Michele and the events that had followed it the previous evening.
‘I don’t think I could have lived with myself if I’d lost you a second time,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘You know, I was certain that Inspector Bianchi was one of the bad guys, but now I’m really glad I was wrong, because if he had been, my guess is we’d both be dead now.’
Angela nodded, and in a halting voice described in more detail the code-breaking she’d been forced to do.
‘It was appalling stuff,’ she finished. ‘That scroll I found in the bell tower on Poveglia – which is a severely creepy place, by the way – was neither more nor less than an authorization to go out and commit multiple rape and mass murder. But what really bothered me about it was the whole tone of the text. It was so matter-of-fact about vampires, as if they were simply another sector of society that everyone would have known about. Oh, and by implication everyone could become one if they really wanted to, and were prepared to follow the rituals.’
‘I had a question about that,’ Bronson said. ‘They had a female wolf chained up in a stable, and before the ceremony started I saw two men go into the building and milk her. And then they forced the milk down poor Marietta’s throat. What the hell has that got to do with becoming a vampire?’
Angela’s face was pale and strained as she remembered what she’d been through. ‘That was something they got completely wrong. My guess is that the members of the vampire group had studied all the ancient literature. They would certainly have read about the eighteenth-century Vampire Princess of the Schwarzenbergs – Eleonora Amalia. Almost every contemporary source agreed that she was a vampire, and her body was autopsied after her death, something that was only very rarely done in those days, and almost never on a member of the aristocracy. It’s now thought that the procedure was performed not to find out why she died, but simply so her heart could legitimately be removed from her body. Because she was of royal blood, they couldn’t decapitate her or burn her corpse. Wrenching out a vampire’s heart was supposed to make sure they stayed dead.
‘But one of the other odd things about Eleonora Amalia was that she drank the milk of wolves, and my guess is that the members of the group discovered that and thought it was just something else they – or rather their victims – should do. But, according to other sources, Eleonora Amalia didn’t think she was a vampire, and she drank the milk for an entirely different reason, though it was based on another old legend – Romulus and Remus. She was trying to increase her fertility.’
Angela stopped talking and looked across at Bronson. Then she voiced the unspoken question that was uppermost in both their minds.
‘Last night … the leader of that group … was he really a man, do you think?’
Bronson shook his head helplessly. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘What I do know is that he was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.’
‘When I came round after that taser hit me, he was carrying me, and I’ll tell you this: he was incredibly strong. For part of the time he literally held me in one arm. You’re strong, Chris, and I’m sure you could pick me up fairly easily, but I very much doubt if you could carry me very far, especially not over such rough ground.’ Angela paused, and Bronson noticed her hand was shaking. ‘There’s something else about it that bothers me. I know it’s not definite proof either way, but there is one consistent factor that seems to crop u
p in all the records about—’
She broke off as the door to the dining room opened and Inspector Bianchi walked in. He crossed over to their table, pulled up a third chair and sat down.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ Bronson greeted him in Italian. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ Without waiting for an answer, he picked up an unused cup from the next table, poured coffee into it and slid it over.
‘Good morning. I think we’ve wrapped up almost everything on the island,’ Bianchi said, sticking to English so that Angela could understand what he was saying. ‘The forensic people are still out there, and will be for a while, but I’m pretty certain we’ve got all the evidence we need, including the pistol that was used to kill my superior officer here in the city. I hope this means an end to these disappearances and murders.’ He paused for a moment to taste his drink. ‘But I’m afraid we’ve still not found a body in the lagoon.’
Bianchi glanced at Angela, then continued. ‘But it’s only a matter of time. The currents in the lagoon can be fierce. We think that man’s corpse probably sank below the surface soon after he fell into the water, and simply drifted away. Trying to spot a body in the water at night is very difficult.’
‘But you are sure he’s dead?’ Angela asked.
Bianchi nodded. ‘We would certainly have spotted that man if he’d been swimming away from the scene. And there are bullet holes in his robe, in both the front and the back, so clearly your shots must have badly wounded him, at least. If his corpse doesn’t turn up over the next couple of days, it will probably have washed out into the Adriatic, and we’ll never find it.’
Bronson opened his mouth to object, but Bianchi held up his hand to forestall him. ‘No doubt you have your own views about this, Signor Bronson, but what I’ve just described seems to us to make logical sense, and will be what our final report into this matter will say. We already have his accomplices in custody, and the circumstances of their arrest mean that their trial should be almost a formality.’
