At the Edge of the Sun (18 page)

She was staring out at the island of San Georgio Maggiore when Randall’s deep voice interrupted her mindless abstraction. “It’s time, Maggie.”

She looked up at him. “It’s only two-thirty.”

“Makes sense to get there early, doesn’t it?”

She grimaced. “Of course it does. My mind doesn’t seem to be working properly.”

She expected some blistering comment, at best some sly mockery. But he squeezed her arm, and the expression on his face was oddly tender. “You’ll be fine when the time comes,” he said. And because he believed it, she believed it.

There was only one glassware shop in the Calle del Porco, a small, seedy affair with fly-specked windows and graceless glassware that didn’t even dare call itself crystal. At quarter to three it looked deserted, observing a siesta the rest of Venice generally ignored, particularly during this busy holiday season. There was a tattered strand of silver tinsel hanging over the doorway, and nothing but darkness beckoned.

Randall had left Maggie just before the entrance to the square, in case anyone was watching for them. And someone must be—she could feel the eyes boring into her tall, slender figure as she crossed the Calle del Porco, with its tiny green garden in the center and its bronzed statue of a pig. Someone had decorated the pig with a wreath of evergreens, and someone had stuffed an apple in its open bronze mouth. Maggie looked at it, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had the suspicion she wouldn’t be smiling for quite a while.

It was two steps down into the darkened interior of the little shop. She almost hoped the door would be locked, but it opened noisily beneath her shaking hand. The Uzi was tucked up under her heavy sweater, the Colt resting in the small of her back, tucked into her too-loose jeans. And Randall was backing her up—there was nothing to be afraid of.

“May I help you, signorina?” The old man behind the
counter had the slurred northern accent of the Venetians, and his eyeglasses were as thick as the clumsy glassware in the window. “A Christmas present for a lover, perhaps? I have several very nice goblets—I could lower the price for a pair. Just right for you to toast each other.”

“No, thank you. I’m looking for someone named Maddelena. She told me to meet her here.”

The old gentleman frowned. “My granddaughter,” he said heavily. He gestured toward the curtained doorway behind him. “She’s in there.”

“Grazie,”
she murmured with her friendliest smile. He probably didn’t have any idea what his sweet little granddaughter was using his shop for, Maggie thought as she moved past him toward the doorway. How was he to know his little angel was involved in kidnapping and probably extortion and murder and …

She felt the sudden uprush of wind as she passed the old man. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his arm descend, and then everything went black, and she was falling. She caught the curtain as she went, and it ripped off its rod, wrapping around her as she slid downward. She fought that terrifying blackness, but it was useless, and she was gone before she hit the floor, lost in a velvet trap of darkness.

When she awoke, she was lying prone, trussed up like a chicken, something nasty was stuffed in her mouth, and every bone in her body ached. The frail old man hadn’t been as delicate as he looked, damn him. She tried to stretch her cramped muscles, but the ropes binding her were tight, and she sank back on the floor, resting her face against the cool stone in the dark room. And then she realized she wasn’t alone.

It took a bit of effort to roll over, but it was worth it. The gathering shadows couldn’t obscure Holly’s similarly bound figure, couldn’t hide the fear in her eyes or the bruise above her own gag. But she was alive and well, and a rush of gladness swept over Maggie. Now it was up to Randall.

But the tiny rustling noise behind her filled her with sudden
misgiving. It was either a rat, or she wasn’t the only one who’d walked into a trap. She would have given ten years off her life to be able to turn and face the mean red eyes of a woman-biting rodent, but her prayers weren’t answered. Randall was lying stretched out on his back beside her, bound as they were, a thin line of blood oozing from a cut on his forehead. And they were up shit’s creek without a paddle.

They must have been listening for sounds of life in the old storeroom. The door opened, letting in only minimal light, and Maddelena stepped inside. There was a dark, sturdy figure behind her, still in the shadows. It was too broad to be the old man, too short to be Flynn. She could feel the tension emanating from Holly, and she peered through the darkness, suddenly aware that there was something oddly familiar about the figure.

