The Confessor (43 page)

Dalton pointed at his laptop. ‘It’s all ready. Just put in your account number.’

Zanni sat down. ‘Dalton . . . A few steps back.’

He nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said, and backed away half a dozen feet.

‘Victor . . .’ she said. ‘Come over here with Dalton – so I can see you while I do this.’

Victor turned – and saw the Beretta – and he sighed. ‘Zanni . . . Zanni.’ He shook his head sadly as he walked to Dalton’s side. ‘This mistrust. It is disturbing. I worry about you.’

‘Good. Keep worrying about me until I’m gone.’

Dalton shrugged. ‘She’s just being thorough, Victor. I sensed that about her the moment we met. Very thorough.’

The screen showed a bank transfer setup. She typed in the numbers, which showed up as dots in a thin rectangular box. A second box appeared below it and told her to re-enter the same information, and she performed the task.

‘Hit enter,’ said Dalton.

‘Hit enter.’ The words had a pleasing sound – solid, simple, nearly anthemic. In God We Trust. Don’t Tread On Me.
Take your marks. Set . . .
She raised a finger and hit the key. ‘TRANSFER IN PROGRESS’ began flashing at the bottom of the form.

‘Zanni . . .’ said Dalton.

‘What?’

‘I understand that Dewey was your brother.’

Zanni looked to Victor. ‘You’re like an old woman sometimes – you know that?’

‘Don’t be upset with Victor. I only wanted to say that—’

‘Shuttup, Dalton.’

She looked at the screen. The message was still blinking.

‘It was a questionable choice on your part, Zanni. And your secrecy raises other issues, too – but luckily for all of us, in the end it was of no consequence.’ He removed his glasses and held them up to the light. ‘Except, of course, for Dewey.’ He was satisfied with the state of the lenses, put them back on, and sighed. ‘C’est la vie.’

Her eyes slowly rose to him. She remembered what he looked like with his jaw swollen and wired after Geiger had broken it. She wanted to do it again, with her own fists.

‘When do you let Matheson and Boddicker go?’ she said.

‘That depends on Geiger. But I suspect it will be soon. Don’t worry, Zanni. Victor will take care of them. I’m sure they’ll be in Paris before night.’

She checked the screen. There was a new message. TRANSFER COMPLETED. ‘Done,’ she said. She clicked on ‘log out’ and stood up. She was primed. She’d never felt more ready to leave someplace. She stared at them silently – and Dalton showed his dreadful smile.

‘Goodbye, Zanni. And thank you. Live well.’

Victor did a little half-bow. ‘Goodbye, mon ami.’

It was an odd thought that came to her – that these two were very likely the last people who
knew
her that she would ever see. And even with that, she realized she had nothing to say. She turned and walked out of the room.

‘Extraordinary woman,’ said Dalton.

‘Yes,’ said Victor. ‘She is.’

‘Angry.’

‘Always.’

It was colder outside than inside, but the sun was a few rungs up its ladder, and it made her warmer than she’d felt in the house. She didn’t stop to look back until she was into the trees. From the start she’d been adept at staying on point – make it about the trip, not the arrival. And not the consequences. She would never know what happened inside the house, and she would find out how much she wondered about it down the line. ‘Later on’ was the operative phrase now. For everything.

She turned around and headed for the car . . .

Dalton came in holding a hinged teak case the size of a large shoebox that he put on the cart’s lower shelf. With his back to Geiger, blocking the view of the cart, he lifted the towel.

Geiger was trying to measure Dalton’s body. His pants were bunched at the waist, and the seat was baggy. He must have lost at least thirty pounds . . .

‘Just keep in mind . . . Victor is nearby, just out in the hall. Not that I expect you to cause trouble . . .’

And Dalton came out swinging, whirling around – his left hand adorned with a bright red boxing glove – and smashed Geiger in his right pectoral. The blow’s shockwave was more potent than the pain, rattling him down to his ribs and up to his neck. The men’s grunts were a chorus – like parts of the same machine.

‘This isn’t about
hurting
you,’ said Dalton, and wound up and hammered Geiger’s left pectoral. This time pain took center-stage – dancing into the spotlight, then rolling up into his wounded shoulder and pulling a sharp growl out of him.

