I scrutinised them from the other side of the quay. How funny it would have been to walk past them inside that frog suit, even though the outfit appeared uncomfortable. The sea air created an overpowering desire for ice cream and candy floss. A dense mix of sugar drifted over from the vendor behind me. The sweet fragrance brought a memory of fresh blood, threading ecstasy through my body and reminding my fingers of when I pulled plastic tight against cold skin. I dipped my hand into my pocket, clutching at the desire hiding there. What had started as a redemption journey had transformed into one of discovery, unfurling the creative artistry living inside me.
It had gone twelve, and the art gallery hadn’t opened. Nobody else but Astrid and Laurel approached the building. An artistic vacuum surrounded them as Astrid pushed her face against the window, its coldness providing a welcome relief from the midday sun frying the back of her head. There was nothing inside but the outline of a man lying on the floor. His face was obscured by a bright red cloth, while a large sheath of dark metal split his body down the middle, spilling shrivelled organs out of his manicured suit and all over the floor.
‘I hate modern art,’ Astrid said as the clock struck fifteen minutes past the hour.
She strode from the entrance, down the side of the long, narrow building and around the corner towards the back of the DV8 art gallery.
Laurel hurried behind her. ‘Will we restrain her first?’
‘If you want to and you like that kind of foreplay.’ Astrid’s face was unmoving apart from the tiny glint of humour trickling from the corners of her lips. Laurel’s eyebrows curved upwards in surprise. ‘She’s not our target.’
The rear of the retail area was bereft of any other sign of humanity. A black cat scampered across their path, prompting Laurel to reach for the cross around her neck.
‘What is she, then?’
‘I hoped she’d be the bait.’
Astrid jogged forward, with Laurel keeping pace by her side.
‘Bait for what?’
Astrid kicked some empty beer cans to one side, regret creeping inside her.
‘For whoever is following us; the one you like to call the Reaper.’ As they approached the back of the art gallery, Astrid’s heart sank. ‘This isn’t a good sign.’
They stepped over a surprising amount of trash at the back of the property.
‘You think Annie’s hiding or has left because she knew we were coming?’
‘No, but somebody got here before us.’
Astrid grabbed the broken lock hanging from the handle of the door. She swore at herself for being so lax; if they hadn’t rested, or if she hadn’t been distracted by her desire for Laurel, they could have gotten there earlier and prevented this. They slipped inside through the open door. Laurel stepped into the storage room at the rear of the gallery as Astrid barged ahead, pushing boxes to one side and making for the front room.
‘Shouldn’t we wait?’
‘If this Reaper wanted to kill me, they could’ve done it numerous times over; this is about more than murder. They wanted to do something here…’ her voice trailed off at what greeted them.
It was easier to get the two of them inside the gallery than I expected, helped by the emptiness waiting for me when I arrived there early in the morning. The lock on the door was no obstacle, the metal snapping like a neck in the hangman’s noose. It was a good job I had Dvorak’s home address from the data I got from Jack Chill. Getting into her house was child’s play, for who would suspect somebody like me of nefarious intentions? The gun helped as well, although I had to be inside the door first before showing it to her. She didn’t protest when I injected her with the sedative, which was a shame because it would have been a treat to beat her around the face a bit. I was missing the excitement of murder. He was out cold in the boot. All I had to do was drive up to the back of the gallery.
The comfort of the storage room, with its numerous stacked boxes and random pieces of artwork dotted against the walls, was replaced with a scene lifted straight from a Hollywood thriller: two bodies standing on tiptoes atop chairs, ropes around their necks and tied to the beams above them. The plastic bags over their heads obscured their features enough for Astrid to be unable to recognise them, but she guessed the woman was Annie Dvorak.
‘Shit!’
Laurel moved forward to steady the trembling legs of the woman: if the chair moved, she'd snap her neck.
‘Stop.’ Astrid grabbed Laurel by the shoulder. ‘Look at the ground.’
Wires and ropes crisscrossed the floor, intricate knots and connections running over everything, up the chairs and hanging bodies. They looped and spiralled above their heads along the rafters: coiled snakes of imminent death if Astrid and Laurel put a foot wrong. Not their deaths, but those of the two trussed figures in front of them. The woman was Sophisticated Annie. Astrid recognised Annie behind the plastic bag which was moving in and out as she struggled to breathe. She ignored the advice she’d given Laurel, stepping as carefully as she could between the cables to get a better look at the other hostage.
