by Donna Leon
Chapter Twenty-Five
Quick footsteps disappeared down the hall. Brunetti turned to La Capra. ‘It’s too late, Signor La Capra,’ Brunetti said, straining to keep his voice calm and reasonable. ‘I know she’s here. You’ll just make things worse by trying to do anything to her.’
‘I beg your pardon, Signor Policeman, but I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,’ La Capra said and smiled in polite puzzlement.
‘About Dottoressa Lynch. I know she’s here.’
La Capra smiled again and waved his hand in a broad, sweeping gesture that took in the room and all the objects it contained. ‘I don’t see why you’re so insistent about this. Surely, if she were here, she’d be with us, enjoying the sight of all this beauty.’ His voice grew even warmer. ‘You hardly believe me capable of keeping such pleasure from her, do you?’
Brunetti’s voice was equally calm. ‘I think it’s time to end the farce, signore.’
La Capra’s laugh, rich with the sound of real delight, broke out when Brunetti said this. ‘Oh, I believe it’s you who is the farceur, Signer Policeman. You are here in my home without invitation; I would guess that your entry was illegal in itself. And so you have no right to tell me what I must and must not do.’ The edge on his voice sharpened perceptibly as he spoke until, when he finished, he was almost hissing with anger. Hearing himself, La Capra recollected the role he was playing, turned away from Brunetti, and took a few steps towards one of the Plexiglas cases.
‘Observe, if you will, the lines on this vase,’ he said. ‘Lovely, simply lovely, the way it serpentines around to the back, don’t you think?’ He made a gossamer loop in the air with his hand, imitating the flow of the painted line across the front of the tall vase inside the case he was observing. ‘I’ve always found it remarkable, the eye for beauty these people had. Thousands of years ago, and still they were in love with beauty.’ Smiling, transforming himself from mere connoisseur to philosopher, he turned to Brunetti and asked, ‘Do you think that’s the secret of humanity, then, the love of beauty?’
When Brunetti made no response to this banality, La Capra let the subject drop and moved to the next case. With a small, private laugh, he said, ‘Dottoressa Lynch would have liked to see this.’
Something in his voice, the tone of dirty secrets, made Brunetti glance across at the case in front of which the other man stood. Inside he saw the same gourd-like shape that he remembered from the picture Brett had shown him. Upright and striding to the left was a human-bodied fox almost identical to the one painted on the vase in the photo Brett had shown him.
Unbidden, the thought was there. If La Capra was willing to show him this vase, then it was clear he no longer had anything to fear from Brett, the one person who could identify its origin. Brunetti wheeled around and took two long strides towards the door. Just before it, he stopped, turned his body to the side, and raised his right leg. With all his force, he kicked out at the door just below the lock. The violence of the kick shocked his entire body, but the door didn’t move.
Behind him, La Capra chuckled. ‘Ah, you Northerners are so impetuous. I’m sorry, but it’s not going to open for you, Signor Policeman, no matter how hard you kick at it. I’m afraid you’re my guest until Salvatore comes back from his errand.’ With complete confidence, he turned back towards the glass cases. ‘This piece here is from the first millennium before Christ. Lovely, isn’t it?’
* * * *
Chapter Twenty-Six
When he left the gallery, the young man was careful to lock the door behind him, leaving the key there in the lock. He was amused at the thought that his father would be safe with a policeman, of all people. The idea was so incongruous that he laughed outright as he walked down the corridor. His laughter died away when he opened the door at the end of the corridor and saw that, outside, it still poured. How could these people live with this weather, and with that sea of filthy black water that swelled up from the very pavements? He refused to admit it to himself, but he was afraid of that water, of what his foot might come in contact with when he walked through it or, worse, what might rub itself up against his legs or trickle down inside his boots.
But this, he believed, would be the last time he’d have to walk through it. Once this was done, once this matter was cleared up, he could go back inside and wait for the disgusting water to go back into the canals, the laguna, the sea, where it belonged. He felt no affinity for these frigid Adriatic waters, so different from the broad sweep of pure turquoise that spread out across the tranquil surface of the Mediterranean in front of their home in Palermo. He had no idea what had brought his father to buy a home in this filthy city. His father insisted that it was for the safety of his collection, that there was little chance of robbery here. But no one in Sicily would dare to rob the home of Carmello La Capra.
He was sure his father did it for the same reason he had the stupid collection of pots in the first place: to rise in the world and be considered a gentleman. Salvatore found this absurd. He and his father were gentlemen by virtue of their birth; they didn’t need the opinion of these stupid polentoni to tell them that.
He glanced again across the flooded courtyard, knowing that he would have to pull on boots and plough through the water to cross it. But the thought of what he would do when he reached the other side was enough to buoy up his thoughts; he had enjoyed playing with l’americana, but now it was time to finish the game.
