by Blake Pierce
The painter forced his own calm, striking at the Sergeant a second time. Then, he ducked. The gun fired with a loud bang. Plaster fell, trickling from a hole in the ceiling. Joseph Sharp sneezed and winced at the blows to his head. He jerked the painter hard, throwing him over the arm of the chair, and trying to rip the knife from his hand.
The gun wavered, and the painter lashed out, surging forward with the same momentum Joseph had used to pull him. Instead of trying to retreat, the painter dove at the gun. Another bang. Something hot and sharp across the painter's cheek. He yelled incoherently, grateful he could still speak. The bullet had missed. His fingers scrambled at the gun. The painter's other hand was still in a vice of a grip, his fingers being crushed. His knife nearly dropped, but he held on for dear life.
"Who are you?" the Sergeant snarled.
The painter didn't reply, desperately trying to push the gun down, away. His fingers gripped the muzzle, shoving the weapon off to the side. A fourth gunshot. The painter's ears stung, ringing with a vibration.
Now, laying atop Joseph, who was still reclining in the chair, the two of them struggled. One hand for the knife, the other for the gun.
The Sergeant tried to push out of his seat, but the painter's body, across the larger man's torso held him back.
The Sergeant yelled, and jolted sideways, and the chair toppled. Another bang. This time from the furniture striking the floor. Joseph howled like a wounded grizzly bear. He released the grip on the painter's knife, going for the gun completely now.
The painter felt large fingers prying his own from the muzzle. He couldn't let the Sergeant aim. If he did, the masterpiece would be ruined.
And so he lashed out, stabbing down and hitting the closest target. The Sergeant's arm.
Joseph howled, struggling where he lay, propped against the toppled chair, the painter draped over him, both trying to scramble for their weapons.
The painter managed to extricate the gun, stabbing again at Joseph's arm. The Sergeant twisted his grip, no longer trying to aim, but rather doing his best to recover his firearm.
The painter's fingers bent, and he snarled—he didn't have a grip on the trigger, no time to orient—and tossed the weapon away, out of the Sergeant's reach. It clattered against a radiator, then struck the floor, motionless.
Another slash at the Sergeant's arm. But this time, thanks to his discarded weapon freeing up a hand, the Sergeant caught the painter's wrist. He rolled out of the chair, onto the ground, and began to rise to his feet. The painter was already standing now, quicker to his feet.
"Stinky little rat," Joseph growled. The bear of a man tried to crush the painter's arm with sheer willpower.
The masterpiece-maker yelped, dropping the bloodied knife. It tapped to the ground while the painter's blood-smeared palm streaked across Joseph's shirt, the crimson spread staining the plain white T-shirt of the old police officer.
The American kept coming, charging forward, head down like a bull. The Sergeant's thick skull caught the painter's chest, sending him reeling backwards into the hall. The Sergeant followed. The knife was on the ground. The gun discarded behind the radiator.
The painter lashed out, snagging one of the framed photos from the wall. He used it to bludgeon the man. Glass shattered. Another strike, and the photo ripped.
The Sergeant yelled incoherently and flung the painter across the hall, through the door into the living room. The small man toppled over a chair, bringing it and himself crashing to the carpeted floor. A splintering sound, and the chair broke beneath him.
Groaning, and gasping, the painter regained his feet. But the Sergeant was already coming, picking up a second chair and wielding it like a club. He brought it crashing down, and the painter narrowly avoided the attack by clambering underneath the table.
Joseph's fingers groped beneath the table towards the smaller man. The painter yelped. He heard the sounds of voices through the open window, followed by shouting from the street.
Undoubtedly, they'd heard the gunshots. Someone would call the police soon. The painter needed to get out. This masterpiece was a botched job. Even the masters knew when to call it quits.
"Come here little rat," Joseph snarled, scrambling beneath the table after the painter. The smaller man was quick, though. He kicked out, viciously, catching the Sergeant in the chin with his foot.
