The Confessor

by Mark Allen Smith

  ‘What does?’

  ‘I get migraines. When they’re over, it takes a moment to get anchored.’ He put the iPad in his bag, zipped it shut and looked up at her. ‘If you could drive me to a hotel – whatever is nearby – so I can pack my shoulder in ice and get a few hours’ sleep before I leave . . .’

  ‘. . . Yes. All right.’

  She watched him head for the door – bag in hand, covered with the floor’s gray dust from head to foot – and she was struck by an image of a man trying to straddle different worlds – an acrobat moving from one tightrope to another, adjusting his balance and purpose with each step. But whoever he was – savior, avenger, killer – he didn’t seem to belong anywhere at all.

  He walked through dense woods between sheets of angled bronze light that shot down through the canopy, his bow and arrow held chest high. He was seven or eight years old, but had the mind of a man who knew he was dreaming – suspended in that dim corridor between true sleep and wakefulness. He could smell the sap from the trees and, at the same time, felt the smooth rumble of the car’s tires on the street.

  The boy stopped. Fifty feet away, a small fawn sat between two trees, the sun bringing out the rust and gold in its dappled coat. It turned its head to face the visitor – eyes brown, glistening jewels, big ears twitching . . .

  . . . Geiger felt a spatial shift – the car swerving slightly – and heard a horn’s short bark that seeped through one layer of semi-consciousness into another. It could have been the cry of a hawk above the forest, sensing something helpless below . . .

  . . . The baby deer started struggling to rise, knobby legs aquiver, but no sooner did it accomplish the feat than it sank back down in a tangle of skinny limbs.

  The boy whispered. ‘How old do you think it is . . . ?’

  ‘Very young,’ whispered a deep, sonorous voice nearby. ‘Almost new.’

  ‘It wants to get up. Can’t we help?’

  The boy’s father stepped to his side. ‘No,’ he said.

  The boy turned and looked up into his father’s dark tunnel eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it would be unnatural.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said the boy.

  His father’s crooked, scarred carpenter’s fingers went to his thick, black beard and scratched.

  ‘Son . . . There is a natural way to things. If it were older – we would kill it for the meat . . .’

  ‘But it looks so weak.’

  ‘That is of no matter.’ He put a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Why do you think we live as we do – up here, away from everything and everyone? Weakness in the world is not our concern. What matters is that we become strong inside ourselves. That is what works best for us.’

  . . . Geiger could feel the motion of things slowing, the hum of the car engine dropping in pitch, the spinning planet accommodating the changing speed of the wheels’ rotation. A traffic jam . . . ? Red light . . . ? Another sharp squawk of a horn . . .

  . . . The boy looked up to the sky. A golden eagle glided across the sun, wide and stark as a fighter jet in a war zone. The boy jabbed a finger at it.

  ‘Father . . . Look.’

  The short, white streaks in the great bird of prey’s wings brightened as they tipped and it started downward.

  ‘It’s coming down, father.’ The boy turned – but his father was gone. All that was left of him was the potent, bitter scent of smoke. The boy’s head snapped back to the fawn – but where it had lain was a newborn human infant swaddled in a black cloth, arms stretching, impossibly tiny fingers exploring the warm air.

  . . . There was a tug of war in Geiger’s brain – the throb in his shoulder a reminder of real life, trying to pull him out of the dream, but he didn’t want to leave – not yet . . .

  The boy watched the eagle descend into the woods like a dark angel, long talons stretching open, its wing-spread so wide their gleaming tips sliced clean through branches on each side like scythes through wheat. As limbs fell all around the boy, the bird swooped down with an undulating, plaintive cry, snatched the baby up in its claws, swathe and all – and flew for the beckoning sun with its prize . . .

  Geiger opened his eyes. The world was waiting for him with a thousand lights – stacks of soft white windows, gaudy neon signs, scattered headlights and brake-lights in the sparse traffic, glowing streetlamps. They were driving down a wide boulevard, the asphalt polished shiny black with the remnants of the rain.

  ‘How long was I out?’

  Christine glanced over. ‘Not long. Two or three minutes.’

