Day of Confession (7 page)

12

Wednesday, July 8, 4:32
A.M
.

AGAIN HARRY GLANCED AT THE CLOCK. TIME crept. If he slept at all, he didn’t know. He could still smell Adrianna’s perfume. It was almost masculine, like citrus and smoke. Getting up, going to work in two hours, she’d said. Not just to work like most people, but to the airport and a plane to Zagreb and then into the Croatian backcountry for a story on human rights abuses committed by Croats against Croatian Serbs who had been driven from their homes and slaughtered. It was who she was and what she did.

He remembered, somewhere during their circus, breaking his own rule of not talking about Danny and asking what she knew about the investigation into the bombing of the Assisi bus.

And she’d answered directly, not once, even in tone, accusing him of trying to use her. “They don’t know who did it…”

He’d looked at her in the darkness—her bright eyes watching his, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed—trying to judge if she was telling him the truth. And the truth was, he couldn’t tell. So he let it go. In two days he would be gone, and the only time he would see her again would be on television, in her baseball cap and L. L. Bean field jacket, reporting some kind of struggle from somewhere. What mattered now, as he watched her, moved down to caress her breasts, encircle her nipples with his tongue, one and then the other, was that he wanted her once more. And once more after that. And then again, until there was nothing left, everything gone from his mind but this thing that was Adrianna. Selfish, yes. But it wasn’t entirely one-sided. The idea, after all, had been hers.

Running his fingers slowly up the inside of her thigh, he’d heard her whimper as he reached the sticky wetness where her legs came together. Fully aroused, he was easing up, about to mount her, when abruptly she shifted, rolling him over and getting on top, pulling his erection sharply inside her.

Moving back, she dug her feet into the tuft of the bed and then leaned forward, hands on either side of his head, eyes wide open, watching him. Slowly she began her work, sliding up and down the length of him. Masterfully. Her full weight behind each calculated thrust. And then, like a rower listening to the cadence of her coxswain, she picked up the beat. Moving faster, and faster, then still. The jockey testing the heart of the creature beneath her. Riding loud and hard and with no mercy. Until she became the thoroughbred herself. Pounding the inside rail. Tasting the Crown and thundering savagely toward the finish. In the blink of an eye she’d made it a new game. What before had been desire had suddenly become a leviathan competition.

Nor had she made a mistake in choosing Harry. Long ago having vowed to master the fine art of “swordsmanship,” he watched her every move, then met her stride for stride. Thrust for thrust. Beast against beast. A heart-stopping, all-out match race. A thousand to one as to who would explode first.

They crossed the line together. A howling, sweating, photo finish of orgasmic pyrotechnics that left them sprawled side by side and gasping for air, wholly spent, their inner workings worn raw. Quivering in the dark.

Harry had no idea why, but in that moment a far-off part of him stood back and wondered if Adrianna had picked him—not because he might be a lead player in a major story and it was secretly her style to establish an early personal relationship—not either because she simply liked to have sex with strangers—but for another reason altogether… because she was afraid of tomorrow—of going to Zagreb. Because maybe this was one time too many and something would happen and she would die somewhere in the Croatian countryside. Maybe what she wanted was to breathe as much more life as she could before she went. And Harry just happened to be the one she chose to help her do it.

4:36

Death.

In the dark of room 403 at the Hotel Hassler, there were shutters closed and drapes drawn against the approaching dawn, and yet sleep still did not come to Harry. The world spun, faces danced past.

Adrianna.

The detectives Pio and Roscani.

Jacov Farel.

Father Bardoni, the young priest who was to escort him and Danny’s remains to the airport.

Danny.

Death.

Enough! Turning on the light, Harry threw back the covers and got up, going to the small desk by the telephone. Picking up his notes, he reviewed business deals he’d worked in the hours before he’d gone out. A television contract to pick up a series star for a fourth year at an increase of fifty thousand per episode. An agreement for a top screenwriter to do a month’s polish on a script that had been rewritten four times already. Writer’s fee, five hundred thousand dollars. A deal in the works for two months for a major A-list director to shoot an action film on location in Malta and Bangkok for a flat fee of six million against ten percent of the first dollar box office gross, finally done. Then undone a half hour later because the male star, for reasons unknown, abruptly pulled out. Two hours and half a dozen phone calls later, the star was back in, but by now the director was considering other offers. A call to the star at lunch at a trendy West L.A. restaurant, another to the studio head in his car somewhere in the San Fernando valley, and still another to the director’s agent ended in a four-way conference call to the director at home in Malibu. Forty minutes later the director was back on the picture and getting ready to leave for Malta the following morning.