Maddelena smiled down at them, a sweet, sad smile, and Maggie could see she had a split lip and a black eye. The wounds did nothing to mar her beauty, but she was glad someone had put up more of a fight than she had. It had probably been Randall, who made no pretensions to being a gentleman. “I am certain you are glad to be together. It is a sad thing that you must die, but you know the dangers when you play the game.”

Maggie had been pressing her tongue against the filthy rag in her mouth, and with a sudden feeling of triumph she spat it out. Maddelena made no move to come closer, to replace the gag, and Maggie considered screaming. Considered, then dropped the idea. Both the Uzi and the Colt had been removed, probably into Maddelena’s capable hands, and she wouldn’t get off more than one shriek.

“Why are you going to kill us?” she asked instead, her voice husky but eminently reasonable. “We’ve never done anything to you.”

“Of course you haven’t,” she agreed. “We’re extending a professional courtesy to Flynn. The Irish freedom fighters
have helped the Red Brigade many times. We’re returning the favor, simply because we were asked.”

“How nice,” Maggie said faintly. “Why doesn’t he do it himself?”

“He’s not in Venice. He never has been, for that matter. He went directly from Rome to a place called Cul de Sac. Have you ever heard of it?”

“No.”

“It’s no matter. You won’t care for very much longer. And I’m not going to be the one to kill you. For one thing, I don’t like to kill. I only do it when I have to. For another, it’s Christmas Eve, and I promised my mother I would go to mass with her. I’m going to pass you on to one who enjoys killing.”

“I think you’d better go early enough for confession,” Maggie snapped.

Maddelena’s brown eyes were shining with innocent fervor. “I have committed no sins. This is a holy war, and the three of you are simply casualties of a battle you chose to enter.
Bonne notte
.”

“Shouldn’t you say
Bonne Natale
?” Maggie sneered.

Maddelena shrugged. “Rest in peace.” She turned and left them, pausing long enough to mutter instructions to the dark figure standing behind her.

The door shut after her, plunging the room back into gloom once more. Randall was still only semiconscious, lying on his back in the dust and mildew, and Holly was simply rigid with fear and despair. It was a hell of a way to die, Maggie thought, straining at the ropes that were digging into her. She could see the gleam of a large, efficient-looking handgun, the elongated barrel with its silencer adding to her chill. She lay there, staring, as the figure moved into the light.

Ian Andrews’s face was completely expressionless. He walked over to Holly, pointed the gun toward her head, and shot. The muffled
ping
seemed to echo around the room as
the bullet buried itself in the wooden packing case behind their heads.

Holly just stared up at him, her wide, expressive eyes glazed with terror, relief, and a slow-burning rage. He moved on to Maggie, shoved the gag back in her mouth before she could say anything, and repeated the ritual. Obediently she flopped back, lying there doing her best imitation of a corpse. She heard the same hideous
ping
as he completed his charade with Randall, and then he was moving back toward the door.

“If one of you could manage to relieve yourself,” he said in his wonderful upper-class accent, “it would add to the effect.” And he shut the door silently behind him.

It took her longer to spit out the gag this time. When she finally managed to, the room was almost completely dark. She could tell from the muffled sounds beside her that Randall was regaining consciousness, and she could see Holly’s figure beside her.

“Are you okay, Holly?” she whispered. Her sister nodded. “Randall?” A muffled grunt was all the response she got, but it was enough. “Okay, guys. Ian dropped his knife when he gagged me, but it’s going to take me a little while to get it open. Hang in there.”

Her hands were clumsy and slippery with nervous sweat. Whoever tied her wrists, and it was probably Maddelena, had done a good job of it, and the cut-off circulation only added to her difficulties. Her fingers were numb, her heart was racing, and her body was more than ready to follow Ian’s coarse suggestion. If she didn’t get them untied and get to a bathroom soon she wouldn’t have any choice in the matter.

The knife slipped, once, twice. It was a sharp little sucker, and she winced as it scored her skin. But finally, an eternity later, just as the final bit of light faded from the musty old room, she felt the ropes loosen and fall from her wrists.

