Day Of Confession

16

Twenty minutes later Farel's driver swung off the Autostrada, paid the toll, and they moved off once more, turning onto a country highway, passing a gas station and a large building housing farm equipment. Then there was nothing but the road and cornfields on either side of it. They drove on, a mile, then two, then three. The bus had blown up on the Autostrada, and they were rapidly moving away from it.

'Where are we going?' Harry asked suddenly.

The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror and shook his head. 'Non capisco inglese.'

In the last minutes they had passed no other traffic. Harry looked over his shoulder, then out through the windshield. The corn was lush, higher than the car. Dirt farm roads cut off left and right, but they kept on. Five miles now. Harry's uneasiness grew. Then he felt the car begin to slow. He watched the speedometer drop, 80 kilometers, 60, 40, 20. Abruptly the driver swung right, turning off the highway and starting down a long, rutted lane. Instinctively, Harry glanced at the door locks to see if they were down, if the driver controlled them electronically from up front.

There were none.

Only holes in the leatherette trim where they'd been. Then he realized this was a police car, and the rear seats of police cars never had door locks, were always locked, could be opened only from the outside.

'Where are we going?' Harry said it louder this time. He could feel the thump of his heart against his chest, the stick of sweat on his palms.

'Non capisco inglese.'

Again the driver glanced at him in the mirror. Then Harry saw his foot press down on the accelerator. The car picked up speed, bucking and jolting over the uneven road. Corn rows flew past. Behind them was a curtain of dust. Harry put out a hand to keep his balance. Sweat trickled down from under his arms. For the first time in his life he felt real fear.

Without warning the road turned, and they rounded a bend. Ahead was a clearing and a modern two-story house. A gray Alfa Romeo was parked in dry grass alongside a tiny three-wheel farm vehicle. The Opel slowed and then slopped. The driver got out and walked around the car, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. Then he pulled the door open and motioned for Harry to get out.

'Fuck,' Harry swore under his breath. He got out slowly, watching the man's hands, trying to decide what to do if he moved them. Then he saw the door to the house open. Two men came out. Farel was one and – Harry felt a huge surge of relief cut through him – Pio was the other. A man and two young boys followed. Harry looked off and at the same time let out a deep sigh. Behind the house, on the far side of a row of trees, traffic flowed on the Autostrada. They had done nothing but make a large circle off the highway and come up on the house from behind.