Текст книги "Alibi"

Автор книги: Joseph Kanon

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

“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.

I watched it get nearer, its bulk coming between us and the rest of the canal, and then, as it reached the Fornace, I put the boat in gear and shot out to run along its starboard side, invisible to the police while I chugged along in its shadow. We began to rock a little in the wake. A few people on deck noticed us, one waving us away with his hand, warning us. In another minute the vaporetto would head for the Salute landing station, squeezing me, but not before we passed the Rio della Salute, still blocked from view, and I swung away and headed down the side canal.

The Salute rio ran parallel to the Fornace but farther down, almost at the customs house. If I entered the Giudecca there, away from the waiting police boat, I might be able to run along the dark side of the Dogana and reach the bacino at its tip, pulling toward San Marco into the Grand Canal boat’s patrolling area but too far away to be seen. If I could outrun the Giudecca boat. This canal was narrower than the Fornace and even quieter. Only a few people lived at this end of Dorsoduro, wedged in between the great church and the customs house. We were out of it in minutes, turning left to hug the tip of land, almost afraid to look back. We had no lights to see, and our motor was far enough away to be indistinct—no reason to notice us at all. Just keep going. In seconds we’d be out of range.

“They’re coming,” Rosa said, facing backward.

Maybe just to look, a routine check. But the minute I speeded up they’d know, without even having to pull back the tarp.

Claudia turned around, spotting the light too. “Go behind San Giorgio,” she said. “Like before.”

“We can’t. We’ll never lose them there.”

“At least it’s dark there, remember? Nobody saw us.”

“Nobody was chasing us,” I said. “Okay, hold on, it’s going to bump. Rosa, hang on to him.” Rosa, who had been watching us, just nodded.

We passed the tip of the customs house with its golden ball and I swerved slightly to the left, streaking across the basin toward the doges’ palace, then along the curve of the Riva. The one place in Venice I’d wanted to avoid, open and bright, center stage. But also busy with traffic, boats to the islands and Danieli taxis and ferries leaving for the Adriatic. I realized that, unexpectedly, the boats here became trees in a forest, something to dodge around, slip behind. We passed San Zaccaria, passed the Rio dei Greci, the way to the Questura, heading finally toward the darker end of Venice, the empty public gardens and the lagoon beyond. In the lagoon, still covered by clouds, we could make it. We hit the wake from another boat, lifting up, then smashing down with a thud, water spraying over everything. Moretti cried out. Our speed now was drawing attention, too fast for the harbor. If I could pull away into the city again, thread us somehow through the back of Castello, we might lose the police, but the canals were a maze here, watery blind alleys. The police hadn’t outrun us yet. Just a few more seconds and we’d be in the dark.

On cue, a searchlight came on behind, hitting the water next to us in a long white beam, then moving left until our boat was flooded with light. Claudia ducked, lowering herself out of sight. I swerved, but whoever was operating the light had the rhythm of it now and followed us, tracking us smoothly. In a minute there would be a horn, someone yelling at us to stop. My mouth went dry.

“There are two,” Rosa said. “Only one has the light.” Calculating odds. What she must have been like on their other raids, harrying Germans.

Moretti crawled out from under the tarp and pulled himself along the side of the boat. We hit another wake and I could see him grimace, pain and something more, a frantic desperation, blinking against the glare, as if the light itself were hitting him, making him hurt. Then, almost before I could register what was happening, his hand came up and a gun went off, a roar past my ear. Claudia screamed. He fired again, and suddenly the light went off, hit or just temporarily doused.

“Stop it! You’ll kill us!” Claudia shouted, jumping at him and grabbing the gun. It was Rosa who snatched it, however, handing it over to Claudia and pulling him back to the tarp.

“What can you hit like this?” she said to him gently, putting the towel back on his wound. She pulled out her own gun. “Don’t worry. You,” she said to Claudia, “can you shoot?”

“No. Stop. If we do this—”

The light came on again, touching the edge of the boat, and then there was gunfire, bullets hitting the water next to us. We crouched down, Claudia and Rosa peering back at the police boat. I kept steering, bobbing my head, a moving target. There was a sharp thunk behind me, a bullet hitting wood, not far from the motor. Not far from any of us. Real bullets. I felt everything rushing out of control. Cut the engine. Hold up your hands. It was time to stop. Real bullets.

“Get the light,” Rosa said, steadying her hand and firing, a marksman’s stance.

“They’re going to kill us all, and he’s going to die anyway,” Claudia said, her voice jagged.

“Then take one with you,” Rosa said. “Shoot. It’s Fossoli, and this time you have a gun.”

