The Confessor (44 page)

‘Horatio Kern – eighteen sixty-seven,’ he said. ‘Left . . . or right?’

Geiger didn’t need further explanation. He was already in preparation, summoning his tools – the always-fresh memory of a blade cutting into him, and a final choice from the jukebox in his mind, to listen to, to taste and see and wield against the pain. Mahler . . . Dylan . . . Hendrix . . . Bach . . .

‘Left or right, Geiger?’

Geiger fixed his gaze on the cold eyes in the skullish face. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘All right. We’ll start with the left.’

Dalton looked down and laid the scalpel across the joint of the index finger, just above the knuckle where the digit joined the palm.

‘The metacarpophalangeal joint. That’s a mouthful, isn’t it?’ Dalton looked back up to Geiger. ‘You smashed mine so hard that you pulverized some of them. The doctors said they’d rarely seen anything like it.’ He refocused on the blade. ‘Don’t move now.’

Geiger turned off his lights. He was in the dark, where it made no difference if his eyes were open or shut, and wakefulness and sleep joined hands, where it was always easier to see the music’s colors . . .

He watched the grip of the mechanical fingers tighten – and with a surgeon’s care Dalton drew the scalpel very softly across the joint, barely cutting the flesh, leaving a thread-thin, one-inch line of blood.

‘There,’ said Dalton, and reached over to the belt at Geiger’s right wrist and flicked open the clasp, releasing the lock – and then sat back in his seat.

They regarded each other like chess players after a bizarre opening move.

‘When the blade is that well-honed,’ said Dalton, ‘you hardly feel a thing, right?’

Geiger didn’t move. His thoughts were racing elsewhere – trying to recreate the labyrinth of Dalton’s madness inside his own mind – so he could find his way to the heart of it . . . and understand what was happening . . .

Dalton folded his hands in his lap. ‘So . . . You ask – what does it mean – “Sacrifice is a win–win”. Well . . . I told you I was in your debt – and so I’m offering you a gift. A rare opportunity. The chance to make a
sacrifice
– a pure, selfless act – an act that will open you to yourself . . . and cleanse you . . . and banish the Inquisitor.’ He pointed a mechanical finger at Geiger. ‘You want that. I know it. To be free of him once and for all. And as you said about the truth . . . “In the end the choice is yours, not mine”.’

Dalton rose – and held the scalpel out to Geiger.

‘This is how they go free.’

Geiger peered around another corner of Dalton’s lunatic maze – and now he understood. The grin that spread on Dalton’s face was as sharp and cruel as the blade.

‘As we say in France . . . touché.’

Geiger looked at the offering. The lights turned the pale silver steel nearly white, like a shiny sliver of paper. He reached out and took the scalpel. It had a cool, pleasing smoothness in his palm.

Dalton grinned like the proud owner of a vintage touring car. ‘Perfect balance, right?’

Geiger nodded. ‘Perfect.’

Dalton headed for the desk. ‘And
my
sacrifice?’ He poured another cup of water and sipped at it. ‘I give up the chance to make you suffer with my own . . . hands.’ His face darkened, and his breathing slowed to a near-stillness. For a moment, it looked as if there was nothing alive in him. Then his hand squeezed into a steel fist and swung out like a wrecking ball, smashing into the monitor and sending it flying across the room.

Victor’s voice came from the hall. ‘Is it all right?’

‘Yes, Victor.’ Dalton sighed. ‘As I said, Geiger . . . A win–win.’

Geiger saw the triumph behind Dalton’s glasses slowly grow to full flame. The madness had served him well. It had sculpted hatred and obsession into a work of art.

‘Take your time, Geiger. Get up and stretch if you like.’ He headed for the door. ‘I’ll only be gone a minute or two. The back door is unlocked, if you decide to leave.’

Dalton left the room. Geiger undid all his binds, but didn’t get up. He felt unbalanced, wobbling in his orbit. He had prepared for the pain, and damage – this was only about him and Dalton, and no one else should suffer for it. That was clear and simple as child’s math, and had been from the start. But . . .

Dalton had turned life inside out, brilliantly. He had become the patient psychological manipulator and master – he had become the
Inquisitor
– and if Geiger had a chance of saving anyone, it would mean savaging himself. He would have to become Dalton.