“I’ve done it,” she announced in a triumphant whisper. In her excitement she dropped the knife, and it took her a
moment or two to find it again. She slit the rope between her ankles and immediately turned to Randall, pulling the gag from his mouth and cutting his bonds by feel alone. “Are you okay?”

“Just peachy,” he said glumly. “Apart from the fact that I feel like a complete fool. Have you heard any noise from the other room?”

“I think they’re long gone. The question is, where?” She scrambled back across the floor to her sister, pulling her gag out.

“Don’t you remember?” Holly asked, her voice not much more than a raw croak. “She went to Christmas Eve mass.”

“How’d I miss that?” Randall asked, sitting up and rubbing his strong wrists.

“You were still out when she came in. You also missed our murder.”

“You mean Ian? I recognized him as he bent over me. What the hell is going on?”

“Do you know, Holly?” Maggie chafed her sister’s wrists. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. All the little bitch did was frighten me,” she said, her voice a little stronger. “And I don’t have any idea what Ian’s doing here. I heard his voice earlier, so it wasn’t a complete surprise. She called him Jacopo, so I’d guess he’s gone undercover.”

“Well, at least it saved our lives,” Maggie said cheerfully.

“Even if we blew our only lead,” Randall said, rising to his feet and stretching. “Let’s get out of here.”

“We’d better make sure we can,” Maggie reminded them. “We don’t know for sure that Maddelena and her sweet old grandfather are gone.”

But the dank little shop was deserted. The three of them had been tossed in a second-floor storeroom, and if the building boasted any electricity it was long gone. They made their way down the twisting staircase, through the empty shop, and out into the Calle del Porco. Maggie eyed the
bronze pig with a fond smile. “Let’s get the hell out of here. You don’t want to go back to the Danieli, do you?”

“What about your place? Are there any extra rooms?” Holly the intrepid sounded almost forlorn.

“You can have mine,” Randall offered.

“You can share mine,” Maggie countered.

Holly grinned. “I’ll take Randall’s. You never know when Ian might reappear.”

Now wasn’t the time to fight that particular battle. Randall had kept his hands to himself last night; he could do so again. And she had to admit, she slept a hell of a lot better when she was lying beside him, with or without the soporific benefits of sex. No, Randall could share her bed again. As long as he didn’t get any other ideas.

The vaporettos were jammed with passengers on this early Christmas Eve, workers heading homeward with their arms full of last-minute purchases, churchgoers heading for an early mass. The three of them must have looked fairly disreputable as they crammed in with the chattering, cheerful Venetians, but no one gave them a second glance. They were all too full of their own holiday spirit to notice three tattered refugees.

Maggie looked at her sister’s pale, weary face. Randall was standing beside her, and his tall body had taken on an almost protective air. Right now Holly needed protection; she needed a little time to regain her energy. So why, Maggie derided herself, was she standing there feeling jealous?

It made no sense, but then, little did nowadays. If Holly needed peace and comfort, so did she. Maggie sighed, jostled by the merrymakers on the crowded water bus. All is calm, all is bright, the carol ran through her head. She wished there was even a slight chance of that. But there wouldn’t be, not until a thousand questions were resolved. And, plastering a bright smile on her face, she turned back to her sister in time to see Randall drape a protective arm around her narrow shoulders.

The Palazzo Carboni opened its welcoming arms to them. Signor Tonetti had gone out with half his family, but the great-niece behind the desk quickly made the necessary arrangements. There were no cancellations during this holiday season, no extra rooms to be had, but they would be more than happy to have Signor Carter share Miss Bennett’s room and the second Miss Bennett to take over Signor Carter’s room. And there might be another guest to share the second Miss Bennett’s room? To be sure, he would also be made welcome. And, of course, all guests were invited to join the Tonettis in a holiday glass of lambrusco after ten-o’clock mass at San Marco’s.

Maggie started to shake her head in a regretful denial when Randall caught her arm. “We would be delighted,” he said. “Come along, ladies.”

“ ‘Come along, ladies,’ ” Maggie hissed in a mocking echo as he swept them towards their rooms. “Where the hell do you get off … ?”

“I think mass would be a wonderful idea,” Holly said firmly.

“Holly, I’m Lutheran and you’re an atheist,” Maggie argued.