Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [30]
There were none.
Only holes in the leatherette trim where they’d been. Then he realized this was a police car, and the rear seats of police cars never had door locks. They were always locked and could be opened only from the outside.
“Where are we going?” Harry said it louder this time. He could feel the thump of his heart against his chest. His palms were sticky with sweat.
“Non capisco inglese.”
Again the driver glanced at him in the mirror. Then Harry saw his foot press down on the accelerator. The car picked up speed, bucking and jolting over the uneven road. Corn rows flew past. Behind them was a curtain of dust. Harry put out a hand to keep his balance. Sweat trickled down from under his arms. For the first time in his life he felt real fear.
Without warning the road turned, and they rounded a bend. Ahead was a clearing and a modern two-story house. A gray Alfa Romeo was parked on dry grass alongside a tiny three-wheel farm vehicle. The Opel slowed and then stopped. The driver got out and walked around the car, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. Then he pulled the door open and motioned for Harry to get out.
“Fuck,” Harry swore under his breath. He got out slowly, watching the man’s hands, trying to decide what to do if he moved them. Then he saw the door to the house open. Two men came out. Farel was one and—Harry felt a huge surge of relief cut through him—Pio was the other. A man and two young boys followed. Harry looked off and at the same time let out a deep sigh. Behind the house, on the far side of a row of trees, traffic flowed on the Autostrada. They had done nothing but make a large circle off the highway and come up on the house from behind.
17
“THE ISPETTORE CAPO WILL TELL YOU.” FAREL’S eyes held on Harry, but only for a moment. Then he turned, and he and Pio walked to the rear of the Alfa Romeo. It was only as Pio opened the trunk that Harry realized both men wore surgical gloves and that Pio carried something in a clear plastic bag.
Putting whatever it was in the trunk, Pio pulled off the gloves and found a notebook. Filling out some kind of form, he signed it and handed it to Farel, who scrawled his own signature on it, pulled off the top copy, and, folding it, slid it into his jacket pocket.
With a nod to the man who had followed them from the farmhouse, Farel glanced once more at Harry, then got into the Opel. There was roar of engine and spinning of wheels in the gravel and then Farel and the man who had driven Harry out from Rome were gone, with only swirling dust to suggest they’d been there at all.
“Grazie,” Pio said to the man standing with the two boys. “Prego,” the man said, then gathered the youngsters and took them back into the house.
Pio looked to Harry. “The boys are his sons. They found it.”
“Found what?”
T“The gun.”
Pio took Harry to the back of the car and showed him what he’d put in the trunk. It was what remained of a pistol, sealed inside a clear evidence bag. Through the plastic, Harry could see a small automatic with a silencer attached to the barrel. Its blue metal was scorched, its polymer grips all but melted.
“It’s still loaded, Mr. Addison.” Pio looked at him. “It was probably thrown clear when the bus overturned; otherwise the ammunition would have gone off and the weapon would have been destroyed.”
“Are you concluding that it belonged to my brother?”
“I‖m not concluding anything, Mr. Addison. Except, most pilgrims to Assisi do not carry automatic pistols mounted with silencers…. For your information, the make is a Llama XV. Small-frame auto-pistol.” Pio slammed the trunk shut. “It was made in Spain.”
THEY RODE WITHOUT SPEAKING. Past the high cornstalks. Down the dirt road. The Alfa banging