Claudia looked at her.

“It’s the same people. Shoot.”

But it was Rosa who shot, taking her time, careful, then smiling when she heard the ping of metal, glass smashing, and the light suddenly went out. Another burst of gunfire hit the water next to us. I could hear yelling on the boat behind, confusion. Our one second chance. It didn’t matter where the back canals went. If we stayed here, we’d be killed.

I pushed the tiller hard and the boat veered left, heading straight for the nearest canal. A high bridge, dark water behind, only a few streetlights after the Riva. It was only after we’d passed under the bridge that I saw the tall brick towers at the end of the rio, the crenellated walls stretching out from the water entrance. The Arsenale, the republic’s old shipyard, silent now for years. Navy property, but not locked—a vaporetto route went through it, past the walled-in docks and out the other end, a shortcut to the northern lagoon.

I looked behind us. The police had seen the turnoff, were now racing toward the bridge at the rio entrance. Only the usual boat lights, no more beacon. In the Arsenale it would be almost pitch-dark, just a few corner lamps for night watchmen. Nothing came through here but the vaporetti. And nothing got out, if you stopped up either end. I tried to remember its shape from the map—a box of water surrounded by warehouses and ships’ works, a rio out in each direction, not completely hemmed in. A connecting boatyard to the right, a longer way out, but an alternative. Unless the navy had closed it off. If they were here at all. What ships were left would be in Taranto. Nothing had been built here since the first war. The foundries, the ropemakers, were all just memories, something to mention to tourists as they sailed through. A deserted factory on water. And a trap if we couldn’t make it through.

I had decided to head right, toward the connecting boatyard, when I heard the shot behind us. Close enough to shoot again. Someone leaned out of one of the tower windows, shouting. Guarded after all. But what were they guarding? In a moment I saw. I made an abrupt turn after the towers, hoping for a clear path to the other boatyard, and instead found myself surrounded by ghost ships. The Arsenale was dotted with yellow fog lights, everything shuttered, the docks lined with rusting, pre-Mussolini warships. A ship graveyard, clotted enough to obscure the opening to the adjoining basin. But now it was too late to head back to the lagoon. I could hear the police boats, already at the entrance towers. Still, we’d have to try. Nobody would stay in a bottleneck. But that’s what they would think too.

I turned the boat once more. An old warship lay almost listing against the dock, its wide middle close enough to board by jumping but its tapered bow and stern sitting out in the water. I made another quick turn, almost fishtailing, then cut the motor behind the stern, bobbing in a narrow slot of water between the rusting hulk and the stone walls of the dock. The boat rocked, and I grabbed a rope from the dock to hold us steady until our wake had subsided. Then I pulled us farther in, making sure the boat didn’t stick out past the warship’s stern. A hiding hole, dark. Nothing to see but rusting steel.

Everything now was sound—the motors of the police boats shifting gears, idling while they looked around; footsteps running past the workshops, presumably the guard from the tower; shouts out to the water, unintelligible but excited, wanting to know what was going on; the creaking of ships pulling against ropes. I looked up. The warship was secured to keep any movement to a minimum, ropes stretched taut from stern to dock, probably the same at the bow. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t move, the water churned up by the police boats rocking the stern just enough to push it closer to the dock, crushing us. The others were looking at it too, their eyes fixed on the old metal, watching it as if they were waiting to put up their hands to stop it coming closer. No one spoke. Rosa leaned down, putting her head next to Moretti’s, ready to cover his mouth if he made a sound. On the water the boats had come together, their motors in the same place, conferring. But they were running out of time. If they searched the Arsenale and found nothing, they’d lose any advantage on the open water.

I heard the boats shift gears, separating. But which way would we have gone? The northern outlet, toward Murano, or the longer Arsenale basin? The directions were opposite—a wrong guess meant we’d get away. Then one motor got fainter, moving toward the lagoon, and the other seemed almost on top of us, someone yelling one more thing to the guard before it passed by the stern of our ship and then to the next basin. Finally, Rosa’s reverse play, the police off in all directions except the one I intended to use, back to where I had started.

We waited another minute to make sure the police had really gone, then edged our way out from behind the warship. For a moment I thought of just drifting with the oars, slipping past the guard in silence, the way we’d gone down the Fornace. But we were running out of time too, every second crucial if we wanted to get out before the police realized they were chasing shadows. What could the guard do, call out the navy? Mothballed in Taranto, the last scraps of Mussolini’s war. I started the engine and swung around the big stern.