Laurel checked the rest of the room. ‘It’s clear.’
Astrid focused on the floor. She probed for any trap which might set the chairs to fall and the ropes to fly to the ceiling, killing the hostages before help could reach them. There was no free space left to move in. She stepped as close as she could to the wires, staring at Annie’s agonised face, features contorted to resemble a reflection cast from a circus mirror. Then she peered at the other hostage and her insides turned to ice.
‘George?’ The word tumbled out of her mouth, lips trembling with shock.
‘You can save one of us, Astrid; only one.’
There was no panic in his voice, his body unwavering on the chair even though the tips of his favourite hand-stitched shoes were just about touching the furniture and keeping him alive.
‘What?’ Astrid’s heart pounded against her ribcage.
‘Can’t we grab one of them each?’
Laurel had managed to get close to Astrid’s side without standing on any obstacles littering the ground. The low noise of the ticking coming from behind the hanging couple startled them both: it was the sound of numbers clicking over, the unmistakable echo of a countdown.
‘There’s a bomb under the window.’
Astrid pointed through the gap separating George and Annie towards two objects sitting on top of a cupboard. The clock ticked down from a hundred, with a large knife resting against it.
‘Time enough to cut one of us down,’ George said.
‘Shit!’
Panic seeped out of Laurel, her eyes twitching in a frenzy, switching from the clock, to the bodies, and then to Astrid. Ten seconds had evaporated, and they hadn’t moved.
‘Save Annie,’ George said.
The cogs inside Astrid’s brain hadn’t stopped moving since they’d entered the room. George pleaded with her again to save Annie, but she wasn’t going to let anyone die. There was just over a minute left. Astrid ran around the threat on the floor, thrust the cupboard door open, and stared at the explosives inside.
‘Can you stop it?’ Laurel asked in desperation.
‘Not in the time we have left.’
There were four sticks of dynamite, forty per cent nitro, ready to shoot out at fourteen thousand feet per second. There was enough to blow a hole in the wall and destroy everything in front of it. That included George and Annie, plus Astrid and Laurel if they didn’t get out of the way.
There were fifty seconds before it went boom.
‘You have to choose one,’ Laurel shouted.
‘Follow me.’ Astrid sprinted into the other room.
Laurel ran after her. ‘You’re just going to leave them there?’
Anger and disappointment sat heavy in her voice. Astrid ignored the question.
‘We need to move this piece of metal into the other room, between them and the device.’
She grabbed one end of the artwork, the metal splitting the plastic man down the middle. It was a large chunk of lead, at least an inch thick, which was good for what they needed, but was going to be a pain to move in the time they had.
Forty seconds to go.
‘It’s too heavy,’ Laurel said.
Then Astrid got the first bit of good luck she’d had in a long time. Whoever designed such an unusual art piece had the good sense to place the large, heavy centrepiece on wheels.
‘Help me get this in front of the explosives.’
Laurel dragged one end while Astrid pushed the other, placing it equally distant from the cupboard and George and Annie. Astrid didn’t want the force of the blast to send the metal flying into the two of them, hoping it would be strong enough for protection.
Thirty seconds left.
Astrid ran back into the other room, scooped up the plastic man, and then returned to Annie Dvorak’s feet. She lifted Annie’s legs, making sure her neck was supported, before plopping her back down, so she rested on top of the shoulders of the plastic man.
‘Grab the knife, and then get in the other room,’ she shouted to Laurel.
She reached over to George and grabbed hold of his legs for support. Dismay gripped Laurel’s face.
Fifteen seconds left.
‘Leave me, Astrid,’ George said.
‘You need to be in there in case something goes wrong, Laurel.’
The calmness in her voice must have convinced Laurel to follow the instructions as she lunged for the blade and snatched it away from the concealed dynamite.
Ten seconds left.
Laurel scampered into the other room, both hands over her ears. Her vision fixed on Astrid, their eyes glued together like magnets.
Then the whole room shook.