Alibi

by Joseph Kanon

  “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.

  “Here,” I said, touching my shoulder again, and in that second I saw what she must have seen too, that the shoulder was only a chance but the heart could be the end of it, the story they would believe, Rosa’s forcing us out onto the lagoon, my grabbing Moretti’s gun, her shooting me as I fired it, both dead. Only Claudia alive. Free of all of us, the bullet finally stopped.

  I looked at her, eyes steady, no expression at all. I’ll survive you too. The only thing that matters when no one is watching. My throat felt thick, closing up. Maybe this was the only part that was true-not the hotel near the station, slick with sweat; not the ball, fingering the necklace, excited in spite of ourselves; not the magistrate’s office, solemn in Bertie’s corsage, or afterward, looking up at the high windows to find her father. Instead I saw her face as she brought down the stone on Gianni’s head, saw a hand come out from under the bed with a knife-wasn’t it possible? Who would blame her? Who would blame her now? One second and it was done, no longer than it had taken to silence Rosa. She moved her hand a little, taking aim. I could flinch now, duck, somehow break the trance between us before she could fire. But then I’d never know. Never know what was left. And I realized suddenly that I wouldn’t move, that it was worth my life to know. The one thing in it that mattered, the rest just sleepwalking.

  “Do it,” I said, almost whispering.

  She looked at me, her eyes moving now, harried.

  “The shoulder,” I hissed. “That’s the story.”

  No sound but the blood in my head. I glanced down at her hand, waiting for the finger to move.

  “ Brava,” a voice said, stepping out of the dark, the white sling visible before his face.

  Claudia turned, the gun still pointing at me, but her eyes fixed now behind me. Cavallini walked over.

  “Excellent. Except for the bullets-they would match. Two people shot with the same gun? Even the police would notice.”

  He took the gun from her, too stunned now to move, quiet again. The others waited behind, only partly visible on the dock.

  “Rosa,” he said, shaking his head as he walked over to her, stepping past Moretti. “How did you say? She forced you to take out the b
oat.” He paused. “After we had left, of course. It would be embarrassing otherwise.” He touched the body with his toe, pushing it slightly, then jumped back when it moved, a twitch that might have been a reflex but then happened again, still alive. “ Stronzo.” Angry now, glancing up at Claudia, annoyed. Still alive. He looked quickly toward the dock, then pointed the gun down and fired into Rosa’s chest, close. Her body jerked from the force of it.

  “It’s all right!” he shouted before the others could rush up from the dock like startled birds.

  I stared at the body, absolutely still now.

  He squatted and patted her sides with his good arm until he found her gun, then got up and turned back to us, aiming it.

  “She would have used this gun, yes? Now the bullets don’t match when you shoot each other.”

  He raised it, and I blew out some air, surprised, almost a laugh, because I knew it must be a joke until I looked at his eyes, dark pools, like the canal water, showing nothing underneath.

  “Don’t,” Claudia said, and then all I heard was a roar again, covering everything, even my own gasp, as something slammed into me, a piece of fire, burning flesh, and I fell back, knocked over by the wind, the rush of something I couldn’t hear, and felt the sharp pain as I hit the pavement, a crunch I couldn’t hear either, just felt, another jagged piece of fire, red then black, everything dark, and then no sound at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I woke up in Gianni’s hospital with a throbbing in my shoulder. Claudia was standing staring out the window, and for a moment I saw her back on the pier, her body still, looking down at Rosa. What Cavallini had seen too, the gun dangling at her side. But we were here, both of us, no bars on the window, everything crisp white.

  “Can you see San Michele?” I said, my voice raspy.

  She turned. “You’re awake,” she said, then stopped, hesitant, fingering the opening at her collar.

  “The cemetery,” I said, prompting. “It’s bad luck.”

  She shook her head. “Not from here. Just the canal.”

  “So I’ll live.”

  “Does it hurt? They said it would, when you woke up. They’ll give you something for it.” She started toward the door, eager to be doing something.

  “In a minute. Tell me first.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. What time is it?”

  “Morning. Here, have some water.” She held a glass to my mouth, playing nurse. “They said after today the pain is less. There’s no danger.”

  “No, tell me-where’s Cavallini?”

  “Somewhere,” she said, waving her hand. “He has a statement for you to sign.” She pointed to a paper on the night table.

  “A statement,” I said, trying to make sense of it.

  “About what happened. To Rosa.”

  Falling forward, her surprised face. I felt the heat spread through my shoulder again-not just pain, memory.

  “And the boy,” I said. Another innocent. Moretti. Rosa. Maybe even Gianni, killed for just doing business.

  “The boy they know-there were witnesses in the train yards.”

  I nodded, the movement setting off another rush of pain in my shoulder.

  “A confession,” I said, tired, wanting to slip back into sleep.

  Claudia looked at me. “No. Do you want me to read it to you? It’s in Italian.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “What you said. Rosa forced us to take her in the boat. Then, when we got there, she tried to kill us-leave no witnesses-but you managed to get Moretti’s gun and shoot back.”

  “And save us.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And save us.”

  “From Rosa.”

  She said nothing.

  “And then Cavallini came. After she was dead. Is that it?”

  She looked at me. “Yes. And then it’s over.”

  “If we lie for him.”

  She picked up the paper. “We have to sign it. It’s what he wants.”

