The Confessor

by Mark Allen Smith

  ‘You know it was me, don’t you?’ said Matheson.

  ‘That you told Dalton Geiger was alive, and that the spooks knew? Yes, I know.’

  ‘Because you didn’t tell him.’

  ‘Right.’ There was no anger in Harry’s eyes, and no judgement. ‘It doesn’t matter, David. One of us would, eventually. That’s how it works.’

  ‘I tried to hold out, Harry – but after the second finger I just—’

  ‘David . . . Do you know what I’ve seen? A hundred men – weasels to guys who made Capone look like a wimp. And every one of them caved. Every one of them told Geiger what he needed to know. Geiger called it the release point – and we’ve all got one. So let it go. We’re all the same that way. All of us.’

  ‘. . . Even Geiger?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe you’ll get the chance to ask him.’

  Harry let his eyes fall shut. He needed to go somewhere else – if only for a few moments – places he had crossed off the map years ago. But he sensed they would be easy to find.

  He heard a voice call to him . . .

  ‘Harry . . . Come here.’

  The music of Christine’s voice, the foreign lilt, always made him smile.

  He was at his desk in the corner of their bedroom on Eighty-second Street, working on a piece for the Times’ Week In Review. He rose and came down the hall to a doorway. She was inside, leaning against a wall, arms folded across her slender chest, and when she saw him she put a finger up to her smile, signaling not to speak.

  ‘Have you seen Sophie?’ she said, and jabbed a thumb to her right.

  The little girl was sitting on the floor in a corner – snug in her red pajamas, head bowed, her three years of caramel curls falling in her face, which she had covered up with her hands. She was trying not to giggle.

  ‘I think she’s hiding,’ said Christine, and winked a pale blue eye at him. Harry walked to her, and they brushed their lips together. ‘I wonder where she could be,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe she’s using her special invisible powers,’ he said.

  ‘Why yes. Maybe that’s it. I wonder, wonder, wonder where she could be.’

  The little girl lowered her hands. The magnitude of her smile was off the charts.

  ‘I’m here!’ she said, popping up laughing, and jumped into her mother’s arms. They had the same face – the pointed chin, wide forehead, the pale blue, oval eyes that seemed to widen and gleam when they were happy.

  ‘You were using your special invisible powers. How do you do that?’

  ‘Daddy taught me.’

  ‘I know – but how do you do it?’

  ‘Well . . . First I—’

  ‘Sophie, wait,’ said Harry, and leaned to her and started whispering in her ear. The little girl nodded soberly as she listened.

  ‘Mommy,’ she said, ‘Daddy says I can’t tell.’

  ‘No? Why not?’

  ‘Because it only works if you don’t tell how. It’s a secret.’

  ‘Then you certainly shouldn’t tell me. I want you to always be able to turn invisible when you want to.’ She kissed the little girl, then glanced at Harry, her blue eyes brightening, and mouthed the words – ‘I love you’.

  Dalton’s forefinger slowly tapped at his upper lip as he composed his thoughts, then his fingers clicked on the keyboard as he wrote.

  Obsession is a relative state. It is morality that measures and contraposes obsession in our mind. Jeffrey Dahmer and DaVinci. Himmler and Kubrick. Stalin and Curie. The terrorist and the saint.

  The madman and the creator. Feeling and harnessing that power is the extraordinary element in it all. I remember the session with Geiger, talking to him about the pursuit of expertise, how it is the great definer and equalizer. One doesn’t need a degree, or wealth, or privilege – and it tells us much about someone – that they possess a passion that has driven them to a point well beyond where most people would ever go.

  After that day’s events, through the months of pain, I came to understand I was far from his equal. Where he had been the expert, I had been a journeyman – artless, mundane. But I have remade myself, elevated myself, while he chose to renounce his expertise – so now I will pay my debt to him. I will help him discover who he really is.

  Madness is also a relative state – and if obsession is my right hand, then madness is my left.

  Dalton rose and strolled to a window, the dried carcasses of the wasps scattered on the floor crunching beneath his shoes. Outside the glass, beneath the farmhouse’s eaves, a few of the giant, buzzing insects were in a lazy hover around the huge, pulpy nest. Its twisted, menacing beauty always moved him.

