Rogue Angel 49: The Devil's Chord (6 page)

“Yes, yes. When I was so elated by the Lorraine cross, René d’Anjou showed me the few sword pieces he had remaining.”

Roux tapped the table with a finger. “I’d like to take a look at the piece you have, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“I do mind. It’s locked away.” Leonardo took the sketch of the cross, waved it in demonstration and then tucked it in his purse. “Prized possessions, the cross and the sword piece. I don’t have many. Now, sir, it’s time I bought you a drink.”

Chapter 6

Annja met Ian in the hotel lobby, and they arrived at the boat before Scout. Both suited up and were checking the equipment when Scout sauntered aboard with a beaming smile on his face.

He made a show of looking over Annja appreciatively.

She dismissed him and turned to study the marked-up map. “You’re late.”

“I can’t begin the day without my orange juice and coffee. The fresh-squeezed stuff is hard to come by here on the island. Had to order it from the mainland.”

“Seriously? Your budget allows for such luxury?”

“Hey,” Scout said, tugging off his jacket, “take it up with the old man.”

Annja hadn’t thought Roux would offer such an expense account. On the other hand, Scout probably wasn’t aware that he didn’t have carte blanche with his employer, and so was testing the waters.

“I think we should head northwest,” Annja suggested as Scout descended belowdecks to change into his dive suit. “The general direction of traffic in this canal may have pushed the case downstream. And depending on what the treasure was in...”

“A silver hard-wall attaché with digital lock!”

“Really? I thought you said it was a nondescript case. How do you know that?”

“Come on, Creed, do a little research. You always just leap into things for your television show?”

Day two, Annja decided, was when Scout had succeeded in getting on her nerves. Generally, she was pretty accepting of people and the attitudes that came with them. “Difficult to casually toss over the side of a gondola during a lover’s spat without the other noticing, wouldn’t you say?”

Scout emerged, tugging up the zipper on his suit. “Who said the spat was casual? Did you read the incarceration report for the pair? Wait. Right. You didn’t.”

“I don’t have access to it.” Which reminded her, she hadn’t heard back from Bart McGilly yet. Blame it on the time-zone difference. “But apparently you do. So enlighten me.”

“There was a heated argument. And I guess when the guy wasn’t paying attention, the woman ditched the case.”

He guessed? That wasn’t going to help her until she got the chance to look over the reports.

“All right, then,” Annja said. “We’re looking for a metal attaché case. Let’s hope it’s waterproof.”

“It is. I mean, I’m sure it is. They make those cases to be almost indestructible nowadays.”

Having little hope that indeed the attaché would be intact, Annja conceded and directed Kard to the spot she had chosen down the canal.

“How’s the arm?” she asked Scout, remembering yesterday’s close call.

“Doesn’t hurt a bit. A scratch.” He slapped the biceps where he’d been hurt.

“You should have at least had it looked at. What if the harpoon had been rusty?”

“I’m tough, Creed. Let’s dock here, Kard.” He scanned the buildings and seemed to be noting a familiar site. “Everyone in!”

Ian went in first, and Annja handed him his camera. The cameraman switched on the lamp and tested it underwater, giving her a thumbs-up. She tossed out the red and white dive flags.

“You have any weapons on this boat?” she asked as she and Scout prepared to jump into the canal. “A harpoon might not be such a bad idea to bring along.”

“I don’t, but you’re thinking smart now, Creed. I’ll pick one up tonight.”

If someone was also searching for the treasure, a shopping trip tonight could prove too late for their safety. But she wasn’t willing to change and make a quick run now. Yesterday had been a fluke. She hoped.

“Later, then.” She pulled down her mask and slipped into the water.

Five minutes into the murk, Annja passed the gated tunnel into which the shooter had escaped yesterday afternoon. She paused to jiggle the gate. Still locked. She studied the spot, but her headlamp didn’t allow for too much detail. It was impossible to know where the tunnel led, but she was curious and wished she had a picklock.

A nudge from Scout and a gesture to the gate—he was asking if that was the gate where the attacker had disappeared—and she confirmed with a nod and a dismissive shrug. Nothing else they could do here.

She swam onward, taking the lead until Scout came alongside her. They used their head beams in tandem to sweep a wider field of vision before them.