  The picture of the eagle and infant lingered, growing dimmer as they soared higher and farther away – and Geiger tried to put himself in Corley’s office, lying on the couch, describing the dream . . . and wondered what Corley might say.

  ‘Let’s talk about the eagle, Geiger. What does it make you think of?’

  ‘. . . A bird of prey. A predator.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Because . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t think most associations with an eagle are about predation – hunters, cold, remorseless – like a hawk . . . or a buzzard. I think more often eagles are thought of as noble creatures.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘And maybe – and it’s just a maybe – but maybe the eagle wasn’t taking the infant as prey. Maybe the you in the dream wanted to save the helpless baby.’

  Up ahead, Geiger saw a bright green sign that said HOTEL RONDO – and Christine turned left onto another street.

  ‘There was a hotel just up the street, Christine.’

  ‘I’m taking you home to my house.’ There was a heft to her voice Geiger hadn’t heard before. ‘You need help packing your shoulder. And I’ll make you a meal. Then you’ll sleep. Then you’ll go.’ She turned to him. ‘And I have questions that you’re going to answer.’

  Geiger nodded at her. ‘All right,’ he said.

  Victor punched off his cell. ‘Still not answering.’

  Zanni nodded. ‘I don’t like it.’

  They were sitting in their hotel’s street-level bar in front of a window that looked out on the street and Geiger’s hotel. Victor had a cup of tea before him, Zanni stared at an untouched glass of red wine.

  She tapped the glass with a trimmed fingernail. Tink. Tink. ‘There are two reasons why he isn’t answering. One – something’s wrong with his cell. Two – he can’t answer.’ Tink. Tink. ‘And if he can’t answer, there are two reasons why. One – Geiger found him and compromised him so he could get away clean. Two – Geiger has him somewhere and is . . . asking him questions.’ She looked up at Victor. ‘That’s what Geiger does.’ She picked up her wine and took a sip. ‘I shouldn’t have brought him in on this one.’

  ‘But you have used him before – yes?’

  ‘In Madrid, last year. But that was just a two-day drive-around, with me in the backseat playing video-tag with a mark. First-grade stuff.’ She shook her head. ‘Not enough experience – not for a mark like Geiger. I thought about it – that he wasn’t seasoned enough – but I did it anyway. If something’s happened to him, it’s on me.’

  Victor slowly turned his teacup around on the saucer, a few degrees a nudge, while his other thumb went to the cleft in his chin. Thinking time.

  ‘Pardon, Zanni – but . . . You did not sleep with him, did you?’

  Her mouth wrinkled up like a lemon-sucker. ‘No, Victor. I didn’t sleep with him.’ Zanni raised her wine again and drank.

  There was something in her voice Victor hadn’t heard before – a thin, delicate thread of sentiment, just the faintest trace.

  ‘Zanni . . . How long have you known Dewey?’

  She put the glass down softly – and met Victor’s gaze.

  ‘Since I was five and a half.’

  Victor sat back like he’d taken a good shove in the chest. ‘Oh Zanni . . . He is your brother . . . ?’ He was shaking his head now. ‘Zanni, Zanni . . .’

  ‘I know . . . I know. Never fam
ily. I said I fucked up, didn’t I?’ Her shrug and sigh were inseparable – one rueful action. ‘I mean – we weren’t close, really – but he came back from Afghanistan messed up and broke – couldn’t get a job . . .’ Her face widened with memory. ‘They used to call him “No-Can-Dewey” in school – but he was great with cars. He started calling, asking me to get him inside – for one chance, as a driver. Calling all the time. He was making me crazy – so I finally said yes – and it turned out fine. He started getting gigs without me. He just wanted money to buy this joint back home, fix it up and pour shots all night. After this one he’d be close to getting out . . .’ She grabbed her glass and drank.

  Victor watched her, poker-faced. ‘Do you want me to go look for him?’ he said. ‘To where he was last time he called? To look around?’

  Zanni kept sipping until the glass was empty. ‘Yes. I’ll stay here in case Geiger comes back.’

