The Confessor

by Mark Allen Smith

  ‘Hello, Harry.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Why is your face purple, Harry?’

  Harry smiled, but some of it was lost in the swollen flesh. ‘The Asian giant hornet. I’ve become very well informed on the subject. According to our host, they have the most toxic venom in the insect world. Cool, huh?’ Harry wagged a finger. ‘And it’s not purple – it’s plum, according to Matheson.’

  Matheson nodded. ‘Definitely plum.’

  Harry’s heartbeat was a jackhammer, breaking up things inside him. ‘Can I ask you a question, Geiger?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Harry’s face hardened like fast-acting superglue. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  His voice had a thin, rough coat of anger. It was new to Geiger, and with all the balls his mind was already juggling, it gave him pause.

  ‘I . . . came—’

  ‘Jesus, man . . . You’re a human goddamn sacrifice! That’s all you did by coming here – put yourself on the altar of the almighty Dalton. And the fact that he’ll probably still kill me and David anyway isn’t even the point. Christ . . .’

  Harry had a faint awareness that the brake on his emotions had given way, and they were barreling downhill, picking up speed – and that the rant wasn’t just about Geiger’s outlandish, selfless act, but about other things, too many to try and grasp.

  ‘I’m not cool about you trading your life for mine. Okay? It’s not right, man. It feels really wrong.’ He huffed and ran a hand through his matted hair. ‘Goddamnit, Geiger . . . If this was some kind of atonement for your sins, there were plenty of churches in Brooklyn! You should’ve stayed home. Whatever the hell it was you thought you—’

  ‘I didn’t want you to die, Harry. That’s why I came.’ It wasn’t the emblematic velvet cloak of tone – Harry knew it as well as his own voice – but the communion wrapped inside it that muted him and glazed his eyes with tears. His head started shaking side to side in tiny degrees, like a pre-Parkinson tremor.

  Victor was listening, thumbnail stroking his cleft. He turned to Zanni, leaning against the wall. She was staring straight ahead, barely a rise to her chest as she breathed.

  The bass drum pulsed in Geiger’s ears. He looked to Matheson. ‘I spoke with Ezra. He asked me to tell you that he loves you.’

  Matheson sighed. ‘Then he knows – about all this?’

  ‘Not the details – but that there’s trouble, yes.’

  ‘Is he . . . okay?’

  Zanni stepped into view. ‘Time, Geiger.’

  ‘Who are you?’ said Harry. She didn’t answer.

  ‘Geiger . . . Who the hell is she?’

  Geiger glanced at her, framed in the open doorway, the morning light alive behind her. She looked different to him now, but he chose to not investigate that perception any further.

  ‘Now, Geiger,’ said Zanni. ‘Time to go.’

  Geiger turned back to the two captives. He owned all of this – everything here, everything that had happened, every notch of fear and loss and pain was because of him. This was the Inquisitor’s doing. They might just as well have been two of his Joneses.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said.

  Matheson nodded silently.

  ‘See you around,’ said Harry. In his present state there was little he could trust of his senses – but as Geiger stared at him one last time, Harry thought there was something in the gray eyes that had never been there before. Some very pale, warm light.

  Geiger turned and walked out. Zanni was waiting at the far end of the hall. Victor pointed that way and then fell into step a few feet behind Geiger.

  ‘I have to say, Geiger. Before, when I came into the kitchen, you looked – how to say? – so disappointed to see me. You would rather I had still been dead.’

  ‘Yes. That would be my preference – that you were still dead.’

  ‘I understand. There are others too who feel the same way. I would think there are many who feel the same way about you.’

  Geiger stopped, and Victor did too.

  ‘Do not be foolish, Geiger.’

  Geiger slowly turned round to him. The gun was raised and ready.

  ‘I’m not a foolish man, Victor. I just have something to tell you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t hurt them, Victor. This isn’t about them, it’s about me. Do you understand me?’

  Victor smiled. ‘Geiger . . . Please, take no offense – but you are not in a position to make threats.’

  ‘I agree with you, Victor – and it wasn’t a threat.’

