Home Before Dark by Charles Maclean

reminded her of the figure on
the landing-stage.
As she drew closer, Sam put her glasses back on and saw
that the woman was in fact a young girl – pale, sickly looking.
Over the bench next to her was draped an empty black rucksack
that she’d mistaken, in her myopic state, for a wrap.
    In the tangle of winding alleys and dilapidated squares behind
the palazzos of the Grand Canal, it’s easy to become disorientated.
Sam threaded the labyrinth, her MP3 player tuned
to a local rock station, letting instinct guide her. There were
enough people around not to have to worry about getting
lost. As long as she kept the setting sun at her back, she
figured, she couldn’t go far wrong.
The osteria was in Cannaregio, near the northern quays,
not far from Campo Mori. She’d looked it up on the map
before leaving the hotel, then in the rush to catch the vaporetto
had managed somehow to leave the map behind.
As she wandered deeper into the sestiere, glimpses of the
Salute’s great white dome flying above the rooftops grew less
frequent until Sam could no longer rely on it to get her
bearings. She asked an elegant couple for directions; the man
smiled and made a flat-handed, chopping gesture: 'Avanti
dritto, sempre dritto.’
A block further on, 'straight ahead’ was open to interpretation.
She thought of calling the restaurant, but she’d jotted down
the name and telephone number on the back of the map.
Jimmy, of course, had a theory about getting around Venice.
'Where you’re going,’ he’d told her in the taxi, 'does not
depend on which path you take. In Venice, there are fabulous things on every path. Don’t worry about the path you choose
taking you to your destination. Your destination will find you.’
Sure. Sure it will.
She crossed another bridge into a square paved with
herringbone tiles; she noted the church with its seventeenth
century Baroque facade, the pharmacy on the corner. There
were two exits: Sam chose the calle that looked least deserted.
She started down it; the radio playing Foo Fighters’ 'All
My Life’.
It had been one of Sophie’s favourite songs. Yesterday Sam
had found a message from the dead girl’s father on her cell
urging her to call him. She felt badly about erasing it. But
there was no way now she was getting back in touch.
One thing still bothered her: how did 'Ward’ know she’d
contacted Ed Lister and that they were planning to meet?
He must have somehow intercepted her e-mail; or, if he lived
in Florence, maybe monitored her phone-calls – it was possible
he’d been keeping his eye on her since before the murder.
Sam had on her Prada sandals, white Capri pants and a
gold silk shirt tied at the waist. In Florence, she’d learnt to
dress to avoid attracting attention; here, she didn’t mind if
she turned a head or two – it had been a while since she felt
good about the way she looked. She could feel sweat trickling
under her arms.
About halfway along the footpath, she saw a glimmer of
water ahead that by her reckoning shouldn’t have been
there. Then, around the next bend, the calle ended abruptly
in a terrace with crumbling classical pillars looking out over
a wide, luminous expanse to the islands of the Lagoon. It
was like stepping up onto a stage. Feeling exposed and
slightly bewildered, Sam removed her earphones so she
could appreciate the serenity of the view. Somewhere a
child was crying.
The sun had just gone and she stood watching the light
drain from the long reaches of sea and sky, wondering if her
decision to leave Italy was the right one. She’d become
accustomed to being surrounded by beauty. She gave a shiver
at the thought of relocating to Pittsburgh, where she’d applied
for a job on the curatorial staff of the Sands Taylor Museum.
She lifted the back of a hand up to her forehead.
Earlier she’d spoken to her mother, who was almost
incoherent with excitement that her baby was finally coming
home.
Oh, Federico, she murmured, closing her eyes. This