  Victor stood up. ‘But you do not think Geiger will come back, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably not.’

  Victor headed for the door. Zanni turned toward the room, raised a hand and snapped her fingers. A waitress looked up at her.

  ‘Un espresso, double!’ Zanni turned back to the window. She was using one of her most valuable traits – digging into the situation, tightening the clamps down on her emotions . . .

  Their bond had always been defined more by genetics and proximity than temperament or interests – and they had let much of that slip away once she left for college. More texts than calls, e-mails every few months, Skype a few times a year. When he’d come back from Afghanistan and started calling, she’d felt as much irritation as sympathy. And now she felt equal parts concerned . . . and fallible. Victor’s head-shaking ‘Zanni, Zanni’ had said it all.

  She started breaking things down into possibles, with odds for each. Had Dewey been mugged? Ten percent likelihood, tops. Did his cell phone battery die? Twenty to thirty percent. It happened on stakeouts and tails. Even with a charger in the car, you forget sometimes . . .

  The waitress arrived with the order, set it down, and left without a word.

  Zanni shifted to the scenarios with Geiger, based on the near-conclusion that he was gone. She’d always known he might disappear – try and go it alone at some point. She’d even said it to his face back in Brooklyn. Had he put Dewey out of commission long enough to ensure a getaway? She didn’t have trouble seeing it play out – thirty percent chance . . . maybe forty – but it felt like too much work. Geiger was good enough to slip away without a confrontation.

  She picked up her cup, brought it to her lips – and froze. Across the street a taxi was pulling up in front of Geiger’s hotel – and she felt the cat-and-mouse tingle start up in her fingertips. The cab’s back door opened and a young woman in a red evening gown stepped out and walked into the lobby. Zanni took a slow sip of espresso and put it down. Her pulse had been a dead give-away. Her mind might be working on the premise that he’d slipped the leash, for good – but clearly her heart was still hoping otherwise, and she didn’t like her body confronting her with that conflict.

  There were other scenarios.

  Geiger figured Dalton had someone keeping an eye on him – so he might have picked up Dewey tailing him, and on the chance he was Dalton’s man set him up somehow, overpowered him, and taken him someplace for a little IR. The more she thought about it, the more it felt like Geiger – and the angrier she got. She hadn’t considered it. What else had she missed . . . ?

  She became aware of someone arriving . . . and hovering close by. She glanced to her left – and a man smiled at her when her gaze found him. A thirty-something in a shiny, expensive suit with a pleasant, practiced smile and a glass of white wine.

  ‘You’ve been sitting here alone for a while,’ he said in perfect French-tinted English. ‘Could I buy you—’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  If the command had been a knife it would have cut him in half.

  ‘Okay,’ he mumbled, and walked off.

  She took in a slow breath and let it out smoothly, helping her shoulders to sag. This was the biggest chance of her life – and she was starting to feel like Geiger was up front driving the train and she was sitting back in the club car, sipping her coffee, watching the countryside roll by – and not knowing when it would stop.

  And where the fuck was her little brother . . . ?

  The taxi entered Place Pigalle, circling, and Victor leaned forward from the backseat.

  ‘Arrêtez ici,’ he said, and the driver pulled over in front of the Cupidon Theatre X. Victor handed him a ten-euro note, stepped out, and headed up the boulevard. One of the strip clubs had a speaker above its doorway – and Johnny Hallyday called out across forty years from another world. ‘C’est une honky-tonk woman. Fini, fini, fini le honky-tonk blues . . . ’ Victor grinned. In the 1960s, what kid hadn’t wanted to be Johnny Hallyday? He had started trying to grow those long sideburns as fast as he could – until his father came home from two weeks away, proclaimed – ‘Rock’n’roll est merde!’ – and personally soaped up his son’s cheeks and shaved them.

  He wasn’t going to give the whores and hucksters Dewey’s description and ask them questions, because if the kid was dead – and the cops came round asking about him later on – there was a tiny chance he and Dewey could be tied together . . . and tiny was big. He would just walk and look for the car.