  Geiger turned and headed away, leaving Victor’s smile to slowly dissolve.

  As Geiger came her way Zanni’s pistol rose, but there was no hurry or concern in the motion. There would be no last-second, unforeseen zigs or zags. The race was all but done. In minutes she’d be breaking the tape . . .

  She’d wait for the deal’s back-end transfer to show up in her account – then an hour and a half south on the A7 to Marseilles – park the car in the long-term lot – change into the skirt suit, put on the wig – then get the shuttle to the international terminal, and onto the plane.

  She’d thought about asking Geiger about her brother’s last minutes – but decided she wasn’t going to take that with her – or Geiger’s granite stare – or Dalton’s insaner-than-thou dissertations. She wasn’t going to leave with anything that would weigh her down. The horizon was a tightrope she would tiptoe across – and at the end was a place where it all started over again.

  ‘Far enough,’ she said when Geiger was ten feet away, alongside another door. ‘You’re going in there.’

  ‘And then you’re done?’ he said.

  ‘And then I’m done.’

  Geiger nodded. ‘The sharpest one in the room.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Go on in.’

  His pulse’s thump refused to calm. Some new element in him was fueling it, and it was immune to his old methods.

  He turned the knob and went inside.

  33

  ‘Welcome home,’ said Dalton.

  The room was a three-quarter-sized replica of Geiger’s session room on Ludlow Street – a dedicated effort, or as Carmine was wont to say, close enough for the blues.

  Every surface was gleaming white linoleum, there were a dozen recessed three-inch pin-spots in the ceiling, and in the center of the floor was a chrome, leather and porcelain barber’s chair like Geiger’s that had five metal-mesh straps attached to it. Beside it was a folding chair, and a chrome cart with a towel on top – and various shapes were visible beneath the fabric. On a metal desk were a plastic jug of water and a stack of paper cups, and a DVD player and monitor. A second door was across the room in the opposite wall.

  Dalton waved a hand around his creation. ‘A modest facsimile, I know – but I was trying to create a feel of continuity for our reunion. What do you think?’

  ‘You have a good memory,’ said Geiger.

  ‘Some things you never forget.’

  Geiger heard what he could only think of as a hush of melancholy in the undertones of the madness – and he knew this much was true: no matter how different he and Dalton might be and had been, how disparate their reasons for choosing the trade, how opposed in their methods – they were joined in ways no other pair on the planet could be.

  ‘Have a seat, Geiger.’

  Geiger walked to the barber’s chair and sat in it.

  ‘Comfortable?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It took months to find one in mint condition. Give it a whirl.’

  Geiger gave a small push off the floor with his foot and the chair spun smoothly. He stopped after one revolution.

  ‘You went to a lot of work,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I did. And it’s fascinating . . . Have you ever noticed how anticipation changes the nature of time?’

  ‘In what sense?’

  Dalton pulled the folding chair over and sat down five feet from Geiger.

  ‘All these mon
ths, it felt like each day pushed July Fourth further and further into the past – that it all happened so long ago – and now that you’re here, it feels like it was yesterday. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I understand that today means a lot to you.’

  Dalton stared back at him, and then he sighed. ‘Don’t humor me, Geiger. It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘I’m curious about something.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The psychosis.’

  ‘. . . Yes?’

  ‘You do realize you’re deeply psychotic . . .’

  Dalton shrugged. ‘It’s a catch-all term – but go on.’

  ‘Are there times when you feel out of control? When you’re at its mercy, so to speak?’

  ‘No. I feel quite . . . What’s the right word?’ Dalton gave it thought. ‘There’s no inner struggle, if that’s what you mean.’ He was warming to the subject. ‘The madness usually shows itself in hallucinations. Very compelling events. At first they were unsettling – even frightening – but I came to terms with them as I moved to a higher state. It’s like being on a rollercoaster ride.’

  Geiger needed to keep him talking – to gather as much psychic information as he could. He’d have nothing else to work with.

  ‘In what way?’ he asked.

  ‘When you’re at the very top and you start down – and the speed grows quickly, and the car is rattling, you feel that pull . . . It’s very scary – right?’

