Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

A second body had been found in the bushes just off the sidewalk twenty feet behind the Alfa. Shot twice. Once in the heart, once above the left eye. An elderly man with no identification.

Roscani had left it to Castelletti and Scala, the other ispettori capi from homicide. His principal interest was the Alfa Romeo. Its windshield cracked, its front end was smashed into the truck it had hit full on, just missing the gas tank behind the driver's door.

Pio's body had still been there when he arrived. He'd studied it without touching, had it photographed and videotaped, and then it was taken away, the same as had been done with the body in the bushes.

There should have been a third body, but there wasn't. The American, Harry Addison, had been riding with Pio, coming back into the city from the farmhouse location where they had recovered the Spanish-made Llama pistol. But Harry Addison was gone. So was the pistol, the ignition keys still in the trunk lock, as if someone had known exactly where the gun was and where to find it.

Inside the Alfa, what appeared to be the murder weapon, Pio's own 9mm Beretta, lay on the backseat on the driver's side, as if it had been casually tossed there. Bloodstains were on the passenger side, on top of the seat by the door, just below the headrest. Shoe prints were in the carpet beneath it – not terribly distinct, but there just the same. Fingerprints were everywhere.

Tech crews were dusting, taking samples, marking them, putting them in evidence bags. Police photographers were on the scene as well. Two of them. One taking photographs with a Leica, the other making a video record with a modified Sony Hi-8.

And then there was the truck – a large Mercedes delivery vehicle reported stolen earlier that afternoon, its driver long gone.

Ispettore Capo Otello Roscani got behind the wheel of his dark blue Fiat and drove slowly around the barricades and past the faces watching him. The glare of police work lights illuminated the scene like a movie set, filling in the darkness for the faces and providing additional light for media cameras, which were there in frenzy.

'Ispettore Capo!'

'Ispettore Capo!'

Voices shouted. Men and women. Who did this? Does it have to do with the murder of Cardinal Parma? Who was killed? Who was suspected? And why?

Roscani saw it all, heard it all. But it didn't matter. His mind was focused on Pio and what had happened in the moments immediately preceding his death. Gianni Pio was not a man to make mistakes, but late this afternoon he had, somehow letting himself be compromised.

At this point – without an autopsy, without lab reports – questions were all Roscani had. Questions and sadness. Gianni Pio was godfather to his children and had been his friend and partner for more than twenty years. And now, as he headed back across Rome toward the Garbatella section, where Pio lived – going to see Pio's wife and his children, where Roscani knew his own wife already was, giving what little comfort she could – Otello Roscani tried to keep his personal feelings at a distance. As a policeman he had to, and out of respect for Pio he had to, because they would only get in the way of what had become his primary objective.

The finding of Harry Addison.

Still Wednesday, July 8. Same time.

Thomas Kind stood in the darkness, watching the man in the chair. Two others were in the room with him, dressed in coveralls, standing somewhere behind him. They were there to help if he needed it, which he would not. And to do the work afterward, which should be simple enough.

Thomas Kind was thirty-nine, five foot ten and very slim, a hundred and forty pounds at most, and in superb condition. His hair was cut short and jet-black, as were his slacks, shoes, and sweater, which made him difficult – if not impossible – to see in the darkness. Besides the paleness of his skin, the only color about him was the deep blue of his eyes.

The man in the chair stirred, but that was all. His hands and feet were bound and his mouth closed, pinched tight by thick tape.

Thomas Kind stepped closer, watched for a moment, then walked completely around the chair.

'Relax, comrade,' he said quietly. Patience and calmness were everything. It was how he lived each day. Even tempered, waiting for the satisfactory moment. It was the sort of thing Thomas Jose Alvarez-Rios Kind, native Ecuadorean born of an English mother, might put on his resume. Patient. Painstaking. Well educated. Multilingual. Add to that, one-time actor – and also one of the world's most-hunted terrorists.

'Relax, comrade.' Harry heard the phrase again. A male voice, the same as before. Calm, even. In accented English. And Harry thought he felt someone moving past him, but he couldn't be sure. The throbbing of his head overrode everything. All he knew was that he was sitting up and that his hands and feet were bound and there was tape across his mouth. And then there was the darkness. Yet there was nothing on his head, no blindfold, no cap. Nothing at all. But no matter how he twisted or turned, the blackness was all-pervasive. No shadows, no light spill from behind a door seam. Only dark.

He blinked. Then blinked again, twisting his head from side to side. Determined to be wrong. But he wasn't wrong. And it suddenly came to him that whatever had happened, wherever he was, whatever day this was, he was blind!

'No! No! No!' he screamed, his voice garbled by the tape covering his mouth.

Thomas Kind stepped closer.

'Comrade,' he said with the same unhurried quietness. 'How is your brother? I understand he is alive and well.'

Immediately the tape was torn from Harry's mouth. And he cried out as much in surprise as from the sting of it.

'Where is he?' The voice was closer than it had been.

'I don't… know… if… he's alive…' Harry's mouth and throat felt like sandpaper. He tried to make enough moisture to swallow but couldn't.

'I asked about your brother… where he is…'

'Could – I – please – have some – wa – ter?'

Kind lifted a small remote control. His thumb found a button and touched it.

Instantly, Harry saw a pinpoint of light shining in the distance and he started. Did he really see it, or was it an illusion?

'Where is your brother, comrade?' This time the voice came from behind his left ear.

The light began to move slowly toward him.

'I…' – Harry tried again to swallow – 'don't… know…'

'Do you see the light?'

'Yes.'

The pinpoint came closer.

'Good.'

Kind's thumb slid to another button.

Harry saw the light alter its track and shift ever so slightly. Moving toward his left eye.

'I want you to tell me where your brother is.' The voice had changed sides and whispered in his right ear. 'It's very important that we find him.'

'I don't know.'

The light was now moving toward his left eye alone and growing steadily brighter. The throbbing inside his head had been forgotten with the terror of his blindness. But with the light it began again. A slow, steady drumming that grew stronger with the approaching luminescence.

Harry jerked sideways, trying to turn his head, but something hard prevented it. He twisted the opposite way. Same thing. Then he pressed back. But nothing he did could turn him from the light.

'So far you have not felt pain. But you will.'

'Please-' Harry turned his head as far as he could, squeezing his eyes closed.

'That won't help.' The timbre of the voice was suddenly different. The first voice had been a man's, this time it sounded like a woman's.

'I – have – no – idea if – my broth – er is – even – alive. How could I – know – where he – is?'

The light's pinpoint narrowed, its beam rising up, moving over Harry's left eye, searching, until it found the center.