He used two of his men, who made a halfhearted show of poking in closets and looking behind shower curtains. I followed with Cavallini, but in my mind I saw the trickle growing thicker, a red stream running over the stone floor, down the mossy steps, spreading out into the canal, a giant stain. In the middle of the search, Angelina came home and had to be calmed down, so we went through her room too. The men covered every inch of Ca’ Venti, all of it innocent, nothing to connect us except the blood spreading on the floor downstairs. The one place they didn’t search, because Cavallini had already been there.
At the door he offered to leave one of his men. “If it would make you feel safer.”
A guard outside, listening. “Do you think we need it?”
He made a dismissive gesture with his eyebrows. “No. To be frank with you, I need every man tonight. You know how it is. But if the signora—”
“She’ll be all right. I’ll lock the doors, both of them. She just needs rest. If we can get Angelina to bed. I’ve never seen her so jumpy. You’d think she’d robbed a bank.”
“Her brother,” he said.
“What?”
“Well, not banks, the black market. During the war. Of course, not now. But she thinks we still want him. I’ll tell you something,” he said, almost winking. “We never did. It was the only way then. I bought from him myself.” He looked at me. “We have our own ways here.”
A message? A reminder? Or maybe nothing at all. I heard a creak, someone moving, and felt my scalp itch, every sound in the house now a finger pointing at me. A single groan would do it, while he was still in the house.
“Thank you for coming,” Claudia said. “With your arm—”
“It’s nothing,” he said, moving the sling, a demonstration.
“Still,” I said. “A bullet wound, that’s never just a scratch.”
“No.” He lifted his head. “Did you hear something?”
A gasp of pain, unmistakable, maybe Moretti clutching his stomach. I felt my hand move, a tic. Say anything.
“The house. It makes noises,” I said casually, trying to sound unconcerned.
Cavallini listened for another minute, then reached for the doorknob. “These old houses,” he said, turning it. “With me, pipes. All night.” He shook his head. “Venice.” Not bothering to say more, as if we could hear the city sinking around us.
When the door closed, I leaned against it, breathing, listening for footsteps. Claudia didn’t move either, frozen for a minute by relief. I put a finger to my lips, stepping closer to her so that we couldn’t be heard.
“Go get Angelina settled,” I said. “Tell her I’ll lock up. Keep a light on in the bedroom so it looks like we’re still up.” I switched off the hall lights, something Cavallini’s men would see from the calle, and walked with Claudia in the dark toward the stairs, turning on a small night-light on the hall table. “Check the canal from upstairs—see if any boats are waiting. I’ll get them ready. We can’t wait too long.”
She stopped, placing her hand on the banister. “If we do this, the rest was all for nothing. We can’t explain this.” She clutched my arm. “We can still—there’s nothing to connect us. Let them steal the boat.”
“And just turn away.”
“It’s our lives.”
“Theirs too.” I took her shoulders, steadying her. “All we have to do is get him to the Lido. Then we’re done with it. We’re finally done with it.”
She looked down, then turned to the stairs. “We’re never done with it.” She paused. “What do I tell Angelina?”
“Tell her Cavallini’s watching the house. That’ll keep her in bed.” She started up the stairs. “Not too long, okay? Just keep one light on, so they think we’re here.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
We waited another twenty minutes, cleaning the water entrance and listening for any signs of activity on the canal. A water taxi passed, cutting through to the Giudecca channel, but otherwise it was quiet, a backwater. I swung the boat around from the mooring pole. The canal itself was dark, the moon covered by convenient clouds. Moretti was still conscious, able to crawl into the boat without our having to lift him, but he was gasping, obviously in pain. He lay down in the front, Rosa next to him. Claudia threw in the wad of bloody towels. “We can’t keep these in the house. Here, get under this,” she said, spreading the tarp over them, imagining it could hide them if we were stopped. Behind us, the pile of paving stones was bare.
I pulled the gate just to the point before it would click shut, so that it looked closed from the water. We glided away from the house, hugging the edge of the canal. If the police were anywhere, they’d be in the Giudecca channel, but if they’d given up, it was still our best route out, so I decided to check. I pushed against the building wall, letting us float quietly toward the end of the canal. The daytime traffic was gone. It might be worth a chance, a quick dash to San Giorgio, then behind the island, the way we’d gone with Gianni. We had almost passed under the Zattere bridge into the open water when I saw it, an idling boat with a blue light. Waiting to see if anyone came out. I grabbed a mooring pole and held the boat back until it began to pivot, twisting around in the other direction. With the police boat patrolling, we’d have to keep the motor off. We could make our way back down the Fornace by pushing against the side, but farther on some boats were moored and we’d have to swing out, using the oars on both sides, Indians in a canoe.
“Police,” I said to Claudia. “We’ll have to use the Grand Canal.”
She said nothing, just stared at Ca’ Venti as we passed. No turning back. Ahead a gondola was approaching—no passengers, just someone heading home.
“Come here,” I said to Claudia, pulling her to me and kissing her, the only thing we’d be doing at this hour on a quiet canal. She put her hand on the back of my neck, then rested her forehead on mine, both our faces hidden.
“Adam,” she whispered, shaking.
“Ssh. It’s going to be all right.”
I heard the faint splash of the gondolier’s pole. In the front of the boat, Rosa peeked out from under the tarp. “He’s gone,” she said, but I stayed with Claudia for another minute, locked together, my head filled with her. It was going to be all right.
Near the Grand Canal it was lighter and, more important, noisier. A vaporetto was heading across the water, its noise loud enough to cover the sound of our own engine. I waited until it was closer, then started ours. No trouble this time. The cord caught and the engine roared, loud enough to bounce off the walls of the buildings. Or maybe just loud to us, listening for it. An ordinary motorboat, usually an insect buzz in Venice’s water traffic. I nosed us out to the broad canal.
The police boat was off to the right, a bookend to the other, with the same blue light. It was standing guard near the center of the canal, with sight lines not just to us but to the traghetto stand across, anything streaming down to San Marco. The terrace lights were on at the Gritti. I idled the boat for a minute, churning the water but not going anywhere. They’d blocked the Fornace, just in case. If they spotted us here, they could radio to the other end and trap us in between. Over by the Gritti, a pack of tourist gondolas went by with lanterns. What you saw at this hour at the hotel end of the Grand Canal. Taxis at the Europa, the Monaco. A few private boats going to Harry’s. But not a single motorboat with a young couple and a bulky tarp. Farther down, the lights of Salute reflected on the water, then there was only a brief shadow before San Marco lit up everything. Nowhere to hide.
The vaporetto was getting closer, lumbering toward Salute on our side of the canal, as slow and bulky as a land bus. Big enough. I lifted my head as if I’d been shaken awake, then looked in both directions. San Marco was impossible; easier to double back to the Giudecca. But not on the Fornace. The trick would be to catch the vaporetto at the right moment. Even at this speed there wouldn’t be any leeway.