“You’ll sleep here from now on,” he told the boy.
“But, Father … it’s so small.”
“Go inside and lie down.”
“I don’t want to be alone, Father.”
“You are not alone. You’ll have the music with you.” His father lifted the candle into the space. A cassette recorder and half a dozen cassettes lay on the floor.
The boy stepped inside. “Sleep,” his father said, shutting the door. Now nothing existed but blackness and the boy’s trembling breath.
Groping blindly, he gathered up the cassette player and tapes. He lay on his side, curled tight into a ball. The soles of his feet pushed against one wall, his spine and scapula against another, the back of his head against a third.
He waited for whatever came next.
* * *
Geiger opened his eyes to see Ezra staring down at him.
“Hi,” the boy said, and then walked out of Geiger’s field of vision.
Geiger sat up. He had a sense of the floor and walls accommodating his efforts, as if surfaces were solid but somewhat malleable. He stood up and waited while equilibrium gradually returned, and then stepped out of the closet. This had not been sleep, and his involuntary loss of consciousness and suspension of control were new and unsettling to consider. The rules of his migraines had been broken. The dream had always been the trigger, but this time the migraine had come on its own. Now, Geiger realized, he could at any moment be attacked from within and rendered helpless.
He started down the short hall toward the living room, hands up and out at ten and two o’clock, like a man making his way in the dark. He took a slow, careful detour to the desk. Ezra was settled on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around bent legs brought up against his chest.
“Why do you do it?” he asked.
“I get people to tell the truth. I retrieve information.”
Geiger shook loose a cigarette from its pack, turned to the boy, and saw the violin on the couch beside him.
“Was that you playing while I was in the closet?”
Ezra nodded. “I thought maybe you died.” He sighed through his mouth and a soft “Ohhhh” came out with it. “Thanks for the food. And the Advil.” He was greatly relieved that Geiger was awake, but the man was just so strange. How could he be both his protector and a professional torturer?
Geiger stood before him silently.
“What’s wrong with you?” Ezra said.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not going to have another fit, are you?”
“It’s not a fit.”
“What is it?”
“A migraine. A very powerful headache.”
“Boy, it sure didn’t look like a headache to me. Maybe you should see a doctor?”
“I see a psychiatrist.”
“Really? And he, like, knows what you do?”
Ezra tried to picture Geiger sitting in a room, talking with a psychiatrist about his work, but his mind drew a complete blank.
When Geiger didn’t reply, Ezra went on: “I went to a shrink when Dad moved out. Mom took me.” His bony shoulders jerked in a shrug. “It was pretty lame. The shrink kept asking how I felt—you know, about the divorce—and I hardly talked. So Mom did most of the talking—about wanting to move to California and taking me away from my violin teacher and that kind of stuff. She’d ask the shrink, ‘Was that selfish?’ And the shrink would say, ‘Do you think it’s selfish?’ And she’d say ‘What do you think?’ So we’d sit there and they’d just ask each other questions.”
“I’m going to have a smoke,” Geiger said. He walked to the back door, punched in the exit code, and stepped out into the yard. The lawn flashed in the sun like filaments of green glass, and he had to squint before his eyes could accept the sharp light. His legs felt rubbery, but there had been no trail of echoes chasing the boy’s voice, no visual ghosts lurking at the edges of his movements.
He sat down against the tree and lit up. He was thinking about the boy’s mother, trying to envision the future so he could figure out a way to get there. Too many things felt beyond his control. Hall was close by and, as Harry feared, he clearly had technology on his side. Trains and planes and buses felt like too much of a risk—the possibility of stakeouts seemed real—and the prospect of driving a car seemed unwise, given his current state. Geiger was accustomed to being the master of his mind and body, but now he was more like a slave to both. To believe that there wouldn’t be another ambush from within was foolish, so it would be reckless for him to attempt to bring the boy to his mother. The mother would have to come to the boy. In the meantime, he and Ezra would have to leave this place. He needed to get help.
