But, at that moment, what Harry thought or what had kept them apart hadn't mattered. All Danny wanted was to hear Harry's voice, to somehow touch him and to ask for his help. He had made the call as much out of fear as love, and because there had been nowhere else to turn. He had become part of a horror from which there was no return. One that would only grow darker and become more obscene. And because of it, he knew he might very well die without ever touching his brother again.

A movement down the aisle in front of him shook him from his muse. A man was walking toward him. He was in his early forties, clean shaven, and dressed in a light sport coat and khaki trousers. The man had gotten on the bus at the last moment, just as it was pulling out of the terminal in Rome. For a moment Father Daniel thought he might pass and go into the lavatory behind him. Instead, he stopped at his side.

'You're American, aren't you?' he said with a British accent.

Father Daniel glanced past him. The other passengers were riding as they had been, looking out, talking, relaxing. The nearest, a half dozen seats away.

'Yes…'

'I thought so.' The man grinned broadly. He was pleasant, even jovial. 'My name is Livermore. I'm English if you can't tell. Do you mind if I sit down?' Without waiting for a reply, he slid into the seat next to Father Daniel.

'I'm a civil engineer. On vacation. Two weeks in Italy. Next year it's the States. Never been there before. Been kind of asking Yanks as I meet them where I should visit.' He was talky, even pushy, but pleasant about it, and that seemed to be his manner. 'Mind if I ask what part of the country you're from?'

'- Maine…' Something was wrong, but Father Daniel wasn't sure what it was.