Dalton stepped back, sucking air. ‘I’m helping you get an adrenaline rush going so we get that dopamine and endorphins into your bloodstream . . .’ He pushed his glasses back on his nose. ‘. . . to help when the
real
pain comes.’

Geiger blew out a slow purge of breath. ‘Thoughtful of you.’

Dalton couldn’t help but smile. ‘I have to ask,’ he said. ‘It’s never sarcasm – is it?’

Geiger performed minor adjustments to his upper torso, as best he could, shifting things to round up the pain and drive it out of the damaged joint. It was his most vulnerable spot right now, and anywhere else would be preferable. Dalton had plans – so the rationing of energies would be crucial.

‘Dalton . . . When do Harry and Matheson get to leave?’

Dalton pulled off the glove and tossed it away. ‘That’s still to be decided.’

‘I’m here. Where you wanted me. That was the deal.’

‘I think you mis-assumed something.’ Dalton turned back to the cart. ‘Is that a word – “mis-assumed”?’ He bent down, took the teak case out and turned round. ‘I think you made an incorrect assumption about all of this – which is certainly understandable – but your presence is only a prelude. And it’s not up to me when they go free. It’s up to you.’

There are rare times when a voice speaks one truth and reveals another – but the listener must possess an equally rare sense to hear it. The Inquisitor heard it – and Geiger saw him from the corner of his eye, plucking Dalton’s words out of the air and peeling off a layer to find their second meaning. The unexpected was present.

Dalton laid the case down across Geiger’s quads. ‘Something for the Inquisitor.’

Dalton opened the lid of the box. Inside, resting on a lining of red velvet, were a pair of amputated hands. The flesh was gray-brown, shriveled and mottled, and they wore the signs of failed surgeries – thin, darkened scars and dots of suture holes. The right hand was missing the forefinger and the left had no pinkie.

To Geiger, they looked like something unearthed at an archeological dig – ancient relics from a punishment exacted for theft, or adultery, or an affront to God.

Dalton began to prowl the room. ‘After the third surgery they said fine dextrous skills would not be restored. The damage was too extensive. I could pick something up and hold it . . . I could dress – but no buttons . . . using silverware would be likely after therapy . . .’ He realigned his glasses at the bridge with a long, smooth finger. ‘But I wouldn’t be able to peel an orange . . . or sign my name . . . take a cork out of a wine bottle . . . or use a razor – for whatever purpose . . .’

He stopped at the desk and tapped on the power of the DVD player and monitor, then turned to Geiger and the Cheshire Cat smile blinked again. ‘Or
type
– if I should want to write something . . .’

Geiger was retracing his assumptions, sensing there was much he had missed. Being fallible was starting to feel commonplace.

Dalton was on the move again. ‘When they brought up the alternative . . . “We can give you new hands . . . ” I mean – this was make-believe stuff. Movie stuff. You know – those movies where the accident victim gets the hands of a killer . . .’

‘I don’t watch movies.’

‘They showed me videos. Up to eighty-five percent fine motor skill recovery after therapy and training. It was one of those moments. Simple math. Inescapable logic.’ He raised his hands. ‘They even put in the creases on the knuckles.’

He pulled up his sleeves. A few inches above the wrist, the prosthetics’ sleeves became heavier and darker toned, and ended halfway up the forearm.

‘Neural interfaces, myoelectric signals and impulses. Incredible. They don’t just do what they’re told . . . they even give me feedback. I can
feel
how tightly I’m holding something.’ He pulled his sleeves back down. ‘The underside of the nails’ tips are a bit difficult for me to keep clean. I’ve let the engineers know they should have another look at that. But I’ve bought stock in the company.’

Geiger stared at the madman – and one by one, tiny lights were coming on in his mind, like windows in a city as the night moves in.

Dalton returned to the desk. ‘I want to show you something. I downloaded it from the internet. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched it.’ He pressed a button on the DVD player and video bloomed on the monitor.

The scene was a brightly lit concrete, windowless bunker, and in the lower right corner there was a digital display of the video’s running time and the date – 2/16/2004.

A bearded man was strapped into a gurney – naked except for his boxers, his face and body spotted with welts. His dark, nervous eyes were following Geiger as he strolled the room.

Geiger’s appreciation for Dalton’s obsession was growing. Here was what had put everything in uncontrol lable motion, the Cairo sessions – the secret post-9/11 video that Matheson acquired – a runaway train that brought Hall and Ezra and Dalton to Geiger . . . and left dead bodies and broken hearts in its wake before it went out into the world on the Veritas Arcana website. The worst of him, at his very best.