The larger man spat blood, and the painter scrambled from beneath the table, speckling the carpet with blood of his own. Gasping, clutching his fingers against his chest, he hurried to the open window.
He tried to climb out, but Joseph reached him first. Hands latched onto slim wrists. The painter whirled around, trying to kick again. But Joseph flung him. Hard. Sending him through the glass window. It shattered around the painter, and shards fell with him into the lawn. A hard thud. Pain and aches. His eyes flashed with dark spots.
Wheezing, gasping, and groaning, the painter got to his feet, one of his legs unsteady.
Joseph was climbing out the window now too. He brandished one of the shattered legs from a chair like a club. He pointed the club towards the painter, saying something incoherent through bloodied lips. The painter had heard enough. He ducked his head, and hurriedly limped away, rushing as fast as he could. He heard the sound of Joseph's feet thumping into the yard behind him. The painter broke into a sprint, wincing against the agony jolting through his bad leg. He ran, his fingers twisted and bloodied though they were, reaching for the keys in his pocket. He needed to reach his car. He needed to get away.
The sound of the Sergeant's footsteps behind him were slower, now. The larger man clearly wasn't built for movement over the longer haul. In the distance, he could hear a siren wailing. He heard more shouts, voices from one of the houses across the street. He ducked his head, gasping, bleeding, in pain. His face twisted in fury and frustration. So many plans wasted. So much potential ruined.
He continued to gasp and sputter and curse as he stumbled away from the house, racing back up the sidewalk towards where he had parked the rental car. He needed to get out. He needed to get out fast.
CHAPTER FOUR
Anika moved along the edge of the boat, heading towards her room on the second deck, whistling softly. She felt a flicker of worry along her spine as she paused outside her room—she glanced over her shoulder. No one had followed her. Ever since she'd heard about that poor girl murdered on another boat, she'd been jumpy.
Anika paused outside a blue door and slid her key card into the lock. She stepped in, closing the door behind her, feeling the air conditioning against her skin. The window faced the front of the ship, peering out at the passing countryside. In the distance, she spotted a vineyard. She smiled, inhaling the cool and clean air of her cabin and wondered what it would be like to stand amidst the grapes, inhaling the scent of fruit, destined to become wine.
Not all sweet things would turn sour. And not all sour things would be allowed to age and mature properly. But sometimes, something destined for a bottle ended up in a bowl. And sometimes, the rot got to it before anything else could.
Anika liked to hope she'd escaped the rot.
She began to approach her bed, where she'd rested a small copy of the first Harry Potter book which she'd read at least fifteen times. It was one of her favorite series; plus, as far as entertainment went, it came on the cheap. As she sat on the bed, feeling the gust of wind through the cracked window, she heard a quiet tapping sound.
She frowned, hesitantly, and glanced towards the door.
The tapping increased.
The light from the bathroom shone out into the bedroom, an orange glow spreading from the cracked door to her own private shower. A small little fridge sat next to her bed, filled with all manner of bottled drinks. Also paid for. She hadn't touched those, yet.
The tapping sound grew louder.
"Hello?" She called out.
The tapping stopped.
"I'm sorry," she said, "is someone there?"
Silence reigned
for a moment. She could hear the whistle of the wind through the window, feel the rustling pages of her book beneath her fingertips. She lowered the book slowly onto the bed. Silence. Then, more tapping.
With a soft sigh of frustration, she got to her feet, smoothing the front of her shirt, and approached the door. She reached out, opening it, half expecting to see one of the porters waiting for her.
But when she opened the door, the deck was empty. She stared at the rail, and then leaned forward, glancing up and down the deck.
No one there. She frowned quizzically and glanced towards the doors on her left and right. Closed. No movement. No indication that anyone had been nearby.
She swallowed. For a moment, it felt like she might have a lump in her throat. She shook her head in frustration, closed the door with a click, and returned to her bed. No sooner had she crossed the gap, though, and felt the breeze against her cheeks again, then there was another louder tapping sound.
