Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

Elena had not been prepared when, little more than an hour earlier, her mother general had called from her home convent of the Congregation of Franciscan Sisters of the Sacred Heart in Siena to tell her the patient in her charge was to be moved by private ambulance that night and she was to accompany him, continuing to give him the care she had been. When she asked where he was being moved, where they were going, she was simply told 'to another hospital'. Very shortly afterward Luca had arrived with the ambulance and they were on their way. Leaving Hospital St Cecilia quickly and quietly, with hardly a word spoken between them, as if they were fugitives.

Crossing the Pescara River, Luca took a number of side streets before ending up in a slow parade of traffic along Viale della Riviera, a main thoroughfare that paralleled the beach. The night was steamy hot, and scores of people ambled along the sidewalk in shorts and tank tops, or crowded the pizzerias that sat along the edge of the sand. Because of their route Elena wondered if perhaps they were going to another hospital in the city. But then Luca turned away from the ocean and drove a zigzag course through the city, which took them past the massive railroad terminal before swinging northeast on a main highway out of town.

Through it all Michael Roark's gaze shifted, from the IV to her, to the men in the van, and then back to her. It made her think that his mind was working, that somewhere he was trying to put it all together and understand what was happening. Physically he seemed as well as could be expected, his blood pressure and pulse remained strong, his breathing as normal as it had been all along. She had seen the EKG and EEG results of tests done prior to her arrival that reflected a strong heart and a functioning brain. The diagnosis was that he had suffered acute trauma; and that aside from the burns and broken legs, the main damage and the one bearing the closest watching had been a severe concussion. He could recover from it fully, partially, or not at all. Her job was to keep his body operative while the brain attempted to heal itself.

Smiling gently at Michael Roark's gaze, she looked up to see Marco watching her as well. Two men examining her at the same time – the thought tickled her, and she grinned. Then quickly she looked away, embarrassed she had reacted so openly. She saw for the first time that dark curtains covered the van's rear windows. Turning back, she looked at Marco.

'Why are the windows covered?'

'The truck was rented. It came that way.'

Elena hesitated. 'Where are we going?'

'Nobody told me.'

'Luca knows.'

'Then ask him.'

Elena glanced forward at Luca at the wheel, then back to Marco. 'Are we in danger?'

Marco grinned. 'So many questions.'

'We are directed to leave, suddenly, almost in the middle of the night. We drive as if to make it impossible to follow us. The truck windows are covered over, and you… carry a gun.'

'Do I…?'

'Yes.'

'I told you I was a carabiniere… '

'Not anymore.'

'But still on reserve…' Abruptly Marco turned toward the front. 'Luca, Sister Elena wants to know where we're going.'

'North.'

Crossing his arms over his chest, Marco leaned back and closed his eyes. 'I'm going to sleep,' he said to Elena. 'You sleep, too. We have a long way to go.'

Elena watched him, then looked to Luca at the wheel and saw his features briefly as he lit a cigarette. She had seen the bulge under his jacket as he helped load her patient into the truck, verifying what she had suspected earlier, that he carried a gun as well. And though no one had mentioned it, she knew Pietro, the morning man, was following in his car behind them.

Beside her Michael Roark had closed his eyes. She wondered if he was dreaming, and if so, what his dreams might be like. And where they were taking him. Or if he was simply going without knowing, as she was, down a darkened road toward a destination unknown, in the company of armed strangers.

And she wondered, as she had before, who he was that he would need such men. She wondered who he was at all.

Rome, same time

Suddenly there was the sensation of being walked on by hundreds of tiny feet. Light, nimble feet. Small. Like those of rodents. With what seemed like superhuman effort Harry opened one eye and saw them. Not mice.

Rats.

They were on his chest, his midsection, on both legs. Fully aware, he shouted. Screamed. Trying to shake them off. Some disappeared, but others clung there. Ears up. Watching him with tiny red eyes.

Then he smelled the stench.

And remembered the sewer.

Everywhere was the sound of rushing water, and he felt the wet and realized he was in the water and it was washing past him. Raising himself up, he turned his head and with his one good eye saw more of them. Hundreds. Higher up on dry ground. Watching, waiting. It was why more hadn't come. They were aware of the water, too. Only the bravest had ventured across the shallow flow where he was.

Above him was the semicircle of ancient stone that made up the ceiling. And the same stone supplemented by worn concrete lined the walls of either side and the sluice where he lay. Here and there dim lightbulbs encased in wire provided the illumination for what little vision he had.

Vision.

He could see!

At least a little.

Lying back, he let his right eye close, and abruptly everything faded. For a moment he remained still, then, gathering himself, opened his left eye.

Black. Nothing at all.

Immediately he opened his right eye and the world came back. Dim lights. Stone. Concrete. Water.

Rats.

He saw the two closest to his right eye inch forward. Noses moving. Teeth bared. The bravest of the brave. As if they knew. Take out that eye and he would see nothing at all. He was theirs.

'GET AWAY!' he screamed and tried to struggle up. He felt their claws dig and hold, staying where they were.

'GET AWAY! GET AWAY! GET THE FUCK AWAY!'

He thrashed from side to side, his voice echoing off the stone. Trying with everything to throw them off. Then he fell sideways into deeper water. He felt it rush over him, the force taking him with it. He was sure he felt them let go. Sure he heard their shrill squeaks as they tried to make higher ground without drowning. Sure he heard the hundreds of others shrieking in a terrible uproar of shared fear. He opened his mouth, bellowing against the sound, trying to get air. But it filled with water and he choked as he was swept away. The only thing clear in his mind was the taste of it; foul and filled with his own blood.

Friday, July 10, 1:00 a.m.

A hand touched Harry's face, and he groaned, shivering. The hand retreated, a moment later to return with a damp cloth to wipe his face and again clean the wound on his forehead. Then moving a little to scrub gently the dried blood that matted his hair.

Somewhere far off came a vague rumbling and the ground shook, and then both sound and movement stopped. Then he felt a tugging at his shoulders and he opened his eyes, or rather the one eye that could see. When he did, he started. An oversized head stared down at him, the eyes glistening in the dim light.

' Parla Italiano?' A man was sitting on the ground beside Harry, his voice high-pitched and accented in a strange, singsong way.

Harry turned his head slowly to look at him.

'Inglese?'

'Yes…' Harry whispered.

'American?'

'Yes…' Harry whispered again.

'Me, too, once. Pittsburgh. I came to Rome to be in a Fellini movie. I never was. And I never left.'

Harry could hear the sound of his own breathing. 'Where am I…?'

The face smiled. 'With Hercules.'