The waiter came out to the sidewalk and put the second demitasse on the small square table. The stunning American took no notice. She seemed to be staring intently at the little town’s modest octagonal fountain, where Avenue de Gaulle and Avenue Jean Jaures met. There was barely any traffic, hardly anyone about, and almost all of the buildings’ muted blue and teal shutters were closed.

‘Madame . . . manger? Eat?’

A single, short shake of her head.

‘Good,’ he said, and went back inside the café.

Heading south, Sainte-Cécile-les-Vignes was the first town Zanni had come to, and a minute in she’d had a choice of two cafés, one across the street from the other. She’d decided on Café du Commerce because there was no one seated at the half a dozen outdoor tables.

She picked up her coffee and took a slow sip. Her field of vision was in soft focus, the foreground and background mixed together like brushstrokes in a blotted watercolor. Her breathing gears had shifted down for the first time in weeks, and the rev in her pulse was almost gone. She was coming down, feeling looser, more like herself – except for the regret. She had picked up its scent – and she wanted to look in its eyes. She wanted to be clear on everything going on inside her before she cut this life loose.

Dewey, her dumb sweet brother lying alone, dead somewhere . . . That would stay with her for a while, and she would ride that out.

And Geiger, more a fool than he ever suspected, who couldn’t seem to stop himself from being someone’s savior – first the boy, then Matheson, and Harry . . .

But why her?

The question made her angry, and wondering about the answer – even angrier. She didn’t want it in her mind. He’d put it there – without intent – but she was furious at him for doing so. It was baggage she hadn’t planned on taking with her.

She took another sip of coffee. It was already getting cold. She put a ten-euro note under the cup, stood up and walked across the street to the car.

‘Merci, madame!’

She turned. The smiling waiter waved the money at her.

‘You’re welcome,’ she said, got in the car, and started the engine. She eyed the dashboard clock – she had plenty of time. The reality of days without names stretching out before her made her breath catch for a moment. She settled back, checked her mirrors and pulled out onto the street. When she saw the street sign for Avignon, she turned. Soon she would be on A7 heading to Marseille.

Geiger stared across the room at the back door. It may have been open, as Dalton claimed, but he was locked in just the same. Nothing anyone else might say or do or want was a factor now. The choice was pure and exclusive.

Dalton came back in, having changed from his flannel shirt and jeans into a gray sweatshirt and khaki pants.

‘Still here. Good,’ said Dalton. ‘Understand, Geiger . . . If at any point you decide to try and reconfigure things – assault me, use my life to make a trade, that sort of thing – Victor has orders to shoot you, without regard for my safety . . . and then kill Harry and Matheson.’

‘I understand.’

‘You know, Geiger . . . There’s an element to all of this – an irony I find especially satisfying. A sort of cosmic finishing touch. I don’t know if it’s occurred to you – and I’d hate for you to miss it.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I’ve used knives, awls, razors, scissors . . . I even used a box-cutter – when my switch-blade broke. But you’ve never used a blade. You’ve been cut again and again – but the Inquisitor never drew blood. And now, if you do – it will be your own.’ Dalton smiled. ‘To be honest . . . I can’t wait to use that line in the last chapter.’

Geiger looked down at the graceful instrument in his hand. Eighteen sixty-seven . . . He wondered how many times it had been used to save a life. To cut out something that festered on the inside.

‘I underestimated you, Dalton.’

‘Did you? How so?’

‘The depth of all this. I didn’t think you had the mind for it.’

‘I didn’t – not until after July Fourth. I told you, Geiger – I owe it all to you.’

‘The psychological layers . . . It’s remarkable.’

‘Thank you, Geiger. That means everything to me.’

Dalton picked up a one-liter plastic bottle of Cosmoplast 500 from the cart.

‘Superglue. German brand. Very fast-acting. Excellent product,’ he said. ‘Tell me something. Did you feel anger towards them?’

‘No.’

‘Never?’

‘No.’

‘I did. All of them. The anger was what kicked me into gear – and kept me going. That was my moneymaker.’

Geiger was aware of a change. The thud in his ears – it was gone. His heart was calm.

‘There was no anger,’ he said. ‘It was just the work. And when the truth would finally come out . . .’

Dalton cocked his head. ‘Yes?’

‘Completion.’

Dalton nodded. ‘You know, Geiger . . . I believe you – and I don’t.’

His fist rose and slugged Geiger in the side of his head. Geiger shook off the blow and shot to his feet – and Dalton’s smile froze him like a glance from Medusa.

