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Coming at him with arms outstretched, she was ready for any evasion. And he tried. As he got close, and realized what she was doing, he let out a cry of alarm and tried to dodge aside.
"No, you don't," Juliette yelled.
She caught hold of his arm, and with a mighty heave, she knocked him off balance. He stumbled, and she felt the jolt go through her as his weight went down. She jerked his arm again, twisting as she pulled, and he sprawled onto the floor.
His limbs were flailing. There was desperate fight in him, but she was desperate too.
She bent down and with a final lunge, she managed to grab his arms and hold them, using all the strength she had. He was struggling, trying to jerk away, and as she got the handcuffs off her belt, he almost succeeded.
"No!" With all her strength, she grabbed him again and this time, she managed to clip the cuff around one of his wrists.
He was panting, chest heaving. He was struggling, but with a lunge, she had him in her grasp. Not tightly enough, though. His arm came free and this time, he jerked it away so hard he nearly pulled her off her feet. His hand whacked her on the forehead, more of a lucky blow than intentional, but even so, for a moment, she was blinded by the stinging impact.
"No!" Juliette shouted, shaking off the pain and lunging for him again. She was determined to finish the job.
But then, he kicked out, and while she twisted aside to avoid the impact, she almost let go of the cuff.
"No, you don't!"
This time, she hung on with all her strength, and finally, she got the other wrist into the metal bracelet and clicked it closed, gripping onto his arms for dear life.
At the same moment, she heard the thud of feet and looked up to see Wyatt, approaching at a full run.
None too soon. She was done after this struggle, and would appreciate the help.
Wyatt grabbed one of Steampunk’s arms, and she took hold of the other.
Now, there was nowhere for him to go and he knew it. They had their handcuffed suspect captured.
Finally, gasping for breath, Juliette could take a step back and look at him.
He had a lean, narrow face which was daubed with artistically applied gold and silver paint. A sleek black hat covered his hair. More paint camouflaged his arms, and he was wearing black gloves, she noticed, feeling even more certain. Black gloves. This was their man; she was sure of it. All the boxes were checked.
"Who are you?" Juliette said. He stared back, silent. And then he shook his head and gave an angry scowl.
He wasn't saying who he was.
This man was not going to confess easily, and perhaps not at all. And of all the defenses that Juliette was used to seeing, she considered total silence to be the most powerful weapon of all.
It was so hard to break through. She had no idea yet of his nationality, his name, or anything about him.
This questioning was going to be her biggest challenge yet, and as she turned toward the police van that was pulling up at the end of the road, she felt another pang of self-doubt. What if he was smart enough to get out of it?
What if he had a few tricks left up his sleeve?
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Goldenface stood still, becoming one with his environment. This was a critical time, and he knew that the environment was not safe. He was at risk here. He’d moved twice, but each time he’d made sure to get closer to the place where he planned to put his third, and final, statue, so that he could ensure it was clear.
Now, he was back home, changing his disguise.
He'd seen earlier that the police were looking closely at statues and street performers, and that they’d even encouraged the performers to look for strangers hiding in their numbers. He’d noticed the commotion in the square, and heard the talk afterward, and he had known immediately that he risked discovery.
Getting caught was usually easy for someone of his skills to evade. Gold paint wasn't the only material he'd stocked up on. He'd bought in a supply of others, too. And now was the time to use one of the weapons in his artillery.
He smiled as he applied the last of the coppery white cream to his face, and his newly shaven head, and his arms.
This cream, which he’d mixed up himself with color pigments from the cosmetics store, was the perfect match for the even, smooth, pale skin of a store mannequin. He'd taken time to make the color match because there should be no room for doubt. If the disguise was perfect then people's eyes would accept it. If it was imperfect, people would notice and look, and then he risked discovery.
