The Confessor (28 page)

‘Who wrote this?’

‘Geiger.’

Her eyes snapped up. ‘Geiger? Geiger’s dead.’

‘No he’s not. He’s in Paris, trying to save Dad and Harry.’

‘Save them from what?’

‘I dunno, but it’s real bad or he wouldn’t have gone.’

Her gaze dipped back down to the letter, but part of her mind was already at work on something else.

‘When did you get this?’

‘Two days ago. I lied about the cat. I didn’t find him in the street. Geiger brought him here, with the letter.’

‘But you didn’t see him . . .’

‘No.’

She folded the letter neatly. She was nodding to herself, agreeing with a private decision. She started out of the room.

‘You aren’t going to school tomorrow.’

‘Mom . . . What are you gonna do?’

She was already gone, into the hall, out of sight.

‘Mom! What’re you doing?!’

Her growl was so loud he heard her quite clearly.

‘Goddamn
bastards
!’

Geiger sat up and tested his shoulder, slowly rotating the joint. It felt swollen, but he didn’t think anything was torn. The pain was thick and warm, and he tried to move it around his body, spreading it out and diminishing it at the same time.

Christine stood up. ‘How is it?’

‘It hurts. I’ll be all right.’

‘You should take some Advil, or Doliprane.’

‘I don’t use drugs.’

She smiled faintly. ‘Drugs?’

‘I have other ways to deal with pain.’

Christine looked over at Dewey’s crushed body. ‘What are you going to do about him?’

‘After I’ve left the city, I will notify someone.’

‘
Someone
?’

‘Christine, I understand your reaction to all this, but—’

‘My
reaction
? Geiger, I’m looking at a
dead body
.’

‘If you called the police, Christine, what would you say – when they started asking you questions?’

‘That’s not the—’

‘What is your relation to the deceased? Who is he? Do you know how he died? Were you here when he died?’

She turned back to him. She knew he was right. She wasn’t thinking things through to the end – because she couldn’t even catch up to the here and now.

‘You would have to tell them about me, Christine, and that would not be helpful.’

Geiger picked up the iPad and slowly got to his feet. It was as if the planet had undergone a massive subterranean calamity and gravity’s pull had somehow doubled. He felt like he was made of lead, and when he wobbled Christine reflexively grabbed his uninjured arm.

‘It’s okay. It always happens.’ He started tentatively toward the table. Slow, short, half-slide steps.

‘What does?’

‘I get migraines. When they’re over, it takes a moment to get anchored.’ He put the iPad in his bag, zipped it shut and looked up at her. ‘If you could drive me to a hotel – whatever is nearby – so I can pack my shoulder in ice and get a few hours’ sleep before I leave . . .’

‘. . . Yes. All right.’

She watched him head for the door – bag in hand, covered with the floor’s gray dust from head to foot – and she was struck by an image of a man trying to straddle different worlds – an acrobat moving from one tightrope to another, adjusting his balance and purpose with each step. But whoever he was – savior, avenger, killer – he didn’t seem to
belong
anywhere at all.

He walked through dense woods between sheets of angled bronze light that shot down through the canopy, his bow and arrow held chest high. He was seven or eight years old, but had the mind of a man who knew he was dreaming – suspended in that dim corridor between true sleep and wakefulness. He could smell the sap from the trees and, at the same time, felt the smooth rumble of the car’s tires on the street.

The boy stopped. Fifty feet away, a small fawn sat between two trees, the sun bringing out the rust and gold in its dappled coat. It turned its head to face the visitor – eyes brown, glistening jewels, big ears twitching . . .

. . . Geiger felt a spatial shift – the car swerving slightly – and heard a horn’s short bark that seeped through one layer of semi-consciousness into another. It could have been the cry of a hawk above the forest, sensing something helpless below . . .

. . . The baby deer started struggling to rise, knobby legs aquiver, but no sooner did it accomplish the feat than it sank back down in a tangle of skinny limbs.

The boy whispered. ‘How old do you think it is . . . ?’

‘Very young,’ whispered a deep, sonorous voice nearby. ‘Almost new.’

‘It wants to get up. Can’t we help?’

The boy’s father stepped to his side. ‘No,’ he said.

