The rain was coming in sheets by the time DeBolt reached the Hauptallee, the pedestrian boulevard that ran centrally through the Prater. Chestnut trees arched over the path, skeletal and fading, their spent foliage lining the shoulders and sweeping into drifts against a burdened wrought-iron fence.
DeBolt passed a carriage drawn by a muscled draft horse, its wet coat glistening, a man and woman huddled under the awning behind the driver. He saw his destination looming to his left, the brazen Riesenrad wheel that rose high above the city. He rounded a planetarium, and on entering the amusement park encountered the usual assortment of carnival rides and bumper cars. According to a sign, the park was open until midnight for a special weekend celebration, but the rain had clearly thinned the crowds, and a number of rides appeared to have packed in early. Altogether, the place looked sodden and weary, ready for a good night’s rest. An ice cream vendor leaning on his cart looked hopefully at DeBolt, and a barker in the distance seemed to beckon him personally to a show, although it was hard to say since DeBolt didn’t speak a word of German. He imagined he could translate what the man was saying if he were so inclined — yet another function of META on his list to be explored.
He approached the Riesenrad cautiously. The ride was still, and he saw no one in line — only a two-hundred-foot-tall wheel suspended in a deluge. The operator sat under a tarp, his legs propped indifferently on a crate as if not caring whether he found another customer.
DeBolt stopped twenty paces from the entrance. He turned a full circle searching for Lund. There was a young couple on the sidewalk, elbows locked and smiling as they rushed through the rain. A mother and father prodded two young girls along, everyone looking edgy after a long day of fun. DeBolt didn’t see Lund, and he began to feel uneasy.
It came out of nowhere — a message flashing to the display in his eye.
BEHIND YOU.
DeBolt spun and saw him instantly. A huge figure in a heavy coat, a long-barreled gun hanging casually in his hand. He was standing under the overhang of a closed ticket booth, partially hidden but in plain view to DeBolt. Fifty feet away, he was at the edge of the useful range for a handgun.
DeBolt took one step back. Fifty-three feet.
Oddly, Delta didn’t move. He simply stood there waiting, his bald head glistening in the rain, his broad face a blank.
DeBolt knew he had only one chance — he ran.
He kept to the main thoroughfare, hoping for more people to add confusion, and perhaps a better chance of encountering a policeman. He sprinted past rides with names like Autodrom and Boomerang, and didn’t venture a look back for a hundred yards. When he finally did look over his shoulder, Delta was nowhere in sight. He sprinted onward, certain the killer was following. He wondered why Delta hadn’t taken a shot when he had one. Had it been too public? Was he not an expert marksman? Whatever the case, DeBolt relied on his one advantage, proven already on the streets of Boston. In a pure footrace, he would win every time.
How could Delta not know that?
DeBolt kept running, but his uncertainty began to grow.
The amusement park seemed endless, but finally gave way to something different — pathways lined with cafés and beer halls. The patios were all empty, but inside he saw warm lights and thick crowds. There wasn’t a policeman in sight, and DeBolt guessed they were all elsewhere — searching the city in vain for the killer who was right behind him.
He made a series of turns, then finally stopped to evaluate things. He was breathless, his lungs sucking air, his heart pounding in his chest. Delta could never have kept pace with his sprint. DeBolt envisioned him blocks away, bent over with his hands on his knees. Trying to recoup enough wind to check a hundred alleys and alcoves.
How long had he been running? Five minutes? Ten? DeBolt knew from rescue missions that time was difficult to gauge once adrenaline kicked in. He decided to keep moving in the same general direction, toward the Danube and away from the park’s entrance. He hadn’t gone ten steps when a great figure appeared in front of him.
In front …
Delta was closer this time, emerging from behind a sculpted hedge at the entrance of a faux British pub. He walked straight toward DeBolt at a casual pace. He didn’t look winded at all.
This time he raised his gun and fired.
54
The silenced gun had a surprisingly loud report. It was nothing compared to the resulting crash when the window behind DeBolt, which fronted a closed souvenir shop, shattered and rained to the ground. He dove to his right, tumbling behind a freestanding restroom, as two more shots laced the rain-shrouded night. He scrambled to his feet, and using the building for cover DeBolt reached a narrow alleyway. He burst through the first doorway he encountered, and found himself in a kitchen facing two surprised young men. Both wore cooking aprons.
“Wo gehst du hin?” one asked.
DeBolt didn’t even try to decipher it. At a glance he saw a grill and an oven, kegs of beer stacked against the far wall. Beyond the two men he saw a passageway leading to a crowded bar. The air smelled of fryer oil and chlorine.
“Call the police!” DeBolt shouted as he rushed past the cooks.
Neither tried to stop him as he dashed into the bar. There everyone’s eyes were glued to a soccer game — the same one on all four televisions — and a raucous cheer rose as something happened in the game.
“Polizei!” DeBolt yelled. “Call the Polizei!”
The revelry died in an instant. The place went quiet except for the game’s televised commentary.
“Polizei!” he shouted again. “The killer from the police station — the man they’re searching for! He’s outside!”
He saw a woman put a mobile phone to her ear. That was good. DeBolt needed help. He needed people and fear and confusion.
“What did you say?” said one of the barkeepers, his Austrian accent thick.
“The killer from the police station! He’s outside!”
“I heard about it,” someone said from the crowd. “They are looking for a man.”
Erring on the side of caution, the barkeeper extracted his own mobile from under the counter. DeBolt looked out the pub’s front window and saw a reasonably well-lit sidewalk. A lone couple was walking by casually. He glanced back toward the kitchen, expecting Delta to appear any second. Nothing happened.
The mood in the pub began to split. Some of the patrons looked warily at the door he’d just come through. Others were looking at him. DeBolt shouldered through the crowd, toward the front door. Then he stopped suddenly, something holding him back. Nothing is making sense. He had a ten-second lead on Delta, no more. The man should have arrived by now, crashing through the kitchen, killing anyone who tried to stop him. Might he have circled out front?
DeBolt sensed something very wrong. He of all people should have seen it coming. When Delta reappeared a minute ago, he’d shown no signs of exertion. DeBolt felt like he’d run a four-minute mile.
He’s hunting me, he thought. He’s using META.
But how?
He edged closer to the window and scanned outside. He saw a pair of young women walking arm in arm. A girl on a bicycle, her head down against the rain. There was no sign of Delta. His caution went to fear.
How are you doing it?