Day of Confession by Allan Folsom Read Free Book Online Page A

yesterday.” Harry felt the anger begin to rise. “What difference does it make?”
    “How long have you known Mr. Willis?”
    “Ten, eleven years. He helped me get into the business. Why?”
    “You are close to him.”
    “Yes, I guess…”
    “As close to him as to anyone?”
    “I guess so.”
    “Meaning you might tell him things you would tell no one else.”
    “What are you getting at?”
    Farel’s gray-green eyes found Harry’s and held there. Finally his gaze moved off and they continued to walk. Slowly, deliberately. Harry had no idea where they were going or why. He wondered if Farel did, if it was simply his manner of interrogation.
    Behind them, a blue Ford turned the corner, drove slowly for a half block, then pulled over and stopped. No one got out. Harry glanced at Farel. If he was aware of the car, he didn’t acknowledge.
    “You never spoke with your brother directly.”
    “No.”
    Farther down, the men loading bottles finished, and their van pulled from the curb. Parked beyond it was a dark gray Fiat. Two men sat in the front seat. Harry glanced back. The other car was still there. The block was short. If the men in the cars belonged to Farel, it meant they had essentially sealed off the street.
    “And the message he left on your answering machine… you erased.”
    “I wouldn’t have done it if I had known how things were going to turn out.”
    Abruptly Farel stopped. They were nearly to the gray Fiat, and Harry could see the men in the front seat watching them. The one at the wheel was young and leaned forward in his seat almost eagerly, as if he hoped something would happen.
    “You act like you don’t know where we are, Mr. Addison.” Farel smiled slowly, then swept his hand at the yellow stained and paint-peeled four-story building in front of them.
    “Should I?”
    “Number one-twenty-seven Via Ombrellari—you don’t know?”
    Harry looked down the street. The blue Ford was still there. Then his eyes came back to Farel.
    “No, I don’t.”
    “It’s your brother’s apartment building.”

9
    DANNY’S APARTMENT WAS ON THE GROUND floor, small and exceedingly Spartan. Its cubicle of a living room faced a tiny back courtyard and was furnished with a reading chair, small desk, floor lamp, and bookcase, all of which looked as though they had come from a flea market. Even the books were secondhand, most of them old and dealing with historical Catholicism, with titles such as The Last Days of Papal Rome, 1850–1870, Plenarii Concilii Baltimorensis Tertii, The Church in the Christian Roman Empire .
    The bedroom was sparer yet—a single, blanket-covered bed and a small chest of drawers, with lamp and telephone on top, which served as a bedside table. His closet was as meager. A suit of the classic priest’s vestments—black shirt, black slacks, and black jacket all on one hanger. A pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, worn gray sweat suit, and pair of old running shoes. The chest of drawers revealed a white clerical collar, several pairs of well-worn underwear, three pairs of socks, a folded sweater, and two T-shirts, one with the logo of Providence College.
    “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