The boy turned and looked up into his father’s dark tunnel eyes. ‘Why?’

‘Because it would be unnatural.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said the boy.

His father’s crooked, scarred carpenter’s fingers went to his thick, black beard and scratched.

‘Son . . . There is a natural way to things. If it were older – we would kill it for the meat . . .’

‘But it looks so weak.’

‘That is of no matter.’ He put a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Why do you think we live as we do – up here, away from everything and everyone? Weakness in the world is not our concern. What matters is that we become strong
inside ourselves
. That is what works best for us.’

. . . Geiger could feel the motion of things slowing, the hum of the car engine dropping in pitch, the spinning planet accommodating the changing speed of the wheels’ rotation. A traffic jam . . . ? Red light . . . ? Another sharp squawk of a horn . . .

. . . The boy looked up to the sky. A golden eagle glided across the sun, wide and stark as a fighter jet in a war zone. The boy jabbed a finger at it.

‘Father . . . Look.’

The short, white streaks in the great bird of prey’s wings brightened as they tipped and it started downward.

‘It’s coming down, father.’ The boy turned – but his father was gone. All that was left of him was the potent, bitter scent of smoke. The boy’s head snapped back to the fawn – but where it had lain was a newborn human infant swaddled in a black cloth, arms stretching, impossibly tiny fingers exploring the warm air.

. . . There was a tug of war in Geiger’s brain – the throb in his shoulder a reminder of real life, trying to pull him out of the dream, but he didn’t want to leave – not yet . . .

The boy watched the eagle descend into the woods like a dark angel, long talons stretching open, its wing-spread so wide their gleaming tips sliced clean through branches on each side like scythes through wheat. As limbs fell all around the boy, the bird swooped down with an undulating, plaintive cry, snatched the baby up in its claws, swathe and all – and flew for the beckoning sun with its prize . . .

Geiger opened his eyes. The world was waiting for him with a thousand lights – stacks of soft white windows, gaudy neon signs, scattered headlights and brake-lights in the sparse traffic, glowing streetlamps. They were driving down a wide boulevard, the asphalt polished shiny black with the remnants of the rain.

‘How long was I out?’

Christine glanced over. ‘Not long. Two or three minutes.’

The picture of the eagle and infant lingered, growing dimmer as they soared higher and farther away – and Geiger tried to put himself in Corley’s office, lying on the couch, describing the dream . . . and wondered what Corley might say.

‘Let’s talk about the eagle, Geiger. What does it make you think of?’

‘. . . A bird of prey. A predator.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘Because . . . ?’

‘I don’t think most associations with an eagle are about predation – hunters, cold, remorseless – like a hawk . . . or a buzzard. I think more often eagles are thought of as noble creatures.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘And maybe – and it’s just a maybe – but maybe the eagle wasn’t taking the infant as prey. Maybe the you in the dream wanted to save the helpless baby.’

Up ahead, Geiger saw a bright green sign that said HOTEL RONDO – and Christine turned left onto another street.

‘There was a hotel just up the street, Christine.’

‘I’m taking you home to my house.’ There was a heft to her voice Geiger hadn’t heard before. ‘You need help packing your shoulder. And I’ll make you a meal. Then you’ll sleep. Then you’ll go.’ She turned to him. ‘And I have questions that you’re going to answer.’

Geiger nodded at her. ‘All right,’ he said.

Victor punched off his cell. ‘Still not answering.’

Zanni nodded. ‘I don’t like it.’

They were sitting in their hotel’s street-level bar in front of a window that looked out on the street and Geiger’s hotel. Victor had a cup of tea before him, Zanni stared at an untouched glass of red wine.

She tapped the glass with a trimmed fingernail.
Tink
.
Tink
. ‘There are two reasons why he isn’t answering. One – something’s wrong with his cell. Two – he
can’t
answer.’
Tink
.
Tink
. ‘And if he can’t answer, there are two reasons why. One – Geiger found him and compromised him so he could get away clean. Two – Geiger has him somewhere and is . . .
asking
him questions.’ She looked up at Victor. ‘That’s what Geiger does.’ She picked up her wine and took a sip. ‘I shouldn’t have brought him in on this one.’

‘But you have used him before – yes?’

