The Florentine Cypher: Kate Benedict Paranormal Mystery #3 (The Kate Benedict Series) (11 page)

Once we were sure that the cigarette smoker had left, I sent Claire back to bed. I checked the doors and windows again before going up. Although it seemed ridiculous, I grabbed a carving knife from the kitchen drawer and took it up with me.

Claire was asleep by the time I tiptoed past her open door. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to sleep but, when I sat on the bed to take my shoes off, I felt my eyelids droop. I sprawled on the blue comforter with my clothes on and went straight out.

I wasn’t sure what woke me. At first I only heard the faint gurgle of the refrigerator downstairs. Then I heard something else, a sound of something scraping against metal. It was coming from the front door. I hurried to Claire’s room and shook her awake.

“There’s someone outside,” I whispered. She looked dazed as I pulled her to her feet.

“What do we do?”

“We call the police. Where’s your phone?” I knew mine was down in the library.

Light from the hallway spilled into the room. She glanced at the bedside table, then rummaged through the sheets. “Damn. I must have left it in the kitchen.”

Although that meant passing the entry door, we had no choice. As we crept down the stairs, the noise from outside grew louder, but two locks and a chain secured the door, and the chair formed another obstacle that would hinder an intruder.

Claire stopped on the bottom stair. “Could it be Ethan?”

“Does he have a key?”

She nodded.

“But he’d have texted or called, wouldn’t he? Not just turned up here?”

There was no window overlooking the front, no way to see who was out there, and I for one wasn’t opening that door, so we scurried into the kitchen, where Claire found her phone on the counter. Her fingers were trembling so violently that she had trouble entering the number. I took the phone from her and dialed, then handed it back to her. She gave the operator the address and told them it was urgent.

“He said the police will come up the canal,” she said when she finished the call. “Let’s go down the back stairs to the dock and wait there.”

“Ok, I’ll get the book and papers,” I said. “Get dressed and grab your things.”

While Claire ran back upstairs, I went to the library to put the paperback, the envelope with the old documents, and Simon’s notebook in my bag. The key in its leather pouch was already in there. It was like carrying a ticking bomb around with me.

We crept across the entry hall towards the rear exit where Claire turned the key in the lock. The click sounded thunderous in the small stone hallway, and was immediately echoed by louder metallic scraping at the front door. A narrow staircase led down to a locked door that opened to the small moss-slicked jetty. I’d thought the jetty was connected to a street, but it wasn’t. The only way off it was by water.

It was very quiet. Although a glance at my watch showed it was nearly six, not long until dawn, night was still heavy around us, the darkness thick between the pools of light cast by wrought iron street lamps. The wooden rowboat bobbed up and down, secured to the dock by a crumbling, mildewed rope. I stared up the canal, waiting anxiously for the police to arrive.

Suddenly we heard a thump and a clank of metal from inside the house. Claire grabbed at my arm. It seemed the intruder had succeeded in picking the locks and cutting the chain. I didn’t know how hard it would be to dislodge the chair, but I didn’t want to take the chance of someone appearing next to us on the dock.

“Get in the boat,” I said. “We’ll row a little distance out and hope our rescuers turn up soon.”

I clambered in and gathered the oars, fitting them into the rowlocks. I dipped them into water that looked black and greasy under the lamplights while Claire lifted the heavy rope from the post. She climbed in, rocking the small boat so much that I thought we’d turn over, but we stayed upright. A few clumsy pulls on the paddles soon had us out in the center of the canal. Within seconds, water was seeping in between the timbers in the bottom of our ark; the thing had probably been sitting there unused for years. Claire gripped the sides of the boat with both hands, watching the water bubble up between the boards.

“Let’s head over there and wait.” She pointed to the narrow pavement that ran along the other side of the canal. I pulled on the oars to get us there.

“Which way would the police launch come?” I asked.

“No idea,” she said.

Should we keep moving or stay where we were? My question was answered when a man appeared on the dock we’d just left. If he had a gun and meant us harm, we were completely exposed. We had to get away.