The guard may have seen the boat, but none of us looked back, just headed straight down the canal to the open water. We had a real chance now. To catch up, the police would have to go all around the tail end of Venice, skirting San Elena, minutes behind. We passed under the bridge and shot across the water toward the channel lights. I peered into the darkness, trying to measure how far I could see past the buoys before everything was swallowed up. Still no moon. We wouldn’t need to hide behind anything—the air itself would do it if we were outside the range of the lights. But it was a fine line; too far and you risked shallows.

“Is he okay?” I said to Rosa. “It gets choppier out here.”

She didn’t say anything, just held him, a cushion.

“Where is the car? The casino?” The big parking lot at the vaporetto landing stage, where it would be easy to be overlooked in the crowd.

“No, at the end. The Excelsior.”

“The Excelsior?”

“It’s not open yet. No one will be at the dock. It’s easy to find.” All worked out, the next link.

“Not in the dark. We’ll have to go to the casino and then follow the lights down.”

“No, go straight across. That was the idea. No one will see us.”

“You can’t cross the lagoon in the dark. That’s why they mark the channels.”

“It’s a shallow boat.”

But the lagoon could be even shallower. That was what had always protected Venice—not water but mud. Sometimes only a few feet under the surface, sometimes less, rising in little underwater islands.

“We can’t go at this speed. If we hit something, we could wreck the boat.”

“If they come for us, they’ll look in the channel,” she said.

I nodded. “All right. But it’ll take more time. Can he wait?”

He was lying still under the tarp, maybe passed out.

“Yes,” she said. “Now.” I looked at her face, suddenly soft. “He’s dead.”

“Oh,” Claudia said, a whimper.

“Are you sure?”

Rosa pulled back the tarp, as if seeing him, his perfectly calm face, would be evidence. “In the Arsenale. I didn’t want to say then.”

We were still moving slowly in a direct line to the far lights of the Lido. I looked around, checking for boats, then back at his face, streaked with blood where he had wiped it, sweating, a kind of camouflage effect in the dark. A boy who’d delivered medicine.

“Better cover him up,” I said, not wanting to look anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Rosa said quietly, and for an odd second I thought she was talking to me, but her face was turned to his, words to a comrade.

Claudia moved forward and helped her with the tarp, folding it around him. “Let’s go back,” she said. “They won’t expect that. We can hide you, get you away somehow tomorrow. It was the wound that was the problem—we couldn’t hide him. He would have died.”

“He did,” Rosa said, but Claudia wasn’t really listening, busy with the tarp, absorbed now in a new plan.

“Do you think they saw our faces?” she said to me. “In that light? The boat could be anyone’s. We could go back. Nobody would know.”

“I can’t stay in Venice,” Rosa said. “They know it was me. Even if they didn’t see,” she said, spreading her hand to take in the boat, “they know it was me. They’ll hunt for me.”

“Not at Ca’ Venti,” Claudia said. “They already did.”

“And what do we do with him?” Rosa said quietly.

“Is there some rope?” Claudia said. “It’s better if it’s tied. The tarp will come loose, even if we roll it.” She was folding it under him, talking to herself. “How can we weight it? Not that it matters. You use those big stones and it’ll come up anyway. Nothing keeps it down. It’s the tides, isn’t that what they said? The tides loosened the tarp.” She turned to me. “We’ll have to explain why this one is missing. There’s nothing over those stones now. Someone might notice.”

I looked up to find Rosa watching her, studying her face.

“You want to put him in the lagoon? This boy?”

“He’s dead, yes?” Claudia said.

Rosa looked out to the dark, then shook her head. “Not to the fishes. I’ll take him.”

“In the car? With a body? Where?”

“He’s Carlo’s son,” she said simply. “I can’t just throw him over the side.”

“Two can do it,” Claudia said, not hearing her. “The boat won’t tip.”

“An expert,” Rosa said, dismissive, then turned to me. “They’ll find the car. Then it’s someone else.”

“They can trace it?”

She shrugged. “You will never get me out of Venice. Not now. This is the best way. Get me there, then it’s my risk.”

“And when they ask how you got there?” Claudia said.

“When they ask?” Rosa said. “They won’t ask me anything. If they can ask, I’ll be dead.”

She said it casually, sure of things. A car punctured with bullet holes, the only way it would be stopped. But it could happen the other way too. An undetected dash to Jesolo, then the whole Veneto to disappear in. Taking the body to friends.

“You’re not turning around,” Claudia said.

“After we drop them,” I said. “We can’t keep her in Venice.” The train station would be swarming with police, the highway bridge guarded. Not even a tarp to hide under.

