Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

Purposefully he had fought to keep the thought from his mind for fear it would weaken him and show him as desperate when he went before the cardinals. But, as the clock ticked forward, and as much as he battled to keep it locked away, the memory crept forward, chillingly, almost as if Palestrina had willed it.

And then, with a rush, it was there, and he saw himself in Pierre Weggen's office in Geneva the evening of the day that the Assisi bus had exploded. The phone had rung, and the call was for him. It was Palestrina informing him, in one breath, that Father Daniel had been on the bus and was presumed dead; and, in the next – Father in heaven! Marsciano could still feel the awful stab of Palestrina's words delivered in a voice so calm they were like the brush of silk – 'the police have found sufficient evidence to prove Father Daniel guilty of the assassination of Cardinal Parma.'

Marsciano remembered his own shout of outrage and then seeing Weggen's quiet grin in response, as if the investment banker knew full well the content of Palestrina's call, and then the continuing voice of Palestrina as he went on unmoved.

'Moreover, Eminence, if your presentation to the council of cardinals should fail, resulting in the investment proposal voted down, the police will soon discover that the road from Parma's murder does not end with Father Daniel but leads directly to you. And I can safely surmise that the first question the investigators will ask is if you and the cardinal vicar were lovers. A denial, of course, would be futile, because there would be sufficient evidence – notes, letters of a lurid and very personal sort, found in the private computer files of you both… Think then, Eminence, of seeing your face and his on the cover of every newspaper and magazine, on every television screen around the globe… Think of the repercussions throughout the Holy See, and the utter disgrace it would bring to the Holy Church.'

Trembling and horrified, and certain without doubt who had been responsible for the bombing of the bus, Marsciano had simply hung up. Palestrina was everywhere. Twisting the screw, tightening his hold. Efficient, controlled, ruthless. Larger, more terrifying and detestable than Marsciano could ever have imagined.

Turning in his chair, Marsciano looked out the window. Across the street he could see the gray Mercedes waiting to take him from his apartment to the Vatican. His driver was new and a favorite of Farel's, the baby-faced plainclothes member of the Vatican police, Anton Pilger. His housekeeper, Sister Maria-Louisa, was new as well. As were his secretaries and office manager. Of his original staff only Father Bardoni remained, and only because he knew how to access computer files and understood the shared database with Weggen's Geneva office. Once the new portfolio was accepted, Marsciano was certain Father Bardoni would be gone, too. He was the last of the truly loyal, and his going would leave Marsciano wholly alone in Palestrina's nest of vipers.

Harry moved unsteadily in the darkness, his head still aching from the smack of the ricocheting bullet, his back against the rough of the tunnel wall, with his good hand stretched out along it trying to find Hercules' great door. He had to get out before the dwarf came back. Who knew what he would bring with him when he did? Friends? The police? What must sixty thousand dollars mean to a creature like him?

Where was the door? It couldn't be this far. What if he had gone past it in the dark?

He stopped. Listening. Hoping for the distant rumble of a Metro train that might give him some clue to where he was.

Silence.

It had taken most of his strength just to dress, collect Danny's things, and get out of Hercules' den. What he would do once he was out and away he didn't know, but anything was better than staying there and waiting for whatever Hercules had planned.

Behind and in front was blackness. Then he saw it. A pinpoint of light in the distance. The end of the tunnel. He felt relief shudder through him. Back against the wall he started toward it. The light became brighter. He walked faster. Now his foot touched something hard. He stopped. Put his foot up to feel it. Steel. It was a rail. He looked back. The light was closer. He flashed on the machine of torture his captors had used. It couldn't be the same. Where was he? Had he never left there at all?

Then he felt the ground rumble under him. The light was racing toward him. Then he knew! He was in a live tunnel. The light rocketing toward him was a Metro train. Turning, he ran back the way he had come. The light became brighter and brighter. His left foot slipped on the rail and he nearly fell. He heard the shriek of the train whistle. Then the scream of steel as the driver slammed on the brakes.

Suddenly rough hands grabbed him and threw him against the tunnel wall. He saw the lights inside the train as it slid past inches from him. The faces of startled passengers. Then it was past. Screeching to a stop fifty yards down the track.

'Are you crazy?'

Hercules was in his face, his hands on Harry's jacket, holding him in an iron grip.

Yells of trainmen came from down the track. They were climbing out, coming toward them with flashlights.

'This way.'

Hercules spun him around and into a narrow side tunnel. A moment later he shoved him up a work ladder, then followed himself, crutches thrown through one arm, swinging up behind him like a circus performer.

Behind them they heard the shouts and calls of the trainmen. Hercules stared angrily at him, then moved him forward down another narrow tunnel full of wiring and ventilation equipment.

They went on that way, Harry in front, Hercules directly behind, for what seemed like a half mile or more. Finally I hey stopped under the light of a ventilation shaft.

For a long moment Hercules said nothing, just listened, then, satisfied they hadn't been followed, looked to Harry.

'They will report that to the police. They will come and search the tunnels. If they find my place, they will know you were there. And I will have nowhere to live.'

'I'm sorry…'

'At least we know two things. You are well enough to walk, even run. And you are no longer blind.'

Harry could see. He hadn't had time to even think about it. He'd been in darkness. Then had come the light of the train and seeing the passengers inside. Not with one eye but two.

'So,' Hercules said. 'You are free.' With that he slung a small bound package from his shoulder and pushed it at Harry.

'Open it.'

Harry stared, then did as the dwarf said. Undoing the package, he unrolled its contents. Black trousers, black shirt, black jacket, and the white clerical collar of a priest, all worn but serviceable.

'You will become your brother, eh?'

Harry stared, incredulous.

'All right, maybe not your brother, but a priest. Why not? Already you are growing a beard, changing your appearance… In a city filled with priests, how better to hide than in the open…? In the pants' pocket are a few hundred thousand lire. Not much, but enough for you to gather your wits and see what you would do next.'

'Why?' Harry said. 'You could have turned me over to the police and collected the reward.'

'Is your brother alive?'

'I don't know.'

'Did he kill the cardinal vicar?'

'I don't know.'

'There, you see. If I had given you to the authorities, you could never have answered the questions: If your brother lives. If he is a murderer. How do you know unless you find out? – Not forgetting that you yourself are wanted for the murder of a policeman. It makes it twice as interesting, eh?'

'You could have had enough money to last you a long time.'

'But the police would have to give it to me. And I cannot go to the police, Mr Harry. Because I myself am a murderer… And if I had someone else do it and offered some sort of arrangement, they might take the money and never come back… You would be in prison, and I would be no better off than I am now… What good is that?'