The Confessor (34 page)

He lowered his leg to the mattress, and the chain’s clank opened Harry’s swollen eyes. Harry licked his lips.

‘Christ . . .’ His eyes found Matheson. ‘I feel like hell. ’

‘You’re basically purple, Harry.’

‘. . . Purple, huh?’ He grunted his way up into a sitting position against the wall. ‘Would you say closer to violet . . . or plum?’

‘. . . Plum, with splotches of eggplant.’

‘But it’s a good look, right? Plum is a good color for me.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘I have a plum sweater. I’m a knockout in it.’

Matheson watched Harry’s wisp of a blue smile come out. It had been years since he’d shared enough time with someone to have a sense of who they really were, let alone care about them. He and Harry would’ve made a good team . . .

‘Gotta piss,’ said Harry, and swung his legs around so his feet reached the bare floor. He planted his good hand against the wall and started to get up.

‘Careful, Harry.’

Harry rose unsteadily, took a deep breath to help his blood find a new rhythm, and shuffled to the portable toilet, his chain jangling on the floor.

‘Jesus . . . Look at me. I’m fucking Jacob Marley.’ He pulled up his smock and started to piss.

‘We need to talk, Harry.’

‘About what?’

‘Ezra.’

‘Nope,’ Harry said.

‘Nope . . . ?’ Matheson’s brows tilted like a seesaw. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Just what I said. I’m not going there.’

‘Where exactly is the “there” you think I want to talk about?’

‘You want me to promise I’ll help look after Ezra if you die and I don’t – and it’s bullshit.’

‘
Bullshit
? Well fuck you, Harry.’

Harry shook off the last drop, let his smock down and turned.

‘Listen up, man!’ The sudden punch in decibels made the room feel much smaller. ‘Christ . . . Either Dalton’s gonna kill us both – in which case I’ll be hard-pressed to make good on my promise . . .’ A sudden wince from unknown origins made Harry pause and take a breath. ‘. . . or he’s gonna let us both go, like he said he would – in which case you can go back to your son and try to atone for your fucking sins by yourself.’

Matheson nodded slowly. ‘Right.’ The sole word had the flat sound of a nail being hammered into something hard.

Harry looked to the window and stared at the two-inch vertical opening between the boards. The perspective took away all sense of depth – it looked like a still-life, the bottom lavender and striated forest on the top. He started toward it, until the chain stopped him. The pulse in his temples was piston-heavy. He didn’t want to die here. He wanted to do some damage. Break something. Growl at the top of his lungs. Rip something apart. He looked down at his chain.

‘Motherfucker . . .’

He bent down to it, grabbed it in both hands – and began smashing it against the floor.

‘Muh – thur – fucker!’ The loud clang accompanying his outbursts was like tympani from hell. Up, down, up . . . Harry’s very own Anvil Chorus. ‘
Muuuh – thurrr – fuuuucker!!’

Matheson had the look of a bystander watching a multicar pile-up on an icy highway – one sliding vehicle crashing into the back of another – and another – and another.

‘Fuck!’ growled Harry. Wham! ‘
Fuck!
’ Wham!
‘MOTHER
–
FUCKING FUCK!
’

Harry slammed the chain down one last time, tottered, and flopped down onto his ass, chest heaving, spewing gusts of air from his mouth, spent.

Matheson didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He was thinking Harry resembled one of Notre Dame’s gargoyles – but then decided he looked more like a truly crazy person – a character out of
Marat/Sade
, or
Cuckoo’s Nest
.

Harry looked over at Matheson, and let loose a final, satisfied sigh.

‘David,’ he said, ‘I think I’m finally starting to get in touch with my anger.’

They regarded each other with the equable look of philosophers putting a point of existential theory to bed – but the comment was a lit fuse, burning its way to the truth of their situation. Jet-black humor could only deflect the reality of things for so long . . .

It was Matheson who lost control first, with an explosive, harsh guffaw that set Harry off – and their brittle laughter rose, unable to be contained. That there was no trace of humor or pleasure in the sounds made the effect all the more jarring – but they couldn’t stop.

Geiger was staring at the Taxi Provençal counter fifty feet down the hall. He had the scene worked out. It had weak spots, but there was no helping that now. He headed for it – and noticed Calvin sitting on a bench to his left, staring at the floor. He stopped.