“Who’s that?” Claudia said, swiveling around. A distant engine, a light shining in front, coming slowly.

“Not police,” Rosa said. “Fishermen, maybe. They go out at night.”

“Have they seen us?”

“Not yet. Soon,” Rosa said. “Pull to the left.”

I turned the boat slightly, on an angle now to the channel markers, stretching across the lagoon like highway lights. The fishing boat would pass without even noticing us, heading for the opening to the Adriatic. The chugging was nearer, a steady hum, then suddenly, as if it had found a road, it sped up, moving its lights right to left to make sure its whole path was clear. On the swing left the light caught us, something unexpected in the dark. A man shouted. The boat came toward us, shining its beam down.

“Where are your lights?” the man yelled in Italian. “What’s wrong?” Just people in distress.

I idled the engine. “Broken,” Rosa yelled back. “It’s all right, we’re fixing it.”

“You’ll get run over. Go back to the channel,” he said, waving his arms. “Someone will pick you up.”

“We’re all right. We’re going to the Lido.”

“Bah,” he said. “In the dark. Sciocci.” This to the other fishermen, disgusted by our ineptness. “Then follow us. It’s another channel.”

I turned my head away from the light, looking toward the main channel markers, the string of white, now with a small blue light moving along it.

“Rosa, police. Tell them to go. The police’ll see us.”

I imagined someone with binoculars, scanning, drawn to the spot of light, two boats, one familiar.

Rosa shouted something up, forced and hearty, and the fisherman laughed but turned the boat, moving the light away. It started out again.

“It’s luck for us,” Rosa said. “We can follow them. They know the channels.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him to stop looking down my dress.”

I opened the throttle, following the fishing boat but keeping far enough back to stay in its shadow. We were making better time now, getting closer. I looked left, keeping the blue light in sight. One of the night ferries to Trieste was coming up behind it in the channel, and in the bright lights I could see it clearly now, a police boat, probably the one that had spun off through the Arsenale yard. The ferry passed and the blue light kept following the channel, the only place we could sensibly be.

“Are they still there?” Claudia said, watching me.

“Yes, but they’re heading for the casino.”

And then they weren’t. The blue light swung out into the lagoon, drawn irresistibly to the fishing boat’s light, cutting straight across to it.

“Damn.” I slowed down, letting the fishermen run ahead, watching the police boat race toward them. The fishing boat was making for the end of the Lido, the outlet to the Adriatic, past the big beach hotels. Its path drew the police boat right in front of us, a slice of light that crossed up ahead and then kept going, leaving us alone again in the dark.

“Go faster,” Claudia said. “They’ll come back.”

“We can’t. We don’t know how shallow it is.”

“The Excelsior boats go there,” she said, but I didn’t answer, trying to concentrate on the water ahead in what little light there was. The casino was miles down to our left, the fishing boat trying to leave the lagoon to our right—we should be heading straight for the hotel. In the day we’d see the white turrets poking through the trees. Now there’d be nothing to orient us but a dock light.

“They’ll be back soon,” Rosa said. “They’re almost at the fishing boat. Once they see it’s not us—”

I nodded and opened the throttle again, jerking us faster toward the island. Too late now to worry about shallows. If we didn’t get to the dock, we’d be in the police boat’s return path. Then what? Play hide-and-seek in the lagoon until we ran out of luck.

“The yellow light,” Rosa said. “There. See it? That’s where they unload.”

Down on my right, the police were making a loop around the fishing boat, probably cursing themselves now for having followed it. They’d head back to the main channel, cutting behind us, hearing our motor unless we were already at the dock, silent and invisible again.

The Excelsior landing area was a dead-end canal, protected from rough open water and at this time of year lighted only by the dock lamp at the entrance. I shot past the light, then cut the motor, so that the boat swerved as if we were skidding on ice. Our swell slapped against the wall, then came back at us, a bathtub effect. I held the boat steady, then pushed us toward the landing stairs.

“Okay, quick,” I said. “Where’s the car?”

“Across the street. Help me carry him.”

“Not that way,” Claudia said, positioning herself at the end of the tarp. “Slide it over the side first. Like this.” She motioned Rosa to the other end, and they pushed the rolled tarp onto the stairs while I held the rocking boat. They both got out, Claudia pulling the body up to the pavement. “Now lift.”

“Wait. I’ll do it,” I said, tying the boat.

But before I could step out I heard the other engine, grinding in neutral out past the dock light, looking around. I turned to see the blue light, then back at Rosa. “Run. There’s no time now.”

“And you?”

