The Confessor

by Mark Allen Smith

  Geiger blew out a slow purge of breath. ‘Thoughtful of you.’

  Dalton couldn’t help but smile. ‘I have to ask,’ he said. ‘It’s never sarcasm – is it?’

  Geiger performed minor adjustments to his upper torso, as best he could, shifting things to round up the pain and drive it out of the damaged joint. It was his most vulnerable spot right now, and anywhere else would be preferable. Dalton had plans – so the rationing of energies would be crucial.

  ‘Dalton . . . When do Harry and Matheson get to leave?’

  Dalton pulled off the glove and tossed it away. ‘That’s still to be decided.’

  ‘I’m here. Where you wanted me. That was the deal.’

  ‘I think you mis-assumed something.’ Dalton turned back to the cart. ‘Is that a word – “mis-assumed”?’ He bent down, took the teak case out and turned round. ‘I think you made an incorrect assumption about all of this – which is certainly understandable – but your presence is only a prelude. And it’s not up to me when they go free. It’s up to you.’

  There are rare times when a voice speaks one truth and reveals another – but the listener must possess an equally rare sense to hear it. The Inquisitor heard it – and Geiger saw him from the corner of his eye, plucking Dalton’s words out of the air and peeling off a layer to find their second meaning. The unexpected was present.

  Dalton laid the case down across Geiger’s quads. ‘Something for the Inquisitor.’

  Dalton opened the lid of the box. Inside, resting on a lining of red velvet, were a pair of amputated hands. The flesh was gray-brown, shriveled and mottled, and they wore the signs of failed surgeries – thin, darkened scars and dots of suture holes. The right hand was missing the forefinger and the left had no pinkie.

  To Geiger, they looked like something unearthed at an archeological dig – ancient relics from a punishment exacted for theft, or adultery, or an affront to God.

  Dalton began to prowl the room. ‘After the third surgery they said fine dextrous skills would not be restored. The damage was too extensive. I could pick something up and hold it . . . I could dress – but no buttons . . . using silverware would be likely after therapy . . .’ He realigned his glasses at the bridge with a long, smooth finger. ‘But I wouldn’t be able to peel an orange . . . or sign my name . . . take a cork out of a wine bottle . . . or use a razor – for whatever purpose . . .’

  He stopped at the desk and tapped on the power of the DVD player and monitor, then turned to Geiger and the Cheshire Cat smile blinked again. ‘Or type – if I should want to write something . . .’

  Geiger was retracing his assumptions, sensing there was much he had missed. Being fallible was starting to feel commonplace.

  Dalton was on the move again. ‘When they brought up the alternative . . . “We can give you new hands . . . ” I mean – this was make-believe stuff. Movie stuff. You know – those movies where the accident victim gets the hands of a killer . . .’

  ‘I don’t watch movies.’

  ‘They showed me videos. Up to eighty-five percent fine motor skill recovery after therapy and training. It was one of those moments. Simple math. Inescapable logic.’ He raised his hands. ‘They even put in the creases on the knuckles.’

  He pulled up his sleeves. A few inches above the wrist, the prosthetics’ sleeves became heavier and darker toned, and ended halfway up the forearm.

  ‘Neural interfaces, myoelectric signals and impulses. Incredible. They don’t just do what they’re told . . . they even give me feedback. I can feel how tightly I’m holding something.’ He pulled his sleeves back down. ‘The underside of the nails’ tips are a bit difficult for me to keep clean. I’ve let the engineers know they should have another look at that. But I’ve bought stock in the company.’

  Geiger stared at the madman – and one by one, tiny lights were coming on in his mind, like windows in a city as the night moves in.

  Dalton returned to the desk. ‘I want to show you something. I downloaded it from the internet. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched it.’ He pressed a button on the DVD player and video bloomed on the monitor.

  The scene was a brightly lit concrete, windowless bunker, and in the lower right corner there was a digital display of the video’s running time and the date – 2/16/2004.

  A bearded man was strapped into a gurney – naked except for his boxers, his face and body spotted with welts. His dark, nervous eyes were following Geiger as he strolled the room.