He bent down and dragged on a pair of high rubber boots, yanking hard to pull them up over his shoes. They came to his knees and gaped wide there, their tops hanging open and limp, like the petals around the centre of an anemone. He pulled the door closed behind him and stomped heavily down the outer stairs, cursing the driving rain. Pushing water in front of him with every step, he forced his way across the courtyard towards the wooden door on the other side. Even in the short time since he had locked the door on l’americana, the water level had risen and now covered the bottom panel. Perhaps she had been in there long enough to have drowned. Even if she had managed to pull herself up into one of the large niches cut into the walls, it would be quick work to drown her. He regretted only that he wouldn’t have time to rape her. He had never raped a homosexual before; not a lesbian, at any rate, and he thought it was something he might enjoy. Well, another phone call might bring her singer friend here, and then he could have the chance. His father might object, but there was really no reason for him to know about it, was there? His father’s caution had denied him the pleasure of the first visit to l’americana. Gabriele and Sandro had been sent instead, and they’d made a mess of it. This muddle of violence, resentment and lust occupied him as he crossed the courtyard.
Prepared for the darkness that lay all around him, he pulled a torch from his jacket pocket and flashed it across the bar that held the low door closed. He shot it back and yanked the door towards him, pulling hard against the weight of water. A high-arched space stretched out in front of him. Chairs and tables floated on the oily surface of the water, stored there during the restoration and abandoned in what had once been an inner boat dock, sunk half a metre below the level of the courtyard and protected from the canal beyond by another heavy wooden door, this one secured by a chain. It would be a minute’s work, when he was finished with her, to open the door and float her out into the deeper water of the canal.
To his left, he heard the slap of water and turned the beam of the torch towards it. The eyes that gleamed back at him were too small and set too close together to be human; with a flick of its long tail, the rat turned away from the light and paddled off behind a floating box.
Lust vanished. He turned the light slowly to the right, pausing long enough to examine each of the small alcoves carved into the wall and now covered with a hand’s breadth of water. He saw her at last, slumped sideways in one of the alcoves, knees pulled up in front of her, head limp on top of them. The light lingered on her, but she didn’t move.
Nothing for it, then, but to cross the water to her
and get it finished. He steeled himself and stepped off into the deeper water, extending his foot slowly until he was sure it rested securely on the first slimy step, and then the second. He cursed violently as he felt the water spill over the top and down inside his boot. For a moment, he wanted to rip off the offending boot, make it easier to move, but then he remembered the red eyes he had seen on the surface of the water just across the room, and he changed his mind. Tentatively, braced for what he knew was coming, he lowered the other foot into the water and felt it flood down into his shoe. He slid his right foot out in front of him, certain there were only three steps, but not willing to believe it until his feet confirmed the fact. That done, he fixed the beam of light on the form hunched in the alcove and pushed towards her through water which rose up to the middle of his thigh.
As he moved, he planned, determined to get what little pleasure he could out of this. There was nowhere he could rest the torch, so he would have to keep it upended in his pocket, hoping that it would give enough light for him to watch her face as he killed her. It didn’t look as if there was any fight left in her, but he had been surprised in the past, and he hoped the same would happen this time. He didn’t want too much of a struggle, not with all this water, but he felt he deserved at least a token resistance, especially if he was going to be denied the other pleasures he might have had from her.
As he splashed towards her, she raised her head and looked at him with eyes that gaped wide, blinded by the light. ‘Ciao, bellezza,’ he whispered, and laughed his father’s laugh.
She closed her eyes and lowered her head back on to her knees. With his right hand, he placed the torch in his jacket pocket, careful to angle it forward so that the light shone in the general direction of the woman in front of him. He could see her only vaguely, but he supposed it would be good enough.
Before he began what he had come to do, he couldn’t resist the temptation to pat her lightly on the side of the jaw, touching her with the delicacy of one who taps a piece of fine crystal to hear it sing. He bent aside, momentarily distracted, to adjust the torch, which had rolled towards the back of his pocket. Because he was looking at the torch and not at his victim, he did not see her clenched fist as it arched out from beside her. Nor did he see the antique iron belt hook that protruded from her fist. He was aware of it only as its dull point dug into his throat, just where the angle of the jaw meets the neck. He felt the force of the blow and pulled back from the pain. He staggered to the right and looked back at her in time to see a thick red stream spray out. When he realized it was his blood, he screamed, but by then it was too late. The light was extinguished as he fell beneath the surface of the water.
* * * *
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sound of the key turning in the lock caused both Brunetti and La Capra to turn towards the door, which opened to reveal Vianello, soaked and dripping. ‘Who are you?’ demanded La Capra. ‘What are you doing here?’
Vianello ignored him and spoke to Brunetti. ‘I think you’d better come with me, sir.’
Brunetti moved instantly, passing in front of Vianello and out of the door without bothering to speak. Only at the end of the corridor, before they stepped out into the rain that continued to pour down, did Brunetti ask, ‘Is it I’americana?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s with her friend, sir, but I don’t know how she is. She’s been in the water a long time.’ Without waiting to hear more, Brunetti strode out and ran quickly down the steps.
He found them just beyond the end of the stairs, hunched together under Vianello’s overcoat. At that instant, someone in the house must have switched on the lights, for suddenly the entire courtyard was filled with blinding light, so bright that the two women were turned into a dark Piet à placed on the low ledge that ran along the inner wall of the courtyard.
