The Inquisitor: A Novel

by Smith, Mark Allen

  Matheson sighed again. “Would you tell Ezra I love him—and that I’m sorry?”

  * * *

  “Matheson just gave him an envelope,” reported Mitch. “Manila, about four by ten.”

  “Fuck.” Hall had a cigarette going and took a deep drag. “Why would Matheson give it to him?” He was asking himself more than Mitch. “And how could Geiger even know what it is?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s not our stuff. Maybe it’s money and Geiger is holding Matheson up before he gives the kid back. Jesus, Richie—who cares? This is our chance. I’m fifty feet away. I could steamroll ’em and grab—”

  “No! You’re in a crowd in Central Park, for chrissake. Since 9/11 every fucking New Yorker wants to be a hero. You’d have a dozen people jumping on you before you know it.”

  “Okay, Richie, but now Geiger’s leaving. Who do I stick with?”

  Hall turned on the Lexus’s emergency flashers, and for a moment he watched them blink on and off. Did they even need Matheson anymore?

  “Matheson or Geiger? C’mon, Richie!”

  Hall punched the flashers off. “Geiger,” he said. “Geiger’s got the stuff now. Stay on him.”

  Hall ended the call and drove up the block. After taking the turn onto Amsterdam, he pulled to the curb at the corner. He kept the motor running and got out. Leaning against the car’s warm steel, he stared back down the street at Geiger’s place. A few people strolled the sidewalks. The sun was just starting to go down, and shadows had begun to roll themselves out like black wallpaper on the sides of the buildings.

  Hall took a deep, slow, pleasing breath. He felt better now. Every job had its detours and dead ends, and he’d been on plenty of cakewalks that had turned hellish. But he still got a rush watching calamity get put in its place.

  He looked again at Geiger’s building. Now it was time to deal with Ray.

  * * *

  The thought occurred to Ray while he was sitting on the toilet in Geiger’s bathroom. For more than twelve hours, his brain had been overheated—dealing with pain, saturated with medication, deprived of sleep—but the heaviness was moving away. His inner skies were clearing.

  He had always been aware that in his partners’ eyes he was the “dumb one” of the trio, and that was fine, because he’d learned that when crunch time came around, knowing how others saw you was as good as being smart. So what came to him now, with his pants down around his ankles, was that if Geiger didn’t call with the code, Richie wouldn’t go out of his way to get him out of here. And if the whole operation fell apart, Richie and Mitch were going to be checking airline schedules to destinations without extradition treaties and not giving him a second thought.

  Ray knew the “you’re fucked” monster had just taken a seat at the table, fork and knife in hand. But he wasn’t about to become the monster’s next meal without insisting on some company.

  * * *

  “So what the fuck, Richie? Huh?”

  Hall had been watching the foot traffic on 134th Street when his cell rang, and he immediately noticed that the edge in Ray’s voice was returning. The lidocaine must be wearing off.

  “Hang in, Ray. Mitch has got him covered. We just talked.”

  “Yeah? I’m happy for both of you. What about me?”

  “Ray, Mitch is on him. He’s gonna snatch him any minute now, and then we’ll get the code. All right?”

  “I want out of here,” Ray said, “or fuck everyone and everything. I do not go down solo on this. Hear me?”

  Leaning against the car, Hall studied the glow of his cigarette for a moment. “Ray, have I ever once not had your back? Ever?” He listened to silence, and then flicked his butt away. “That’s right, Ray, I have always been there for you—and now you want to give me this hard-case bullshit? Jesus, man.”

  Ray was silent for a moment. “Yeah, okay. I hear you.”

  Hall heard a beep on the line. “That’s better, Ray. Now hang on while I put you on hold for a minute—Mitch is calling again.”

  Hall switched over to Mitch’s call. “What’s happening?”

  “He’s on Eighty-eighth just off Central Park West. He’s stopped at a side door to 281 CPW. He must have a key, because now he’s going in.”

  “You where you can see both the side door and the lobby entrance?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Stay put. I’m on my way.”