  “And make Rosa what?” I turned my head toward the window, a blank sky. They’d both be over on San Michele now, being cut open and drained. “Then what happens?”

  “Then it’s finished.”

  “And we go away,” I said in a monotone, the practiced response.

  She bit her lip. “No, me. I go to Paris, to your mother. So it looks right. It was his idea. It’s family, so no one would think-”

  “Who cares what they think?”

  “He does. He wants everything to look all right.” Worked out, the last story.

  “Instead of the way it is.” I closed my eyes, shutting out the room. I heard the scrape of a chair, her sitting near me.

  “Yes,” she said softly, maybe just as exhausted, both of us finally at an end.

  A few minutes passed, so quiet I could hear the birds outside.

  “What do I say to you?” she said finally.

  “Nothing. I was there too.”

  “But this time it was just me. Not both. Just me.”

  Another silence.

  “And after Paris?”

  “After, I don’t know.”

  “You mean you’re leaving,” I said, my eyes still closed, so that both our voices seemed disembodied.

  For a minute she said nothing. “When I had the gun, what did you think?”

  “I didn’t know what to think.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “Why not?”

  I opened my eyes and looked at her.

  She got up from the chair. “So maybe we’re leaving each other. That’s how it ends.” She went over to the window for her purse.

  “And we sign a paper and Cavallini gets away with it.”

  “And so do we.”

  “You didn’t kill Rosa,” I said. “He did.”

  “But he can explain it. I can’t. Do you want to explain it?”

  We looked at each other for a minute, then I turned my head. “She wasn’t even part of this. All I asked for was a file.”

  “Yes,” Claudia said, then opened her purse. “I forgot. This was at the house. From Germany. It’s what you were waiting for, yes?”

  I took the envelope. Army beige. Frankfurt. “Yes.” Thick, something more than a routine no. But late. We didn’t need another story now.

  I opened the envelope and flipped past the cover note to the typed pages. Transcripts and memos. Bauer’s interview, chatty and detailed, wanting to cooperate. War stories.

  “It’s there?” Claudia said.

  I nodded, reading. Everything I’d wanted all along, only thought I knew. The raid on the safe house. Gianni planning it, using young Moretti. Guilty of all of it. And now that it was here, proof on paper, what did it matter? Bauer breaking Marco. Everybody breaks. Getting the names to Gianni, no longer a businessman at arm’s length, part of the chain now, link by link from Paolo’s death. The way I’d known it had to be, laid out in detail, the messenger-I stopped.

  “What?” Claudia said.

  I looked up but didn’t see her, just a blur. “Nothing,” I said, covering. “He did it. It’s all here.”

  “It’s what you wanted? The proof?”

  I dropped the papers next to me, not answering.

  She put her hand on my arm. “You see. A man like that. How could it be wrong?”

  I lay back on the pillow. “He’s not the only one dead now.”

  She looked at me for a second, then stood up. “I’ll get the nurse. For your shot.”

  She opened the door to Cavallini, but if he’d been listening, he gave no sign, just smiled and walked in as if it were an ordinary hospital visit.

  “So, awake,” he said. “Now two of us.” He pointed to his sling, the bandaged arm. “But not a scratch for you-I’m sorry. I meant only to hit the skin, not go into the muscle. You’re in pain?”

  “It’s all right,” I said.

  “Don’t be foolish. Look at his face. I was going for the nurse,” Claudia said.

  “I will only be a minute,” Cavallini
said, nodding to the door, a kind of permission to leave. He waited for her to go before turning to me. “I came for the statement. She explained it to you?”

  “Rosa tried to kill me. Before you got there.”

  “Yes. I saw it from the dock.”

  “But I was a better shot.”

  He shrugged. “Luckier, perhaps.”

  “Why this way?”

  “Why? Because it’s best. What purpose does it serve to involve Signora Miller? This way is simple. Everyone understands. The raid on the train, this is typical of her. To rescue her partner.”

  “Her partner.”

  “In Gianni’s murder.”

  “What are you talking about? She wasn’t even in Venice when-”

  “I said partner. The one who encourages, urges him to do it.”

  “Why would anyone believe that?”

  “Signor Miller, she’s the obvious person. I thought so from the first.” I lay back again, slightly dizzy, caught in another maze. “Only one person survived in that house, only one. Who would have a better motive? Moretti ran errands for her in the war. Again, the obvious person to turn to. The father’s son. So, together-”

  “You can’t. She was a good person. A war hero, for chrissake.”

  “Was, yes. Now she serves a different purpose. These are bad people, Signor Miller. Godless. Bad for Italy. It’s important for the country to see what they are like, what they are willing to do-even to their friends. Innocent foreigners, who don’t understand what they are.”

  “You killed her.”

  “Not according to you,” he said, nodding to the night table. “You have signed it?”

  “No.”

  “There’s a difficulty?”

  “It’s not true.”

  He sighed and sat down in the chair. “Signor Miller. True? The important thing is, what purpose does it serve? This story, a good purpose. Good for everybody.”

  “Especially for you. You’ll be sitting pretty at the Questura.”

  “Yes. A successful case, what I said from the beginning.” He looked over at me. “With your help. Now I help you.”

  “Help me.”

  “There are other stories. Things people could believe. Signora Miller, for instance. A scene at a party, so many witnesses.”