Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

Sitting back, Roscani took a sip of cold coffee. As he did, a way, or, rather, a conceivable way, came to him.

EuroCity Train #55. 4:20 p.m.

Julia Louise Phelps smiled lightly at the man in the first-class seat across from her, then turned to the window and watched the rural land ease to cityscape. In a matter of a few miles, open land became apartment buildings, warehouses, factories. In fifteen minutes Julia Phelps, or rather Thomas Kind, would be in Rome. Then, a taxi from the station to the Majestic Hotel on Via Veneto. And then, a few minutes later, another. Taken across the Tiber to the Amalia, the former pensione on Via Germanico – which was small, homey, and discreet. And comfortably close to the Vatican. Only one part of the trip from Bellagio to Rome had been troublesome – the killing of the young designer he'd met on the hydrofoil and coaxed into giving a ride to Milan when he'd learned the man had a car in Como and was driving there. What should have been a short, simple late-night automobile trip suddenly turned onerous when the young man began making jokes about the seeming impotence of the police and their inability to catch the fugitives. He'd looked at Thomas Kind too seriously, studying his large hat, his clothing, his overdone makeup that covered the scratches on his face, then half playfully suggesting that one of the fugitives could be dressed just like him, pretending to be a woman. A killer who could slip away unnoticed, right under the noses of the police.

In times past, this was something Thomas Kind probably would have let go. But not in the mental state he was now. That the designer could be a dangerous witness had been almost irrelevant; the thing that had jumped out foremost was the uncontrollable urge for killing that the suggestion of danger had aroused in him. And the intensely erotic gratification that went with it.

This sensation, which had once been vague and all but unnoticeable, had grown markedly in the last weeks; beginning with the murder of the cardinal vicar of Rome and increasing in passion and fervor with his acts in Pescara and Bellagio and then inside the grotto. How many had it been? – seven killed, within hours? One on top of the other on top of the other.

And now, here on this train entering Rome, he was desperately hungering for more. His emotions, his entire being, suddenly and intractably pulled toward the man in the first-class seat across from him. The man was smiling, flirting, but doing absolutely nothing that was in any way threatening.

My God, he had to stop it!

Abruptly he looked away and back out the train's window. He was ill. Terribly, mentally ill. Maybe even insane. But he was Thomas Jose Alvarez-Rios Kind. Who the hell could he talk to? Where on God's earth could he go for help where they wouldn't catch him and throw him into prison? Or, worse, see his weakness and shun him for the rest of his life.

' Roma Termini' - the metallic voice crackled over the speaker system. The train slowed as it came into the station, and people stood to collect their luggage from the overhead racks. Julia Louise Phelps didn't have the chance to take hers down; the man she had smiled at did it for her.

'Thank you,' Thomas Kind said in an American accent and sounding singularly feminine.

'Prego,' the man replied.

And then the train stopped, and they departed. One more smile between them. Each going his own way.

Lugano, Switzerland. Same time.

Harry knocked on the bedroom door, then opened it, and he and Elena went in. Danny was alone, sitting on the edge of the bed intently watching the small television that sat on an antique table nearby.

'Where is Father Bardoni?' Harry asked. It had been more than two hours since the priest had gone upstairs to talk with Danny. Finally Harry had had enough of waiting. He would talk to Father Bardoni himself.

'He's gone,' Danny said, still preoccupied with the television.

'Where?'

'Back to Rome.'

'He came all the way from Rome and then left. Just like that?'

Danny said nothing. Just continued to watch the TV. The pictures on it were being broadcast live from China. It was night now in Hefei, and there was an eerie silence. Media reporters were saying nothing, only watching. As were the armed soldiers in goggles, masks, and protective clothing who kept them behind barricades. In the distance two separate but distinct red-orange glows were clearly visible against the black sky. Words were not needed. Closer shots, unimaginable. With rescue workers overwhelmed, mass burning of corpses had been ordered to prevent the spread of disease. In the lower right-hand corner of the screen was a muted graphic.

Last official death toll: 77,606

'My God…' Danny breathed. This was the first he knew about what had happened in China. He'd come on it by accident after Father Bardoni had left and he'd switched on the TV, looking for news about the police search for Harry and himself.

'Danny-?' Harry was behind him, prodding him.

Suddenly, Danny picked the remote from the edge of the bed and pointed it at the TV.

CLICK.

The screen went dark.

Danny looked to Harry, and then to Elena. 'Would you leave us, please, Sister,' he said quietly in Italian.

'Of course, Father…' Elena glanced briefly at Harry and then left.

As the latch clicked into place, Danny looked to his brother.

'Cardinal Marsciano is ill. I have to go back to Rome… I need your help.'

'Rome?' Harry was incredulous.

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'I just told you.'

'No, all you said was that Cardinal Marsciano was ill, you didn't tell me anything.' Harry glared at his brother. Instantly they were back to the conversation they'd had earlier when Danny shut down completely.

'I said before that I can't talk about it…'

'Okay, you can't. Let's try something else… How did Father Bardoni know you were here?'

'Sister Elena's mother general…'

'All right. Go on.'

'Go on about what?' Danny asked flatly. 'I have to get to Rome, that's all… I can't walk. Can't even go to the bathroom without help…'

'Then why didn't you go with Father Bardoni?'

'He had to get back. He was taking a plane from Milan… I could hardly be seen in an airport, could I, Harry?'

Harry ran a hand across his mouth. Danny was not only lucid, he was determined.

'Danny, our pictures are all over television. In every newspaper. How far into Italy do you think we'd get?'

'We got here, we can get there.'

Harry studied his brother, trying to find the answer he wasn't getting. 'A little while ago you warned me to leave here before I got killed. Now you're asking me to jump right back into the furnace. What changed it?'

'A little while ago I didn't know the situation.'

'What is the situation?'

Danny said nothing.

Harry kept on. 'Inside the Vatican. What the hell is all this about?'

Still Danny said nothing.

'Marsciano wanted me and everybody else to believe you were dead.' Harry kept pushing. 'He was protecting you… He said, "They will kill you both. Your brother for what he knows. You, because they will believe he has told you." Now you can add Elena to that… If you want me to put my life and yours and hers on the line, then you can fucking well tell me the rest.'

'I can't…' Danny's voice was barely a whisper.

'Give me a reason.' Harry was hard, even brutal, determined to get an answer.

'I-' Danny hesitated.

'I said, give me a reason, dammit.'

For a long moment there was silence, then finally Danny spoke. 'In your business, Harry, it's called client-counselor privilege. In mine it's called confession… Now do you understand?'