Day of Confession by Allan Folsom Page A

did and maybe more—he had no genuine friends, no soul mates of any kind. His life moved too quickly for those kinds of relationships to develop. Women were no different. He was part of Hollywood’s inner circle, and beautiful women were everywhere. He used them and they used him; it was all part of the game. A private screening, dinner afterward, sex, and then back to business; meetings, negotiations, telephones, maybe seeing no one at all socially for weeks at a time. His longest affair had been with an actress and lasted little more than six months. He’d been too busy, too preoccupied. And until now it had seemed all right.
    Turning from the desk, Harry went to the window and looked out. The last time he’d looked, the city had been a dazzle of early-evening sun. Now it was night, and Rome sparkled. Below him, the Spanish Steps and the Piazza di Spagna beyond teamed with people—a mass congregation of coming and going and just being, with little collections of uniformed police here and there making sure none of it got out of hand.
    Farther away he could see a convergence of narrow streets and alleyways, above which the orange-and-cream-colored tile rooftops of apartments, shops, and small hotels fingered out in ancient orderly blocks until they reached the black band of the Tiber. Across it was the lighted dome of St. Peter’s, that part of Rome where he’d been earlier in the day. Beneath it sprawled Jacov Farel’s domain, the Vatican itself. Residence of the pope. Seat of authority for the world’s nine hundred and fifty million Roman Catholics. And the place where Danny had spent the final years of his life.
    How could Harry know what those years had been like? Had they been enriching or merely academic? Why Danny had gone from the marines to the priesthood he didn’t know. It was something he had never understood. Not surprising, because at the time they were barely talking, so how could he have asked at all without sounding judgmental? But looking out now at the lighted dome of St. Peter’s, he had to wonder if it was something there, inside the Vatican, that had driven Danny to call him, and afterward sent him to his death.
    Who or what had he been so frightened of? And where had it originated? At the moment, the key seemed to be the bombing of the bus. If the police could determine who had done it and why, they would know if Danny himself had been the target. If he had been the target, and the police knew who the suspects were, then they would all be a major step closer to confirming what Harry still believed in his heart—that Danny was not guilty and had been set up. For some unknown reason altogether.
    Once more, he heard the voice and the fear.
    “ I’m scared, Harry…. I don’t know what to do… or… what will happen next. God help me .”

11
    11:30 P.M .
    HARRY WOUND HIS WAY DOWN THE VIA CONDOTTI to the Via del Corso and on, unable to sleep, looking in shop windows, just wandering with the late crowd. Before he’d gone out he’d called Byron Willis in L.A., telling him about his meeting with Jacov Farel and alerting him to the probability of a visit from the FBI, then discussing with him something deeply personal—where Danny should be buried.
    That twist—one that, in the crush of everything, Harry hadn’t considered—had come in a call from Father Bardoni, the young priest he’d met at Danny’s apartment, informing him that, as far as anyone knew, Father Daniel had no will, and the director of the funeral home needed to advise the funeral director in the town where Danny was to be interred about the arrival of his remains.
    “Where would he want to be buried?” Byron Willis had asked gently. And Harry’s only answer was “I don’t know…”
    “You have a family plot?” Willis had asked.
    “Yes,” Harry had said. In their hometown of Bath, Maine. In a small cemetery overlooking the Kennebec River.
    “Would that be something he would like?”
    “Byron, I… don’t