Day of Confession Read online

  Harry counted slowly to twenty, then got up, made the sign of the cross and went out through the same door Marsciano had taken.

  On the far side was a narrow hallway, and the cardinal stood alone in it.

  “Come with me,” Marsciano said.

  Their footsteps echoing on the worn black-and-white tile floor, the cardinal led Harry down the empty corridor and into an older part of the building. Turning down another hallway, Marsciano opened a door, and they entered a small private room which was another sanctuary for prayer. Dimly lit, more intimate than the first, it had a stone floor and several polished wooden benches facing a simple bronze cross on the wall opposite. Above, on the left and right, high windows, now dark against the night sky, touched the ceiling.

  “You wished to see me. Here I am, Mr. Addison.” Marsciano closed the door and turned in such a way that the lights of the room cut him at an angle that left his eyes and the top of his head in shadow. Purposeful or not, it underscored his authority, reminding Harry that whatever else he was, or might be, Marsciano was still a major figure within the hierarchy of the Church. Hugely forceful, and larger than life.

  Still, Harry could not let himself be intimidated. “My brother is alive, Eminence, and you know where he is.”

  Marsciano was silent.

  “Who are you protecting him from? The police?… Farel?”

  Harry knew Marsciano was watching him, the eyes he couldn’t see searching his own.

  “Do you love your brother, Mr. Addison?”

  “Yes…”

  “Do—you—love—your—brother?” Marsciano said again. This time more deliberate, demanding, unforgiving. “You were estranged. You did not speak for years.”

  “He is my brother.”

  “Many men have brothers.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You have been apart all this time. Why is he so important to you now?”

  “Because he just is.”

  “Then why do you risk his life?”

  Fire and anger danced in Harry’s eyes. “Just tell me where he is.”

  “Have you thought what you would do if you knew?” Marsciano ignored him, just kept on. “Go to him. Then what? Stay with him where he is? Hide with him forever?—Sooner or later you would realize that you had to face the matter immediately at hand. The police. And when you do that, Mr. Addison, when you come out, you will both be killed. Your brother, because of what he knows. You, because they will think he has told you.”

  “Just what does he know?”

  For a long moment Marsciano said nothing, then he stepped forward out of the shadow, the light touching his face, illuminating his eyes for the first time. What was there was no longer a papal aristocrat but a lone man who was twisted and torn and filled with fear. More fear than Harry thought anyone capable of. And it caught him wholly by surprise.

  “They tried to murder him once. They are trying again. A hunter has been sent to track and kill him.” Marsciano’s eyes were riveted on Harry’s.

  “Number forty-seven Via di Montoro. Do not think you retreated to your apartment this afternoon unnoticed. Do not think your priest’s costume will continue to hide you. I warn you with everything I have, to stay away! Because, if you do not—”

  “Where is he? What the hell does he know?”

  “—because if you do not, I will tell them where he is myself. And if I do, neither of us will hear from him again.” Marsciano’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That much is at stake…”

  “The Church.” Harry felt the chill, the immensity of it, even as he said it.

  The cardinal stared for the briefest moment, then abruptly turned, pulled open the door, and disappeared into the hallway, his footsteps fading to silence.

  60

  Three hours later. Monday, July 13, 1:20 A.M.

  ROSCANI TOOK THE CALL IN THE NUDE, THE way he always slept in the heat of summer. Glancing at his wife, he put the caller on hold and pulled on a light robe. A moment later he picked up the phone in his study, clicking on the desk light as he did.

  A middle-aged man and his wife had been found shot to death in a storage container behind the ambulance company they owned in Pescara. They had been dead almost thirty-six hours when anxious family members had discovered them. Local investigators on the scene at first believed it was a murder-suicide, but after questioning friends and family, decided in all probability it was not. And, on the off chance it might have a connection to the nationwide manhunt, alerted Gruppo Cardinale headquarters in Rome. Hence, the call to him.

  Pescara. 4:30 A.M.

  Roscani walked the murder scene, the storage shed behind Servizio Ambulanza Pescara. Ettore Caputo and his wife had six children and had been married thirty-two years. They fought, Pescara police said, all the time, and about anything. Their battles were loud and violent and passionate. But never had anyone seen one touch the other in anger. And—never—had Ettore Caputo owned a gun.