  Geiger’s appreciation for Dalton’s obsession was growing. Here was what had put everything in uncontrol lable motion, the Cairo sessions – the secret post-9/11 video that Matheson acquired – a runaway train that brought Hall and Ezra and Dalton to Geiger . . . and left dead bodies and broken hearts in its wake before it went out into the world on the Veritas Arcana website. The worst of him, at his very best.

  ‘There will be no more beatings, Nari,’ said the video-Geiger. ‘Crude brutality wasn’t working. That’s why they brought me here.’

  ‘I tell you again,’ the man said. ‘I am not lying. I swear to almighty God.’

  Geiger’s fingers started rolling out a rhythm on his thighs. ‘I don’t believe in a god, Nari – but if yours exists, I can tell you with complete certainty that he won’t have a say in what happens here. It’s a godless room. It’s just you and me.’

  Dalton nodded at the screen. ‘“Godless room . . .” Wonderful.’

  Video-Geiger came to the man’s side, and the battered body visibly stiffened. Geiger raised a hand and put it against the man’s cheek, so his curled fingertips rested in a line just below the ear.

  ‘You’re not my enemy, Nari. Your political views, religious beliefs, they’re unimportant to me. I don’t care about them.’

  His fingertips began to slowly press inward where the vertical line of the jaw meets the neck.

  ‘Listen carefully – because it’s important you understand me.’

  Geiger remembered every word.

  ‘My job is to retrieve information . . .’

  . . . and the tools I use . . .

  ‘. . . and the tools I use are fear and pain.’

  No matter which of a hundred sessions Dalton might have put in the DVD player, Geiger would have remembered every word.

  ‘Suffering is a result of the pain, Nari – but not the purpose or the goal.’

  As Geiger’s fingertips pushed in deeper, the man’s lips stretched out and thinned like rubber bands from the pain – and a low growl gathered in his throat. As soon as the cry burst out Geiger took his hand away.

  ‘Starting now, we are partners . . .’

  . . . but not equals . . .

  ‘. . . but not equals, because you have what I need – the truth – and in the end the choice is yours, not mine.’

  Dalton stopped the video. ‘“In the end the choice is yours, not mine.”’ He looked to Geiger. ‘Et voilà.’

  Dalton came and picked up the teak case. ‘It started out as pure, simple vengeance – twenty-four seven. Pound of flesh, retribution . . . It consumed me. Completely. But the longer I yearned for it, I began to sense that when it arrived the satisfaction might be fleeting – and I worried what would be left in me once it was gone. To spend so much time and feeling and effort . . .’

  He put the case on the cart and picked up the antique scalpel and whetstone.

  ‘And then I had one of my hallucinations – but this was more a vision. You were an angel, falling to earth with your wings on fire. But you were smiling. Yes – you, smiling. Content. And I knew what I would do. I won’t deny revenge was still a part of things – but there would be more now. Something with meaning. Something lasting – for both of us.’ He turned to Geiger. ‘Sacrifice.’

  He started stroking the blade against the stone. Thwwwkk . . .

  ‘Sac–ri–fice.’ Thwwwkk . . . ‘It has a lovely sound, doesn’t it?’ Thwwwkk . . .

  Geiger couldn’t tell if Dalton was talking about the word or the
sound of steel on stone – but he was getting a clearer sense of the man’s lunacy. There were no seams, no sharp edges or rough patches. It fitted him perfectly – like a second skin.

  Dalton put the whetstone down, then uncapped a bottle of alcohol. ‘As you said – “Starting now, we are partners.” It’s a win–win, Geiger. For both of us.’

  ‘What is?’

  Dalton stuck the blade in the bottle and stirred it in the liquid. ‘Sacrifice.’

  Dalton removed the scalpel and gently put it down on a napkin, then turned, tilted the bottle and poured alcohol on Geiger’s right hand, then the left. It was only now Geiger noticed how the overhead pin-spots put a soft gleam on the latex skin that flesh would not have reflected – and the observation jabbed at his curiosity.

  ‘Are they heavier?’ he asked.

  ‘A little. But you get used to it. Anything lighter would feel strange to me now.’