“I’ll say you forced us. Something. Just get going.”

“Help me. I can’t leave him.”

“Are you crazy?” Claudia said, her voice hoarse, breathing hard. She had started dragging the body but only managed to pull the tarp away. Now, looking at Moretti, then out toward the blue light, she seemed desperate, gulping air. “He’s dead. Look. What does it matter now? We did this to save him, so he wouldn’t be blamed for us. We could have done nothing, let him take the blame. But we didn’t. And now? Look. It doesn’t matter to him now. Let him be the guilty one. Then it’s over. We have to save ourselves.” She knelt by the body, reaching for the loose tarp. “Look.”

But Rosa was staring at her, eyes round, no longer seeing the body.

“But he’s not the guilty one,” she said evenly. “You. Take the blame for you. That’s what it meant, in the boat. How you knew what to do.” She looked at me. “Both of you? But why?”

I heard the engine again, louder. Why? There must have been a reason once.

“Rosa, just go,” I said.

“Leave him alone,” she said to Claudia. “What? Another one for the lagoon?” She turned back to me. “Yes, both. How else to do it? It takes two. All along, pretending—”

Behind us, some shouts, a light rippling up the canal.

“Rosa, they’re coming.”

“What were you doing? A game? And this boy—what, he’d pay for you?”

“No. That’s why we—” I turned to see the blue light closer, almost at the entrance. “They’re coming. Run.”

“And leave him? Then he’s their murderer. That’s what you want,” she said to Claudia. “Carlo’s boy, a murderer. Think of his name.”

“His name?” Claudia said. “He’s dead.”

“They’ll kill you,” I said.

“Not before I tell them.”

Claudia pulled out Moretti’s gun, then got up slowly, holding it in front of her.

“No, you won’t do that. For what? He’s dead.”

“Claudia, put it down.” I turned to Rosa. “Just run. We’ll cover you.”

“He doesn’t pay,” she said, looking calmly at the gun.

“Oh, but we do?” Claudia said. “The living.”

“Nobody pays,” I said, impatient, my head swirling with the sound of the engine, close enough to be in the canal now. “What? For Gianni? He was a murderer.”

“Yes? And what are you?” And then, before I could say anything, “Yes, me too. Many times.” She looked down at the body. “But not him. There is an obligation here.”

“Obligation,” Claudia said. “To whom? Go. We’ll tell them something. Maybe they’ll believe it.”

“No, they’ll believe me.”

“Then you’ll kill us,” Claudia said quietly.

There was a swell of water, a boat pulling close.

“Rosa,” I said, “please. Run.”

“I can’t,” she said, reasonable. “With my leg? I can’t make it now anyway. The car—it’s not possible. No time.”

“They’ll kill you.”

She glanced at the gun, her mouth twisting in a faint smile. “Who does it first? You or them?”

“I will,” Claudia said, breathless.

“And how do you explain this one?” Rosa said, looking at me. She shook her head. “Then you’ll pay for me. Me, him—you’ll pay for one of us, either way.”

There were shouts now, the sounds of people getting off a boat, coming up behind us the way the pursuit boat had, so that I wanted to hold up my hand again to make it stop.

“To come this far,” Claudia said. “No. You want to die? But not us. Not now. I’ll survive you too.”

Rosa looked at her, still calm. “How?”

And then suddenly everything did stop, startled by a roar so loud it drove every other sound out of the air. No footsteps at the end of the dock, no soft moan as Rosa’s face went slack with surprise, no boats creaking or buoy bells out on the lagoon. The world turned silent. Rosa slumped and fell over. Claudia lowered the gun, shoulders drooping, and looked at it dumbly, as if it had gone off by itself, all without a sound, happening somewhere quiet, out of reach. Then air started rushing back into my eardrums. How do you explain this one? Another body. Claudia with a gun in her hand.

I stepped forward, putting myself between Claudia and Rosa’s body. I heard footsteps again. No time. But there had to be some way, one last alibi. Claudia was staring at me, still in the quiet place.

“Listen to me. Shoot me,” I said.

She blinked.

“Here,” I said, touching my shoulder. “Then put Rosa’s gun in her hand. She tried to kill us, but I got her before she could shoot again. Understand? Put the gun in her hand. I had to shoot back. Here.” I touched my shoulder again. “Do it.”

“Shoot you,” she said vaguely, as if she were trying to translate.

“Just do it,” I said, almost growling. “Quick. It’s a chance.”

“Yes,” she said, still vague, but raising her hand.

I looked down at the gun, followed it up until it was pointed at my chest.