  Signora Caputo had been shot first. Point blank. And then her husband had apparently turned the weapon on himself, because his fingerprints were on it. The weapon was a two-shot .44 magnum derringer. Powerful, but tiny. The kind of weapon few people even knew about unless they were firearm aficionados.

  Roscani shook his head. Why a derringer? Two shots didn’t give you much room for miss or error. The only positive thing about it was its size, because it was easy to conceal. Stepping back, Roscani nodded to a member of the tech crew, and she moved in with an evidence bag to take the gun away. Then he turned and walked out of the shed and across a parking area to the ambulance company’s front office. In the street beyond he could see people gathered in the gray early-morning light watching from behind police barricades.

  Roscani thought back to last evening, and what he and his detectives had learned from their singular tours of the hospitals outside Rome. And that was nothing more definitive than the chance they could be right. That there could have been a twenty-fifth passenger on the bus who was never recorded. Someone who could have walked away in the confusion if he was able or taken off by car or—Roscani glanced at a promotional calendar tacked on the office wall as he stepped into the company’s office—by private ambulance.

  Castelletti and Scala were waiting as he came in. They were smoking and immediately put their cigarettes out when they saw Roscani.

  “Fingerprints again,” Roscani said, deliberately waving away the smoke that still hung in the air.

  “The Spaniard’s prints on the assassination rifle. Harry Addison’s prints on the pistol that killed Pio. Now the clear prints of a man who allegedly never owned a gun, yet committed a murder-suicide. Each time making it seem obvious who the shooter was. Well we know that wasn’t the case with the cardinal vicar. So what about the others? What if we have a third person doing the killing, then making sure the prints they wanted on the weapon got there? The same third person each time. The same ‘he/she,’ maybe even ‘they,’ killed the cardinal vicar. Killed Pio. Did the job here at the ambulance office.”

  “The priest?” Castelletti said.

  “Or our third person, someone else entirely.” Absently Roscani took out a piece of gum, unwrapped it and put it in his mouth. “What if the priest was in bad shape and was brought by ambulance from one of the hospitals outside Rome to Pescara…”

  “And this third person found out and came here looking for him,” Scala said quietly.

  Roscani stared at Scala, then folded the chewing gum wrapper carefully and put it in his pocket. “Why not?”

  “You follow that thinking and maybe Harry Addison didn’t kill Pio…”

  Roscani walked off, slowly chewing his gum. He looked at the floor, then at the ceiling. Through the window he could see the red ball of the sun beginning to come up over the Adriatic. Then he turned back.

  “Maybe he didn’t.”

  “Ispettore Capo—”

  The detectives looked up as an investigator from the Pescara police came in, his face already streake
d with sweat from the early heat.

  “We may have something else. The chief medical officer has just examined the body of a woman who died in an apartment house fire last night—“

  Roscani knew before he was told. “The fire didn’t kill her.”

  “No, sir. She was murdered.”

  61

  Rome. 6:30 A.M.

  HARRY WALKED TOWARD THE COLOSSEUM, head down, unmindful of the rush of morning traffic passing on the Via dei Fori Imperiali beside him. At this point, motion was everything. The only way to keep from losing what small splinter of sanity he had left. Cars. Buses. Motor scooters. Roared and putted past. An entire society going about their own personal business, their thoughts and emotions focused wholly and innocently on the day before them, the same way he had every morning of his professional life until he had come to Rome. It had been as routine and comfortable as old shoes.

  Up at six, exercise for an hour in the gym off his bedroom, shower, breakfast meeting with clients or potential clients, and into the office, cell phone never more than inches away, even in the shower. The same as now. Cell phone right there, in his pocket. Only it wasn’t the same. None of it. The cellular phone was there, but he dared not use it. They could trace it back in an instant to whatever close-by cell site he was using, and the whole area would be filled with police before he knew it.

  Suddenly he walked from bright sun to deep shade. Looking up, he saw that he stood in the shadow of the Colosseum. As quickly, his eye caught a movement in the dimness, and he stopped. A woman in a tattered dress stood watching from the base of the ancient arches. Then another stepped in beside her. And then a third, this one holding a baby. Gypsies.

