Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

Or perhaps it was because he was helped by distance, as the one orchestrating the killing as opposed to doing it himself. And he began to rationalize and think that if he stopped killing altogether, retired from it completely, he would get well. The idea was frightening, because it was finally admitting that he was ill, agreeing that he was both seduced by and addicted to the act of murder. But like with any illness or addiction, he knew the first step in the cure was recognizing it. And since there was no professional he could turn to for help, he would have to become his own physician and prescribe the necessary treatment.

Looking up, he let his eyes drift toward the distant banks of the Tiber. The plan he had outlined for the black suits was more serviceable than remarkable, but they were hardly fighting a Third World War, so, under the circumstances and with the men he had chosen, it would do. The thing now was to watch, and wait for the brothers to come.

And then would begin the first step in his healing: orchestrate the plan while letting the others execute it.

The clink of glass and smell of rum and spilled beer filled the kitchen. There was a final gurgle as Elena emptied the last bottle of Moretti double-malt beer into the sink. Then, running the tap, she rinsed the bottle, collected the four other Moretti bottles she'd already emptied, and brought them to the table where Danny worked.

In front of him was a large ceramic mixing bowl with a pour spout. In it, mixed proportionally, were two simple ingredients from the kitchen: 150-proof rum used for cooking, and olive oil. On the table to his right were a pair of scissors and a box of pint-sized plastic Ziploc bags; and to the right of that, the work that was already done – ten large cloth table napkins, cut in quarters, then soaked in the rum-and-oil mixture and rolled up tightly like little tubes. These he was carefully placing with oily, rum-soaked fingers into the plastic bags, and then sealing them. Forty in all, four to a bag, ten bags.

Finishing, he wiped his hands with a paper towel, then took the Moretti bottles from Elena and placed them on the table in front of him. Picking up the mixing bowl, he carefully poured the remainder of the liquid into each.

'Cut another napkin,' he said to Elena as he worked. 'We'll need five dry wicks, about six inches long, rolled tightly.'

'All right.' Picking up the scissors, Elena glanced at the clock over the stove.

Abruptly Roscani took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth and shoved it in the Alfa's ashtray. Another moment and he knew he would have pushed in the lighter. Glancing at Castelletti beside him, he looked in the mirror and then to the broad avenue ahead of them. They were driving south, along Viale di Trastevere. Roscani was more troubled than he had been the entire night when he couldn't sleep; he was thinking of Pio and how much he missed him and how much he wished he were with them right now.

For the first time in his life, Roscani was lost. He had no idea if what they were doing was right. Pio's magic was that he would have looked at the whole thing differently than any of them, and they would have talked it through and in the end found some way that made it work for everyone. But Pio wasn't there, and whatever magic they might hope for they would have to find for themselves. The tires squealed loudly as he took a sharp right, and then another. On their left were the railroad tracks, and absently Roscani searched for the work engine. But he saw nothing. Then they were there and turning down Via Nicolo V, moving toward Scala's white Fiat parked at the end of the street across from number 22.

'Roscani and Castelletti,' Adrianna said as the blue Alfa Romeo pulled in and stopped behind the Fiat.

Now the Fiat's door opened, and they saw Scala get out and go to the Alfa. The men chatted for a few moments, then Scala went back to the Fiat and drove off.

'This is a timing thing,' Eaton said. 'Harry Addison goes out two hours ago and doesn't come back. Now Roscani shows up. He's gotta be waiting for Father Daniel to make the next move and make certain nothing happens when he does-'

There was a shrill chirp as Eaton's beeper suddenly went off. Immediately he picked a two-way radio off the seat beside him and clicked it on.

'Yes-'

Adrianna saw his jaw tighten as he listened.

'When?'

Eaton's jaw strained more, and she could see him grind his teeth.

'Not a word from our office, we know nothing about it. – Right.' Abruptly he clicked off and stared into space.

'Li Wen confessed to poisoning the lakes. A few minutes later he was shot and killed by an assailant who was then killed by the security force. Convenient? – Whose stamp does that echo?'

Adrianna felt the chill. 'Thomas Kind…'

Eaton turned back toward the apartment building. 'I don't know what the fuck Roscani's thinking, but if he lets them go into the Vatican after Marsciano, there's every chance somebody's going to get killed, especially if Thomas Kind is in there waiting.'

'James,' Adrianna warned suddenly. An abrupt movement down the street had caught her eye.

Roscani was getting out of his car, looking around, a cell phone to his ear. Castelletti was getting out, too, walking along the sidewalk, an automatic held down alongside his leg. He was looking up at the buildings on either side of the street as if he were Secret Service.

Now Roscani was talking into the phone, nodding, then looking up and motioning to Castelletti. Immediately they both got back into the Alfa.

At the same moment the front door to number 22 Via Nicolo V opened, and a bearded man in a wheelchair and wearing a Hawaiian shirt was pushed into the morning sunshine by a young woman in jeans and sunglasses. The man had a camera case in his lap, the woman carried another over her shoulder.

'It's fucking him,' Adrianna breathed. 'The woman has to be Elena Voso.'

There was an abrupt squeal of tires as Roscani swung the Alfa from where it was parked. Cutting directly across the street, he swerved sharply, then pulled abreast of the wheelchair couple, slowing and staying with them as they moved along the sidewalk toward the Vatican as if they were tourists out for an early stroll.

'Christ, he's going to baby-sit them right into St Peter's.'

Eaton was turning the ignition key, starting the engine, his fingers already tugging at the gearshift. Slowly he eased the green Ford out and down Via Nicolo V. He was angry and frustrated and helpless; the most he could do without creating an international incident was keep the Alfa in sight.

They were turning now, moving from Largo di Porta Cavalleggeri onto Piazza del Sant' Uffizio, a stone's throw from the southern colonnade and the entrance to St Peter's Square. Instinctively, Roscani glanced in the mirror. A green Ford was twenty or thirty yards behind them. It was moving slowly, at the same speed they were. Two people were in the front seat. At his glance, the passenger in the Ford suddenly looked down. Then he saw Elena turn the wheelchair left, heading directly for the colonnade. Again, Roscani looked in the mirror. The Ford was right there, swinging left behind him. Then suddenly it turned right and sped off and out of sight.

Eaton raced on for two short blocks, then turned a quick left and then left again onto Via della Conciliazione. Accelerating past a tour bus, he cut sharply into the right lane and brought the Ford to an abrupt stop in a taxi zone directly across from St Peter's.

In an instant he and Adrianna were out of the car, ignoring the angry shouts of a cab driver for leaving the Ford in the taxi zone, and dodging traffic as they ran toward the crowded square. Reaching it, they pressed desperately through the mass of tourists, looking for a woman pushing a wheelchair. Suddenly a loud claxton horn signaled a warning. They looked up to see a small shuttle bus bearing down on them, leaving the square. Lettering on the shuttle's front read Musei Vaticani – Vatican Museums. Beneath it was the familiar blue logo with the white wheelchair, which was the international symbol for the handicapped. Quickly they stepped out of the way, letting it pass. As it did, Adrianna caught the briefest glimpse of Father Daniel seated at a window near the front. Then the shuttle turned onto the street and crossed the piazza where they had left the car.