She turned around, finding her voice. "Yes?" Still polite, but annoyed.
Again, no response. She approached the door again, and this time flung it open. No one. No sound of hurriedly retreating footsteps. She wondered if maybe some children were playing a joke. But she didn't see or hear anyone. No heads poking around the edge of the boat, looking in her direction. No one was nearby at all.
She waited for a full minute now, wondering if she could catch a glimpse of whoever the nuisance was.
But again, she spotted nothing. She closed the door, locking it this time, and returned to her bed. But now, she'd only crossed halfway, before there was another, louder tapping noise. Now that she stood in the middle of her room, no longer next to the window which had messed with the acoustics, she realized her mistake.
The tapping wasn't coming from the front door.
She turned, slowly, feeling a slow prickle up her spine. Anika stared toward the cracked bathroom door and the strand of orange light spreading into her room.
Her heart leapt into her throat. The tapping sound grew louder. Knuckles against wood. No mistaking it.
Her knees knocked, and she felt like she might collapse; then she turned, with a quiet little yelp, and raced back towards the front door. The bathroom door swung open, and a shadow stretched along with the orange light towards her. Anika's fingers scrambled desperately towards the lock. Why had she locked it? How stupid could she be?
She heard the steady thump of footsteps. She wheeled around, staring as a shadow descended over her.
"Please!" she yelled, "No!"
But the figure was taller than her, stronger. She tried to scream, but a hand clasped over her lips. She felt fingers scrambling towards her. She tried to jerk away, but the fingers were groping at her pants.
Panic flooded her. But the hand only wanted what was in her pocket. It pulled out her wallet, hard. She'd already given away the last of her money.
"Take it," she gasped in a trembling voice. But the fingers locked over her lips preventing further sound. She wasn't a very large woman. Short, small. Still, she tried to push the hand off her. But it was like shoving a brick wall.
The shadowy form was breathing heavily, and the man's features stretched into a scowl.
"I'll tell him you miss him," he whispered. "When they cry, I'll send them flowers."
She shook her head, desperately. "What?" She tried to say, but her voice was still muffled. Panic shot through her, jolting through her body, and causing her hands to tremble horribly. She watched where knuckles clasped against her forearm.
The man had her wallet. Hopefully that's all he wanted. He didn't let her go though. She was lodged against the door, feeling the cold metal against her back. Why had she locked it?
He pressed the wallet against her cheek. The man leaned in, kissing her on the forehead and whispering, "I'll tell them you said goodbye."
She tried to scream now, tried to bite his fingers. But he pressed hard, and then he shoved the wallet into her mouth, jamming it past her lips. The pain was instant, something ripping along her mouth.
She couldn't yell now, her voice muffled. She could barely breathe. He'd jammed the wallet, hard, slamming his palm into her lips. She began to choke, trying to gasp. She couldn't breathe. He continued to slam at the wallet, slammed her face. He said, again, louder, "I'll tell them you miss them!"
She tried to struggle but wasn't able to breathe. Dark spots scattered her vision and she was gagging now, feeling the wallet against her throat. What was he doing?
She was choking, trying to spit it up, desperately, but there was nothing she could do.
The black spots grew wider; her vision fluttered. And then, it all went dark.
CHAPTER FIVE
Adele jolted awake to the sound of a ringing phone chirping in her apartment bedroom. Her eyes snapped open, instinctively, and one of her hands reached out, snagging the device off her nightstand. She glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight.
She groaned, rising into a sitting position, and allowing the phone to ring a second longer as she gathered her wits about her. She left the light off, and, clearing her throat, she answered, "Agent Sharp."
"Sharp?" Came the sound of a familiar voice.
"Executive Foucault?" Adele said, sitting up a little bit straighter, and opening her sleepy eyes even wider.
