I dragged him over to the steps, then, kneeling, pushed his head into the water and held it there, forcing it down, my arms clenched, shaking. Do it. A whimper from where Claudia was standing. I felt the wet creep along my legs. Nothing moved in the water, then a few bubbles appeared, rising out of his mouth, and the body began to twitch, maybe an unconscious reaction, a last gasp. Not thrashing for life, just a series of twitches. I held his head under by the throat, hearing my own blood in my ears, watching the bubbles. How long? Then suddenly his body shook and his eyes flew open and I felt they could see me through the mirror of water, knew it was me leaning over him with my hand on his throat, choking him, until the water finally rushed in and forced out the last bubble. I held him for another minute, until nothing moved at all, then stood up slowly, my arms dripping with water. His eyes were still open, rigid now, not focused on anything. I took a deep breath and for a second expected the fear again, the free fall in my stomach, but what I felt, dazed, was the ease of it. A matter of a minute to kill. In the war we always wondered if we could do it, stick the bayonet in. And now I had, with no more effort than it would take to nod.

I turned to Claudia, but neither of us said anything. I could hear a ship’s horn—the moist air in the lagoon was probably thickening to fog. Easier to hide. I nodded at the wall switch.

“Get the lights. We don’t want anybody—”

Claudia glanced down at Gianni, his leather shoes sticking up incongruously on the water stairs, then went over to the wall.

With only the lamps from the indoor hall, we had to work in shadows. I looked across the canal to the neighboring buildings. A few upstairs lights, the rest of the windows dark. No one seemed to have noticed anything. Even the marchesa was away. I pulled the boat around.

I laid out the tarp, then dragged Gianni up to it by the feet, hearing thuds as his head hit the stairs. I pitched him forward so that he was sitting up, then started to take off his jacket, struggling with the arms.

“What are you doing?”

“We have to wipe up the blood. I don’t want to use anything here. They might miss it. That’s it. Okay, use this, then we’ll throw it in with him.”

She hesitated for a second, not understanding, then looked at me, dismayed. I nodded. She waited another second, staring, then shivered and took the wet jacket and began mopping the floor around us as I moved him onto the tarp. We threw the jacket over him and weighed it down with paving stones, then rolled the tarp over and tied it at each end with some rope I found near the water gate. I didn’t think anyone could see us in the half-light of the room, but we worked quickly, making sure the blood was gone, then lugging the heavy bag toward the steps.

“Here, let me steady it, we’ll just slide him in.”

Claudia was sweating, her face flushed from the lifting, and when she looked up, waiting for me, I felt the closeness again, not fear this time, something more intimate, in it together.

I was lifting the rolled tarp over the gunwale when the phone rang. We froze. Two phones ringing, one upstairs, one in the hall. Looking for him. Drawing attention to the house. I stood still, as if any movement might be seen through the water gate, eyes peering around the edge of curtains, curious about the phone. When it stopped, I realized I had been holding my breath.

I took up the tarp again. “On two,” I said, and she lifted with me and he was in, the boat rocking from the sudden movement. I steadied it with my foot and reached out my hand to help her in. She stopped, a small panic in her eyes.

“I can’t swim,” she said.

“Do you want to stay?” I said.

She glanced quickly at the dim entryway, then shook her head and stepped in, clenching my hand until she sat.

“It’s cold. You’ll need a coat,” she said, motioning toward my jacket, wet at the sleeves.

“No time,” I said, untying the boat and pushing off into the canal. “We’ll have to use the oars until we get farther out. The motor’s too loud.”

As we floated quietly toward the Zattere, it occurred to me, a stray thought, that nothing ever changed in Venice. Muffled oars, a body taken away in the night. I looked across at Claudia. Over fans at La Fenice.

The rain had left a heavy mist over the water. When we reached the Giudecca channel, there were a few distant shafts of yellow lights from boats and a much stronger wind that cut into my wet sleeves. I lowered the small outboard motor into the water and jerked hard on the starter cord. A sputter, not much more than a grunt. How long since it had been used? Was there even gas in the tank? Another pull. Why not just dump him here? The Giudecca was a deep channel, not one of the shallow city canals, but too near. The tides that flushed out the city could flush things back in. I imagined Gianni stuck just a few feet underwater in a side canal, waiting for the dredgers. Better to get him out into the lagoon, even if it meant rowing. But that would take hours. I pulled on the cord again. A louder sputter, as if it were choking on itself.

“Adam.”

I turned. A vaporetto had pulled away from its stop on the Giudecca and was heading across toward us, its headlights growing brighter through the mist. I pulled the cord again. The pilot would see us, not run us down. And then be curious—what would anybody be doing out at this hour, in the cold? A witness.

I let the cord sit for a second, not wanting to flood the motor, then yanked it. A louder sputter, almost catching, lost under the noise of the vaporetto. The light was closer. I yanked again. A small cough, then another, settling into a series of spitting exhaust noises as the motor came to life.

“Hold on,” I said, then let out the choke and swung us away from the approaching boat into the dark, close enough to feel a lift from its wake.

I had no idea where to go, except away from the city, somewhere beyond the lights. The open sea, past the barrier islands, was too long a trip and in the dark too dangerous. The lagoon itself was a maze of currents and shallow water—you heard stories about visitors who ended up stuck on an unexpected mudbank. You were only safe if you followed the channel markers.

I turned at the tip of the Giudecca and went behind San Giorgio Maggiore, putting the island between us and San Marco. It was darker here, the thick mist broken only by tiny marker lights, a few bobbing on buoys, the others on those fence posts the Venetians use to outline their water roads. If other boats were out, they’d be here too, hugging the safety of the channel, but what choice was there? In the mist, without even starlight, to drift away from the markers would be to circle in complete darkness. With a dead man in the boat.

I glanced down at the rolled-up tarp, the first time I’d even thought about it. A dead man. Would the blocks be enough to hold the body to the bottom, or would the tides dislodge it? What if they never found him at all?

I moved the boat out of the main channel, keeping parallel to it, the markers in sight. Boat traffic might churn up something from the bottom—this distance could give it a small margin, let it lie undisturbed. The mist was gathering in patches now, almost fog. I squinted, afraid of missing any of the markers. Behind us San Marco had disappeared, just a vague light source without definition. Claudia was bent over in the prow, looking down, arms wrapped tightly around herself, and I realized that it must be cold, that I should be shivering in my damp jacket and instead felt flushed, still excited, the boat trip somehow just an extension of the fight, not yet over. I saw my hand on his throat underwater, the eyes come open. What I’d never had to do in the war, kill a man. I swung the boat away from a buoy that seemed to have come from nowhere. Pay attention. Think later. Now just get rid of it. This was far enough, somewhere between the city and the Lido. What if he washed up on the beach? Where they’d met.