I began rowing, propelling our leaky vessel under the arched bridge. A shout erupted in the darkness behind us, and I leaned into the oars, feeling the fragile craft surge forward. Now there were two figures pounding down the narrow street on the far side of the canal. The rowing was hard work. I did a lot of running and had some 10Ks under my belt, but I was basically skinny and had little upper body strength. At this rate, they’d catch up with us in no time.

“Go faster,” Claire said, twisting around to look back at them.

“What do you think I’m doing?” I panted. I turned on my bench to look out of the front of the dinghy. Just ahead was a building under renovation, with rusty scaffolding climbing its walls. At its base, a large green rubbish skip completely blocked all pedestrian access. Our pursuers were sprinting along the pavement, almost pulling level with us, but the only way for them to follow was to climb over the skip and a towering pile of broken bricks and tiles. With a fresh burst of power, I drove the boat forward, my arms burning with the effort. We needed to dump the boat and get back on terra firma as quickly as possible.

Our pursuers, yelling at each other to hurry, succeeded in scaling the metal obstacle and were once again sprinting after us.

“Turn right!” Claire yelled.

I pulled to the right and glanced backwards to see a tiny ribbon of water running straight between two rows of buildings. There was no walkway on either side, which meant the men couldn’t follow us so, fifty meters up, I stopped to catch my breath. In the distance, a siren rose and fell. But I couldn’t see the police boat, and that meant they couldn’t see us either.

“I think we should keep going that way,” Claire said, pointing to a corner lit by an ornate iron lamp hanging from a wall. Beyond was a wide stretch of water that shimmered gold and blue from decorative lights strung along the far bank. I gripped the paddles again and Claire resumed her captain role. “Turn left when you get there and keep to the side. The bigger boats have priority.”

A minute later, we turned left into the Grand Canal where several motorboats raced past, tossing our little wooden craft up and down in their wake. Over Claire’s shoulder, the first strands of pink sunlight threaded their way across the black dome of the night. I let the boat drift for a minute while I rubbed at a blister on the palm of one hand.

“The fish market is open,” Claire said. “That’ll be a good place for us to get off. Let’s go.”

Reluctantly, I grabbed the oars and waited for a break in the traffic before edging out into the middle of the waterway. A klaxon blared as a delivery launch sped by, pitching us around so hard that I lost hold of one oar and watched it float away. With twenty meters still to go to reach the other bank, I rowed single-handed, alternating strokes to stop us from going in circles. We glided up against a stone jetty a short distance from the Campo della Pescharia. Heart thudding from a toxic combination of fear and exertion, I grabbed hold of an iron ring to steady us while Claire climbed out. I clambered after her and we stood for a few moments, scanning the area for any sign of our pursuers. A few seconds later, I caught a glimpse of a man walking fast towards us.

Claire saw him too. “Run into the
mercato
,” she said.

We turned and dashed to the edge of the piazza. White awnings sheltered tables laden with fish of every size and color, brightly illuminated by bare bulbs that hung low over the stalls. Shouting and laughing, the fishermen filled the huge cold space with warmth and energy, haggling with the early morning buyers out to buy the best catch for their restaurant tables that day. We ran into the midst of the market, narrowly avoiding a collision with a man carrying several plastic crates of ice balanced one on top of the other.

“Watch where you are going,
idiota,
” he growled at me.

With more care, we wove through the crowds for several minutes, sidestepping buyers carrying bags and boxes of fish until we emerged out the other side of the piazza, on the Fondamenta Riva Olio. Ahead of us, a
vaporetto
was about to push off. Claire shouted at the conductor to wait, and we ran forward as he clanged the gate closed.

“
Per favore
!” Claire entreated. The conductor smiled and opened the gate for us, causing a group of Italian teenagers on board to let out a cheer, nudging each other and shouting “
bellissima
” at Claire. Hanging out with her was denting my self-esteem more than a little.

The
vaporetto
pulled out into the centre of the canal, and I turned to see the two pursuers appear on the Fondamenta at the corner of the fish market. One of them threw his hands up in frustration. It felt good to have got away from them, but I was certain it wouldn’t take them long to pick up our trail again.