Ezra came to the doorway and watched Geiger sitting utterly still beneath a tree. He reminded Ezra of the miniature Buddha his mother had put in the garden, and that set off a pang of longing. He saw her sitting at the piano, teeth biting her lower lip, struggling bravely to keep up with him while playing a duet for piano and violin, trying not to curse aloud at her flubs while he tried not to laugh. He always felt closest to her at those moments. The wordless flow, the weaving of a musical tapestry, the sharing of sounds.
“Can I come out?” Ezra asked.
“Yes.”
Ezra went down the two steps, stood just beyond the stoop’s awning, and turned his face up to the sky.
“Feels good,” he said. “So, what happened to the guy I read about? Victor, I think his name was. Did you … slice him up?”
“No. But he thought I did, so he told me the truth. The girl was tied up in a basement.”
“So you saved her life?”
“I got the truth. What happens after that isn’t my concern. It’s not part of the job.”
“Do you always get them to tell the truth?”
“Yes. You can make anyone do almost anything.”
Geiger’s almost offhand delivery of the statement underlined its brutal truth. Ezra wondered how you learned to be a torturer. Were there books to read? Videos to watch? A school where you took courses?
The cat came out and jumped up on the railing. Ezra made little circles on his head with his pinkie.
“You should give him a real name,” he said. Then he grinned. “Hey, you could call him Tony, after Tony Montana.”
“Who?”
“Tony Montana—you know, Al Pacino in Scarface.” He cocked his head at Geiger’s blank expression. “Get it? Scarface, the movie?”
“I don’t go to the movies.”
“Well, you ought to name him something. ‘Cat’ is kinda dumb.”
“We’re leaving,” Geiger said. He stood up and went inside.
Ezra followed him in. Geiger was filling a glass with water from the tap.
“Are we gonna try and call my mom?”
“Yes. But we have to call from a pay phone.” He chugged the water down. “And then we won’t come back here.”
The sentence grabbed at Ezra with an icy, unexpected undertow.
“Why not?”
“Because the men who are looking for you are close by. I saw them driving around when I was outside.”
The cold tug of fear grew stronger, and then Ezra remembered his IM episode with Harry.
“Oh shit—I forgot! Your friend…”
“My friend?”
“Harry. He’s your friend, right?”
“What about Harry?”
“I IM’d with him when you were in the closet. He wanted to come over.”
“He doesn’t know where I live.”
“I know, but I sent him the address on the drugstore receipt. I don’t know if he got it or not, because he signed off.”
Geiger bent to the washer-dryer, took Ezra’s clean clothes out, and brought them to him.
“Get dressed.”
“What about Harry?”
Geiger pushed the clothes into Ezra’s hands. “Get dressed.”
As Ezra headed to the bathroom, Geiger went to his desk. Harry’s IM was still
on the screen. He scrolled it back and started reading.
When he’d finished, Geiger clicked it off, revealing Ezra’s attempted IM session with his father still beneath it on the screen.
GUEST: Its EZBoy. Where are you?
But now there was a reply to Ezra’s question. It had come at 1:06 P.M., fourteen minutes ago.
BIGBOSSMAN: you’re not on your own laptop?
where are you?
Geiger’s fingers started tapping at the sides of the keyboard. Then he began to type.
GUEST: matheson, answer now
He could feel pieces of the world, fluid and energized, sliding toward each other as if driven by nature. Harry and Hall on the same path, searching for him; his father’s visitations; Matheson finally showing himself. Geiger felt like some sort of black hole, drawing everything toward him, past and present, the outside and the inside.
The IM came to life.
BIGBOSSMAN: who is this?
GUEST: we have your son
BIGBOSSMAN: please don’t hurt ezra
GUEST: for ezra’s sake we hope you still have what we want and are still in the vicinity
BIGBOSSMAN: I have it and im still in the city
Geiger tried to keep a firm grip on his mind, but it kept slithering away. He felt as if he were both car and driver, trying to steer as he read the road signs that gave him directions to the unknown place he must be bound for.
