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.
79
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.
80
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.
‘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
