The Confessor (38 page)

‘Not yet – but I think he’s very near.’

Matheson started walking. His jangling chain let him get four feet from Dalton before it went taut. The two men regarded each other without expression. Had Matheson leaned forward and reached out, his bloodied fingertips might have brushed Dalton’s flannel shirt.

Dalton pushed his glasses up on his nose. ‘Something on your mind, David?’

‘I just wanted one last look at you – up close.’

‘And what do you see? Tell me.’

‘. . . Something that shouldn’t be alive.’

Dalton nodded slowly. ‘All in good time, David,’ he said. ‘All in good time.’ He turned and headed toward the door. ‘I’ll bring you two a little of everything. The veal is a bit tough, but tasty.’

He opened the door and went out. Matheson turned to Harry.

‘I never wanted to kill anyone before. It’s a real bad feeling.’

Harry nodded silently. He knew exactly what Matheson meant – and had nothing to add.

Matheson went back to his mattress and resumed his post against the wall. His eyes dropped closed. At this point, it was easier than keeping them open. Exhaustion felt like a virus. And the pain and shackles had unlocked something in him – anger in a new, mutant form. It jumped in his veins. Skittered about in his brain. His purest anger had always been a righteous element, finding its footing on the most basic of creeds –
Tell the people the truth . . . Just tell the goddamn, fucking truth
– but this fury that jabbed at his insides – it was primal, coarse, mean. Of the blood. It was his life, Harry’s life, Geiger’s, and Ezra’s, too. And nothing was unthinkable now. Nothing was impermissible.

He let himself slide back down the wall till his ass hit the mattress. His hands slid across the surface and came to rest at the mattress’s edge, at the rounded ribbing. His fingertips played at it. He opened his eyes. The ribbing ran all the way around the top edge of the mattress. It was half an inch in diameter.

‘Harry . . . ?’

‘Yeah?’

‘What do you call this? The border thing around the mattress?’ He tapped the ribbing.

Harry brought a weary eye to Matheson’s bobbing finger. ‘That? That’s called the border thing around the mattress.’

‘Harry . . .’

‘Jesus, David . . . What the fuck does it matter what it’s
called
?’

‘Fuck you, Harry – and let me rephrase the question: Do you happen to know what’s
inside
the border thing around the mattress?’

Harry looked at the edging of his own mattress. He reached over and squeezed it between thumb and forefinger.

‘Feels like a cord inside a cotton sleeve.’

‘That’s what it feels like to me too, Harry.’

Harry looked up at him. It was something of an effort to shift his mental gears into a constructive mode, but he was making progress. He moved his other hand into play, grabbing the ribbing tightly, and started to tug. The stitching that connected it to the mattress stretched but didn’t tear. Not yet.

‘We can pull it loose,’ he said. ‘Definitely.’ He repositioned himself for better leverage, making clamps of his fingers, and pulled hard. Slowly the threads gave ground, and daylight started to show between the ribbing and mattress. ‘Coming . . .’ Harry said – and an inch-wide length of the ribbing gave way. ‘Got it.’ Harry gave a good yank and the edging started to tear off with a
scrunnnnnch
.

‘Gonna take me longer, Harry.’ Matheson held up his bandaged hand. ‘No fingertips on this one. Do you know how to make a lasso knot?’

Harry kept pulling. ‘No.’

‘I’ll show you. It’s easy.’

‘You were a Boy Scout?’

‘No. A summer on a dude ranch when I was thirteen.’

Harry was doing some calculating. ‘About eighteen feet of it around the top, eighteen around the bottom. That’s a lot of rope, David.’

‘More than enough. What’s that old saying?’

Harry had most of it free. ‘Give a guy enough rope to hang himself . . .’

‘Right,’ said Matheson. ‘That’s the one.’

When the sun had taken its leave, the sky quickly let the night in and turned an inky blue-black – and in minutes the moon became a witness to it all. It was that midmost time – when creatures on the dayshift had punched out and the nightshift was coming on board – so living sounds were few and far between. In the farmhouse only two windows, front mid-center, were lit.

They sat in a row, facing the farmhouse, twenty yards in from the treeline, eating silently. Geiger took small bites of a pear. He had two carrots and a bottle of water in his lap. Zanni and Victor each had a baguette and a chunk of brie, an apple, and water.