Flavia knelt in the water, one arm wrapped around Brett, propping her body against the wall with the weight of her own. Brunetti bent down over the two women, not daring to touch them, and called Flavia’s name. She looked up at him, terror palpable in her glance, forcing him to look at the other woman. Brett’s hair was matted with blood; blood streaked across her face and down the front of her clothing.
‘Madre di Dio,’ he whispered.
Vianello splashed up beside him.
‘Call the Questura, Vianello,’ he ordered. ‘Not from here. Get outside and do it. Have them send a boat, with as many men as they can find. And an ambulance. Now. Do it now.’
Vianello was splashing towards the heavy wooden door even before Brunetti finished speaking. When he pulled open the door, a low wave rippled across the courtyard and came to lap against Brunetti’s legs.
From above him, Brunetti heard La Capra’s voice. ‘What’s happening down there? What’s going on?’ Brunetti turned away from the two women, who remained motionless, arms wrapped around each other, and looked towards the top of the stairs. The other man stood there, surrounded by a radiant nimbus of light that poured from the open door behind him, a malign Christ poised at the threshold of some evil tomb.
‘What are you doing down there?’ he demanded again, voice more insistent and a pitch higher. He walked out into the rain and stared down at them, at the two huddled women and a man who was not his son. ‘Salvatore?’ he called out into the rain. ‘Salvatore, answer me.’ The rain pounded down.
La Capra wheeled around and disappeared into the palazzo. Brunetti bent down and touched Flavia’s shoulder. ‘Flavia, get up. We can’t stay here.’ She gave no sign that she had heard him. He shifted his glance to Brett, but she stared at him vacantly, seeing nothing. He placed one hand under Flavia’s arm and pulled her up, bent towards Brett and did the same. He took a step towards the still-open door that led to the calle, one arm dragged down by Brett’s shambling weight. She slipped, and he let go of Flavia to wrap both arms around Brett. Dragging her upright again, he half-carried her, forcing his legs through the chill waters towards the door, barely conscious of Flavia beside him, moving in the same direction.
‘Salvatore, figlio mio, dove sei?’ The voice broke out above them, high-pitched, keening and wild. Brunetti looked up and saw La Capra at the head of the steps, a shotgun clutched in one hand, staring down at them. With deliberate slowness, he began to walk down the steps, ignoring the sheets of rain that blew at him from every direction.
Slowed by Brett’s pendulous weight, Brunetti knew he could never reach the door before La Capra got to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Flavia,’ he said, voice fast and urgent. ‘Get out of here. I’ll bring her: Flavia looked from him to La Capra, still descending the stairs like some relentless fury, and then to Brett. And to the open door to the street, only metres away. Before she could move, three men appeared at the top of the stairs, and she recognized two of them as the men she had driven from Brett’s apartment.
‘Capo,’ one of them called to the descending figure of La Capra.
He turned slowly towards them. ‘Go back. This is mine.’ When they remained motionless, he raised the gun in their direction, but he did it casually, not really aware of what he held in his hands. ‘Go back. Stay away from this.’ Fearful, trained to obey, they retreated indoors, and La Capra turned to continue down the steps.
He moved quickly now, so quickly that he was at the bottom of the steps before Flavia moved.
‘He’s inside,’ Flavia said softly to Brunetti, gesturing with her chin to the door that hung ajar at the far side of the courtyard.
La Capra stepped into the water as if it weren’t there, but he acknowledged the presence of the three people who stood in the pounding rain by keeping the barrel of his shotgun levelled at them as he walked across the courtyard. At the door to the cellar, he paused and cried out into the space that loomed beyond it, ‘Salva? Salva, answer me.’
His knees disappeared into the water as he started down the first step. For an instant, he looked back towards Brunetti and the two women. But then
he seemed simply to forget about them as he turned back towards the dark cavern, into which he sank as he took another step, and then another.
‘Flavia, quick!’ Brunetti said. He pivoted around, Brett’s weight balanced against his hip, and pushed her, stumbling limply, towards Flavia. Surprised by the sudden motion, Flavia put out her arms without thinking and grasped at Brett, but she lacked the strength to support her and they both sank to their knees in the water. Leaving them, Brunetti ran across the courtyard, splashing heavily. Beyond the door, he could hear La Capra’s voice as he called his son’s name again and again. He grabbed the side of the door with both hands and forced its leaden weight through the water, then viciously kicked it closed, hand scrambling at the bar until he shot it home.
From behind the door, the shotgun boomed out, filling the trapped space with its echo. Pellets pattered against the wooden door, but the full blast missed the door and pitted the stone wall beside it. Again it roared out, but La Capra fired blind, and the blast crashed uselessly into the water.
Brunetti splashed back across the courtyard towards Flavia and Brett, who were on their feet now and moving slowly towards the main door that still stood open. He moved to Brett’s other side, and gripped her around the waist, urging her forward. As they neared the door, they heard loud splashings and equally loud shouts approaching them in the calle beyond. Brunetti looked up and saw Vianello push through the doorway, followed by two uniformed policemen with pistols drawn.
