The Confessor

by Mark Allen Smith

  ‘Did you? How so?’

  ‘The depth of all this. I didn’t think you had the mind for it.’

  ‘I didn’t – not until after July Fourth. I told you, Geiger – I owe it all to you.’

  ‘The psychological layers . . . It’s remarkable.’

  ‘Thank you, Geiger. That means everything to me.’

  Dalton picked up a one-liter plastic bottle of Cosmoplast 500 from the cart.

  ‘Superglue. German brand. Very fast-acting. Excellent product,’ he said. ‘Tell me something. Did you feel anger towards them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I did. All of them. The anger was what kicked me into gear – and kept me going. That was my moneymaker.’

  Geiger was aware of a change. The thud in his ears – it was gone. His heart was calm.

  ‘There was no anger,’ he said. ‘It was just the work. And when the truth would finally come out . . .’

  Dalton cocked his head. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Completion.’

  Dalton nodded. ‘You know, Geiger . . . I believe you – and I don’t.’

  His fist rose and slugged Geiger in the side of his head. Geiger shook off the blow and shot to his feet – and Dalton’s smile froze him like a glance from Medusa.

  ‘Angry?’

  Geiger’s fingers tightened around the scalpel. A flick of his wrist would sever the external carotid artery. Unconsciousness within seconds, dead within the minute. He glanced behind him – Victor was in the doorway, his face was stony, indifferent, his gun aimed at Geiger’s head. Geiger lowered himself back down into the barber’s chair and Victor stepped out of view. There was an aching static in Geiger’s skull now.

  Geiger met Dalton’s curious stare, and planted his left hand flat on the chair’s arm. He would summon no music. He would keep the lights on inside. There would be no alchemy, and no sliding back into memory. He would anchor himself in this moment.

  Dalton could taste his hate, a bitter surge on his tongue – and the sweet anticipation of vengeance being served was almost its equal. He would be done with it soon enough.

  Geiger laid the point of the scalpel down across the thin, crimson guide on his knuckle and filled his lungs with air so he wouldn’t have to take another breath until it was over.

  ‘Win–win,’ he said, and pushed the scalpel in.

  The flesh parted evenly, giving a glimpse of the joint, and Geiger pressed harder, sinking the blade down between the bones. His howl began.

  Dalton’s lips parted. ‘Yes,’ he hissed, but neither man heard it.

  The evolution of the pain was swift – a fine electric sting erupting in a heat blast that rocked and scorched him as he cut through vein and tendon. The borders of the sensory realm began to melt and expand – his jaw locked down, teeth grinding like millstones – jimmying the blade through the joint . . .

  There was never a moment when his mind lost sight of his purpose, or questioned it . . .

  . . . and he gave one final push and the scalpel stopped flat against the porcelain. He dropped it, and there was a sudden whiteout in his mind as blood spurted in a thin, arcing stream around the room, painting the white floor with crimson drizzles.

  Dalton watched, uncertain if shock or pain or the sight of the extraordinary visual display kept Geiger frozen – then he grabbed Geiger’s wrist tightly and raised the arm straight up. The bleeding paused and Dalton squeezed a tablespoon’s worth of superglue onto the raw stump. It instantly began to harden into a pinkish glaze.

  ‘That was stunning. Flawless.’ The rush in Dalton’s veins was unlike anything he had ever experienced. ‘Just another twenty seconds or so.’ It was the ride of his life. ‘Did you hear me, Geiger?’

  Geiger was staring at his index finger, lying on the chair’s arm in a small apron of blood. By itself, it looked different to him than it had when it was part of his hand – longer, somehow – as if severing it had made it grow. The sensation was ferocious. A blowtorch.

  ‘Yes, I heard you.’

  Dalton lowered the arm and let the hand rest in Geiger’s lap. ‘The pain’s incredible, isn’t it? Transformative.’

  In a sense, Dalton was right. It was turning into a soporific, so strong that it was starting to numb Geiger’s senses. He worked at keeping his breaths slow and deep. He wanted to close his eyes, but he was afraid he would pass out if he did.

  ‘Let them . . . go now.’

  Dalton picked up a towel and started wiping off his hands. ‘We’re not finished, of course – but yes, I’ll get the process started. Victor – get one of them ready!’