While Zanni had a bite of cheese and either tore off a chunk of bread to go with it or took a chomp out of the apple, Victor was more ritualistic – slicing his brie and apple meticulously, just so, with a spring-loaded hunting knife, wielding the blade as if he’d been born with it in his hand.

Not once had they seen movement or proof of life inside a window.

Victor closed his knife, put the remainder of his baguette and cheese back in the tote and tossed the apple core away.

‘Geiger . . .’ he said. ‘Cheese, bread. You do not like these?’

‘I don’t eat things that have been cooked or processed.’

‘A smart man. Me . . . I cannot resist. You will live longer than most of us.’ Victor got to his feet. ‘Now, another vice – a cigarette – which Zanni does not allow close enough to be smelled.’

He strolled off farther into the trees.

Zanni’s head slowly turned, bright eyes like a lighthouse beam in a black night, watching Victor go. She had worked it out in her head – covered all the angles. That didn’t mean she was certain of every move she’d make, but right this moment that was not a burning concern – options would present themselves. She waited patiently until Victor faded into the dark – then turned back to Geiger.

‘Tell me exactly what Dewey told you. Fast.’

‘You called Victor and offered him the job – to back me up . . . and kill Dalton. But Victor was already working for Dalton – he and Dewey snatched Matheson and Harry. Victor tells Dalton about your offer . . . and Dalton says take it. We know from his video that Dalton was worried about one of Deep Red coming with me. Now, he’d know where you were every step of the way – walking right into your own execution. That is what Dewey told me.’

‘I don’t know, Geiger. All right – that’s what Dewey
said
. But what are the fucking odds of Victor working for Dalton the same time that I offer him a job? I mean – Christ . . .’

‘Why did you call Victor? Because you needed an experienced contractor who was fluent in French and English and knew his way around Paris.’

‘Yes.’

‘And Victor is the best in that category?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘All right. And who would Dalton be looking for at his end?’

Zanni did something with her lips that made them crimp at the ends. It looked childish to Geiger. It reminded him of Ezra.

‘An experienced contractor,’ she said, ‘fluent in French and English who knew his way around Paris.’

‘And the reason you’re trying to stop yourself from accepting what seems clear – is that you trusted Victor. It’s as much about your failing as his betrayal.’

Zanni’s eyes suddenly flared with tiny, shimmering violet flames. ‘Fuck you, Geiger. Save the psychoanalysis. I don’t need it.’

One of the two shining windows of the farmhouse went black. Zanni took in a long, slow breath – as if she were trying to stoke something inside her . . . or gathering strength to keep something inside from getting out. She pulled the zipper of her jacket down, slid a hand inside and took out a silver Beretta nine millimeter, then reached in a pocket for a coal-black silencer – and fitted it into the gun’s muzzle. Geiger took the last bite of his pear as he watched her start screwing the silencer in.

‘Why did you kill Dewey?’ she asked.

Geiger had spent years exploring the different approaches and deliveries of a question – because, in the end, that is what IR is about. That is the moment when things can crystallize – and the tone, engagement and timing might say as much about the asker as the question. Her voice had been cool and flat, but there was something animated and twisting below its surface – like an easy-going river whose hidden undercurrent could prove deadly to an unwary swimmer.

‘I didn’t kill Dewey,’ he said.

She looked up at him. Her hand made a final turn of the silencer.

‘I took him to an abandoned store. He was able to work free of his restraints. We fought. We stumbled around. A water tank fell on him – and crushed his chest.’

He watched her working her way through a maze of feelings and logistics. She had choices to make.

‘What are you going to do, Zanni?’

She raised the weapon and extended her arm into a firing position, then squinted to check that the silencer was in line with the barrel. The gun’s line of sight was an inch left of Geiger’s face.

‘What are you going to do?’

She lowered the gun and put it in her jacket pocket. ‘I’m going to ask Victor if it’s true.’

‘I’ll go with you.’

‘No you won’t. This isn’t about you, it’s about me – and I do my job just as well as you do yours.’ She got to her feet. ‘So you’ll stay the hell out of it.’

