Day of Confession Part 36

A clear morning after the rain.

ROSCANI WALKED DOWN THE STEPS AND BACK into the street. His suit was more than wrinkled, he had a stubble beard, and he was tired. Almost too tired to think the way he needed to think. But more than that, he was angry and tired of being lied to, especially by women who, on the outside at least, should have been respectable. Mother Fenti for one, and, here in Lugano, the sculptor and painter Signora Veronique Vaccaro, an iconoclast in middle age who swore through the night and into the early morning hours that she knew nothing of the fugitives and refused to waver from her story. Then she had abruptly and indignantly gone to bed, leaving the police to worry among themselves. And worry they did, especially Roscani, who insisted the chief Swiss investigator who had first interviewed Veronique Vaccaro go over his entire findings again.

Exhaustively he had, saying the Swiss police had found nothing to indicate the house had been occupied during Signora Vaccaro's short absence. However, neighbors had reported seeing a white van with lettering on the doors parked in front of the entrance for a short time at midday the day before. And two young boys taking their dog for a walk in the rain after dinner that night had said they'd seen a big car, a Mercedes, the older boy proudly swore, parked in front as they'd left their house. But it had not been there when they'd come back. And Signora Vaccaro's alibi, one impossible to corroborate, was that she had come home only moments before the police arrived, returning from a camping/sketching trip alone in the Alps.

It was no better with Castelletti and Scala, who had closed the investigations in Bellagio with the interrogation of Monsignor Jean-Bernard Dalbouse, French-born parish priest of the Church of Santa Chiara, and his staff, clerical and laypeople alike. The end result of exhaustive questioning was that each and every one denied having received a call from a cell phone in Siena at 4:20 A.M A.M. the day before. A cell phone registered to Mother Fenti.

Liars. They were all liars.

Why?

It was driving Roscani crazy. Every one of them risked going to jail and for a long time. Yet none of them had even begun to crack. Who, or what, were they protecting?

Leaving Veronique's house, Roscani walked the street alone. The neighborhood was quiet, its residents still asleep. Lake Lugano stretching in the distance was also still, gla.s.sed over, from this distance not even a ripple. What was he doing out there? Looking for clues the others had missed? Once again becoming the bulldog of his father's legacy? Going in circles until he had some kind of answer? Or, did he have a sense that this was where he should be? Like some kind of magnet drawn toward a pile of sawdust and a lost nail. Throwing off the notion, telling himself he was out there for the fresh air, for a moment of a.s.soluta tranquillita a.s.soluta tranquillita, he pulled a battered cigarette pack from his jacket, once again twisted an unlit cigarette into the corner of his mouth, and turned back for the house.

Five paces later he saw it. It was on the edge of the road, under an overhanging bush that kept last night's rain from soaking it through. A flat manila envelope with the impression of a tire tread on it.

Tossing away his cigarette, Roscani bent over and picked it up. More ragged than it had first appeared, it looked as if a wet tire had run over it, caught it up and turned it several revolutions before speed had thrown it off. There was an impression in its surface, as if something stiff and hard had once been inside.

Going back to the house, Roscani went inside and found Veronique Vaccaro-still incensed from her long night and the continued presence of the police-sitting in her kitchen in a bathrobe, one hand around a cup of coffee, the other drumming fingers on the table as if that in itself would make the authorities leave once and for all. Politely he asked for a hair dryer.

"It's in the bathroom," she said in Italian. "Why not use the bath, too, and take a nap in my bed."

With a half smile at Castelletti as he pa.s.sed him, Roscani went into Veronique's bathroom, took down the hair dryer and played it over the envelope until it dried.

Castelletti came in and stood behind him, watching as Roscani smoothed the envelope on the edge of the sink, and pushed a pencil back and forth across it, as one might do in the creation of a rubbing. Little by little the image of what had been inside appeared.

"Jesus Christ." Suddenly Roscani stopped.

Raised on the envelope in front of them were the highly select letters and number of a diplomatic license plate.

SCV 13.

"Vatican City," Castelletti said.

"Yeah," Roscani looked at him. "Vatican City."

118.

Rome.

IT WAS JUST BEFORE FIVE IN THE MORNING and still dark when Danny signaled Harry to stop in front of Via Nicol V, 22, an old, well-kept three-story apartment complex on a tree-lined street. Locking the Mercedes, Harry and Elena took Danny in his wheelchair up the small elevator to the top floor, where Danny took a set of keys from an envelope Father Bardoni had given him in Lugano. Choosing one, he opened the door to Piano 3a, a s.p.a.cious rear apartment.

