David Hewson: The Lizard's Bite

He waited.

“I’ll confess, Leo,” she said sweetly, taking hold of the wheelchair, propelling him towards the exit. “And that’s a promise.”

GIANNI PERONI STOOD BY THE LITTLE RIO , SAYING THE g-word over and over, pointing the empty leaden weapon at the evening sky. Perhaps it was the gun. Or the possibility of change. Whatever the cause, Teresa Lupo, watching him, felt that her senses were preternaturally alert. She could hear every last mosquito whirring busily in the reeds, the croak of frogs, the discordant squawk of squabbling gulls, and, so soft they scarcely mattered, the occasional ghostly plaint of a far-off city vaporetto.

Then, nearby, something subtler. Crawling, squirming, hiding all the time, an animal that lurked in the undergrowth, watching him, waiting, trying to decode what its senses revealed.

She sat at the picnic table, eyeing the papers with the little farm’s photos uppermost, determined not to peek at the details, since she knew they’d simply discourage her. It was a small, run-down place. A world away from the bustle of the centro storico . A possibility for them. She put it no higher than that.

Peroni barked the g-word again. Still the animal didn’t come.

She considered the situation. The last boat back to the city went in half an hour. She’d no intention of staying in Piero Scacchi’s shack for the night. There really was no alternative.

“I take it back,” she declared, throwing the box of shells, which, grinning at her, he caught in one gigantic hand. “Give the dog what it wants. If you can, that is.”

Peroni cocked his head. A single glinting eye winked at her. She was surprised, and also a little dismayed, to see the way he was able to grab a couple of cartridges from the box, drop the rest, then rattle two into the gun without even having to look, snapping the weapon shut with a certain, loud clatter.

“If I can?” he asked. “I’m a country boy. Born and bred. You should never forget that.”

“So, country boy . . .” she started to say, when what he did made everything unnecessary.

“Dog!” he barked with a fresh, commanding insistence.

Within the space of a few seconds a feathery shape emerged from the reeds, its lithe body rising like a bullet, chased on its way by what sounded like a rough, sharp bark. Peroni swung the gun. A single, now familiar, sound rent the peace of the lagoon. Teresa watched in shocked admiration, and a little wonder, as the bundle of feathers turned in on itself, rolled into a ball, then tumbled into some prickly thicket on the far side of the rio .

A black shape chased through the water after it, half swimming, half leaping, disappearing into the vegetation for a moment before emerging with a triumphant, energetic swagger, something soft held tight in its jaws.

Gianni Peroni broke the gun, dropped the two cartridges, one spent, one live, on the ground, held the weapon over his arm, then extended his open hand across the rio .

“Good dog,” he declared loudly. “ Good dog. Now come.”

Piero Scacchi’s spaniel emerged from the reeds carrying the dead bird, marching towards him, full of pride and expectation.

Fur matted and dishevelled, it looked as skinny as an abandoned orphan. Xerxes walked up to Peroni, dropped its prize at his feet, then sat, a tired black triangle wagging a short stumpy tail uncertainly, eyes never leaving his face, rapt in the man’s approval.

Teresa Lupo watched the two of them admiring each other and said nothing.

Eventually Peroni looked up at her, patting that small black head, his face as serious as she’d ever known it.

“You don’t want to go, do you?” he asked.

“No,” she said, without hesitation. “Not yet anyway.”

Not when the possibility became real. It wasn’t cowardice either. Something told Teresa that dreams were meant to be hunted down on home territory, not chased in some neverland around an unknown corner.

It was a sweet dog all the same. Quite unsuited for the city, where it would be terrified by the noise and the traffic and the commotion.

“Laila would love him,” she added. The girl was another of Peroni’s rescues, too, a bright, recovering teenager out on a farm in Tuscany, someone who’d adore the animal, given half a chance.

“I know,” Peroni agreed, with a swiftness that made her realise this thought had been with him all along. He didn’t look disappointed at all. He was good at hiding his feelings. She knew that.

Quietly, stealthily, Gianni Peroni slipped an old leather leash round the dog’s neck, then held it firmly, with affection.

“Let’s go,” he said.

About the Author

DAVID HEWSON is the author of seven novels. Formerly a weekly columnist for the Sunday Times, he lives in Kent, England, where he is at work on his next thriller, The Seventh Sacrament.

ALSO BY DAVID HEWSON

A Season for the Dead

The Villa of Mysteries

Lucifer’s Shadow

The Sacred Cut

THE LIZARD’S BITE

A Delacorte Book / November 2006

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2006 by David Hewson

Title page photograph by Khin Yee Teoh

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Hewson, David

The lizard’s bite/David Hewson

p. cm.

1. Police—Italy—Venice—Fiction. 2. Venice (Italy)—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6058.E96 L59 2006 2006044479

823/.914 22

www.bantamdell.com

eISBN: 978-0-440-33642-6

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