She looked hard as stone, and her anger was in the air around them like sudden heat. She zipped her jacket back up, turned, and walked into the woods.

Victor heard the footsteps crushing pine needles and turned, and blew a perfect smoke ring as he watched her approach. Zanni stopped fifteen feet away from him. The trees let a drizzle of moonlight in.

‘Did you ask him about Dewey?’ Victor said.

‘Dewey’s dead.’

Victor frowned. ‘I am sorry, Zanni.’

‘But before he died, he told Geiger something.’

‘What was that?’

‘He said that you were working for Dalton.’

Victor nodded mechanically at the news. ‘I see.’ He sighed. ‘I must confess – when Dewey went missing, I feared that might happen if Geiger had him.’ He took a long drag of his cigarette. ‘Take no offense, my dear – but your brother was not made for this work.’

He dropped his smoke, and very slowly ground it out with his heel. His thumbnail went to his cleft, up and down in consideration of the situation. He finally looked up at her.

‘So, Zanni . . . What are you going to do?’

Zanni’s hand came out of her pocket with the Beretta. She raised it.

Victor’s slow smile was proof he could still appreciate fate’s twisted sense of humor. He stared at the mouth of the silencer. There was not the slightest tremble in her grip. She was close enough that he could see her finger tighten on the trigger.

Geiger heard the faint, muffled
ffffp
of the shot – and got to his feet. He moved quickly toward the sound – and slowed to a stop when he saw her, thirty yards away, her back to him, standing over the motionless body as she fired again.

She put the gun in her pocket and headed back toward Geiger in a steady, unhurried stride. As she came even with him she met his gaze.

‘Let the animals have him,’ she said, and kept on walking. ‘I’m going back to the car. Getting cold.’

He sat at the kitchen table and slowly drew the blade of the antique scalpel back and forth across the hone, each stroke identical to the last. The ritual’s repetitious nature, coupled with the soft, rough murmur –
swiff . . . swiff . . . swiff –
was soothing. He sharpened the tool every day for half an hour, using a striped-gray Belgian coticule whetstone, timing the movements to the beat of his pulse.

And this was often the time when the madness arrived – his wizard accomplice stopping by for a visit, casting a spell – changing the field of lavender into a tribe of bloodthirsty serpents . . . turning the large whorls in the tabletop’s wood into plaintive faces, desperate souls trapped beneath the ice of a frozen lake . . . transforming the bottle of dishwashing detergent into a tiny nun, hands clasped at her waist, reciting her prayer in sweet, devout tones –
I abandon myself into your hands, do with me what you will, I am ready for all . . .

Dalton remembered the two doctors entering his room in the clinic after the second surgery – faces stiff and lips pursed to mask the futility. They came and stood at his bedside like mourners at a wake – and he heard the unexpected undercurrent in Dr. Ling’s voice when he finally spoke.
‘There is something we wish to discuss with you. Something to consider . . .’

He put the scalpel and whetstone down on the table, and raised his hands to his face. In so doing, his gaze caught a glimpse of something beyond them. He lowered his hands as his optical gears involuntarily refocused, and stared at the chair directly across from him, on the other side of the table. Its arms were human, its hands folded together on the table, fingers entwined, flexing calmly – and it had acquired a head atop its flat, lacquered pine back.

Geiger’s head. The unblinking slate eyes perused him.

As always, during the visions some straggling rational element of Dalton’s mind came along for the ride.

‘Not even here yet – and already back again?’

‘Why are you doing this?’ said the head.

Dalton sighed. ‘As the poet said – “How do I
hate
thee? Let me count the ways . . .”’ He leaned back in his chair. The old wood squeaked. ‘And I don’t think it’s presumptuous to say I’ve done very well by you, Geiger.’

‘How so?’

‘Well . . . I envisioned a scenario with an effective dilemma for you – constructed it in such a way that you felt it accessible . . . that you could devise and invest in a strategy, and preparation . . . Am I wrong?’

‘No. But you didn’t really answer my question.’

‘It isn’t really
your
question. You’re just an hallucination. So it’s really
my
question.’ Dalton’s elastic grin stretched. ‘Why am I doing this? Because, thanks to you, I’ve become a disciple of suffering in a very new way – and I am going to blow your fucking mind.’