The Bridges

November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
8:19 pm CEST

Get some distance, she thinks. Distance between you and that fucking bastard. Distance between the moments. Distance for some time to think. Find a place to hide. Hide out and make a plan. But where to run?

Names rattle through her mind. Friends she had made in Venice over the years. If she could find a safe spot for an hour—a single precious hour—she could figure out what to do next. She could call Anthony—her painter friend she met on her last trip here. What about Fausto? Fausto would take her in. Can she remember the way?

She lost her high heels a long time ago. Her bare feet are numb. Each step causes the contusions on her face to throb. Yet, the icy November night is some comfort to the pain. The brisk air invigorates. It presses her onward.

Rearden saw her. She’s certain of it. He will come after her. Without doubt. She runs through a gauntlet of low buildings until she reaches what looks to be a bridge. Pausing beside it she can see that it runs across the canal and connects to the Santa Maria Della Salute.

Her breath billows in heaves. Think.

Then she sees him. Rearden is sprinting up the causeway. His confident stride bounds toward her as if he knows exactly where she is.

Astrid bolts onto the bridge. She takes a handful of the fabric of her skirt and balls it into her fist so her legs might wheel without hinderance. Her lungs burn.

She hears him, “Astrid! Stop! I only want to talk with you!”

Astrid ignores him.

“Professor! Stop.”

When she reaches the end of the bridge, she hazards a look back. Rearden is gaining.

She drops down off of the ramp and runs along the walkway around the southern end of the Salute. At her first opportunity she turns right. A few yards further she finds a door ajar. She bashes through it and slams it shut.

“There you are!” a familiar voice says.

Spinning around she sees Marcel Hruska.

“Jesus!” she exhales.

“Not the Messiah, no. Just me.”

“Rearden—Rearden is—” she points—out of breath. “We’ve got to—got to—”

He holds up a key ring. “I lifted these from Fausto—getaway insurance. Come on. Out through the in door—let’s go across the pyramid.”

The metal door bangs open. Rearden rushes in and growls, “The Notebook, bitch!”

Marcel pounces and lands a fist to Rearden’s chin. He throws another punch connecting with his stomach. Rearden bends forward with the blow and drops to his knees.

“Run, Professor. I’ve got this motherfucker!”

Astrid whirls her body toward the museum court and cuts through the archway toward the planter. Climbing, she looks back through the lamplight hoping to see Marcel. He does not come. A cry of pain screeches into the night.

The hated sound of Rearden’s voice comes next. It echoes against the stone. “Astrid… Astrid… I will find you. I will find you…”

She hugs the Red Notebook to her chest and takes a step across the planter. She speaks the word, lonwayro.

Astrid Finnley leaves Venice.