‘Any luck, Calvin?’

Calvin looked up with a dark face. ‘Oh, hey there. No – no luck. Not a stitch. I can’t even use the friggin’ ATM.’ His sheepish grin returned. ‘I believe I am now officially, royally screwed. But thanks for asking.’

Geiger could feel thought lines in his mind quickly shifting, rerouting, connecting dots into a different picture. It happened in IR sessions all the time. New input equaled new construct.

‘Calvin . . . How much do you need?’ he said.

Calvin squinted, and then waved the idea off with both hands. ‘No, no. You’re a great guy for asking, but I can’t let you do that.’

‘Why can’t you let me do that, Calvin? It was my suggestion, not yours.’

Calvin shrugged. ‘True. But still, I just couldn’t—’

‘Where do you need to go?’

Calvin frowned. ‘Closest American Express office is back in Paris . . .’

‘So you need one hundred twenty euros.’

The man from Nebraska sighed. ‘Yup.’

‘Here is what we’ll do, Calvin. I need to go to the taxi service – over there, for a car. I don’t have much cash on me – I was going to have them charge my credit card for some euros anyway. You wait for me over there . . .’ Geiger pointed to the wall directly across from the taxi counter. ‘We’ll get you back to Paris. All right?’

Calvin stood up. ‘You’re a very nice man, mister. A godsend.’

Geiger pointed again. ‘Right over there, Calvin. I’ll see you in a few minutes.’

Calvin went off toward his destination. Geiger took a moment to put the finishing touches to the scene . . .

The striking young woman behind the Taxi Provençal counter was on the phone. She smiled at Geiger, held up a finger and silently mouthed, ‘Un moment.’ She was dressed in a crisp, white, man-tailored shirt and a snug blue vest that she tugged down to accentuate her figure for him. He watched her eyes wander over him, pleased with what she saw. It was a look he’d seen many times, from women and men. It started with a simple glance, and then something about him – the tunnels in his eyes, the angles of his face, the stillness that made him stand out on the landscape – turned it into a stare that lingered, curious and often carnal, until the lack of any kind of signal from him sent the looker’s gaze elsewhere.

The counter woman hung up the phone. ‘Bonjour, monsieur.’

‘I don’t speak French,’ he said.

‘Ah, an American. I speak English. I was in University of Miami one year.’ Her playful smile slipped out. ‘The sun. And
waterskiing
.’

‘There’s a car and driver reserved for me. The name is Ezra.’

The counter woman took a second’s notice of his disinterest, looked down at her monitor and poked her keyboard. ‘Yes – here it is. “Ezra”. I’ll call the driver. His name is Bruno. And – if you will just read this and sign.’ She put a pen and one-page document on the counter and dialed her cell. ‘’Allo, Bruno. Céleste.’ She turned away from Geiger and lowered her voice as she continued talking.

Geiger picked up the pen and leaned to the paper – and the action combined with the counter’s height set off a dull throb in his shoulder, an alarm clock reminding him to stay awake about the injury. He signed as the woman turned back to him.

Bruno will arrive quite soon, just outside by the taxi line. A red Renault.’ She turned the paper around to examine the signature. ‘Mr. – Jones, is it?’

‘Yes. Ezra is my first name. Your name is Céleste?’

Her flirting smile made a comeback. ‘Oui.’

He leaned forward a few inches. ‘Céleste . . . I am assuming there are directions in the rental order . . . to notify the renter, my friend, when I arrive for my ride. Am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘I need you to not make that call, Céleste.’

‘But monsieur . . . It is—’

‘I would like to surprise him. It is – like a game he and I play. You understand?’

Now it was her turn to lean in. Her smile ebbed to purely professional.

‘Monsieur Jones . . . This is a – a
difficult
position that you put me in. I am sure you understand this, no?’

‘Yes, I do, Céleste. But this is not a request.’

‘. . . Excuse me?’

The fingers of Geiger’s right hand began a smooth, easy drum roll on the counter.

‘The truth is, Céleste – it is crucial that my friend not know of my approximate arrival time – and that’s why you cannot make the call.’

‘Monsieur . . . This is – a joke, perhaps?’

‘Céleste . . . I have never told a joke in my whole life. Do I look or sound like I am now?’

Her stunning head did a ten-degree tilt. She reminded him of a deer hearing a twig snap in a forest.