  Victor reappeared in the doorway. ‘Who first?’

  Dalton put the blood-stained towel down. ‘Geiger – you have a preference?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well. Victor . . . Make it Matheson.’

  Victor went down the hall. With things seemingly moving toward an end, he was considering whether or not to ask Dalton for Dewey’s back-end. He was doing the work of two now, but there was an unwritten clause in every contractor’s deal: Dead men don’t get paid. He decided he’d wait till it all played out.

  On the wall, dangling from a hook, were two silver keys on a ring. He put them in a vest pocket and continued to a door, took out his Glock pistol, opened up and walked in the room.

  ‘All right. I am here to—’

  Harry was lying on his back, on the mattress, asleep. Matheson was sprawled on the floor, face down, his head in a pool of blood.

  ‘Merde . . .’ grunted Victor. He walked to the body, stopped two feet away, and trained the gun on Matheson.

  ‘Matheson . . . Matheson!’

  Harry stirred. ‘Huh?’ He raised his head, bleary eyes slowly opening . . . then the lids springing up. ‘Oh God . . .’ He propped himself up on his elbows. ‘David! Jesus, no . . .’ He looked to Victor, lips pulling back – an angry dog. ‘What the hell did you do to him?!’

  ‘Be quiet now. I just got here.’ Victor slid a foot forward and gave Matheson’s ribs a solid nudge. ‘Matheson . . .’ He came a half-step closer and kicked him. ‘Matheson!’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Christ . . . Is he dead?’

  Victor sighed. Dead could be a problem. Dalton might not be pleased. It was impossible to guess how the madman would react to anything. He crouched down, and with the gun at Matheson’s temple, grabbed a fistful of hair and raised the head. The pale face was coated in blood. Victor lay the head back down and frowned.

  Harry’s belief that rare moments of symmetry might lie waiting within the endless mayhem of life had never been more fervent, and desperate – the one split-second in a trillion that was earmarked for a purpose, fashioned for it, and must be exploited before it dissolved into the past and life went on its merry, absurd way, tripping over itself and wreaking havoc . . .

  ‘Jesus, man! At least see if he has a fucking pulse!’

  Victor’s head did a 45-degree turn to Harry. ‘I said – Be quiet.’

  ‘Yeah? Well how do you say “Fuck you” in French?’

  Then real life shifted into a slow-motion ballet before him . . .

  In a combined, clumsy effort of motion, Matheson rose up on his knees and lunged forward, raising the length of ribbing hidden underneath him, wrapped three times round his hand – with a noose at its end . . .

  Victor’s peripherals kicked in, head turning, gun hand swinging round and thudding into Matheson’s chest – as the noose slipped down over Victor’s head . . .

  The blow knocked Matheson backward, but his grip held firm, and the momentum of his fall pulled the slipknot tight around Victor’s neck. Matheson hit the floor and gave a vicious tug, jolting Victor down to his knees – his hands jumping to his neck, clawing at the noose, Glock clattering to the floor, a clogged choke bursting out of his mouth . . .

  Harry’s brain leaped back to full-speed – he pulled his own lasso from beneath him, crawling as fast and as far as he could toward
Victor. He tossed the noose out like a rodeo wrangler of the most amateur level. It hit Victor’s back and fell to the floor – and Harry frantically reeled the cord back in . . .

  Victor took hold of the taut rope with one hand, and then the other, like a man in a tug of war – negating Matheson’s leverage – and something between a grin and a death grimace stretched his lips as he started pulling, hand over hand – and Matheson began to slide toward him on his back. It was no contest.

  Harry gripped the loop and flung it again. It floated in the air, a vengeful halo – and dropped down over Victor’s head. Harry yanked hard, the noose sliding closed – and brought Victor down on his back. They had him from both ends now. They were exhausted, but this desperate adrenaline – fast-acting and short-lived – was helping. Separately, they were no match for Victor – but together they made one dangerous enemy. For a second, they found each other’s face. Partners, committed to a killing.

  Victor twisted on the floor like an animal in a trap – eyes bulging, sandpaper gasps. Panic was becoming his third enemy – hands flying about, gripping and clawing here, then there, unable to stay faithful to one task. Then one of his hands disappeared inside a vest pocket.