  “Where’s Ray?”

  “Still locked up,” said Hall. “We’ll get him later.”

  Before switching back to his call with Ray, Hall looked down the block at Geiger’s front door. He had been waiting for the stretch of sidewalk in front of Geiger’s building to be clear of people, and now it was.

  He clicked Ray back on.

  “Ray, I’ve got the code. Mitch squeezed it out of Geiger and just called me with it.”

  “Great! How’d Mitch get him to give it up?”

  “I believe he stuck a gun in his mouth and said, ‘Please.’”

  “Amazing what a little good manners will get you.”

  Hall glanced at his cell. “Okay, ready? Here it is: five-six-eight-three. Got it?”

  “Five-six-eight-three,” Ray repeated.

  “Right. That’s ‘love’ on the number keys. L-O-V-E.”

  “Peace and love—I get it.”

  “Okay, Ray. See you in a minute.”

  “Right.”

  Hall clicked off his cell and stared at its face. “Good-bye, Ray,” he said.

  When it came, the sound was not what Hall expected—it was more a muffled foomph! than an explosive roar. Hall watched the building fold in on itself like a house of cards, and when the cloud of gray dust settled, it revealed the collapsed structure as a pyramid-shaped pile of rubble, with no damage to its neighbors on either side. Geiger had installed the directional charges perfectly.

  Cars screeched to a stop, heads popped out of windows, people came rushing out of doorways. Hall slid back into the Lexus and drove away.

  * * *

  The clank of the service elevator coming to a stop jolted Geiger awake. He had nodded out during the ride, and now he felt his damage more keenly, the forty-five-second gap in consciousness allowing the pain to win back territory. He was like a diver coming up from sunless depths, punch-drunk from the pressure, but still aware that he had to keep his ascent slow so he didn’t black out on the journey to the surface.

  Geiger picked up the gym bag. Moving carefully, he walked into the stairwell and through the door into the hallway. Everything around him had to be perceived and measured; he would need to constantly realign himself so that he could efficiently manage every expenditure of energy.

  He knocked on the door—it took less effort than finding the buzzer with a fingertip—and when the door opened the look on Corley’s face further informed Geiger about his state.

  “Jesus!” said Corley, taking Geiger’s arm gently and bringing him inside.

  Harry shot unsteadily to his feet and stared at Geiger. “What the fuck happened to you?”

  Corley led Geiger to one of the leather chairs, and Harry hobbled over to help him down into it.

  Geiger felt the chair’s cushion under him, but he didn’t allow himself to relax into it. “Harry,” he said, “Hall’s a hired gun—either for the CIA or someone like them.”

  “Oh, man,” Harry groaned. “We are in the deep stuff. You know where Hall and the others are now?”

  “Locked inside my place.”

  “And what the hell did they do to you?”

  “Not now, Harry. Too much to do.”

  Corley was trying to get a read on Geiger’s mental state, but he couldn’t make it past the physical spectacle: the bandaged cheek, the bloodless, ghastly face, and the suggestion from the way Geiger composed his body in the chair that there was more damage beneath his clothes.

  Ezra’s voice called out: “Geiger? You back?”

  The boy ran down the hall toward the living room but stopped short when
he saw Harry and Corley looming over Geiger’s chair, which had its back to him.

  “What’s wrong?” Ezra said.

  “It’s all right,” said Corley.

  But Ezra knew better, and when he rushed around the chair and came face to face with Geiger, he gasped. Against the black pullover, Geiger’s face looked nearly white, and his eyes were red and glassy.

  “Geiger!” Ezra said, putting a hand on Geiger’s leg. “Are you okay?”

  Geiger’s face tightened with pain. Ezra instantly pulled his hand away and put it on the chair’s arm.

  “Yes, I’m okay,” Geiger said. “Your mother’s coming for you.”

  “She is? When?”

  “Getting on a plane. Right away. She said to tell you she loves you.”