His fingers began typing again.
GUEST: type your cell number. we will call you in a short time to tell you where to meet us. we will only call once and if you don’t answer we will kill the boy
BIGBOSSMAN: 917 555 0617. i’ll do whatever you say. please don’t hurt my son
Geiger grabbed a pen, scribbled the phone number on his palm, and signed off. He heard Ezra come out of the bathroom and walk up behind him.
“So what’re we going to do?”
“I’m going to change my clothes and then we’re leaving.”
“What about Harry?”
“We can’t wait for Harry.”
“What about the cat?”
“The cat goes where he wants to go. Say good-bye.”
* * *
Outside, Geiger walked up to Mr. Memz and handed him his pack of Luckies.
“Who’s the kid?” Mr. Memz threw a look toward Ezra, who stood in the shadows of the entrance to the check-cashing store ten feet away, violin case in hand.
“I’m keeping an eye on him,” said Geiger. He had changed into a black pullover and khaki pants. “I need you to do something for me. I’ll pay you.”
Mr. Memz shook out a cigarette, lit it, and sat back in his chair. “Your buddies keep coming by. Every half hour or so—they’re on a route. This about the kid?”
“Yes,” Geiger said. He took a folded piece of paper out of a pocket. “Somebody else may come looking for me. His name is Harry. Skinny, brown hair, scar on his forehead. He might have a woman with him. He’ll probably look lost, like he doesn’t know where he’s going.”
“You sure got popular in a hurry, BT. Who woulda thunk?”
Geiger handed the paper to Mr. Memz, who unfolded it and looked at the information. It was an address, written in neat block letters.
“If you see him,” said Geiger, “would you tell him to meet me there?”
“Uh-huh.”
Mr. Memz flicked his lighter to life, lit an edge of the paper, and watched the flame consume it.
“You’ll remember it?” Geiger asked.
Mr. Memz glanced up at Geiger, then pointed a big-knuckled finger at his own face. “Who am I—and what do I fucking do?”
Geiger glanced down the street. “I have a question.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting out of here?”
“One question.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you in pain all the time?”
Mr. Memz cocked an eyebrow. This was a subject dear to his battered heart and brain.
“There’s all kinds of pain, man.”
“I meant your leg.”
“Shit, man—my leg?” He grabbed his shirt and yanked it up. The right side of his torso was a thicket of scars. “Shattered. Every bone on this side. When I roll over in bed, I sound like a bowl of Rice fucking Krispies.” His foot started to thump the pavement. “Pain’s not the thing, man. It’s just the messenger—the thing that makes you remember why you hurt. Understand what I’m saying?” He stared at Geiger, head atilt. “Yeah, I think maybe you do. Now get your ass going before your pals come back.”
Geiger turned and waved at Ezra. The boy stepped forward, and the two of them headed up the block to look for a cab.
“Semper fi, kid,” said Mr. Memz.
Ezra looked back at the one-legged man.
“Who’s that?” he asked Geiger.
“Mr. Memz.”
“Memz?”
“Like in ‘memorize.’ He knows entire books by heart.”
“For real?”
“For real. Walk faster.”
Mr. Memz watched them go up the block. They had almost reached the corner when he heard a soft voice singing, “Sally, go ’round the roses…” It was not much louder than a whisper, like a lullaby sung to a baby. “Sally, go ’round the pretty roses…”
The music made him smile. He knew the song immediately: the Jaynetts, 1963. He turned to find the singer a few feet from him on the sidewalk. A fawn of a woman, she was staring up at the sky and holding a man’s hand. The man looked lost.
* * *
Hall stopped at the red light at 133rd Street and looked over at Ray, who was nodding out. His eyes were shut, and his chin kept dipping until his head snapped back up and then slowly started down again. The meds and the pain had made him half of what Hall needed him to be. Hall had thought about the implications of Ray’s disability while he’d watched the doctor stitch him up.