  ‘Not equals, Geiger, no – but certainly, there were no others like us. And you decided we were done. You decided, for both of us.’ He swallowed like an animal with a bone stuck in its throat. ‘You thought you’d ended something – but what you didn’t understand is – that you’d started something new . . . and left it to me to finish it.’

  19

  Dewey had the side and rearview mirrors set up so he could see the hotel’s lobby, a hundred feet behind him, in both of them – and that allowed him to shift every few minutes behind the wheel, doing his back exercises without losing sight of the target for more than a second. The pelvic tilts and side stretches helped keep things from locking up when he had to sit so long.

  He liked crunching the numbers in his head. He had all the figures cold by now – down payment, reno and replacement, monthly nuts – even a quote on a neon sign for behind the bar – and he’d had the new name since before he shipped out in ’08. ‘McFearless’ – by Kings of Leon. It’d be the first song out of the speakers on opening night. ‘I roll my sleeves and make a better man of me.’ Victor had said he’d give him a name or two if he finished the job solid. Another four or five gigs and he’d be there . . .

  He straightened up when he saw Geiger come out of the hotel lobby, tote bag in hand, and stop beneath the entry’s awning and overhead light – and then Dewey was answering his cell and talking before the first ring was finished.

  ‘Yeah, I see him,’ he said.

  It was Victor on the other end, smooth as a frozen lake. ‘Fine,’ he said. He was standing by his room window, crossword puzzle in hand at his side, watching Geiger through the neon-threaded rain.

  ‘Am I on him?’ asked Dewey.

  Victor turned and walked through the adjoining door. Zanni was sitting cross-legged on her bed, hair still wet from the shower, wrapped loosely in a terry-cloth robe, the newspaper spread open before her.

  ‘Geiger’s out,’ he said, and Zanni hopped to the floor and went to the curtained window. ‘You want Dewey on him?’

  Zanni pulled the drapes back a few inches. ‘Yes. But eyes only. No contact.’

  Victor brought the phone back up. ‘Yes, you are on him, Dewey – but keep no contact. Yes?’

  ‘I get you.’

  ‘Good.’

  Victor came up beside Zanni, and smiled. ‘Always lavender. Do you ever think of trying something else – just for a change?’

  She turned her poker face to him. ‘Why?’

  Geiger knew exactly what time it was, but he looked at his watch. However many eyes were on him, he wanted to make sure they all got a good look at him. There were moons circling him, orbits shrinking with every revolution. There would be a precise time for each to finally reach him, and the cumulative impact would be immeasurable – but until then he had to hold them all in place.

  He glanced up and down the street pensively for a few moments, though he knew where he was going – south to the corner – then started off.

  Dewey readjusted his mirrors, and slunk down low in the seat. He watched Geiger’s reflection approach on the opposite sidewalk – and sat back up once he was past the car. There was something odd about his gait. Definitely some damage there. It reminded him of a sergeant he knew who’d taken shrapnel in a hip and never walked quite the same after they fixed him up. When Geiger was two-
thirds down the block Dewey turned the ignition.

  ‘The closest metro station is at the intersection in the other direction,’ he said to his cell, ‘so he’s either walking or looking for a cab.’

  ‘That is likely, yes,’ said Victor.

  ‘Can I talk to her?’

  Victor handed Zanni the phone.

  ‘What is it?’ she said.

  ‘Well . . .’ said Dewey, ‘now that he’s out . . . I just wanted to know – did you tell him about me? I mean – does he know I’m with you guys?’

  ‘No, Dewey. He doesn’t know about you.’

  ‘How come?’

  Zanni stared at the phone like she wanted to slap it silly.

  ‘He doesn’t need to know, Dewey. We keep this as simple as possible. Anyway . . . The fact is that whatever else he may be thinking, Geiger absolutely assumes one thing: He’s being watched and followed – either by us . . . or Dalton’s people . . . or both. So this is his game, not ours – right? Keep him in sight, but keep your distance. For now, our job is to stay out of his way, know where he is, and make sure he gets to Dalton. Understand?’

