Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [37]
“So far you have not felt pain. But you will.”
“Please—” Harry turned his head as far as he could, squeezing his eyes closed.
“That won’t help.” The timbre of the voice was suddenly different. The first voice had been a man’s, this time it sounded like a woman’s.
“I—have—no—idea if—my broth—er is—even—alive. How could I—know—where he—is?”
The light’s pinpoint narrowed, its beam rising up, moving over Harry’s left eye, searching, until it found the center.
“Don’t, please…”
“Where is your brother?”
“Dead!”
“No, comrade. He’s alive, and you know where he is…”
The light was only inches away now. Becoming brighter. And brighter. Its pinpoint sharpened even more. The pounding inside his head grew. The light came closer, a needle pushing from the outside in, toward the back of his brain.
“STOP!” Harry screamed. “MY GOD! STOP! PLEASE!”
“Where is he?” Male.
“Where is he?” Female.
Thomas Kind shifted from one voice to the other, playing both man and woman.
“Tell us and the light will stop.” Male.
“The light will stop.” Female.
The voices calm, even quiet.
The pounding became thunderous. Louder than anything Harry had ever heard. An enormous booming drum inside his head. The light crept on, toward the center of his brain, a white-hot needle searing toward the sound. Trying to mate with it. Brighter than anything he’d ever seen, or could ever imagine. Brighter than a welding arc. The core of the sun. Pain became everything; it was so terrible he was certain even death would not end it. He would take its horror with him into eternity.
“I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! GOD! GOD! STOP IT! STOP IT! PLEASE!—PLEASE… PLEASE…”
CLICK.
The light went out.
22
Rome. Harry Addison’s room, the Hotel Hassler.
Thursday July 9, 6:00 A.M.
NOTHING HAD BEEN TOUCHED. HARRY’S BRIEFcase and working notes were on the table next to the telephone as he’d left them. The same for his clothes in the closet and his toiletries in the bathroom. The only difference was that a bug had been placed in each of the two telephones, the one by the bed, the other in the bathroom, and a tiny surveillance camera had been mounted behind the light sconce facing the door. Just in case he came back. This was part of the plan put in motion by Gruppo Cardinale, the special task force set up by decree of the Italian Ministry of the Interior in response to passionate appeals by legislators, the Vatican, the Carabinieri, and the police in the wake of the murder of the cardinal vicar of Rome.
The murder of Cardinal Parma and the bombing of the Assisi bus were no longer separate investigations but were now considered components of the same crime. Under the umbrella of Gruppo Cardinale, special investigators from the carabinieri, Squadra Mobile of the Italian police, and DIGOS, the special unit that investigates criminal acts with suspected political motive, all reported to the head of Gruppo Cardinale, ranking prosecutor Marcello Taglia; and while the highly respected Taglia did indeed coordinate the activities of the various police agencies, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who Gruppo Cardinale’s true “Il responsabile,” the man in charge, was—Ispettore Capo Otello Roscani.
8:30 A.M.
Roscani stared, then turned away. He knew all too well what the circular saw did in an autopsy. Cutting into the skull, taking the cap off so that the brain could be removed. And then the rest of it, taking Pio apart almost piece by piece, looking for anything that would tell them more than they already knew. What that might be Roscani didn’t know, because he already had enough information to establish Pio’s killer beyond what he believed was reasonable doubt.
Pio’s 9mm Beretta had been confirmed as the murder weapon, and several clear prints had been found on it. Most were Pio’s, but two were not—one, just above the left grip, the other on the right side of the trigger guard.
A query to the Los Angeles