  Matheson saw it. ‘His hand, Harry! Something in his pocket!’

  The hand came back out in a blur, holding something – thumb pressing a button, the sleek blade springing out of the handle as the wrist flicked and the knife was launched, slicing through the air . . . until it buried itself in Matheson’s neck.

  Matheson’s breath caught, and his eyes widened. He looked concerned, and saddened by the sudden turn of events. But he wouldn’t let go of the rope.

  ‘Harry . . .’ he said. ‘Pull . . . hard.’

  Victor’s head swiveled back and forth – a muscular reflex to trauma, or a show of disagreement with Matheson’s command, or just a final, simple plea.

  Harry and Matheson were mirror images of each other – the grim features etched in hard faces, the unsteady bodies trying to brace themselves – and then, the identical movements, the arms jerking back . . .

  The crunnnnch was a sound of irreparable damage – its meaning underlined by the silence that seized the room. Victor was suddenly a still-life, a body in crooked repose. The keys were visible, dangling out of his vest pocket.

  Matheson dropped to his knees, and then fell over on his side – and Harry started reeling Victor in.

  ‘David . . . ? David . . . Can you hear me?’

  The fingers of Matheson’s left hand fluttered a response.

  Victor was heavy, but Harry’s adrenaline was spiking off the graph. With one more heave, he brought the body to him. He didn’t bother to find a pulse – the angle of Victor’s head ruled out all possible physical states but one. He pulled the keys from the pocket and flopped down on his ass. His hands were burning and it was a struggle getting a key into his shackle.

  ‘Fit, you mother . . .’

  It slid into the slot, Harry turned it, and with a click the shackle opened. He pulled it loose and crawled quickly to Matheson’s side, gently rolled him onto his back and then raised him up in his arms about fifty degrees. The knife was in so deep there was very little blood escaping, just a wet, red collar slowly growing around it.

  ‘David . . . Can you—’

  ‘Don’t . . . take it . . . out. Lose blood faster.’ Matheson’s eyes opened. ‘Read that . . . somewhere.’

  Matheson’s hand made its way to Harry’s and rested there. His breath came so softly that Harry’s huffing almost drowned it out.

  ‘Don’t worry, David. I won’t.’

  Harry felt their presence. His ghostly congregation, sad-faced, faithful, warm hearts. They were arriving to share in the suffering, to pay their condolences. And they would not judge him harshly for a murderous act. They understood that any and every moment was only a breath away from the last.

  ‘Harry . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re a . . . good man.’

  ‘You shouldn’t talk, David.’ Harry heard the hollow echo of grief in his voice. He was already in mourning. From the corner of his eye, he picked up an image of something on the floor. Victor’s Glock.

  ‘I’m sorry, David,’ he said, and his sigh rose up from the deepest place in him.

  Matheson’s eyes closed again. His sigh was very different from Harry’s – almost weightless, winged. And then he stopped breathing.

  35

  Dalton swirled the scalpel in the alcohol bottle, giving the liquid a hint of pink. He’d put the amputated finger on a gauze square on the cart. He came back to his chair and sat down, and studied Geiger. The face and body didn’t match – his limbs stretched out and at rest, his head still, leaned back against the headpiece . . . but his face was compressed with pain, muscles shifting and tightening, etching lines in the flesh and then erasing them.

  ‘Geiger . . . Tell me how you feel.’

  The feeling was new, and saturating. Geiger was lying on Dr. Corley’s couch, and waited for the wise, sad voice.

  ‘Tell me how you feel.’

  ‘I ache, Martin. Everywhere.’

  ‘From your hand?’

  ‘No. The hand hurts, but this is different.’

  ‘Can you describe it?’

  ‘It’s not the kind of pain I can control.’

  ‘Do you think it’s sadness?’

  ‘I don’t know, Martin. How can I tell?’

  Dalton poked Geiger on the knee. ‘Geiger . . . Tell me what you’re feeling.’

  ‘I hurt, everywhere.’

  Dalton nodded. ‘Good. That’s good. Anything else?’ Geiger’s eyes opened. ‘I’d prefer to not do that again.’ Dalton nodded again. ‘Even better.’ He held out the scalpel. ‘Same hand – or the other one?’

