Insatiable Appetites

47

Carmine Corretti got into his gum boots and a windproof jacket. It was a calm day, but chilly outside, so he had worn a thick, Irish fisherman’s sweater.

His wife came in from the grocery store. “What are you doing home so early?” she asked. “And what are you doing in those clothes?”

“I’m going fishing,” he replied. “And don’t ask.”

“Do I have to tell you what time of the year it is?”

“The fish don’t know that.”

“Carmine, this doesn’t make any sense.”

“I told you not to ask,” he said. “I’ll be home late this evening, probably around ten.” He slipped a spray can of something into a pocket, grabbed his tackle box and a rod, and headed out the door. She was still calling his name when it slammed.

An hour later, Carmine parked his car, went down to a dock owned by a friend, got into the friend’s Boston Whaler, and headed out into Jamaica Bay. The day was clear and calm, or he wouldn’t be doing this, he told himself. The sun was sinking into the Atlantic; there wasn’t a lot of daylight left. In the dusk he checked the GPS unit and turned into the creek. Lights were on at the big house, and he could see a dock ahead. As he passed the dock he saw lights through some trees; that would be the old barn. He continued up the creek with the rising tide, which would turn soon, and kept looking back. As he turned the boat around he saw the lights go out in the barn.

He pulled the throttle back to idle, keeping just enough way on to steer toward the floating dock, where Eduardo’s mahogany runabout was tied up. He cut the engine, glided to the inside of the dock, and grabbed a cleat. He secured the Whaler and climbed out onto the float, then took the catwalk to the pier to which the float was attached. A flagstone path led into the dark woods. He took a small flashlight from his pocket but didn’t turn it on yet; he stuck to the path and let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. The light from a quarter moon helped a little.

He reached the barn and stepped behind some shrubs to look through a window. The wan moonlight through the skylights gave shape to some furniture and an easel. The place was deserted. He went back to the front door and played the thin beam of his flashlight on the lock. Nothing impenetrable. He took a small wallet from an inside pocket, unzipped it, and removed a set of lock picks that he had made from a hacksaw blade. It had been a while since he had used the tools, but the lock took only a couple of minutes. He let himself in and closed the door softly behind him.

He padded around the place for a few minutes, checking the kitchen, where he found a wooden block holding a set of sharp knives. She had the means, and he had no doubt about motive and opportunity. He went back to the studio and found, roughly, the spot Stefano Scali had marked on his drawing. It looked clean, but Carmine wasn’t finished. He removed a small can from his coat pocket and began spraying the contents evenly on the stone floor, then he stopped and turned off his flashlight. Nothing. He moved along a couple of feet and sprayed again. Still nothing. He backed up and went the other way, and this time he had results: a trail of luminescent blue ran for about fourteen inches.

Carmine took out his iPhone and took some pictures; they were remarkably good, he thought. He put the camera back into his pocket and straightened up. As he did, he felt something poke into his back, and a voice said, “Shhhhh.” Then, before he could react, someone grabbed his coat collar and held it, then drove the blade into his back. He jerked his body around, but between the grasp on his collar and the pressure on the blade, he was kebabed, so he couldn’t turn. Then he was tripped and forced to the floor.

Carmine felt his only chance was to go limp, to seem less of a threat. He was dragged toward the door, then outside onto the stone walk, where he was stopped. Then the blade was withdrawn and his body began to gush. In a moment, he had passed out.

When Carmine awoke he was in a different place; it was moving, and he felt the vibration of an engine. He tried to move just slightly, but could not. There was plastic sheeting over his face, inhibiting his breathing. He wasn’t thinking very clearly, but he knew he didn’t have long to live; either the bleeding or Jamaica Bay would end it for him.

The boat continued its passage while Carmine fought to stay conscious. Twice more he fainted and came to again, then he stopped struggling to breathe.

He thought about his wife until he passed out again. He never felt the cold water close over him.