Heart hammering, for a moment, she wondered if she was in trouble. Briefly, she thought about her trip with John to the firing range. Of course, they hadn't told anyone they'd started dating. The executive had warned them in the past about fraternization between coworkers. They had decided to keep it on the down-low. The shooting range had been an interesting excursion, but the waterfront restaurant they'd gone to afterward had been downright pleasant. John had been on his best behavior, which meant he hadn't made any off-color remarks about the waiters, though he had eaten the lemon garlic salmon he'd ordered with his fingers instead of a fork.
"I've got a case. First thing tomorrow morning, so I need you briefed."
Adele swallowed. "Of course. Need me to come in?"
"No, that's fine agent. Minimal information as it is. Two women have been killed on water boats on the Danube.”
"The river?"
"That's the one."
"Heading which direction?"
"Two different boats. Two different victims."
Adele frowned. "Different boats?"
"That's what it looks like, Agent Sharp. Are you awake? Listen, I need you to focus for this one."
"Yes sir. I'm focused. First thing tomorrow morning. Are the boats being held over somewhere?
"The one with the second victim is right now. In Vienna. We're keeping it docked until eight tomorrow. That's when you'll need to get on board."
"Am I going to have a partner for this one, sir?" Adele said it innocently enough, but the executive must've sensed something in her tone. It almost sounded like he growled, and then spoke, a bit more sternly than he might normally have ventured. "Yes, John's going with you. Is that going to be a problem?"
"No, of course not. Thank you. I mean, thank you for the case. Not John. Just, yes. Thank you." Adele resisted the urge to throw her phone across the room. She cringed where she sat, banging her head gently against the wall, and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, wincing at the executive's response. If he'd noticed anything, he decided not to say it. She heard a soft fluttering little sigh, and then, the executive in his deep voice said, "On that boat by eight AM. We can't hold it a second longer. And Adele, one of those victims was an Akbulut."
Her heart skipped a beat. Adele swallowed. Even for someone who'd spent most of her time in work clothes or running outfits, she'd heard of the fashion empire. “Which one?”
"Eldest daughter."
"And the second victim?"
"We're still looking into her. MO is the same, though. I hope you understand how delicate the situation is. I need a rush on this one. Already I'm getting calls. Last thing we need is for the media to find out before we can notify the parents."
"The Akbuluts don't know yet?"
"We called them back from a business trip yesterday. They're still in transit."
"Shit."
"That's right. Eight AM. That means you'll have to leave Paris bright and early. Think you can do that?"
"Yes sir. Of course."
The executive hung up, and Adele sat there with the phone still pressed to her cheek, feeling the cold metal and glass against her face.
She exhaled softly, her blonde bangs fluttering from the air. Her head rested against the cold concrete of the wall above her headboard, and her back pressed to the wooden barrier. For a moment, in the dark, staring across the small space of her apartment, Adele could feel a flicker of worry. Two bodies, in two days, on two boats. Moving crime scenes were always the worse. But when one threw in the daughter of a billionaire, and her infamously unstable mother, things could get dicey. Adele gritted her teeth, bracing herself for the possibility of interacting with paparazzi on this one. She would just have to warn John beforehand not to throw anyone overboard.
She set her alarm two hours before she'd intended, giving ample time to reach the docked ship in Vienna. Then, Adele lay back down, closing her eyes, and breathing softly, reaching out to place the phone on the nightstand. The moment it made contact with the wooden surface, the phone suddenly began to vibrate.
Adele looked over, frowning. A different number this time. One she didn't recognize. It took her a second to realize the area code was from Germany.
For a moment she considered letting it go to voicemail. She would need to get up early, as refreshed as possible for tomorrow's case. But a small, niggling sensation in her stomach caused a jolt of unease. Swallowing, she lifted the phone, answered it, and put it on speaker, her eyes closed again, resting against the pillow, the phone next to her face.
"Adele Sharp?" said a voice.
Adele's eyes were still closed, and she could feel the sleepiness returning, her mind foggy, drowsy.
"Who is this?" she groaned. Not quite rude but bordering on it.