Day Of Confession

111

EuroCity Train #55. 4:20 p.m.

Julia Louise Phelps smiled lightly at the man in the first-class seat across from her, then turned to the window and watched the rural land ease to cityscape. In a matter of a few miles, open land became apartment buildings, warehouses, factories. In fifteen minutes Julia Phelps, or rather Thomas Kind, would be in Rome. Then, a taxi from the station to the Majestic Hotel on Via Veneto. And then, a few minutes later, another. Taken across the Tiber to the Amalia, the former pensione on Via Germanico – which was small, homey, and discreet. And comfortably close to the Vatican. Only one part of the trip from Bellagio to Rome had been troublesome – the killing of the young designer he'd met on the hydrofoil and coaxed into giving a ride to Milan when he'd learned the man had a car in Como and was driving there. What should have been a short, simple late-night automobile trip suddenly turned onerous when the young man began making jokes about the seeming impotence of the police and their inability to catch the fugitives. He'd looked at Thomas Kind too seriously, studying his large hat, his clothing, his overdone makeup that covered the scratches on his face, then half playfully suggesting that one of the fugitives could be dressed just like him, pretending to be a woman. A killer who could slip away unnoticed, right under the noses of the police.

In times past, this was something Thomas Kind probably would have let go. But not in the mental state he was now. That the designer could be a dangerous witness had been almost irrelevant; the thing that had jumped out foremost was the uncontrollable urge for killing that the suggestion of danger had aroused in him. And the intensely erotic gratification that went with it.

This sensation, which had once been vague and all but unnoticeable, had grown markedly in the last weeks; beginning with the murder of the cardinal vicar of Rome and increasing in passion and fervor with his acts in Pescara and Bellagio and then inside the grotto. How many had it been? – seven killed, within hours? One on top of the other on top of the other.

And now, here on this train entering Rome, he was desperately hungering for more. His emotions, his entire being, suddenly and intractably pulled toward the man in the first-class seat across from him. The man was smiling, flirting, but doing absolutely nothing that was in any way threatening.

My God, he had to stop it!

Abruptly he looked away and back out the train's window. He was ill. Terribly, mentally ill. Maybe even insane. But he was Thomas Jose Alvarez-Rios Kind. Who the hell could he talk to? Where on God's earth could he go for help where they wouldn't catch him and throw him into prison? Or, worse, see his weakness and shun him for the rest of his life.

^'Roma Termini' - the metallic voice crackled over the speaker system. The train slowed as it came into the station, and people stood to collect their luggage from the overhead racks. Julia Louise Phelps didn't have the chance to take hers down; the man she had smiled at did it for her.

'Thank you,' Thomas Kind said in an American accent and sounding singularly feminine.

'Prego,' the man replied.

And then the train stopped, and they departed. One more smile between them. Each going his own way.