  ‘I’ve never been on a rollercoaster.’

  Dalton nodded. ‘And again, why am I not surprised? Well . . . You’re barreling down the track, the torque is yanking at you, the deafening noise, your pulse is exploding, you might even be screaming . . . and you’re terrified – because your systems, your primal self, is telling you that you won’t make it through – you’re going to die. But—’

  ‘But you know the ride is going to end.’

  ‘Yes! Exactly right.’ Dalton nodded eagerly. ‘The higher state knows the ride will end even before you even get on – but then fear overwhelms us.’ He stood up and began to pace. ‘So now, when I look at someone and see their head explode, or watch the serpents rise out of the lavender and devour each other . . . What I’ve learned to do – is to remember that the ride will end. And it does.’ He turned to Geiger. ‘That’s what I learned to do with the pain, too.’ He held out his hands. ‘With these. And I owe it all to you.’ He sighed with palpable satisfaction. ‘I knew you’d understand. I am so pleased that you came, Geiger. Really.’

  Dalton walked to the desk, poured himself a cup of water and drank it slowly. Geiger couldn’t see a play anywhere – and he decided to stop looking, for now.

  ‘Thirsty?’ Dalton asked.

  ‘No.’

  Dalton crumpled the cup and let it drop to the floor. ‘Time!’

  Zanni and Victor came in. Victor went to the barber’s chair while Zanni held her gun on Geiger.

  ‘Now,’ said Dalton, ‘Victor is going to secure you. Take off your jacket and shirt first.’

  Geiger obeyed the command and handed them to Victor, who folded them neatly and put them on the desk. Then he returned and started securing the straps – first, around Geiger’s chest, then the ankles.

  ‘Put your wrists on the chair arms,’ Dalton said.

  Geiger placed his forearms down flat on the leather padding.

  ‘Merci,’ said Victor, and strapped Geiger’s wrists down.

  ‘Good,’ said Dalton, and started out. ‘Be back soon, Geiger. Victor . . . Zanni . . .’

  Victor followed, and Zanni came to Geiger’s side.

  ‘I’ll be going soon,’ she said.

  Geiger nodded. ‘They’ll find you, you know.’

  ‘Why so sure?’

  ‘Because that’s what they do. You found me, didn’t you?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’ She leaned down to his ear and whispered. ‘Full disclosure: Dewey was my brother.’

  Geiger’s head turned to her. The list of things he’d missed was growing longer. The short, subtle flick of her lips was not a smile or a scowl. It looked lost, as if it had wandered onto the wrong face. Then she cradled his cheeks in her palms and kissed him. The tenderness of it was unexpected.

  She straightened up. ‘Goodbye, Geiger.’ She gave the chair a firm push and started it spinning, and then she left.

  As he went round and round, Geiger closed his eyes – and started making a list of the music he would play in his head . . . when the time came.

  When she walked into the study, Dalton was standing at his desk and Victor was across the room, staring out a window. She had the Beretta down at her side, against her thigh, but her finger was on the trigger, because this was fertile ground for betrayal.

  As a physical threat Dalton was an unlikely candidate, but back at the very start she had fashioned a scenario and held it close, like a lucky keepsake – that when and if everything played out successfully there would be a moment, this moment, before she got paid, when killing her would be a smart cost-cutting move on Dalton’s part. That if he had offered Victor a tenth of her fee to take her out, her French friend would do it with a melancholy flick of his knife. And it would not be a betrayal in his eyes. Betrayal’s partner, by definition, was trust – the former could not occur without the latter – and in their line of work there was no such thing.

  Dalton pointed at his laptop. ‘It’s all ready. Just put in your account number.’

  Zanni sat down. ‘Dalton . . . A few steps back.’

  He nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said, and backed away half a dozen feet.

  ‘Victor . . .’ she said. ‘Come over here with Dalton – so I can see you while I do this.’

  Victor turned – and saw the Beretta – and he sighed. ‘Zanni . . . Zanni.’ He shook his head sadly as he walked to Dalton’s side. ‘This mistrust. It is disturbing. I worry about you.’