‘There will be no more beatings, Nari,’ said the video-Geiger. ‘Crude brutality wasn’t working. That’s why they brought me here.’

‘I tell you again,’ the man said. ‘I am not lying. I swear to almighty God.’

Geiger’s fingers started rolling out a rhythm on his thighs. ‘I don’t believe in a god, Nari – but if yours exists, I can tell you with complete certainty that he won’t have a say in what happens here. It’s a godless room. It’s just you and me.’

Dalton nodded at the screen. ‘“Godless room . . .” Wonderful.’

Video-Geiger came to the man’s side, and the battered body visibly stiffened. Geiger raised a hand and put it against the man’s cheek, so his curled fingertips rested in a line just below the ear.

‘You’re not my enemy, Nari. Your political views, religious beliefs, they’re unimportant to me. I don’t care about them.’

His fingertips began to slowly press inward where the vertical line of the jaw meets the neck.

‘Listen carefully – because it’s important you understand me.’

Geiger remembered every word.

‘My job is to retrieve information . . .’

. . . and the tools I use . . .

‘. . . and the tools I use are fear and pain.’

No matter which of a hundred sessions Dalton might have put in the DVD player, Geiger would have remembered every word.

‘Suffering is a result of the pain, Nari – but not the purpose or the goal.’

As Geiger’s fingertips pushed in deeper, the man’s lips stretched out and thinned like rubber bands from the pain – and a low growl gathered in his throat. As soon as the cry burst out Geiger took his hand away.

‘Starting now, we are partners . . .’

. . . but not equals . . .

‘. . . but not equals, because you have what I need – the truth – and in the end the choice is yours, not mine.’

Dalton stopped the video. ‘“In the end the choice is yours, not mine.”’ He looked to Geiger. ‘Et voilà.’

Dalton came and picked up the teak case. ‘It started out as pure, simple vengeance – twenty-four seven. Pound of flesh, retribution . . . It consumed me. Completely. But the longer I yearned for it, I began to sense that when it arrived the satisfaction might be fleeting – and I worried what would be left in me once it was gone. To spend so much time and feeling and effort . . .’

He put the case on the cart and picked up the antique scalpel and whetstone.

‘And then I had one of my hallucinations – but this was more a vision. You were an angel, falling to earth with your wings on fire. But you were smiling. Yes –
you
, smiling. Content. And I knew what I would do. I won’t deny revenge was still a part of things – but there would be more now. Something with meaning. Something lasting – for both of us.’ He turned to Geiger. ‘Sacrifice.’

He started stroking the blade against the stone.
Thwwwkk . . .

‘
Sac–ri–fice.
’
Thwwwkk . . .
‘It has a lovely sound, doesn’t it?’
Thwwwkk . . .

Geiger couldn’t tell if Dalton was talking about the word or the sound of steel on stone – but he was getting a clearer sense of the man’s lunacy. There were no seams, no sharp edges or rough patches. It fitted him perfectly – like a second skin.

Dalton put the whetstone down, then uncapped a bottle of alcohol. ‘As you said – “Starting now, we are partners.” It’s a win–win, Geiger. For both of us.’

‘What is?’

Dalton stuck the blade in the bottle and stirred it in the liquid. ‘Sacrifice.’

Dalton removed the scalpel and gently put it down on a napkin, then turned, tilted the bottle and poured alcohol on Geiger’s right hand, then the left. It was only now Geiger noticed how the overhead pin-spots put a soft gleam on the latex skin that flesh would not have reflected – and the observation jabbed at his curiosity.

‘Are they heavier?’ he asked.

‘A little. But you get used to it. Anything lighter would feel strange to me now.’

‘What does that mean, Dalton? That sacrifice is a win–win.’

Dalton put the alcohol down and picked up the scalpel. ‘Let me ask you first: Why did you come here?’

‘Harry and Matheson are here in my place. They don’t belong here. I belong here.’

Dalton nodded. ‘Yes, you do – in more ways than one.’

Dalton grabbed a hand towel from the cart, pulled the folding chair over and sat down before Geiger – and took a deep breath. It was a sound marking a commencement – the start of something anticipated and worked toward for a long time. He held up the scalpel.