Day Of Confession

38

Friday, July 10, 9:50 a.m.

Harry Addison stepped out of the Metro and into bright July sunshine at Manzoni Station. He wore Hercules' costume and looked, he assumed, like a priest who'd had a bad night. A stubble beard, one bandage on the hairline at his left temple, another on his left hand, which kept together his thumb, index, and middle fingers.

The thing that jolted him to hard reality was his picture, side by side with Danny's, on the covers of Il Messagero and La Repubblica, Italian-language newspapers that lined cither side of a news and magazine kiosk near the station. Turning, he walked off in the other direction.

The first thing was to clean up to keep from drawing attention to himself. Ahead of him two streets came together with a small cafe on the corner. He went in, hoping to find a rest room where he could wash his face and hands and wet back his hair so that he was at least presentable.

A dozen people were inside, and not one looked up as he entered. The lone barman was at the coffee machine and had his back to the room. Harry walked past, assuming the rest room, if there was one, was at the rear. He was right, but someone was inside and he had to wait. Stepping back, he leaned against the wall near a window, trying to determine what to do next. As he did, he saw two priests pass by outside. One was bare headed, but the other wore a black beret that was pulled jauntily forward and to the side like some twenties Parisian artist. Maybe it was the style, maybe not, but if one priest could do it, why not two?

Abruptly the lavatory door opened and a man came out. He stared briefly at Harry as if in recognition, then passed by and went back into the cafe.

'Buon giorno, padre,' he said as he did.

'Buon giorno,' Harry said after him, then stepped into the lavatory and closed the door. Locking it with a flimsy slide-bolt, he turned to the mirror.

What he saw startled him. His face was gaunt, his skin pallid, his beard filled in more than he'd realized. When he'd left L.A., he'd been in good shape. A hundred and ninety pounds, over six feet two inches. He was certain he'd lost considerable weight. How much, he didn't know, but, under the black of the priest's clothing he looked exceptionally slim. The weight loss, with the beard, had changed his appearance considerably.

Washing his face and hands as best he could, considering the bandages, he wet his hair and slicked it back with his palms. Behind him he heard a sound and saw the doorknob rattle.

'Momento,' he said instinctively, suddenly wondering if that was the correct word or not.

From outside, an impatient knock on the door was followed by an angry rattle of the doorknob. Unlocking the door, he opened it. An irate woman stared at him. That he was a priest had no effect at all. Obviously, her business was urgent. Nodding politely, he pushed past her, walked the length of the cafe and out into the street.

Two people had seen him face-to-face; neither had said a word. Yet he had been seen at a place with a name, and later – hours or moments – they might see his photo and remember. And remembering, call the police. What he needed to do was distance himself from the cafe as quickly as possible.