“Wake up, Ray!”
Ray’s eyelids rose to half-mast.
“Ray, I need your eyes, goddamnit!”
Ray sat straight and stared out his window.
“I’m up, I’m up.”
* * *
Harry froze when he heard someone call his name.
“Hey, are you Harry?”
When he and Lily had gotten into the taxi outside the internet café, Harry had told the cabbie to drive until the meter read ten dollars. He had thirteen bucks left and figured he’d better hold on to a few, so at 116th Street the driver pulled over, and Harry walked the last eighteen blocks with Lily in tow. His knee was so swollen he thought he could hear it swish with each step.
“Harry? Geiger’s Harry?”
Harry turned around. “Yeah?”
Mr. Memz jabbed a finger toward Amsterdam Avenue. “He’s up there. On the corner. Better double-time it, man.”
Harry looked up the block and saw Geiger stepping off the sidewalk toward a cab that was pulling up next to him. Geiger opened the back door, and Ezra hustled over and climbed inside.
“Geiger!” Harry shouted, as Geiger slid into the backseat and closed the door. “Geiger!”
* * *
Geiger gave the address to the cabbie’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “And take Convent to Morningside. It’s faster.”
“Wait,” Ezra said. “Listen.”
The boy jabbed at the window button. The glass slid down and he tilted an ear.
“I thought I heard…”
“Heard what?”
There it was again, faint but clear.
“Geiger!”
“That!”
Geiger stuck his head out the window and peered down the street. Two figures were trudging up the sidewalk toward them. He got out of the cab.
Harry, pulling Lily up the slight hill, was a third of a block away, limping, hollering, and waving. Geiger watched them move into the street to cut down the angle to the cab and then saw a silver flash behind Harry at the bottom of the hill. A car had turned onto the street.
“Stay here,” G
eiger told Ezra. He started down toward Harry, moving faster with every step.
“Come on, Harry,” he said. “Move!”
Harry saw Geiger and stopped. He bent over, hands on thighs, panting heavily. Geiger arrived in a jog and picked Lily up in his arms.
“It’s Hall, Harry. Run!” Geiger started back to the cab with Lily.
Still bent over at the waist, Harry swiveled and looked behind him. The Lexus was coming up the street at a crawl.
“Fuck … me.”
He pushed all the air out of his lungs and lifted himself upright.
* * *
Mr. Memz, watching the show, saw Harry start hobbling forward as fast as he could. Then he turned west and observed the slow advance of the silver Lexus.
“Jesus H. Christ, here we go.” He tugged at his ponytail, his head swiveling back and forth, gauging distances. “C’mon, man,” he shouted at Harry. “Faster.”
Halfway to the corner, Harry’s knee buckled and slammed into the asphalt.
Mr. Memz winced and then looked back at the Lexus. “He’s never gonna make it,” he muttered.
Grabbing his crutch, Mr. Memz stood up.
* * *
If Ray hadn’t slipped back into a semi-nod, Hall wouldn’t be driving so slowly. But as he worked his way up the block, he had to check both sides of the street. Finally he reached over and hammered Ray’s chest with a backhanded fist. Ray’s bloodshot eyes sprang open.
“Stay awake! I mean it, Ray. Drop your end and I will send you to your fucking reward. Got it?”
Ray grunted in reply.
Hall saw them just as Geiger deposited Lily in the cab and turned back for Harry, who was twenty feet short of the taxi. Hall’s foot pounded the accelerator as his hand felt for the gun in his belt. With a rich growl, the powerful car sped up the hill.
Hall’s mind quickly scanned scenarios. Run them over? Pull up between them and the cab? Make a big show with the gun? And if a cop shows up?
He glanced at Ray. “You’re on Geiger. I go for the kid. He’s got to be in the cab.”
The Inquisitor: A Novel Page 17