Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [109]
“Get out of here, now! Or I will call security!” Edward Mooi pulled the towel around him angrily.
“I don’t think so.” The blond man took something from his jacket pocket and set it on the white porcelain sink next to the poet.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” Mooi looked at what had been set on the sink. Whatever it was was wrapped in what looked like a dark green restaurant napkin.
“Open it.”
Edward Mooi stared at him, then slowly picked up the napkin and unwrapped it.
“Oh, Lord!”
Heinously blue. Bloodied. Grossly swollen with bits of the green napkin fiber clinging to it—a neatly severed human tongue. Half gagging, Mooi threw it into the sink and backed away, terrified.
“Who are you?”
“The ambulance driver didn’t want to talk about the priest. Instead he wanted to fight.” The blond man’s eyes were on his. “You are not a fighter. The television says you are a poet. That makes you an intelligent man. Which is why I know you will do as I ask and take me to the priest.”
Edward Mooi stared. This was who they had been hiding Father Daniel from.
“There are too many police. We will never get past them—“
“We will see what we can do, Edward Mooi.”
ROSCANI LOOKED AT THE OBJECT—or objects—intertwined in a single water-sodden mass of blood, flesh, and clothing pulled from the lake, discovered by the elderly owner of the villa on whose manicured grounds they now stood, while the tech-team people took photographs, made notes, interviewed the man who had come upon it.
Who could tell who they were, or had been? Except Roscani knew; so did Scala and Castelletti. They were the others—two, it looked like—who had been onboard the hydrofoil that brought Father Addison to Villa Lorenzi.
Damn, Roscani wanted a cigarette. Thought about bumming one from one of his detectives. Instead he pulled out a foil-wrapped chocolate biscuit from his jacket, unwrapped it and bit off a piece, then walked away. He had no idea how the men here were butchered, except that they were—butchered. And he would bet a year’s cache of chocolate biscuits that it was the work of the man with the ice pick.
Moving to the water’s edge, he stared out at the lake. He was missing something. Something of what had happened should be telling him something.
“Mother of God!” Roscani turned quickly and started back across the lawn toward the car. “Let’s go! Now!”
Immediately Scala and Castelletti left the tech crew to follow him.
Roscani was walking, half running as he reached the car. Getting in, he snatched the radio from the car’s dashboard. “This is Roscani. I want Edward Mooi taken into protective custody right now! We’re on our way.”
An instant later Scala swung the car in a wide arc, spewing gravel over the freshly cut lawn. Roscani was beside him. Castelletti in back. No one said a word.
79
10:50 A.M.
HARRY WATCHED AND LISTENED AS THE sunlight faded to shadow and then darkness, and the wood-and-steel cage lowered, creaking, between the rock walls. Down there, somewhere, was Danny. Above was the dirt road through the trees and the farm truck they had left hidden in the brush near the edge of the wooded circle at the end of it.
One minute passed. Then two. Then three. The only sounds were the creak of the cage and the distant hum of the electric motor as the lift descended and they passed the occasional safety lamp mounted in the rock. With the coming and going of the light, Harry could see the quiet nuance of Elena’s body under her habit, the strength of her neck held high above her shoulders, the soft sweep of her cheek punctuated by the angular bridge of her nose, a before unseen sparkle in her eyes. Then suddenly something shifted his attention away from Elena. It was an odor of mossy dampness. Pungent and vividly familiar. One he hadn’t smelled in years.
Instantly he was transported to the afternoon of his thirteenth birthday. He was wandering alone in the woods after school—woods with the exact same mossy-wet smell that surrounded him now. Life had taken them all in a rush. In less than two years he and Danny had lost their sister