Her headlamp swept across a small wire cage, a chebe, that must have been set down by a resident to collect crabs and small fish. Nothing inside it, and it was clean of seaweed that the tides would have draped across the wires. Might have just been set down in the water, or else it took days or even weeks to lure in a catch.

Scout pointed toward a line of closely spaced wood pilings. Annja followed him as he worked his way methodically along the base, where crevices and nooks formed an archaeologist’s dream map of the city’s lifeline.

The idea of living on water appealed to Annja, and she was ever amazed that the city had not completely sunk. Venice should hold its watery ground for centuries to come, even with the rising tides that slowly crept higher year after year.

A rumbling from above alerted her and she turned onto her back to look toward the surface. She couldn’t see daylight from the depths they were at, so was surprised to have heard the noise. The diving flags were a signal to passing boats not to drive in the area, and Kard should be keeping watch. If he didn’t have a beer in hand.

She’d forgotten to give him that talking-to. She was shirking her babysitting duties.

Spreading her arms wide, Annja floated through the water as if on the surface, eyes upward, flippers slowly kicking. A glint cut through the waters like sun through the clouds. Surreal. She reached out to touch it and then someone swam up beside her, startling her out of the misplaced moment of reverie.

Scout signaled they surface. Annja shook her head, not understanding why he wanted to. They’d only been down about twenty minutes. But he persisted, so she didn’t continue to argue. He could be having equipment troubles.

She kicked upward, but just as the daylight came into blurry view, she felt the shove of the water as a powerful wake pushed her backward against Scout’s body. He reacted defensively, shoving her away. Annja kicked toward the surface, but only realized she’d swam toward a boat when the zing of metal sheered above her head. A force pushed her down through the water. She opened her mouth but closed it before the breathing regulator could fall out.

Panic-sticken, she settled her urge to scream and take in water. Unable to process what had happened, she trod water suspended in the murk surrounded by a swarm of bubbles and the body-moving
schush
of the boat’s wake. She sensed an aching heat on the top of her head. Reaching up, she winced when her fingers slid through a gash in her scalp. She’d been cut?

A hand gripped her at the waist. She reacted, slapping her hand down to clutch the wrist and kick the attacker away with her heel. The water wouldn’t allow for quick defensive moves, nor would her flipper serve a good kick, but she managed a knee up and jammed it against the man’s chest at the moment their masks were but a foot from one another. He chuffed out his breathing tube at the force of her kick and released her.

She only registered that it was Scout at the last second. He’d been trying to help her. Maybe. She’d been disoriented by the passing of the motorboat overhead. Kicking hard and fast, Annja breached the surface and tugged off her breathing tube.

Scout appreared next to her. He ripped off his face mask and grabbed her by the head, pressing his fingers over the crown of it and her saturated hair. “It’s cut. But there isn’t much blood.”

“I’m fine,” she said, pushing away from him and kicking her legs slowly, using the momentum of her flippers to tread water.

She didn’t feel the cut, but knew that oftentimes scalp injuries hurt the least yet bled the most. If it wasn’t bleeding, then it was either just a graze or one of those cuts that went so deep it didn’t bleed.

Thinking that if she had kicked one more time, the boat propeller could have cut more than just the surface of her scalp, Annja heaved out a breath. “That was close.”

“Too close.”

“I’m sorry, Scout, I didn’t know who you were when you were trying to help me.”

“I figured that. Or maybe you just owed me one for the attitude, eh?” His smirk returned, and Annja decided she’d been apologetic enough.

“You all right?” Kard called down from the boat.

Scout signaled a thumbs-up. Just then Ian surfaced. “I lost the two of you—” His attention turned to Annja’s head. “You’re bleeding!”

Now she felt the warm trickle spill over her eyelid and down onto her cheek.

Scout took her by the elbow and escorted her toward the back of the boat. “You’re done for the day. Let’s get you out of the water.”

“I’ll be fine. We need to find out who was driving that boat.”

Annja dismissed Scout’s assistance and levered herself up by the steel ladder rungs. Once seated, she tugged off her flippers and mask. She touched her head, felt the laceration and judged it about two inches long. She’d probably gotten a long-overdue haircut in the process.

“We should have set out buoys,” Ian remarked. “Kard, didn’t you try to warn the boat driver away from the area?”

“Uh...” Kard began, but then went silent.

