The Nosferatu Scroll

43

Bronson sprinted across the graveyard after the fleeing men. He paused for a few seconds beside the tomb of the twin angels, staring at it with a sense of deja vu. The stone side of the grave had been smashed open – a hammer and chisel were lying on the ground beside the shattered stone – and what was left of the ancient coffin was scattered about. The grave itself was obviously very old, and most of the wood had long since disintegrated to reveal the skeletal remains of the tomb’s occupant. This corpse had also been decapitated, but this time the head was nowhere in sight. Could that explain what was in the bag that one of the men had been carrying?

Bronson shook his head and set off in pursuit of the two men. He wasn’t concerned about them getting too far ahead of him, because they must have used a boat to get to the island. From the direction they were running, this boat was moored in the inlet at the northern end of the island, where Bronson’s own vessel was tied up.

The last thing he wanted to do was storm on to the jetty and start a firefight. He needed the two men to make their getaway, so that he could go after them.

Instead of following right behind the two men, he angled over to one side and did his best to increase speed, though having to dodge around gravestones and tree trunks hampered his progress somewhat. The sound of a powerboat engine starting close to him – just a few yards away – indicated that he must be right by the jetty. He stopped and made his way cautiously in the direction from which the sound had come.

In a couple of seconds he reached the edge of the jetty, but remained out of sight as he surveyed the scene in front of him. A blue powerboat was already about ten yards out from the water’s edge, and gathering speed. The man who’d shot at him was sitting in the bow staring back towards the island, his pistol held low in his right hand, clearly waiting for Bronson to show himself, while the other man concentrated on getting the boat away from the jetty as quickly as possible.

Bronson memorized what the men were wearing and the colour and type of the boat, and waited until they turned right out of the inlet, and the craft was lost to view. Then he stepped on to the jetty, ran down to where his own boat was moored, released the line and climbed aboard, starting the engine as he sat down on the padded seat. He opened the throttle and the boat surged forwards. He pulled it round in a tight circle and headed for the entrance to the inlet, then swung the wheel to the right, to follow the other craft.

As he emerged into the open waters of the Venetian lagoon, he looked ahead. The blue boat was already perhaps a hundred yards in front of him, heading more or less east. But, as he turned in the same direction, the man in the bow pointed urgently back towards him. The other man glanced behind as well, and immediately turned the boat to the right.

Bronson knew he’d been spotted, and cursed. Wherever the two men had been heading, they were obviously not going that way any longer. They had turned south-west, towards Venice, and Bronson guessed their intentions. If they’d stayed out in the open waters, he’d have been able to follow them even at a distance. No doubt they were now heading into the city so that they could try to lose him in the notorious maze of Venice’s canals and waterways.