By the time it was over, Harry had negotiated deals worth, give or take, seven and a half million dollars. Five percent of which, roughly three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars, went to his firm, Willis, Rosenfeld and Barry. Not too shabby for somebody working on anxiety, autopilot, and very little sleep in a hotel room halfway around the world. It was why he was who he was and doing what he did… and why he was paid what he was paid, plus bonus, plus profit sharing, plus…. Suddenly it all felt very hollow and unimportant.

Abruptly Harry shut out the light and closed his eyes against the dark. When he did, shadows came. He tried to push them away, tried to think of something else. But they came anyway. Shadows moving slowly along a distant iridescent wall, then turning and coming toward him. Ghosts. One, two, three, and then four.

Madeline.

His father.

His mother.

and then

Danny…

13

Wednesday, July 8, 10:00
A.M
.

THEIR FOOTSTEPS WERE SILENT AS THEY CAME down the stairs. Harry Addison, Father Bardoni, and the director of the funeral home, Signore Gasparri. At the bottom Gasparri turned them left and down a long, mustard-colored corridor with pastoral paintings of the Italian countryside decorating the walls.

Deliberately, Harry touched his jacket pocket, feeling the envelope Gasparri had given him when he’d come in. In it were Danny’s few personal belongings recovered at the scene of the bus explosion—a charred Vatican identification, a nearly intact passport, a pair of eyeglasses, the right lens missing, the left cracked, and his wristwatch. Of the four, it was the watch that told most the true horror of what had happened. Its band burned through, its stainless steel scorched, and its crystal shattered, it had stopped on July 3 at 10:51
A.M
., scant seconds after the Semtex detonated and the bus exploded.

Harry had made the burial decision earlier that morning. Danny would be interred in a small cemetery on the west side of Los Angeles. For better or worse, Los Angeles was where Harry lived and where his life was, and despite the emotional ride he was on now he saw little reason to think he would change and move elsewhere. Moreover, the thought of having Danny nearby was comforting. He could go there from time to time, make certain the grave site was cared for, maybe even talk to him. It was a way that neither would be alone or forgotten. And, in some ironic way, the physical closeness might help assuage some of the distance that had been between them for so long.

“Mr. Addison, I beg you”—Father Bardoni’s voice was gentle and filled with compassion—“for your own sake. Let past memories be the lasting ones.”

“I wish I could, Father, but I can’t…”

The thing about opening the casket and seeing him had come only in the last minutes, on the short drive from the hotel to the funeral home. It was the last thing on earth Harry wanted to do, but he knew that if he didn’t do it, he’d regret it for the rest of his life. Especially later on, when he got older and could look back.

Ahead of them, Gasparri stopped and opened a door, ushering them into a small, softly lit room where several rows of straight-backed chairs faced a simple wooden altar. Gasparri said something in Italian, and then left.

“He’s asked us to wait here…” Father Bardoni’s eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses reached out with the same feeling as before, and Harry knew he was going to ask him again to change his mind.

“I know you mean well, Father. But please don’t…” Harry stared at him for a moment to make sure he understood, then turned away to look at the room.

Like the rest of the building, it was old and worn with time. Its plaster walls, cracked and uneven, had been patched and patched again and were the same earthen yellow as the hallway outside. In contrast to the dark wood of the altar and the chairs facing it, the terra-cotta floor seemed almost white, its color faded by years, if not centuries, of people coming to sit and stare and then leave, only to be replaced by others who had come for the same reason. The private viewing of the dead.

Harry moved to one of the chairs and sat down. The grisly process of identifying and then examining the bodies of those killed on the Assisi bus for explosive residue had been managed quickly and pragmatically by a larger-than-usual staff at the request of an Italian government still shaken by the murder of Cardinal Parma. The task completed, the remains had been sent from the morgue—the Istituto di Medicina Legale at the City University of Rome—to various funeral homes nearby, there to be placed in sealed caskets for return to their families for burial. And despite the investigation surrounding him, Danny had been treated no differently. He was here now, somewhere in Gasparri’s building, his mutilated body, like those of the others, sealed away for transport home and final disposition.