‘There is someone watching us right now, Céleste. Your photo has already been taken.’

‘My
photo . . .
?’

The Inquisitor watched her eyes reflexively dart away from his and scan the area. He turned halfway around – and found Calvin leaning against the opposite wall, ninety feet away. Geiger nodded, and Calvin gave him a short sideways wave.

Céleste saw the gesture. ‘But . . .
why
?’

Geiger turned back to the woman. One of her hands was pressed against the counter, and he gently covered it with his own.

‘Céleste . . . Look at me.’

The command was soft and light as a summer breeze, and pulled her gaze back to him like a pair of strong hands.

‘I realize you don’t understand any of this, that it seems bizarre, or as you said – even some kind of prank. The simplest way to put it is . . . it’s bad timing for you – that you were on duty when I arrived – but you are now part of something very serious. Life and death serious. Is your English good enough to understand what I said?’

A score of actors might have recited the speech to no effect . . . or scorn . . . or dismissal, but while she stared at him Geiger could see parts of her face – the jaw, brows, eyes, the temples – shifting and resettling as the outrageous morphed into her moment’s reality. She finally nodded.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Céleste . . . When I arrive at my friend’s house, it will be clear whether he was expecting me or not – and I will know if you notified him. If you did, I will tell that man over there, the one with your picture, to find you. And he will hurt you, Céleste. That’s what he does. There really are people in the world who do that for a living.’

Their faces were six inches apart, and she had no more ability to move away from him than the moon from the earth.

‘So again . . . I want to make sure you understand. It’s very simple. If you don’t make the call, your life goes on as it has. Nothing changes. If you make the call, there will be terrible consequences. It’s crucial you believe me, Céleste.’

She nodded again. ‘I won’t call. I promise I won’t.’

Geiger took an envelope from his pocket and put it on the counter. There were ten hundred-euro notes inside.

‘This is for your trouble. Thank you, Céleste.’ Geiger picked up his bag, turned, and walked away. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said, but so softly that he couldn’t have heard her.

Geiger put four fifty-euro notes in Calvin’s palm, one at a time, and Calvin started shaking his head as the pile grew.

‘Dear God . . . Please . . . This is too much. I’m already—’

‘Calvin . . . I need you to stop talking now. You should have some money in your pocket after you pay for the ticket.’

Calvin’s mouth crumpled up with emotion. ‘Thank you. Really. Thank you. And I want to say to you . . . I don’t know if you’re a man of faith, and what that faith might be—’

‘I don’t believe in God, Calvin.’

Calvin’s smile came out, calm and patient. ‘Well, my friend . . . You are a generous soul, and in the book of God it doesn’t get any better than that.’ He put the bills in a pocket. ‘If you give me your name and address I can send you the money when you’re back home.’

‘That’s not necessary, Calvin. And the truth is – I don’t expect to be going back home.’

‘So this is a hit the road and see the world kind of trip, huh?’

‘Something like that.’

Calvin put his hand out. ‘Well . . . If you’re ever in Nebraska . . .’

Geiger took his hand and they shook. ‘Goodbye, Calvin.’

‘Goodbye. And God bless you, mister.’

Geiger glanced over at the taxi counter. Céleste had been watching it all. She looked as white as her blouse.

He picked up his bag and walked off.

Geiger waited inside, by the glass wall, while he took himself for a Google Maps virtual drive on his iPad – away from the terminal, toward the road to Tulette . . .

He saw the red Renault cruise up alongside the terminal and stop. The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, with a wide slab of shoulders and the face of a Shar Pei, and as he tugged down the sleeves of his navy-blue suit Geiger saw that the elbows were faded. The man took up a post beside the car and, with one hand, held up a one-foot-square piece of cardboard with ‘Taxi Provençal’ printed across the top and EZRA written below it in large, crude letters, while he combed his fingers through his graying, steel-wool crop of clipped hair with his free hand.

Geiger stepped outside and walked toward the driver. ‘I’m Ezra,’ he said.

The driver smiled and did a short, choppy bow. ‘Bonjour, monsieur. I am Bruno.’

He opened the back door and Geiger got inside the car. There was the faint but cloying aroma of synthetic pine. The driver came around and got in the front, put the Renault in gear and eased the car away from the terminal. Geiger put one of the windows down to dilute the smell.