Once they were inside, Danny, visibly wearied from the long drive, had gone to bed. Then Harry, taking brief stock of the surroundings and warning Elena to let no one in but himself, left.

Following Danny's instructions, he drove the Mercedes to a street several blocks away, where he removed the Vatican City license plates and replaced them with the original ones. Then, locking the keys inside, he walked off, the Vatican plates hidden inside his jacket. Fifteen minutes later, he was back at number 22 Via Nicol V, taking the elevator up to the apartment. It was almost six o'clock in the morning, little more than half an hour before Father Bardoni was to meet them there.

Harry liked none of it. The idea that Danny, in his condition, and Father Bardoni could succeed in freeing Marsciano from wherever he was being held inside the Vatican was insane. But Danny was determined and so, evidently, was Father Bardoni. What that meant to Harry was one thing alone: Danny would try and Danny would be killed-which was obviously Palestrina's plan.

Furthermore, if Farel had framed Danny for the murder of the cardinal vicar, and if Farel was working for Palestrina, then Palestrina himself had to have orchestrated the killing. And Marsciano knew about it or he wouldn't be Palestrina's prisoner now. All of which made it obvious the confession had been Marsciano's. So, by killing Danny, Palestrina would wipe out the only trail that could lead back to him.

And whom could Harry tell-Roscani? Adrianna? Eaton? Tell them what? What he had was nothing more than conjecture. Moreover, even if he had proof, the Vatican was a sovereign country and not bound by the laws of Italy. Meaning, that outside the Vatican itself, no one had the legal authority to do anything. Still-and this was Danny's agony-if they did nothing, Marsciano would be killed. And Danny was going to do everything he could to prevent that, even if it cost him his own life.

"s.h.i.t," Harry said to himself as he came into the apartment and locked the door behind him. He was in as much d.a.m.n trouble as Danny. Not just because he was his brother, but because he'd promised Danny he wouldn't lose him to anyone the way he'd lost Madeline to the ice. Why did he do that? Why the h.e.l.l did he keep making these kinds of promises to his brother?

"I have not been to Rome often and so was not certain where this place was..."

Harry's introspection was cut short as Elena came eagerly toward him.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll show you."

Leading him into the living room, Elena took Harry to a large window on the far side of it. The pale of the early light revealed what they could not have seen in the dark when they arrived, a view that looked directly across a street toward a high, yellow-brick wall that ran as far as Harry could see in both directions. On the far side of it to the right, and deep in shadow, were a number of nondescript buildings, and to the left what looked like the tops of trees, as if the wall enclosed some kind of large park.

"I don't understand. . ," Harry said, unsure of Elena's interest.

"It's the Vatican, Mr. Addison... part of one side of it anyway."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I have toured the gardens just over the wall."

Harry looked back, trying to find a landmark he could recognize, get some sense of where they were in relation to the public front and St. Peter's Square. Still, he couldn't get his bearings. He was about to question her again when he looked up and a chill came over him; what he had taken for skyline was a huge building still in shadow, but its top was full in sunlight. He was looking directly at St. Peter's itself.

"Christ," he said under his breath. Not only had they landed in Rome unmolested, they had also been given the keys to a piece of real estate barely a stone's throw from Marciano's prison.

For the briefest moment Harry rested his head against the gla.s.s and closed his eyes.

"You are tired, Harry..." Elena's voice was hushed, comforting, in the way a mother might talk to her child.

"Yes," he nodded, then opened his eyes to look at her.

She was still in the business suit the priests had found for her in Bellagio, still had her hair pulled back. Yet it struck Harry that this was the first time he was seeing her not as a nun but as a woman.

"I slept during our drive here, you did not," she said. "There is another bedroom here.... You should sleep... at least until Father Bardoni comes."

"Yes...," Harry started to say. Then, out of nowhere, he realized that he had a major problem. Elena. The gravity of what Danny and Father Bardoni were planning had suddenly become dangerously real, and he couldn't let Elena stay and be part of it.

"-Your parents are alive... ," he said cautiously.

"What does that have to do with sleep?" Elena c.o.c.ked her head, looking at him with the same caution.

"Where do they live?"

"Tuscany..."

"How far is it from here?"