  ‘But what if he––’

  ‘Dewey . . . Think of it this way. Right now, we are . . . shepherds – and Geiger is our little lamb. Okay? Now just do your job.’ She clicked off and shot Victor a frown. He shrugged.

  ‘He is just speaking his thoughts, Zanni. It is indeed a strange situation – no?’

  ‘Listen to St. Victor the Patient.’

  She watched the Citroen pull out and start slowly down the street. Her pulse was up a tick. She’d been waiting. It didn’t matter what this was about – whether Geiger was playing them, or going out for some foie gras and a nice Bordeaux before he traded away his life tomorrow. What mattered was the act – motion and choice as proof of thought and intent, a step taken, a move made – literally and figuratively. The game was progressing, and games only moved in one direction – to an end.

  The cab had its roof light off. When Geiger opened the back door he was met by a rush of Coltrane and Rémy’s bright smile.

  ‘Bonsoir!’

  Geiger slid inside and closed the door. The dip in the movement tugged at his neck, a sharp reminder of certain states. Geiger took a hundred-euro note from his pocket, held it out – and the driver smiled.

  ‘Plus tard. After, monsieur.’

  ‘Take it now.’

  The cabbie shrugged and took the money. ‘Merci. Where to go?’

  ‘First, move the passenger’s side mirror so I can see it from here.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Geiger leaned forward and pointed. ‘The mirror . . .’

  ‘Ah! Miroir. Oui.’ The driver used his panel controls. ‘Good?’

  Geiger settled back. ‘A little higher.’

  ‘Up?’ The cabbie made an adjustment. ‘Oui?’

  ‘Good.’ From his seat, Geiger now had a clear view of the street behind them. ‘Head toward Rue Saint Denis – and take your time.’

  The driver’s brows perked up – and he looked to Geiger’s blank face in the rearview mirror. A picture was beginning to develop.

  He frowned and tapped his forehead. ‘How say . . . someone is to follow us?’

  Geiger’s gaze met Rémy’s in the mirror. ‘Hopefully.’ He took his iPad out of his bag and brought up the nine photos of parked cars. ‘Drive, Rémy.’

  The neon signs of the sex shops and bars filled puddles with drowning, colored strands, and the thirsty and curious moved along with collars up and newspaper hats, but the rain wasn’t keeping the hookers on Boulevard de Clichy inside. A few leaned in doorways, stood under dripping awnings, a hip thrust out, a knee-high boot jiggling, a finger tapping ash from a glowing cigarette.

  Rémy was hiding a grin. ‘Monsieur . . . Here?’

  ‘Don’t talk now,’ said Geiger. His eyes were ping-ponging between the rearview and side mirrors. He saw the street about to take a curve. ‘Get over to the left. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes. Left. A gauche.’

  As Rémy performed the maneuver, Geiger caught a second’s glimpse in the side mirror of a silver car a few lengths in back of them. His gaze darted to the iPad and found photos of two silver cars – a Citroen and a Renault. He started memorizing their license plates . . .

  Dewey watched the cab pull over at the intersection up ahead – and he parked in a dark spot between two streetlamps, cut the lights and wipers, and cracked his window a few inches. Hawkers outside clubs were calling out to people, trying to wrangle tourists in for some skin and drinks. Geiger got out of the taxi, looked around, and headed down the sidewalk – and stopped at a doorway with a short, canvas awning where a woman puffed on a cigarette. Dewey picked up his cell and hit ‘1’.

  ‘Yes . . .’ said Victor.

  ‘He got out of the cab on Boulevard de Clichy. Lots of sex shops and clubs around here. And hookers. He’s talking to one now.’

  Victor was seated at a small table in Zanni’s room, the crossword puzzle before him. He turned to her. She was lying on the bed, watching BBC News on the television.

  ‘Geiger is in the red light district, making a whore’s acquaintance.’

  Zanni’s right brow did a quick jump. ‘Really . . .’

  Victor grinned. ‘It would appear the mystical Inquisitor is flesh and blood after all.’

  ‘I guess so – but why do I think there’s something wrong with this picture?’ She straightened up. ‘You don’t?’

  His grin widened, and he shook his head. ‘No, Zanni. I am French.’

  Dewey turned the defrost fan up to keep the fog off the windshield.