  ‘Good. Keep worrying about me until I’m gone.’

  Dalton shrugged. ‘She’s just being thorough, Victor. I sensed that about her the moment we met. Very thorough.’

  The screen showed a bank transfer setup. She typed in the numbers, which showed up as dots in a thin rectangular box. A second box appeared below it and told her to re-enter the same information, and she performed the task.

  ‘Hit enter,’ said Dalton.

  ‘Hit enter.’ The words had a pleasing sound – solid, simple, nearly anthemic. In God We Trust. Don’t Tread On Me. Take your marks. Set . . . She raised a finger and hit the key. ‘TRANSFER IN PROGRESS’ began flashing at the bottom of the form.

  ‘Zanni . . .’ said Dalton.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I understand that Dewey was your brother.’

  Zanni looked to Victor. ‘You’re like an old woman sometimes – you know that?’

  ‘Don’t be upset with Victor. I only wanted to say that—’

  ‘Shuttup, Dalton.’

  She looked at the screen. The message was still blinking.

  ‘It was a questionable choice on your part, Zanni. And your secrecy raises other issues, too – but luckily for all of us, in the end it was of no consequence.’ He removed his glasses and held them up to the light. ‘Except, of course, for Dewey.’ He was satisfied with the state of the lenses, put them back on, and sighed. ‘C’est la vie.’

  Her eyes slowly rose to him. She remembered what he looked like with his jaw swollen and wired after Geiger had broken it. She wanted to do it again, with her own fists.

  ‘When do you let Matheson and Boddicker go?’ she said.

  ‘That depends on Geiger. But I suspect it will be soon. Don’t worry, Zanni. Victor will take care of them. I’m sure they’ll be in Paris before night.’

  She checked the screen. There was a new message. TRANSFER COMPLETED. ‘Done,’ she said. She clicked on ‘log out’ and stood up. She was primed. She’d never felt more ready to leave someplace. She stared at them silently – and Dalton showed his dreadful smile.

  ‘G
oodbye, Zanni. And thank you. Live well.’

  Victor did a little half-bow. ‘Goodbye, mon ami.’

  It was an odd thought that came to her – that these two were very likely the last people who knew her that she would ever see. And even with that, she realized she had nothing to say. She turned and walked out of the room.

  ‘Extraordinary woman,’ said Dalton.

  ‘Yes,’ said Victor. ‘She is.’

  ‘Angry.’

  ‘Always.’

  It was colder outside than inside, but the sun was a few rungs up its ladder, and it made her warmer than she’d felt in the house. She didn’t stop to look back until she was into the trees. From the start she’d been adept at staying on point – make it about the trip, not the arrival. And not the consequences. She would never know what happened inside the house, and she would find out how much she wondered about it down the line. ‘Later on’ was the operative phrase now. For everything.

  She turned around and headed for the car . . .

  Dalton came in holding a hinged teak case the size of a large shoebox that he put on the cart’s lower shelf. With his back to Geiger, blocking the view of the cart, he lifted the towel.

  Geiger was trying to measure Dalton’s body. His pants were bunched at the waist, and the seat was baggy. He must have lost at least thirty pounds . . .

  ‘Just keep in mind . . . Victor is nearby, just out in the hall. Not that I expect you to cause trouble . . .’

  And Dalton came out swinging, whirling around – his left hand adorned with a bright red boxing glove – and smashed Geiger in his right pectoral. The blow’s shockwave was more potent than the pain, rattling him down to his ribs and up to his neck. The men’s grunts were a chorus – like parts of the same machine.

  ‘This isn’t about hurting you,’ said Dalton, and wound up and hammered Geiger’s left pectoral. This time pain took center-stage – dancing into the spotlight, then rolling up into his wounded shoulder and pulling a sharp growl out of him.

  Dalton stepped back, sucking air. ‘I’m helping you get an adrenaline rush going so we get that dopamine and endorphins into your bloodstream . . .’ He pushed his glasses back on his nose. ‘. . . to help when the real pain comes.’