Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [177]
From his perch at the top of St. Peter’s, Thomas Kind looked down to the empty square below him. In another hour people would start to come. From then on, the crowds would grow almost by the minute as the multitudes from around the world came to visit this holy and ancient place. It was curious, he thought, how much calmer and less mad and desperate he was since he’d come here. Perhaps there was indeed something spiritual here after all.
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.
139
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, and Roscani was more troubled than he had been throughout the entire night, when he couldn’t sleep; he was thinking about 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,