  Turning, he saw there were more. Eight or ten at least, and they were beginning to encircle him. Closing in slowly. Singly, and in twos and threes. All were women, and most had children in tow. Quickly Harry glanced back toward the street. There was no one. No grounds-keepers. No tourists. No one.

  Suddenly he felt a tug on his pants, and he glanced down. An old woman was lifting his pant leg, looking at his shoes. Jerking back, he stepped away from her. It did no good. Another woman was right there. Younger, grinning. Her front teeth gone. One hand held up for money, the other reaching out to caress the material of his trousers. That he seemed to be a priest made no difference. Then something brushed his back and a hand went for his wallet.

  In one motion he whirled, his own hand flashing out, coming up hard with a piece of material, dragging a wildly shrieking young woman up with it. The others shrank back, frightened, uncertain what to do. All the while the woman in his grasp thrashed and wailed, screaming as if she were being murdered. Abruptly Harry pulled her close. His face inches from hers.

  “Hercules,” he said, quietly, “I want to find Hercules.”

  THE DWARF SAT with one hand on his hip, the other holding his chin, staring intently at Harry. It was just past noon, and they were on a bench in a small, dusty square across the Tiber in the Gianicolo section of Rome. Midday traffic rumbled past on a boulevard at the square’s farthest boundary. But that was the extent of it; other than two elderly men on a bench farther down, they were alone. Except that Harry knew the Gypsies were there, somewhere, out of sight, watching.

  “Because of you, the police found my tunnel. Because of you, I now live outdoors instead of in. Thank you very much.” Hercules was angry, and put out, literally.

  “I’m sorry…”

  “Yet here you are again. Back, I think, looking for help instead of the other way around.”

  “Yes.”

  Hercules deliberately looked off. “What do you want?”

  “You, to follow someone. Two people, actually. You and the Gypsies.”

  Hercules looked back. “Who?”

  “A cardinal and a priest. People who know where my brother is… who will lead me to him.”

  “A cardinal?”

  “Yes.”

  Hercules suddenly pulled a crutch under him and stood up. “No.”

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “With what?”

  “Money.”

  “How are you going to get it?”

  “I have it….” Harry hesitated, then took Eaton’s money from his pocket. “How much do you want? How much for you and the Gypsies?”

  Hercules looked at the money, then at Harry. “That’s more than I gave you. Where did you get it?”

  “I got it—that’s all…. How much do you want?”

  “More than that.”

  “How much more?”

  “You can get it?” Hercules was surprised.

  “I think so…”

  “If you can get so much money, why don’t you ask the people giving it to you to follow the cardinal?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why?—Can’t trust them?”

  “Hercules, I’m asking for your help. I’m willing to pay for it. And I know you need it…”

  Hercules said nothing.

  “Before, you said you could not collect the reward on me because you would have to go to the police for it…. Money can help get you off the street.”

  “Frankly, Mr. Harry, I would just as soon not be seen with you. The police want you. The police want me. We’re bad company. Twice as bad when we’re together…. I need you as a lawyer, not a banker. When you can do that, come back. Otherwise, arrivederci.”

  Indignantly, Hercules grabbed for his other crutch. But Harry beat him to it and snatched it away.

  Hercules’ eyes flashed angrily. “That’s not a very good idea.”

  Harry ignored his protest. “Before, you said you wanted to see what I could do. How far my wits and courage would take me. This is how far, Hercules. In a big circle, right back to you…. I tried, it just didn’t work…” Harry’s voice softened, and he looked at Hercules for a long moment, then ever so slowly gave him back his crutch.

  “I can’t do it alone, Hercules…. I need your help.”

  Harry’s last words were barely out when the cellular phone rang in his jacket pocket, its shrill intrusion startling them both.

  “—Yes… ,” Harry answered warily, his eyes darting around the park, as if this were a trick, the police on to him.

  “Adrianna!” Quickly Harry turned away, covering his free ear against the sound of the traffic on the boulevard.

  Hercules swung up on his crutches, watching intently.

