Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

The bedroom was sparer yet – a single, blanket-covered bed and a small chest of drawers, with lamp and telephone on top, which served as a bedside table. His closet was as meager. A suit of the classic priest's vestments – black shirt, black slacks, and black jacket all on one hanger. A pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, worn gray sweat suit, and pair of old running shoes. The chest of drawers revealed a white clerical collar, several pairs of well-worn underwear, three pairs of socks, a folded sweater, and two T-shirts, one with the logo of Providence College.

'Everything just as he left it when he went to Assisi,' Farel said quietly.

'Where were the cartridges?'

Farel led him into the bathroom and opened the door of an ancient commode. Inside were several drawers, all of which had locks that had been pried open, presumably by the police.

'The bottom drawer. In the back behind some toilet tissue.'

Harry stared for a moment, then turned and walked slowly back through the bedroom and into the living room. On the top shelf of the bookcase there was a hot plate he hadn't noticed before. Beside it was a lone cup with a spoon in it, and next to that a jar of instant coffee. That was it. No kitchen, no stove, no refrigerator. It was the kind of place he might have rented as a freshman at Harvard, when he had no money at all and was enrolled only because he'd earned an academic scholarship.

'His voice-'

Harry turned. Farel stood in the bedroom doorway watching him, his shaved head looking suddenly too large and disproportionate to his body.

'Your brother's voice on the answering machine. You said he sounded frightened.'

'Yes.'

'As if he might be afraid for his life?'

'Yes.'

'Did he mention names? People you would both know. Family? Friends?'

'No, no names.'

'Think carefully, Mr Addison. You hadn't heard from your brother in a long time. He was distraught.' Farel stepped closer, his words running on. 'People tend to forget things when they're thinking about something else.'

'If there had been names I would have told the Italian police.'

'Did he say why he was going to Assisi?'

'He didn't say anything about Assisi.'

'What about another city or town?' Farel kept pushing. 'Somewhere he had been or might be going?'

'No.'

'Dates? A day. A time that might be important-'

'No,' Harry said. 'No dates, no time. Nothing like that.'

Farel's eyes probed him again. 'You are absolutely certain, Mr Addison…'

'Yes, I'm absolutely certain.'

A sharp knock at the front door drew their attention. It opened, and the eager driver of the gray Fiat – Pilger, Farel called him – entered. He was even younger than Harry had first thought, baby-faced, looking as if he were barely old enough to shave. A priest was with him. Like Pilger, he was young, probably not thirty, and tall, with dark curly hair and black eyes behind black-rimmed glasses.

Farel spoke to him in Italian. There was an exchange, and Farel turned to Harry.

'This is Father Bardoni, Mr Addison. He works for Cardinal Marsciano. He knew your brother.'

'I speak English, a little, anyway,' Father Bardoni said gently and with a smile. 'May I offer my deepest condolences…'

'Thank you…' Harry nodded gratefully. It was the first time anyone had acknowledged Danny in any context outside of murder.

'Father Bardoni has come from the funeral home where your brother's remains were taken,' Farel said. 'The necessary paperwork is being processed. The documents will be ready for your signature tomorrow. Father Bardoni will accompany you to the funeral home. And the following morning, to the airport. A first-class seat has been reserved for you. Father Daniel's remains will be on the same plane.'

'Thank you,' Harry said again, right now wanting only to get out from under the overbearing shadow of the police and take Danny home for burial.

'Mr Addison,' Farel warned, 'the investigation is not over. The FBI will follow up for us in the States. They will want to question you further. They will want to talk to Mr Willis. They will want the names and addresses of relatives, friends, military associates, other people your brother may have known or been involved with.'

'There are no living relatives, Mr Farel. Danny and I were the last of the family. As for who his friends or associates were, I couldn't say. I just don't know that much about his life… But I'll tell you something. I want to know what happened as much as you do. Maybe even more. And I intend to find out.'

Harry looked at Farel a beat longer. Then, with a nod to Father Bardoni, he took a final look around the room, a last, private moment to see where and how Danny had lived, and started toward the door.

'Mr Addison.'

Farel's voice rasped sharply after him, and Harry turned back.

'I told you when we met that it's what you haven't said that interests me… It still does… As a lawyer you should know the most insignificant pieces sometimes make the whole… Things so seemingly unimportant, a person might pass them on without realizing it.'

'I've told you everything my brother said to me…'

'So you say, Mr Addison.' Farel's gaze narrowed and his eyes grasped Harry's and held there. 'I was washed with the blood of a cardinal. I will not bathe in the blood of a pope.'

The Hotel Hassler.

Still Tuesday, July 7. 10:00 p.m.

'Great! Great! I love it!… Has he called in?… No, I didn't think he would. He's where?… Hiding?'

Harry stood in his room and laughed out loud. Telephone in hand, his shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up, shoes off, he turned to lean against the edge of the antique desk near the window.

'Hey, he's twenty-four, he's a star, let him do what he wants.'

Signing off, Harry hung up and set the phone on the desk among the pile of legal pads, faxes, pencil stubs, half-eaten sandwich, and crumbled notes. When was the last time he'd laughed, or even felt like laughing? But just now he'd laughed, and it felt good.

Dog on the Moon was a monster hit. Fifty-eight million dollars for the three-day holiday weekend, sixteen million more than Warner Brothers' highest estimates. Studio number crunchers were projecting a total domestic gross of upward of two hundred and fifty million. And as for its writer-director, Jesus Arroyo, the twenty-four-year-old barrio kid from East L.A. Harry had found six years ago in a special writing program for troubled inner-city teenagers and had mentored ever since, his career was blasting off the planet. In little more than three days he had become the new enfant terrible, his golden future assured. Multi-picture contracts worth millions were being overtured to him. So were demands for guest appearances on every major television talk show. And where was baby Jesus in all this? Partying in Vail or Aspen or up the coast looking at Montecito real estate? No? He was – hiding!

Harry laughed again at the purity of it. Intelligent, mature, and forceful as Jesus was as a filmmaker, at heart he was really a shy little boy who, following the biggest weekend of his career, could not be found. Not by the media, not by his friends, his latest girlfriend, or even his agent – whom Harry had been on the phone with. No one.

Except Harry.

Harry knew where he was. Jesus Arroyo Manuel Rodriguez was his full name, and he was at his parents' house on Escuela Street in East L.A. He was with his mom and his hospital custodian dad, and his brothers and sisters, and cousins and aunts and uncles.

Yes, Harry knew where he was, and he could call him, but he didn't want to. Let Jesus have his time with his family. He'd know what was going on. If he wanted to be in touch he would be. Much better to let him celebrate in his own way and let all the other stuff, including the congratulatory call from his lawyer, come later. Business did not yet rule his life as it did Harry's and the lives of most everyone else who was a success in the entertainment world.