  Zanni’s admission had stunned him – a rare event in itself. He’d learned long ago that blood was indeed thick, and could muddle the mind and lead to foolish decisions and far worse – but for Zanni to make that choice, cold and diamond-hard as she was . . . It had a double-edged effect on him. He would have to do a fast reassessment of certain aspects of her – but more important, an investigation of his own instincts were in order. He’d dealt with them both, brother and sister, and missed it all on each end.

  He crossed to the pedestrian divider of the boulevard so he could see the cars on both sides, parked east and west, and moved on, doing his due diligence – but whenever he conjured up an image of Dewey it was not of him sitting in the car watching the street, or strolling down a sidewalk a safe thirty yards behind Geiger, or at a bar having a drink . . .

  It was still possible, though unlikely, that Geiger would call in, and that they might head for Dalton together without Dewey – the three musketeers on a final adventure. Un pour tous, tous pour un . . . But each of the variables, the many uncertainties that defined this job from the start, suddenly seemed more present. They were like weeds in a bed of flowers, capable of strangling all that had been carefully designed and planted – so his job now would be that of a merciless gardener. He would have to keep a keen, diligent eye on the participants – and, if necessary, be ready to pull them out by their roots.

  First, he’d have to find a club that would let him in for a piss without paying the door charge. His prostate was fucking with him for a change.

  24

  When Geiger had stepped outside to the patio for a cigarette, the first thing he’d done was take off his shoes and socks, and the cool, rough smoothness of the flagstone beneath his feet was sending a soothing, loosening effect up his whole frame. He sent a long, cottony stream of smoke into the night, and watched it curl in on itself like a bashful snake. Hanging from one of the patio’s posts was a mobile of tiny brass bells, motionless in the still air. He raised a hand and tapped them with a finger – and they sang softly to him.

  He was thinking about Dewey, watching the final sequence play out. Bodies colliding, the random stumbling, the sound of old wood cracking . . . The utter melancholy of Dewey’s last statement – ‘It isn’t fair . . .’ – then life giving up on him like a long- suffering lover finally saying goodbye. Geiger kept rerunning it over and again like a film loop – trying to render it mundane, to strip it of its power through repetition. He had learned what he needed to know . . . to possibly save a life – and it had cost a life. It isn’t fair . . .

&nbs
p; ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  Christine was in the open patio doorway. ‘Ice packs are ready.’

  ‘I’ll finish my cigarette.’

  She stepped out beside him, a highball glass in her hand. ‘There’s never a sound out here when it’s very late, except for the bells.’ She took a sip of her drink, and then stared at the amber elixir. ‘Bourbon. Harry’s favorite. But he liked the cheap kind. The kind that burned going down.’ She sat down in one of the pair of wicker chairs. It gave out a small squeak as she settled in. ‘He said he’d stopped drinking. Did you know him when he drank?’

  ‘For one night. When I offered him a job, I said he would have to stop.’

  ‘You got him to stop drinking?’

  ‘No. It was his choice.’

  Christine was beginning to feel the weight of her confusion. Just being around Geiger was disorienting. He was like a magnet causing nearby compasses to go haywire.

  ‘Harry worked for you?’

  ‘With me. We were partners.’

  ‘In what kind of business?’

  Geiger sent another plume into the air. ‘Information Retrieval.’

  There was something about the term that brought a faint tingle of goosebumps to her forearms.

  ‘I don’t know what that is.’

  ‘Clients paid me to acquire information from a third party.’

  ‘You mean – some kind of . . . research?’

  Geiger turned his head for the click – and got it. ‘I interrogated people.’

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ she said, but was afraid that she did. She didn’t realize her uneasiness had made her shift in the chair until she heard the old wicker creak.

  Now Geiger’s head went left, twenty degrees. Click. ‘I tortured people to get them to tell me the truth.’ And he blinked. Slowly. Once.

  There was a surge in Christine’s brain – a cavalry of chemicals trying to deal with the incomprehensible . . .

  ‘You are . . . a torturer?’

  ‘Not anymore. I was.’

  ‘And “Information Retrieval” is just another name for torture?’