"Why?"

"It's important..."

"Roughly two hours by car. We pa.s.sed through it on the Autostrada."

"And your father has a car. He drives?"

"Why?"

"Does he have a car?" Harry said again, harder and more directly. "Does he drive?"

"Of course."

"I want you to call him and ask him to come to Rome."

Abruptly Elena felt fire shoot through her. She leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms defiantly in front of her.

"I cannot do that."

"If he leaves now, Elena Elena," Harry said, emphasizing her name, as if to silence her protest, "he can be in Rome by nine. Nine-thirty at the latest. Tell him to pull up in front of the building and stay in the car. That when you see him, you'll come down and get in and he is to drive away immediately. No one will ever know you were here."

Elena could feel the fire grow hotter, her indignation rise. How dare he? She had feelings and she had pride. And she was not about to call her father father, of all people, to have herself be picked up like some red-faced schoolgirl left abandoned in the big city the morning after.

"I am sorry, Mr. Addison Mr. Addison," she said, bristling, "but my duty is to care for Father Daniel. And I will stay with him until I am formally relieved of that duty."

"That is very easy, Sister Sister Elena." Harry glared at her. "You are hereby formally, reliev-" Elena." Harry glared at her. "You are hereby formally, reliev-"

"By-my-mother-general!" The veins stood out in Elena's neck.

A shattering silence followed. The two staring at each other. Neither realizing this was their first lover's quarrel-and that one of the lovers had just drawn a deep line in the sand. Yet who would blink first was never answered.

CRASH!.

Suddenly the kitchen door flew open, slamming hard off the wall behind it.

"Harry!-"

Danny came through the doorway fiercely. Thrumping the wheels of his wheelchair with both hands, his eyes wide with alarm, a cell phone in his lap.

"I can't reach Father Bardoni. I have three numbers for him. One's a cell phone he always has with him. I've tried them all! No answer!"

"Danny, take it easy."

"Harry, he was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago! If he was on his way, he'd at least be picking up the cell!"

119.

HARRY TURNED THE CORNER ONTO VIA DEL Parione and started down the block. By his watch it was now seven-twenty-five, nearly an hour after Father Bardoni was to have met them at the apartment. As he walked, he tried the cell number again with the phone Adrianna had given him.

Still nothing.

Common sense told him that for one reason or another Father Bardoni had simply been delayed. It was no more complicated than that.

Ahead was number 17, Father Bardoni's building. Behind it, Danny had said, was an alley and, off it, an old wooden gate to the rear entrance of the building itself. To the left of that entrance, and under a potted red geranium, he'd find the key.

Turning down the alley, Harry walked twenty yards and then saw the gate. Opening it, he crossed a small gravel courtyard. The pot was where it was supposed to be. Under it was the key.

FATHER BARDONI'S FLAT, like the one they were staying in, was on the top floor, and Harry took the back stairs to it quickly. Outwardly, he was still thinking nothing unusual had happened and that there was a simple explanation for Father Bardoni's tardiness. But inwardly, he felt the same as Danny had when he'd burst through the kitchen door.

Dread.

Then Harry was at the top of the stairs and turning down a narrow hallway, stopping as he reached Father Bardoni's door. Taking a breath, he put the key in the lock and started to turn it. It wasn't necessary. The door was unlocked, and swung open.

"Father-?"

There was no reply.

"Father Bardoni-" Harry stepped into a darkened hallway. In front of him was a small living room. Like the one in Danny's apartment, little more than utilitarian.

"Father-?"

Still nothing.

To his right was a narrow hallway. There was a door halfway down and one at the end. Both were closed. Taking a breath, he put his hand on the k.n.o.b to the first door and turned it.

"Father?"

The door swung open to a bedroom. It was little and cramped, with a small window at the back. The bed was made. A phone was on a small table beside it. That was all.

Turning, Harry started out, then he saw a cell phone on the floor next to the bed. The phone Father Bardoni "always has with him"?

Suddenly Harry was aware of his own presence. Something felt very wrong, as if he didn't belong there. Stepping out of the room, he turned ever so slowly to the other door. What was there? Everything in him told him to leave right then. Walk away. Do anything but open that door.

But he couldn't.

"Father Bardoni," he said again.

Silence.

Reaching for his handkerchief, he put it around the k.n.o.b.

"Father Bardoni," he said loud enough to be heard on the far side of the door.

No reply.