Day Of Confession

88

Thomas Kind's fingers tugged at his throat. Salvatore was much stronger than he looked. The scarf taken from his wife's hair was twisted in his hands. Looped in a garrote around the blond man's neck. Pulling harder, the Italian pushed his knee into the small of Thomas Kind's back.

'Bastardo,' he hissed. 'Bastardo.'

This was something Kind hadn't counted on, hadn't even considered from a man as insubstantial and spiritless as Salvatore Belsito. But he would not die because of it. Abruptly he let his body go limp and slumped forward, taking the Italian by surprise. Both men hit the deck at the same time. In a single motion, Thomas Kind pulled free, rolled to the side, and came up behind him. The razor flashed in his hand, and he grabbed the Italian by the hair, dragging his head back, fully exposing the length of his throat.

'That place – that cave where they were-' Thomas Kind took a breath and felt his pulse slow, come back to normal. 'Where does it go?'

Deliberately the Italian's eyes crept up to fix on the blond man standing over him. Oddly, he was not afraid. 'Nowhere…'

Abruptly the razor slid across the base of Salvatore's nose. He cried out at the sudden gush of red that poured down over his lip and into his mouth.

'Where does it go?'

The Italian choked, tried to spit out his own blood.

'Like others in… here… To an underground stream… and… then… back… to the lake.'

'Where? - North of here? South? Where?'

Slowly a smile crossed Salvatore Belsito's face, a great, grand smile that was, in truth, his soul.

'I will not… tell you…'