Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [18]
“Everything just as he left it when he went to Assisi,” Farel said quietly.
“Where were the cartridges?”
Farel led him into the bathroom and opened the door of an ancient commode. Inside were several drawers, all of which had locks that had been pried open, presumably by the police.
“The bottom drawer. In the back behind some toilet tissue.”
Harry stared for a moment, then turned and walked slowly back through the bedroom and into the living room. On the top shelf of the bookcase there was a hot plate he hadn’t noticed before. Beside it was a lone cup with a spoon in it, and next to that a jar of instant coffee. That was it. No kitchen, no stove, no refrigerator. It was the kind of place he might have rented as a freshman at Harvard, when he had no money at all and was there only because he’d earned an academic scholarship.
“His voice—“
Harry turned. Farel stood in the bedroom doorway watching him, his shaved head looking suddenly too large and disproportionate to his body.
“Your brother’s voice on the answering machine. You said he sounded frightened.”
“Yes.”
“As if he might be afraid for his life?”
“Yes.”
“Did he mention names? People you would both know. Family? Friends?”
“No, no names.”
“Think carefully, Mr. Addison. You hadn’t heard from your brother in a long time. He was distraught.” Farel stepped closer, his words running on. “People tend to forget things when they’re thinking about something else.”
“If there had been names I would have told the Italian police.”
“Did he say why he was going to Assisi?”
“He didn’t say anything about Assisi.”
“What about another city or town?” Farel kept pushing. “Somewhere he had been or might be going?”
“No.”
“Dates? A day. A time that might be important—“
“No,” Harry said. “No dates, no time. Nothing like that.”
Farel’s eyes probed him again. “You are absolutely certain, Mr. Addison…”
“Yes, I’m absolutely certain.”
A sharp knock at the front door drew their attention. It opened, and the eager driver of the gray Fiat—Pilger, Farel called him—entered. He was even younger than Harry had first thought, baby-faced, looking as if he were barely old enough to shave. A priest was with him. Like Pilger, he was young, probably not thirty, and tall, with dark curly hair and black eyes behind black-rimmed glasses.
Farel spoke to him in Italian. There was an exchange, and Farel turned to Harry.
“This is Father Bardoni, Mr. Addison. He works for Cardinal Marsciano. He knew your brother.”
“I speak English, a little, anyway,” Father Bardoni said gently and with a smile. “May I offer my deepest condolences…”
“Thank you…” Harry nodded gratefully. It was the first time anyone had acknowledged Danny in any context outside of murder.
“Father Bardoni has come from the funeral home where your brother’s remains were taken,” Farel said. “The necessary paperwork is being processed. The documents will be ready for your signature tomorrow. Father Bardoni will accompany you to the funeral home. And the following morning, to the airport. A first-class seat has been reserved for you. Father Daniel’s remains will be on the same plane.”
“Thank you,” Harry said again, right now wanting only to get out from under the authoritarian shadow of the police and take Danny home for burial.
“Mr. Addison,” Farel warned, “the investigation is not over. The FBI will follow up for us in the States. They will want to question you further. They will want to talk to Mr. Willis. They will want the names and addresses of relatives, friends, military associates, other people your brother may have known or been involved with.”
“There are no living relatives, Mr. Farel. Danny and I were the last of the family. As for who his friends or associates were, I couldn’t say. I just don’t know that much about his life…. But I’ll tell you something. I want to know what happened as much as you do. Maybe even more. And I intend to find out.”
Harry looked at Farel a beat longer. Then, with a nod to Father Bardoni, he took a final look around the room, a last,