Annja assumed the driver hadn’t been paying attention, and noticing the bottle of open beer near the steering wheel, she sighed. He was a hazard to their safety. But she wasn’t willing to give up now.

“We’re going back down,” she insisted as Scout landed inside the boat. “You may think that what just happened wasn’t suspicious, but why right here, right now? Yesterday’s attack on you and now this? It’s too coincidental. We were close. Had to be. And whoever is coming after us knows it, too.”

“Your tanks are low on oxygen,” Kard said. “You two will have to wait until later to go down again.”

“Why weren’t they filled this morning?” Annja asked snappishly.

“That’s cool.” Scout tugged down the zipper on his suit. “I’m going to take the lovely Miss Creed to the emergency room. She’s getting testy.”

“I am not!’

“I think it’s from blood loss,” Scout said. “We’ll drive to the hospital, then out for a nice meal, pamper her a bit. She needs it. Uh, Ian, you can come along, too. If you want to.”

The cameraman raised a brow at the crummy invitation. “That’s okay. I’m going to help Kard fill the tanks, and then I’ll edit yesterday’s footage. Will you give me a call after you’ve had your head stitched up, Annja?”

She nodded that she would and signaled for Ian to follow her belowdecks. Annja tugged the wet-suit zipper down in the back.

“Annja?”

She quickly caught the wall to avoid falling down the stairs and realized she was not quite right. Maybe she did need medical care.

“Talk to Kard, will you? He’s dangerous.”

“That was my intention of staying on board. I’ll take care of it, Annja. You let Scout get you to a doctor.”

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

“One minute. If not, I’m coming back down after you, whether you’re half-dressed or— I’m worried, Annja.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll be right up.”

* * *

A
NNJA
RECEIVED
TWELVE
stitches from a chatterbox of a physician’s assistant who recognized her from reruns of
Chasing History’s Monsters
he’d seen while visiting friends in the States. He recounted half a dozen episodes, detailing Annja’s exploits as if she hadn’t been there.

She was content to let him talk. Seemed to focus him for some reason, and she’d prefer the stitches small and tight. They only had to shave a narrow line in her hair, so afterward Annja had but to pull her hair to one side and tug it into a ponytail to disguise the cut.

Scout waited in the hospital reception area. When they released Annja an hour later, he announced to her he’d made reservations for supper. Though she wasn’t inclined to dine with him, Annja didn’t refuse. She needed carbs.

* * *

T
HE
A
NICE
S
TELLATO
RESTAURANT
was located not far from Annja’s hotel. It was a cozy place to relax at day’s end. The hostess seated Annja and Scout at an outdoor canal-side table. The salty wood smell from the water was overwhelmed by the delicious savory scents wafting out from the restaurant.

While they waited for their meals, their waitress brought wine and a basket of bread. The Madonna dell’Orto church stood nearby, and now the bells for compline sounded.

Annja loved church bells. She preferred the Gothic architecture of the medieval cathedrals, trimmed with layer upon layer of ornamention, buttressed and arched, and not a single spot of stone left undecorated. Such precision and attention to detail never ceased to amaze her. And to know that all the building materials had been transported onto the island of Venice with ancient means made the local monuments even more impressive.

Across the table from where she sat, Scout’s smile told a tale. His blue eyes had probably netted him more than his fair share of women with no more than a wink and a teasing grin.

Despite the romantic atmosphere, Annja wasn’t in the mood. She’d almost been scalped by a boat motor, and Scout seemed ever oblivious to danger. Or rather, he anticipated it, which was almost more disturbing. She always expected danger and kept a keen eye out for it. Yet she had been complacent on the dive. Floating in the water as if in a dream? She had no one to blame but herself for the injury.

“Your head still numb?” he asked.

They’d shot her up with painkillers before stitching her scalp. “It’s tingly, but I’ll survive.”

“So you think this business will prove good fodder for your television show?” he asked. He stretched his legs out from under the table, propping them on the stone curb just beneath a wrought-iron railing that edged the canal. “I suspect Leonardo da Vinci would garner you a big ratings boost. And yet, doesn’t your show track history’s monsters?”

“It does. And we’ve already discussed this.”

“I know, but I do like to beat a dead horse. Since when does Leonardo da Vinci fall into the ‘monstrous’ category?”