The damp warmth of the
vaporetto
cabin was welcome after the raw chill of the early morning. I slumped into a seat next to a window, trying to catch my breath. Who needs a gym membership, I thought, when you can run and row your way to health for free? My pounding heart gradually slowed as we rode a few stops east towards San Marco. Outside the window, the water sparkled under the pink and gold rays of the rising sun, looking a lot less threatening now that we weren’t in a leaky boat with one oar.

Claire suggested we disembark at the Sant’Angelo stop because our pursuers wouldn’t expect us to get off there, and we’d be able to take a short cut to the police station. We moved through the cabin to the exit, the only people to leave the boat there. Keeping a wary eye out, we strode along deserted streets, trying to get our bearings. While Claire checked the map on her mobile, we walked past a pink-colored palazzo into a small square fronted by a church with white walls and a pretty bell tower.

“That way.” Claire led us up a narrow
calle
, after which we were embroiled in a tangle of alleys and picturesque footbridges before finally emerging into another square dominated by a church, this one with a brick facade. As the sun appeared over its caramel-tiled roof, throwing long shadows across the piazza, I wondered how many churches there were in Venice. I’d have to look it up when this was all over.

“Let’s get on to some busier streets,” I said, noting that the church doors were closed and padlocked. The silence was unsettling. “Can you find a direct route to the police station from here?”

Claire checked the map. “I think I got us a bit lost. But it’s not far. Maybe fifteen minutes. Let’s go this way.”

We set off in the direction she thought we should take, and soon reached a busy street thronged with people and lined with shops and cafes. I felt better among the crowds, more protected from the risk of our pursuers doing us harm.

“We need a breather,” I told Claire. I was worried about her. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her face was white. Worse, her aura was moving faster. “Let’s sit for a minute,” I said, pointing to a cafe.

Inside, we ordered espressos and golden, flaky
cornetti
. Next to our small marble-topped table, an Italian couple held hands while drinking their coffee, a group of tourists peered at a guidebook, and several men argued about an upcoming football match.

“Are you feeling all right?” I asked her.

“What do you think? I’m being pursued by strange men, Ethan’s missing, and we don’t seem to have a clue how to find him. No, I’m not all right.”

Claire’s mobile trilled, which saved me the trouble of responding. She looked at the screen and stood up. “I’ll take this outside,” she said.

When she came back, her cheeks were pink. The boyfriend I guessed, correctly. “It was Dante,” she said. “He’s worried about me. He offered to come get us.”

“Did you tell him where we are?”

“Only that we’re in Venice. I told him that I had a family emergency and would be back in Florence soon. He was concerned. We were supposed to have dinner together yesterday evening, and there’s a fund-raiser tonight that we have tickets to. He sounded upset that we’d miss the event, but said he understood. He’ll drive up to get us any time we want.”

She stirred a packet of sugar into her coffee, but didn’t drink it. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that,” she said. “He has every right to be worried. Why don’t we accept his offer?”

I did my best to change my expression from skeptical to neutral, and drained the last few drops of my espresso, wishing we could just sit here all morning, drinking coffee, and planning some sightseeing. As that wasn’t an option, enlisting support seemed like an excellent idea.

“I’m not averse to accepting Dante’s assistance,” I said. “But I still think we need to get to the
Questura
and ask for help from the police. It’ll be a safe place. And while we’re there, we can look at those pages and your dad’s notebook in more detail. There has to be something that will lead us to Ethan.”

Claire crumbled a piece of her pastry into tiny crumbs on her plate. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Okay. Finish your coffee and then we’ll go.”

The clock on the cafe wall showed that it was almost eight a.m., only seven in England. I thought of calling Leo. I’d promised to stay in touch with him and had done a terrible job of that so far. But as I reached for my mobile, it rang. It was Detective Lake.

With no good morning or happy Monday greetings, he launched right in.

“Kate, do you know someone called Ben Shepherd?”

“Yes, he’s Ethan’s assistant. Why?”