‘Angry?’

Geiger’s fingers tightened around the scalpel. A flick of his wrist would sever the external carotid artery. Unconsciousness within seconds, dead within the minute. He glanced behind him – Victor was in the doorway, his face was stony, indifferent, his gun aimed at Geiger’s head. Geiger lowered himself back down into the barber’s chair and Victor stepped out of view. There was an aching static in Geiger’s skull now.

Geiger met Dalton’s curious stare, and planted his left hand flat on the chair’s arm. He would summon no music. He would keep the lights on inside. There would be no alchemy, and no sliding back into memory. He would anchor himself in this moment.

Dalton could taste his hate, a bitter surge on his tongue – and the sweet anticipation of vengeance being served was almost its equal. He would be done with it soon enough.

Geiger laid the point of the scalpel down across the thin, crimson guide on his knuckle and filled his lungs with air so he wouldn’t have to take another breath until it was over.

‘Win–win,’ he said, and pushed the scalpel in.

The flesh parted evenly, giving a glimpse of the joint, and Geiger pressed harder, sinking the blade down between the bones. His howl began.

Dalton’s lips parted. ‘Yes,’ he hissed, but neither man heard it.

The evolution of the pain was swift – a fine electric sting erupting in a heat blast that rocked and scorched him as he cut through vein and tendon. The borders of the sensory realm began to melt and expand – his jaw locked down, teeth grinding like millstones – jimmying the blade through the joint . . .

There was never a moment when his mind lost sight of his purpose, or questioned it . . .

. . . and he gave one final push and the scalpel stopped flat against the porcelain. He dropped it, and there was a sudden whiteout in his mind as blood spurted in a thin, arcing stream around the room, painting the white floor with crimson drizzles.

Dalton watched, uncertain if shock or pain or the sight of the extraordinary visual display kept Geiger frozen – then he grabbed Geiger’s wrist tightly and raised the arm straight up. The bleeding paused and Dalton squeezed a tablespoon’s worth of superglue onto the raw stump. It instantly began to harden into a pinkish glaze.

‘That was stunning. Flawless.’ The rush in Dalton’s veins was unlike anything he had ever experienced. ‘Just another twenty seconds or so.’ It was the ride of his life. ‘Did you hear me, Geiger?’

Geiger was staring at his index finger, lying on the chair’s arm in a small apron of blood. By itself, it looked different to him than it had when it was part of his hand – longer, somehow – as if severing it had made it grow. The sensation was ferocious. A blowtorch.

‘Yes, I heard you.’

Dalton lowered the arm and let the hand rest in Geiger’s lap. ‘The pain’s incredible, isn’t it? Transformative.’

In a sense, Dalton was right. It was turning into a soporific, so strong that it was starting to numb Geiger’s senses. He worked at keeping his breaths slow and deep. He wanted to close his eyes, but he was afraid he would pass out if he did.

‘Let them . . . go now.’

Dalton picked up a towel and started wiping off his hands. ‘We’re not finished, of course – but yes, I’ll get the process started. Victor – get one of them ready!’

Victor reappeared in the doorway. ‘Who first?’

Dalton put the blood-stained towel down. ‘Geiger – you have a preference?’

‘No.’

‘Very well. Victor . . . Make it Matheson.’

Victor went down the hall. With things seemingly moving toward an end, he was considering whether or not to ask Dalton for Dewey’s back-end. He was doing the work of two now, but there was an unwritten clause in every contractor’s deal: Dead men don’t get paid. He decided he’d wait till it all played out.

On the wall, dangling from a hook, were two silver keys on a ring. He put them in a vest pocket and continued to a door, took out his Glock pistol, opened up and walked in the room.

‘All right. I am here to—’

Harry was lying on his back, on the mattress, asleep. Matheson was sprawled on the floor, face down, his head in a pool of blood.

‘Merde . . .’ grunted Victor. He walked to the body, stopped two feet away, and trained the gun on Matheson.

‘Matheson . . . Matheson!’

Harry stirred. ‘Huh?’ He raised his head, bleary eyes slowly opening . . . then the lids springing up. ‘Oh God . . .’ He propped himself up on his elbows. ‘David! Jesus, no . . .’ He looked to Victor, lips pulling back – an angry dog. ‘What the hell did you do to him?!’