  Ezra tried to smile but failed. Geiger slowly reached out and covered Ezra’s hand with his own. “It’ll be okay, Ezra.”

  As small as the gesture was, Corley was staggered by its power. He had never heard Geiger speak of anyone with affection, much less show it. Whatever had happened to Geiger in the past few hours, Corley knew it had changed him.

  Geiger turned to him now. “Martin,” he said.

  Corley crouched down before the chair. “Yes?”

  “We can’t stay here. We need to go someplace else.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know how it will play out when Ezra’s mother shows up.”

  “What do you mean?” Ezra asked.

  “I mean your mother could be upset. She might want to speak to the police.”

  “But you saved me.”

  Geiger smiled wanly at Ezra and then looked again at Corley. “Martin, we need to go someplace where there aren’t doormen, neighbors down the hall, security cameras in the elevators, witnesses everywhere. Your house in Cold Spring—she could meet us there.”

  “Well, I suppose so,” said Corley, masking a sigh. It probably was the right move, but the prospect of it pained him. The house was a haven for memories of a happier time in his life.

  “Do you have a car, Martin?”

  “Yes. We could be there in an hour and a half.”

  “Not ‘we,’ Martin. Harry, do you think you can drive?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” said Harry. “It’s my other leg that’s pretty banged up.”

  Corley stood up. “Hold on a second, Geiger. What are you—”

  “You’re not coming, Martin.” Geiger looked up at him. “That way we can still keep you out of this.”

  “Keep me ‘out of this’? I think it’s a little late for that.” Corley studied Geiger for a moment and then gestured for him to get up. “We need to talk, Geiger. Come into the office—just for a minute.”

  Corley walked into the kitchen and continued on into his office through a door in the kitchen’s back wall.

  Geiger gave Ezra and Harry a look, and then pushed himself up out of the chair. He rose by increments, dozens of muscles realigning to accommodate his damage, his mind pushing the corporal into the background. Gathering his strength, he walked through the kitchen and into the familiar office. He wanted to focus all his energy on completing what he had started, whatever form that might take.

  Corley closed the door softly and turned to him. “Geiger—”

  Geiger held up a hand. “Martin, the best thing is for you to stay here. You have no place in what happens once we leave.”

  “No? I’m sorry to have to play the shrink, but let’s look at what’s occurred here, at what you did. You came to me.”

  “It was necessary, Martin. But you’re not going anywhere now. And I don’t have time for this.”

  It suddenly struck Corley that Geiger might not set foot in this room again, that they were taking part in some sort of finale. Since his divorce, the only true commitment Corley had made had been to Geiger. Now something had happened to Geiger, quite possibly the event that Corley had long been waiting for, the catalyst that would finally reveal the source of all the cruelty and the damage. But if Geiger left and never returned, Corley would never know what Geiger had finally understood.

  “Martin,” Geiger said, “I need you to give me the keys and the directions.”

  Corley tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice. “Harry told me everything, Geiger—about what you do, about information retrieval. But even if every person you dealt with was guilty or corrupt, even if they were all serial killers or Hitlers or Bernie Madoffs—”

  “I’m getting out of the business, Martin.”

  “Jesus, Geiger, it’s not that simple, and you know it. We need to talk about this.”

  “But not now, Martin. Not until this is over.”

  “Then this is how it has to be,” Corley said. “We all go to Cold Spring.”

  Geiger shook his head. “No, you’re not coming.”

  Corley gave a soft chuckle. “What are you going to do, Geiger—tie me to a chair?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Martin. Just do as I say.”

  Corley stared at Geiger and saw another man gazing out from behind the hard slate eyes—the Geiger he’d known nothing about before Harry told him of Geiger’s extraordinary, terrible skills. And as he looked into the eyes of this man who always persuaded people to give him what he wanted, Corley’s breath snagged on something inside him. He had to straighten his spine to jar it loose.

  “I feel like I haven’t done enough, Geiger. I…”

  Corley trailed off into silent thought. All the walls we build … how the mind makes its own bricks and mortar to save itself. All the things we carry within ourselves … how they are far heavier than any burden we might put upon our backs.

