But over the flight, between salted peanuts, she’d managed to read more of the travel guidebook author’s posts. More railing against tourists, more thinly veiled support for the killer. If anyone had a bone to pick in the way Ms. Jayne and the other agencies suspected, it was this man.
“Mr. Von Ziegler!” she called, raising her voice. “Interpol—are you home!”
The guidebook was written in English, as were the ranting web posts—at least she wouldn’t need a translator this time. The elevated house between the trees, though, remained quiet. No movement, no lights. She glanced around, looking for a home at a more accessible level. But this was it—the only visible domicile.
Adele stared up at the treehouse, studying any way she might ascend. After a few minutes of examining the structure, her eyes slipped along the metal siding and glass windows, and she spotted a rope ladder curled up and coiled at the top of the suspended wooden platform which held the trailer.
She nudged Leoni and pointed.
“Ladder is raised. Means he’s up there,” Leoni said, softly.
Adele tapped her nose. She could feel the eyes of the Austrian officer behind them, still fixated on the agents. They had arranged for a cleared interrogation room back at the local precinct, but first, they needed to catch their suspect.
“Mr. Von Ziegler,” she called, her voice rising toward the trees. “We know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up!”
Still no answer was forthcoming from the silent home.
Adele bit her lip, but then gestured toward Leoni and pointed toward the rope ladder. The two of them stepped forward, now moving into the shadow of the elevated home, searching around the ground for something, anything they might use to snare the rope ladder.
Eventually, Leoni nudged her and pointed at a toppled bough. The tree branch was long, but unruly.
Adele retrieved the branch with her partner. Still no sounds were forthcoming from the house. Clearly, Mr. Von Ziegler was hoping they would just leave him alone. But the author’s own words propelled her motions. She remembered what he’d written on his website. Rants against tourists. Vicious diatribes seemingly siding with the killer. Which, if their theory held true about Mr. Von Ziegler’s nighttime activities, would make sense.
Leoni broke off a couple of the more unruly side branches from the main shaft of wood. Then, together, in one of the strangest breaching efforts Adele had ever been a part of, they moved beneath the house, out from its shadow, and faced the rope ladder. Leoni poked the long branch up, snagging the rope and tugging it.
After couple of tries, the ladder tumbled over the edge and fell, swaying and swinging beneath the elevated home.
Adele held a finger to her lips and tapped Leoni’s service weapon, pointing up. Leoni drew his weapon, took a couple of steps back, aimed toward the door and the windows above, providing cover, and then nodded once.
Adele grabbed the rope ladder and began to climb, pulling herself up, feeling the rough texture of the binding beneath her fingers. The sunlight above kept peeking from behind the elevated home in rhythm with the swaying ladder.
Adele pulled herself up the last rung, grunting a bit from the unfamiliar motion of the precarious handhold. She pressed her palm against the firm wood of the floorboards above, and pulled herself onto the platform which elevated the treehouse.
After a moment, she stepped to the side, giving Leoni a clear shot at the door. She pulled her own weapon from her holster, feeling her fingers a bit numb from where they’d gouged into the rough rope. She winced, shaking out a hand, but then, readjusting her grip on her weapon, she pointed it toward the door.
Her eyes flicked to the nearest window. No movement. Darkened by a curtain within and a film of tint on the glass itself.
She pounded her fist against the metal frame of the door and shouted, “Mr. Von Ziegler, open up!”
For the first time, she heard movement. The sound was like a quiet curse, and then the patter of footsteps. But the door didn’t open.
“Adrian Von Ziegler,” she snapped. “Interpol. Open the door now!”
Leoni still had his weapon trained on the windows, and Adele was preparing to push through the door. But then, a second later, as she reached a hand toward the knob, the door sprang open, nearly knocking her off the platform. Her gun was sent skittering to the floor.
A blur of motion caught her eye, as she reeled back, trying to regain her balance. A figure flung themselves toward the rope ladder and began to scramble down. By the looks of things, they were wearing gloves, and slid down the rope with practiced ease.
Adele cursed and took two skipping steps to grab her gun, and then aimed over the rope ladder.
Mr. Von Ziegler was on the run, and barreled forward, heading toward the trees, ignoring Leoni.
“Stop!” Leoni shouted in English.
But the runner ignored him. Leoni aimed, sighted in—Adele’s heart skipped a beat—but then her partner cursed, stowed his weapon, and broke into a sprint, racing after the fleeing man. Adele couldn’t descend the ladder as fast as the culprit had. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and if she tried to slide, she would rip up her palms. So as she moved down, she could hear the sound of the fleeing man disappearing into the trees.
She cursed. She reached halfway, then dropped, landing with a dull thump on the ground. She took a moment to catch her bearings, glimpsed the form of Leoni’s suit as he raced through the trees, and broke into a sprint herself.
She stowed her own weapon and raced across the detritus-scattered floor. Small branches cracked underfoot, the smell of fresh leaves and earth filling the air. She ducked beneath branches, moving deeper into the sparse undergrowth of the more maintained section of forest. The further they went, the harder it would be to move.
She heard shouting now, yelling.
She spotted Leoni, his gun raised, pointing it at a man whose back was pressed to a tree. It looked like he’d caught his sweater in a tangle of thorny shrubs, and was wincing and wailing, trying to extricate himself without doing damage.
“Stop!” Adele shouted. She hurried forward, her own gun rising.
The man snared in the shrubs glanced desperately from Leoni to Adele, his wide eyes bugged out from wrinkled features; his hair was slick without a single strand of white. His hair was that of a young man, but his features were that of someone in their sixties. He had moved far too quickly, though, in Adele’s estimation, to be much older than forty. Those were the wrinkles and lines of a man weathered by the weight of the world. Worry lines.
Mr. Von Ziegler was shouting now, trying to shake his tangled arm, but wincing as the thorns ripped through his sweater and skin.
“We’re with Interpol,” Adele said, firmly. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
The Austrian author turned from Leoni to regard her. He was trim, with the proportions of a runner, but his wrinkled, worried face was tinged with red. He tried to speak and slurred his words, suggesting perhaps he’d been drinking. In lightly accented English, he replied, “What do you thugs want from me?”
“To talk,” Adele said, firmly. “Lower the branch.”
His free hand had snared a sharp stick, which wasn’t large enough to be used as a club, nor sharp enough to be used as a skewer, but she didn’t want to take any risks.
Mr. Von Ziegler glanced desperately between the two agents as he finally managed to rip his sleeve from the snaring thorn bush, but then, when he glanced over his shoulder toward the deeper parts of the forest, he realized the futility of trying to run through the trees. There was nowhere to go without overgrowth and underbrush.