  “Where?” Harry nodded once, then twice. “—Okay. Yes! I understand. What color?—Okay, I’ll find it.”

  Snapping off the phone, Harry slid it into his pocket, at the same time looking to Hercules.

  “How do I get to the main railroad station?”

  “Your brother—“

  “He’s been seen.”

  “Where?” Hercules could feel the excitement.

  “In the north. A town on Lake Como.”

  “That’s five hours by train through Milan. Too long. You would risk being—“

  “I’m not going by train. Someone has a car waiting for me at the railroad station.”

  “A car…”

  “Yes.”

  Hercules glared at him. “So, suddenly you have other friends and don’t need me.”

  “I need you to tell me how to get to the station.”

  “Find it yourself.”

  Harry stared at the dwarf, incredulous. “First you want nothing to do with me, now you’re mad because I don’t need you.”

  Hercules said nothing.

  “I will find it myself.” Abruptly Harry turned and walked off.

  “Wrong way, Mr. Harry!”

  Harry stopped and looked back.

  “You see, you do need me.”

  The wind picked up Harry’s hair, and dust danced past his feet. “All right. I need you!”

  “All the way to Lake Como!”

  Harry glared. “All right!”

  In an instant Hercules was up and swinging toward him. Then he was past him, calling over his shoulder.
/>   “This way, Mr. Harry. This way!”

  62

  Lake Como, Italy. Monday, July 13, 4:30 P.M.

  ROSCANI TURNED TO LOOK AT SCALA AND Castelletti in the seats behind him, then with a glance at the jet-helicopter’s pilot, turned back to stare out the window. They had been flying for nearly three hours, north along the Adriatic coast, over the cities of Ancona, Rimini, and Ravenna, then inland toward Milan, and finally north again to drop down over the high hills and sweep across Lake Como toward the town of Bellagio.

  Below, he could see the tiny white wakes of pleasure boats cutting the deep blue of the lake’s surface like decorations on a cake. To his left, a dozen opulent villas surrounded by manicured gardens dotted the shoreline, and to his right, the steep hillsides dropped sharply to the lake itself.

  They’d been still in Pescara at the scene of the apartment house fire when he’d taken an urgent call from Taglia. A man thought to be Father Daniel Addison had been brought to a private villa on Lake Como by chartered hydrofoil the night before, Gruppo Cardinale’s chief had said. The hydrofoil captain had seen the broadcast of the continuing public appeal messages on television and was all but certain who his passenger was. Yet he’d been reluctant to say anything because the villa was very exclusive and he was afraid he might lose his job if he was wrong and accidentally exposed a celebrity of some kind. But then sometime this morning his wife had convinced him he should notify the authorities and let them make the decision.

  Celebrity, Roscani thought as the pilot banked sharply left and dropped lower over the water; who the hell cared who got exposed if they were on the right track? Time was more critical than ever.

  The body found in the rubble had been that of Giulia Fanari, the wife of Luca Fanari, the man who, records had shown, had rented an ambulance from the slain proprietors of the ambulance company in Pescara. Signora Fanari had been dead before the fire began. Killed by a sharp instrument, probably an ice pick, inserted into the skull at the base of the brain. For all intents she was “pithed,” the way a biologist might dispatch a frog he was about to dissect. Cold blooded wasn’t a description. From the way it had been done, it appeared to Roscani to have been an act performed almost passionately, as if, with each involuntary squirm and muscular jolt the victim gave as her brain was slowly and deliberately crushed inside her skull, the killer was enjoying it. Maybe even sexually. If nothing else, the sheer inventiveness of the act told him the perpetrator was a person with absolutely no concept of conscience. A true sociopath who had complete indifference to the feelings, pain, or well-being of other people. A human being truly evil from birth. And if this sociopath was their illusory third person, Roscani could eliminate the “they” of it, because everything told him the murder had been done by one person alone, and he could eliminate the “she” as well, because it would have taken enormous strength to kill Giulia Fanari the way it had been done, meaning, almost without doubt, the creature who did it was a man. And if he had been in Pescara on the trail of Father Daniel and, through his doings there, had learned where he had been taken, it would mean he was a great deal closer to finding Father Daniel than they were.