Harry could have left it that way, maybe
should
have left it that way—his casket unopened; just taken him back to California for interment. But he couldn’t. Not after all that had happened. What Danny looked like didn’t matter. He needed to see him one last time, to make one final gesture that said,
I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. I’m sorry we somehow got locked into the years of bitterness and misunderstanding we did. That we never got to talk about it, or work through it, or even try to understand…
. To say simply,
Goodbye and I love you, and always did, no matter what
.

“Mr. Addison”—Father Bardoni had moved up and was standing beside him—“for your own good…. I have seen people as strong and determined as you crumble as they witness the unspeakable…. Accept God’s way. Know your brother would want you to remember him as he was.”

There was a sound as the door behind them opened and a man with close-cropped gray-white hair entered. He was nearly six feet tall and handsome and carried with him an aura that was both aristocratic and at the same time kind and humane. He wore the black cassock and red sash of a cardinal of the Church. A red zucchetto was on his head, and a gold pectoral cross hung from a chain around his neck.

“Eminence…” Father Bardoni bowed slightly.

The man nodded, his eyes going to Harry. “I am Cardinal Marsciano, Mr. Addison. I came to offer my deepest sympathies.”

Marsciano’s English was excellent, and he seemed to be comfortable speaking it. The same was true of his manner; his eyes, his body language, everything about him comfortable and comforting.

“Thank you, Eminence…” Friend of power brokers and world celebrities, Harry had never once been in the presence of a cardinal, let alone a man of Marsciano’s stature within the Church. Having been brought up Catholic, no matter how nonreligious, how totally non-churchgoing he was now, Harry was humbled. It was as if he were being visited by a head of state.

“Father Daniel was my personal secretary, and had been for many years…”

“Yes, I know…”

“You are waiting here now, in this room, because it is your wish to see him…”

“Yes.”

“You had no way of knowing, but Father Bardoni called me while you were with Signore Gasparri. He thought perhaps I would have better luck in dissuading you than he.” The slightest hint of a smile rose then left. “I have seen him, Mr. Addison. I was the one the police asked to identify the body. I have seen the horror of his death. What the proud inventions of mankind can do.”

“It doesn’t matter….” Marsciano’s presence aside, Harry was resolute; what he had chosen to do was deep and very personal, between Danny and himself. “I hope you can understand.”

Marsciano was silent for a long moment. Finally he spoke. “Yes, I can understand.”

Father Bardoni hesitated, then left the room.

“You are very much like him,” Marsciano said quietly. “That is a compliment.”

“Thank you, Eminence.”

Immediately a door near the altar opened and Father Bardoni came back in. He was followed immediately by Gasparri and a heavy-set man wearing a crisp white jacket who pushed a hospital gurney. On it was a small wooden coffin no bigger than a child’s. Harry felt his heart catch in his throat. Inside it was Danny, or what was left of him. Harry took a deep breath and waited.
How do you prepare for something like this? How does anyone?
Finally he looked to Father Bardoni.

“Ask him to open it.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

Harry saw Marsciano nod. Gasparri hesitated, and then in one motion leaned forward and removed the lid from the casket.

For a moment Harry did nothing. Then, steeling himself, he stepped forward and looked down. As he did, he heard himself gasp. The thing was on its back. Most of the right torso was gone. Where there should have been a face there was a crushed mass of skull and matted hair, with a jagged hole where the right eye would have been. Both legs had been sheared off at the knee. He looked for the arms, but there were none. What made the whole thing even more obscene was that someone had pulled on a pair of underpants, as if to protect the viewer from the indecency of the genitals, whether they were there or not.

“Oh, God,” he breathed. “Oh, fucking God!” Horror and disgust and loss swept over him. The color drained from his face, and he had to put out his hand to keep his balance. Somewhere he heard the rattle of Italian, and it took a moment before he realized Gasparri was talking.

“Signore Gasparri apologizes for what your brother looks like,” Father Bardoni said. “He wants to cover him again, to take him away.”

Harry’s eyes lifted to Gasparri. “Tell him no, not yet…”

Fighting everything in him, Harry turned to look at the mutilated torso once more. He had to pull himself together. To think. To say silently to Danny what needed to be said. Then he saw Cardinal Marsciano gesture and Gasparri move forward with the lid. At the same time something else registered.

“No!” he said sharply, and Gasparri froze where he was. Reaching out, Harry touched the cold chest, then ran his fingers down under the left nipple. Suddenly he felt his legs turn to rubber.

“Are you all right, Mr. Addison?” Father Bardoni moved toward him.

Abruptly Harry pulled away and looked up. “It’s not him. It’s not my brother.”