  “Martin,” Geiger said. “Do you trust me?”

  Corley remembered Geiger asking the same question just yesterday. Then it had seemed like another one of his inscrutable offerings, but this time Corley understood that it sought to measure, and test, and possibly even define what they were to each other.

  “Yes,” Corley replied.

  Geiger slowly nodded, his eyes softening a little. “Good-bye, Martin.”

  20

  Mitch’s surveillance gaze was on full power, toggling back and forth from the building’s entrance on Central Park West to the side door around the corner on Eighty-eighth Street. While he waited for Geiger to make his next move, Mitch listened to a show on talk radio that always got his juices flowing.

  “And so here we go again,” the host said. “Have you seen these photos of the supposed ‘torture chamber’ in Cairo? It looks like a dirty basement to me, but the so-called enlightened liberals—otherwise known as morons—are at it again, whining about human rights and due process for terrorists. And on this day of days, July Fourth, let me ask you something: do you think they have loved ones fighting to protect their freedom in Iraq and Afghanistan? Well, forgive me if I answer my own question. No! They don’t! And that’s why they can’t understand what democracy really means—because to understand that you have to sacrifice something meaningful, maybe even lose something precious and dear—and I don’t mean having the waiter tell you they’re out of your favorite sushi!”

  Mitch pounded the steering wheel. “Right on, dude! That’s the Independence Day spirit talking!”

  Mitch’s attention turned to a garbage truck that was pulling up alongside a line of parked cars on Eighty-eighth Street. The truck’s street-side door opened and a man in a DSNY jumpsuit hopped down. He walked to the heap of black plastic bags at the curb, but he took his time about it. Even with the sun low on the horizon, it was still hot.

  Mitch took a moment to watch the guy as he started grabbing bags and heaving them into the mouth of the truck.

  “Poor sonofabitch. Gotta be a hundred inside that suit.”

  * * *

  In the building’s garage, Corley stood a couple of feet away as Harry turned the ignition of the old Chevy Suburban. The engine hacked a few times before catching and achieving a rumbling idle. Ezra, violin case on his lap, sat in the second row; Lily sat next to
him, her head on the boy’s shoulder. Geiger sat utterly still in the last row, eyes shut, hands clasped in his lap.

  Corley came closer and spoke to Harry through the open window. “It hesitates when you give it a lot of gas, so be careful about passing somebody on the highway.”

  “Gotcha,” said Harry.

  “And the radio and air-conditioning don’t work.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Corley poked his head inside. “Everybody all right?”

  “I’m good,” said Ezra.

  “Geiger?”

  There was no answer.

  “I think maybe he’s asleep,” said Ezra.

  Corley sighed and straightened up. He had never felt so old, or so useless.

  “Take care, Harry.”

  “Thanks, Doc—for everything.”

  “And bring him back safe.”

  “That’s the plan.” Harry turned and smiled up at Corley.“You okay, Doc?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Well, okay then. Here we go.”

  Harry shifted into drive, and as soon as the car began to move Corley turned and headed for the elevator. He didn’t look back.

  * * *

  The clouds that had been gathering for the past couple of hours were teases, refusing to let loose and rain. Every few seconds, a couple of drops hit the windshield, but Mitch didn’t bother with the wipers. As his eyes went from mark to mark, he registered the fact that the building’s garage door was opening, and he saw an old Suburban begin to pull out. But at first he didn’t flag it as a significant event.

  Meanwhile, the talk-show host was on a roll. “You know when debating interrogation techniques became irrelevant, my friends, if not absurd?”

  “On 9/11, dipstick,” Mitch answered.

  “September eleventh, 2001, when Islamo-fascists slit the throats of eight American pilots and proceeded to murder over three thousand American civilians—that’s when!”

  Mitch eyed the Suburban again, and this time he gave it his full attention. It was hard to get a good look at the driver through the car’s windshield, but something about the silhouette seemed familiar.