  Zanni came up out of a crouch and looked into the open kitchen window, then climbed through and dropped down to the floor without a sound, Beretta at her side. Her head was in lockdown. Get in, get done, get out. No other thoughts till then.

  She moved down the hall on cat’s feet – and slowed when she saw the door was open. She raised the gun and stopped at the edge of the doorway, then swiveled into it – and took in the grisly tableau.

  Victor was sprawled on the floor, pop-eyed and blue-faced, hands clutching at the cords embedded in his neck. Matheson lay on his back, arms folded on his chest, blood still seeping from him. Harry was gone.

  She took a slow breath. The body count was rising. A bloody tide.

  Geiger tapped his lacquered stump with the scalpel. It was rock-hard.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Excellent product.’

  All his systems had found the same place to dial down and still function – just past halfway between shut-off and full capacity. Mind, senses, tolerance, reflexes.

  ‘You know,’ said Dalton, ‘the military used to use superglue in Nam, to stop the bleeding till they could medevac somebody to a hospital. This stuff’s even better.’ He sat back and crossed his arms. ‘So . . . what shall it be, Geiger? Which next?’

  ‘That depends. Can you give me an idea of how many I have to lose?’

  ‘How many?’ Dalton’s smile was as slow and cold as a winter river. His finger started its tapping on his lip. ‘Let’s put that issue aside for now and take it one at a time. Start cutting.’

  Geiger had been trying to mathematize the dilemma. Was it better to lose a few fingers on both hands . . . or all of one? But Dalton’s response implied there was no reason to continue with that pragmatic train of thought.

  He switched the scalpel to his left hand and, as Dalton had done with the forefinger, made a cut across his right pinky’s knuckle that just broke the skin. Blood rose on the line.

  ‘Nice choice,’ said Dalton. ‘Less work, less pain – and no great loss, comparatively speaking. There’ve been studies. We use it much less than the rest.’

  Geiger looked up at him. Dalton was leaning forward in the chair, a Roman in the Colosseum waiting for the f
estivities to resume . . .

  This time Geiger opted for speed over craftsmanship. He let out a ragged, extended bellow as a preface to action – and sank the blade in deeply, point-first, then levered the scalpel down fast and hard. The finger jumped free of his hand in a jet of blood and fell to the floor – the pain turned molten – and the growl slowly faded to a thick, breathy huff.

  Dalton repeated the process – a vice grip around Geiger’s wrist, raising the arm, the application of the superglue. They were like figures in some twisted ritual of anointment.

  ‘Well done,’ said Dalton. ‘Really. You don’t disappoint me, Geiger.’

  He let the hardening time pass, put Geiger’s hand on his thigh, and bent down and picked up his trophy – and when he straightened up he was staring at Zanni, standing in the open doorway.

  Dalton’s expression had a touch of the beatific. ‘Forget something?’

  Zanni walked in. The chair had swiveled so she couldn’t see Geiger. But there was blood, spray splashes. A lot of it.

  Dalton put the little finger down next to the other. ‘We’re in the middle of something, Zanni.’

  Her gun rose and flicked to the right. ‘Over there. Against the wall.’

  ‘. . . What?’

  ‘Move, Dalton.’

  ‘Exactly what is happening here, Zanni?’ His confusion was sincere. ‘Geiger and I have much more to . . . talk about.’

  ‘Later on you can set up a Skype account together. Now go over there.’

  Dalton’s angry breath became audible in his nostrils. ‘Should I assume Victor is aware of this?’

  ‘Victor is no longer aware of anything.’ The gun flicked again. ‘Now move!’

  Dalton started across the room, shaking his head. ‘Betrayal is such a cheap sin. The melodrama . . . It’s beneath you, Zanni.’

  ‘So is shooting you in the head, but I will.’

  She moved deeper into the room, so the three of them formed a triangle. She had a view of Geiger now – his pale face, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the hands. He reminded her of a Raggedy Ann doll she’d had when she was a very little girl.

  ‘Jesus . . . Geiger . . .’ she said.

  Geiger’s head slowly straightened – it was an uphill battle – and he opened his eyes and found her. Zanni saw no sign of surprise at her presence, no gratitude or relief. Just the classic Geiger stare. And that was a good thing. Keep it linear. Get it done. Leave.