  ‘What does that mean, Dalton? That sacrifice is a win–win.’

  Dalton put the alcohol down and picked up the scalpel. ‘Let me ask you first: Why did you come here?’

  ‘Harry and Matheson are here in my place. They don’t belong here. I belong here.’

  Dalton nodded. ‘Yes, you do – in more ways than one.’

  34

  Dalton grabbed a hand towel from the cart, pulled the folding chair over and sat down before Geiger – and took a deep breath. It was a sound marking a commencement – the start of something anticipated and worked toward for a long time. He held up the scalpel.

  ‘Horatio Kern – eighteen sixty-seven,’ he said. ‘Left . . . or right?’

  Geiger didn’t need further explanation. He was already in preparation, summoning his tools – the always-fresh memory of a blade cutting into him, and a final choice from the jukebox in his mind, to listen to, to taste and see and wield against the pain. Mahler . . . Dylan . . . Hendrix . . . Bach . . .

  ‘Left or right, Geiger?’

  Geiger fixed his gaze on the cold eyes in the skullish face. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘All right. We’ll start with the left.’

  Dalton looked down and laid the scalpel across the joint of the index finger, just above the knuckle where the digit joined the palm.

  ‘The metacarpophalangeal joint. That’s a mouthful, isn’t it?’ Dalton looked back up to Geiger. ‘You smashed mine so hard that you pulverized some of them. The doctors said they’d rarely seen anything like it.’ He refocused on the blade. ‘Don’t move now.’

  Geiger turned off his lights. He was in the dark, where it made no difference if his eyes were open or shut, and wakefulness and sleep joined hands, where it was always easier to see the music’s colors . . .

  He watched the grip of the mechanical fingers tighten – and with a surgeon’s care Dalton drew the scalpel very softly across the joint, barely cutting the flesh, leaving a thread-thin, one-inch line of blood.

  ‘There,’ said Dalton, and reached over to the belt at Geiger’s right wrist and flicked open the clasp, releasing the lock – and then sat back in his seat.

  They regarded each other like chess players after a bizarre opening move.

  ‘When the blade is that well-honed,’ said Dalton, ‘you hardly feel a thing, right?’

  Geiger didn’t move. His thoughts were racing elsewhere – trying to recreate the labyrinth of Dalton’s madness inside his own mind – so he could find his way to the heart of it . . . and understand what was happening . . .

  Dalton folded his hands in his lap. ‘So . . . You ask – what does it mean – “Sacrifice is a win–win”. Well . . . I told you I was in your debt – and so I’m offering you a gift. A rare opportunity. The chance to make a sacrifice – a pure, selfless act – an act that will open you to yourself . . . and cleanse you . . . and banish the Inquisitor.’ He pointed a mechanical finger at Geiger. ‘You want that. I know it. To be free of him once and for all. And as you said about the truth . . . “In the end the choice is yours, not mine”.’

  Dalton rose – and held the scalpel out to Geiger.

  ‘This is how they go free.’

  Geiger peered around another corner of Dalton’s lunatic maze – and now he understood. The grin that spread on Dalton’s face was as sharp and cruel as the blade.

  ‘As we say in France . . . touché.’

  Geiger looked at the offering. The lights turned the pale silver steel nearly white, like a shiny sliver of paper. He reached out and took the scalpel. It had a cool, pleasing smoothness in his palm.

  Dalton grinned like the proud owner of a vintage touring car. ‘Perfect balance, right?’

  Geiger nodded. ‘Perfect.’

  Dalton headed for the desk. ‘And my sacrifice?’ He poured another cup of water and sipped at it. ‘I give up the chance to make you suffer with my own . . . hands.’ His face darkened, and his breathing slowed to a near-stillness. For a moment, it looked as if there was nothing alive in him. Then his hand squeezed into a steel fist and swung out like a wrecking ball, smashing into the monitor and sending it flying across the room.

  Victor’s voice came from the hall. ‘Is it all right?’

  ‘Yes, Victor.’ Dalton sighed. ‘As I said, Geiger . . . A win–win.’