  ‘Dewey?’ It was Victor on the cell.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Continue as you are. Stay in touch.’

  ‘Right.’ Dewey punched off and stared at his quarry. ‘Wanna get laid one last time, huh? I don’t blame you, man.’

  Her hot pants were shiny cobalt blue, her boots ended two inches above her knees, her short silver jacket was made of some kind of faux leather, and she wore her brows at a constant, weary elevation. The pale eyes beneath them appraised Geiger.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ he asked.

  ‘Un peu.’ The sardonic twist to her lips flipped into a grin. ‘Oh, baby – sooooo good.’

  Geiger watched the grin wane. He was aware of how being so much in the world was rerouting his senses, and energy, and focus – the strategies, the interactions, the conversations and explanations. He was navigating in moderate but capricious currents, and it was tiring.

  ‘Does one of you speak English? You’ll both be paid.’

  ‘Très belle.’ She surveyed the players in the area. ‘Paulette! Viens ici!’

  Down a few storefronts, a tall, red-haired woman stuck her head out of a doorway, pulled the collar of her long coat up and stepped into the rain, walking with an unhurried stride. She gave Geiger a quick look as she came alongside him.

  ‘Astrid . . .’ she said. ‘Quoi d’neuf?’

  ‘Ménage à trois,’ said the first woman. ‘Speak English.’

  The redhead smiled at Geiger. ‘Good evening, monsieur. You would like to party?’ She spoke French and English with an Eastern European accent

  Geiger looked from one woman to the other. ‘Party? No. I don’t want a party.’

  ‘But you would like to have us both, together?’

  Geiger’s fingers flicked at his sides. ‘Yes, and no.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I will pay you both, but I don’t want to have sex with you.’

  The women shared a wise glance.

  ‘Ah . . . You would like to watch us then?’

  ‘No. This is not about sex.’

  The redhead’s smile was a ribbon wrapped around a secret. ‘Chéri . . . It is always about sex – even when it is not about sex.’

  ‘I need you for five minutes. Three hundred euros each.’

  She’d been negotiating for years. There was nothing new under the sun – only diffe
rent ways of getting the same old thing. But the number stunned her.

  ‘Three hundred – each?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bon. If it is not to have sex, and you do not wish to watch – then what?’

  Through the sliding drops on the windshield, Dewey saw Geiger come out from the doorway with a woman in a silver jacket. She slid her arm inside his as they headed down the sidewalk in his direction, on the opposite side of the street. Dewey’s breath slowed and he sank down a bit in his seat – but the couple stopped at a door of a narrow building next to a shop called ‘Sex Time’. The woman unlocked the door and they went inside. Dewey straightened up.

  ‘Make it last, man,’ he said. He turned on the car radio, hit the scan button, and listened to the stations go by in three-second doses, hoping to catch an American song – something with a rough edge and a lot of guitar. Finding one was a rarity in this town. That’s what he missed the most – some made-in-the-USA rock and roll.

  The two taps on his window made him jump, and his hand slid inside his coat pocket as he turned. The redhead smiled at him from the other side of the speckled glass.

  ‘Looking for me, handsome?’

  Dewey waved her off with a scowl, and turned back to watch the door.

  ‘A special tonight,’ she offered. ‘Fifty euros – whatever you like.’

  ‘Not interested,’ he said without turning.

  ‘Twenty for a hand-job . . .’

  ‘Just take a walk, okay?’ He couldn’t help grinning to himself. Fifty euros was a lot cheaper than Madrid.

  ‘Want a look at what you’re missing, handsome?’

  Dewey sighed, turned round and lowered the window. ‘Listen . . . Maybe some other night – but I’m not interested now. Comprenez-vous, babe?’

  The hooker’s smile held its place. ‘You can look for free,’ she said, and undid the top three buttons of her coat and spread it open, revealing full breasts in a skimpy, sequined bra. Dewey nodded.

  ‘Nice rack. Truly fine, babe. Now take it someplace else – okay?’ He noticed the almost imperceptible shift of surprise in her eyes as she closed her coat, and when he felt the touch of cold air on the back of his neck his brain instantaneously understood that the passenger-side door had been opened – and then four things happened in less than a second: