Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [144]
“Whatever you need or feel, or”— he looked back her—“whatever I might feel in return, we can’t get into. I’ve told myself”—his voice became gentler—“and now I’m telling you. It’s why I snapped at you a moment ago. We’re in trouble, a lot of it, and we have to get out. Veronique may be an extraordinary woman, but we’re not safe here. By now Roscani will know we’ve slipped him. Lugano is too close to the Italian border. It won’t be long until the Swiss police are everywhere. If Danny could walk it might be different, but—” Suddenly Harry stopped.
“What is it?”
“I…” Harry’s gaze drifted off. “This is Wednesday. Monday, a friend of mine got out of a car in Como and left on foot to walk here, to Lugano. It wasn’t far, but it wasn’t easy either, because the police were looking for him, too, and he was a cripple and on crutches.” Now he looked back. “But he went anyway. Smiled and went, because he believed he could do it and because he wanted to be free…. His name is Hercules. He’s a dwarf…. I hope to God he made it.”
Elena smiled gently. “I hope he did, too…”
Harry looked at her for a long moment, then abruptly turned to look out over the city once again. Purposely, he kept his back to her, all but overwhelmed by a wave of emotion. For some reason, the combination of everything that had happened—finding Danny alive, being with Elena, and the vision of Hercules bravely swinging off in the Como twilight sent an enormous yearning for life—to live it fully and to old age—sweeping over him.
He had never realized until that moment how extraordinary human beings could be, or, just by being with her, how truly beautiful Elena was. To him, she was purer, more magnetic, and more real than anyone he could ever remember. Maybe the first real person he had known, or allowed himself to know, since childhood. And if he wasn’t careful, all of his protestations would be wasted, because he would fall hopelessly in love with her. And if he did, it could kill them all.
Suddenly a loud chime from the hallway inside jolted Harry from his reverie. He swung around to look. So did Elena. There was silence and then the chime rang again. Someone was downstairs at the front door.
A half second later, Veronique entered and went to the intercom. Pushing a button, she spoke into it, listened, then pressed the buzzer, letting whoever it was into the building.
“Who is it?” Harry came into the hallway behind her. Elena followed.
Veronique looked up.
“Someone to see your brother,” she said quietly, then went to the door and opened it.
“Who knows he’s even here?”
Harry could hear footsteps coming up the stairs. One person, maybe two. A man, the step was too heavy for a woman. Who was it? The blond man? A trick, set up by the Bellagio priests. Give the killer clear operating room away from Roscani’s people. Or maybe they had made a deal with the Swiss police, and it was a detective coming up to check things out. Why not?—the priests were poor, and there was still a considerable reward for their arrest. Maybe the clergymen couldn’t take the money, but Veronique certainly could, easily funneling a share back to them.
Harry glanced over his shoulder at Elena, nodding toward the upper floor. In an instant she had slipped past him, going up the stairs to where Danny was.
The footsteps were louder. Whoever it was had climbed almost to the top of the stairs. Harry started past Veronique to close the door and lock it.
“It’s all right.” Veronique stopped him.
Then, whoever it was was there, almost to the top. One man, alone, mostly in shadow. Not the blond man—someone else, taller, dressed in jeans and a light sweater. Then he stepped through the door. And Harry saw the dark curly hair, the familiar black eyes behind black-rimmed glasses.
Father Bardoni.
110
REVEREND MOTHER CARMELA FENTI WAS sixty-three and petite. Her eyes sparkled and she was full of humor, and