  Geiger saw the triumph behind Dalton’s glasses slowly grow to full flame. The madness had served him well. It had sculpted hatred and obsession into a work of art.

  ‘Take your time, Geiger. Get up and stretch if you like.’ He headed for the door. ‘I’ll only be gone a minute or two. The back door is unlocked, if you decide to leave.’

  Dalton left the room. Geiger undid all his binds, but didn’t get up. He felt unbalanced, wobbling in his orbit. He had prepared for the pain, and damage – this was only about him and Dalton, and no one else should suffer for it. That was clear and simple as child’s math, and had been from the start. But . . .

  Dalton had turned life inside out, brilliantly. He had become the patient psychological manipulator and master – he had become the Inquisitor – and if Geiger had a chance of saving anyone, it would mean savaging himself. He would have to become Dalton.

  The waiter came out to the sidewalk and put the second demitasse on the small square table. The stunning American took no notice. She seemed to be staring intently at the little town’s modest octagonal fountain, where Avenue de Gaulle and Avenue Jean Jaures met. There was barely any traffic, hardly anyone about, and almost all of the buildings’ muted blue and teal shutters were closed.

  ‘Madame . . . manger? Eat?’

  A single, short shake of her head.

  ‘Good,’ he said, and went back inside the café.

  Heading south, Sainte-Cécile-les-Vignes was the first town Zanni had come to, and a minute in she’d had a choice of two cafés, one across the street from the other. She’d decided on Café du Commerce because there was no one seated at the half a dozen outdoor tables.

  She picked up her coffee and took a slow sip. Her field of vision was in soft focus, the foreground and background mixed together like brushstrokes in a blotted watercolor. Her breathing gears had shifted down for the first time in weeks, and the rev in her pulse was almost gone. She was coming down, feeling looser, more like herself – except for the regret. She had picked up its scent – and she wanted to look in its eyes. She wanted to be clear on everything going on inside her before she cut this life loose.

  Dewey, her dumb sweet brother lying alone, dead somewhere . . . That would stay with her for a while, and she would ride that out.

  And Geiger, more a fool than he ever suspected, who couldn’t seem to stop himself from being someone’s savior – first the boy, then Matheson, and Harry . . .

  But why her?

  The question made her angry, and wondering about the answer – even angrier. She didn’t want it in her mind. He’d put it there – without intent – but she was furious at him for doing so. It was baggage she hadn’t planned on taking with her.

  She took another sip of coffee. It was already
getting cold. She put a ten-euro note under the cup, stood up and walked across the street to the car.

  ‘Merci, madame!’

  She turned. The smiling waiter waved the money at her.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said, got in the car, and started the engine. She eyed the dashboard clock – she had plenty of time. The reality of days without names stretching out before her made her breath catch for a moment. She settled back, checked her mirrors and pulled out onto the street. When she saw the street sign for Avignon, she turned. Soon she would be on A7 heading to Marseille.

  Geiger stared across the room at the back door. It may have been open, as Dalton claimed, but he was locked in just the same. Nothing anyone else might say or do or want was a factor now. The choice was pure and exclusive.

  Dalton came back in, having changed from his flannel shirt and jeans into a gray sweatshirt and khaki pants.

  ‘Still here. Good,’ said Dalton. ‘Understand, Geiger . . . If at any point you decide to try and reconfigure things – assault me, use my life to make a trade, that sort of thing – Victor has orders to shoot you, without regard for my safety . . . and then kill Harry and Matheson.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You know, Geiger . . . There’s an element to all of this – an irony I find especially satisfying. A sort of cosmic finishing touch. I don’t know if it’s occurred to you – and I’d hate for you to miss it.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I’ve used knives, awls, razors, scissors . . . I even used a box-cutter – when my switch-blade broke. But you’ve never used a blade. You’ve been cut again and again – but the Inquisitor never drew blood. And now, if you do – it will be your own.’ Dalton smiled. ‘To be honest . . . I can’t wait to use that line in the last chapter.’

  Geiger looked down at the graceful instrument in his hand. Eighteen sixty-seven . . . He wondered how many times it had been used to save a life. To cut out something that festered on the inside.

  ‘I underestimated you, Dalton.’