‘In Madrid, last year. But that was just a two-day drive-around, with me in the backseat playing video-tag with a mark. First-grade stuff.’ She shook her head. ‘Not enough experience – not for a mark like Geiger. I thought about it – that he wasn’t seasoned enough – but I did it anyway. If something’s happened to him, it’s on me.’

Victor slowly turned his teacup around on the saucer, a few degrees a nudge, while his other thumb went to the cleft in his chin. Thinking time.

‘Pardon, Zanni – but . . . You did not sleep with him, did you?’

Her mouth wrinkled up like a lemon-sucker. ‘No, Victor. I didn’t sleep with him.’ Zanni raised her wine again and drank.

There was something in her voice Victor hadn’t heard before – a thin, delicate thread of sentiment, just the faintest trace.

‘Zanni . . . How long have you known Dewey?’

She put the glass down softly – and met Victor’s gaze.

‘Since I was five and a half.’

Victor sat back like he’d taken a good shove in the chest. ‘Oh Zanni . . . He is your
brother . . .
?’ He was shaking his head now. ‘Zanni, Zanni . . .’

‘I know . . . I
know
. Never family. I said I fucked up, didn’t I?’ Her shrug and sigh were inseparable – one rueful action. ‘I mean – we weren’t close, really – but he came back from Afghanistan messed up and broke – couldn’t get a job . . .’ Her face widened with memory. ‘They used to call him “No-Can-Dewey” in school – but he was great with cars. He started calling, asking me to get him inside – for one chance, as a driver. Calling all the time. He was making me crazy – so I finally said yes – and it turned out fine. He started getting gigs without me. He just wanted money to buy this joint back home, fix it up and pour shots all night. After this one he’d be close to getting out . . .’ She grabbed her glass and drank.

Victor watched her, poker-faced. ‘Do you want me to go look for him?’ he said. ‘To where he was last time he called? To look around?’

Zanni kept sipping until the glass was empty. ‘Yes. I’ll stay here in case Geiger comes back.’

Victor stood up. ‘But you do not think Geiger will come back, do you?’

‘I don’t know. Probably not.’

Victor headed for the door. Zanni turned toward the room, raised a hand and snapped her fingers. A waitress looked up at her.

‘Un espresso, double!’ Zanni turned back to the window. She was using one of her most valuable traits – digging into the situation, tightening the clamps down on her emotions . . .

Their bond had always been defined more by genetics and proximity than temperament or interests – and they had let much of that slip away once she left for college. More texts than calls, e-mails every few months, Skype a few times a year. When he’d come back from Afghanistan and started calling, she’d felt as much irritation as sympathy. And now she felt equal parts concerned . . . and fallible. Victor’s head-shaking ‘Zanni, Zanni’ had said it all.

She started breaking things down into possibles, with odds for each. Had Dewey been mugged? Ten percent likelihood, tops. Did his cell phone battery die? Twenty to thirty percent. It happened on stakeouts and tails. Even with a charger in the car, you forget sometimes . . .

The waitress arrived with the order, set it down, and left without a word.

Zanni shifted to the scenarios with Geiger, based on the near-conclusion that he was gone. She’d always known he might disappear – try and go it alone at some point. She’d even said it to his face back in Brooklyn. Had he put Dewey out of commission long enough to ensure a getaway? She didn’t have trouble seeing it play out – thirty percent chance . . . maybe forty – but it felt like too much work. Geiger was good enough to slip away without a confrontation.

She picked up her cup, brought it to her lips – and froze. Across the street a taxi was pulling up in front of Geiger’s hotel – and she felt the cat-and-mouse tingle start up in her fingertips. The cab’s back door opened and a young woman in a red evening gown stepped out and walked into the lobby. Zanni took a slow sip of espresso and put it down. Her pulse had been a dead give-away. Her mind might be working on the premise that he’d slipped the leash, for good – but clearly her heart was still hoping otherwise, and she didn’t like her body confronting her with that conflict.

There were other scenarios.

Geiger figured Dalton had someone keeping an eye on him – so he might have picked up Dewey tailing him, and on the chance he was Dalton’s man set him up somehow, overpowered him, and taken him someplace for a little IR. The more she thought about it, the more it felt like Geiger – and the angrier she got. She hadn’t considered it. What else had she missed . . . ?