The Confessor (46 page)

For Harry, the novitiate, fear and reflex were all he brought to the moment. A bumpy racing in the blood, a desperate urge to stay alive, the primal drive to protect those dearest to you. He watched Zanni’s Beretta rise . . .

As Harry slid into Geiger’s sight, dominos of thought started to fall in his mind. ‘Harry . . . no,’ he said.

Someone pulled a trigger.

Harry grimaced, and the Glock dropped from his grip.

Zanni stumbled backward a step, listing.

Harry’s aim, unsurprisingly, was off the mark. The shot had entered the far right side of her waist. Had the entry point been an eighth of an inch higher, it might have gone right through her and caused minimal internal damage – but the bullet clipped the top edge of the pelvis, and took off inside her like a pinball, veering up and inward – and because it came to rest in her heart, ripping it open, she died before she hit the floor.

Dalton sprang to his feet, hustled to the back door, pulled it open and was gone.

Geiger dropped to his knees beside Zanni. The violet eyes had already paled. He put two fingers to her throat, but all he felt was the clanging of his own fury. He whirled on Harry.

‘Do you know where Victor is?’

Harry was a cheap knockoff of himself – poorly stitched together, coming apart at the seams.

‘Dead,’ he mumbled softly. ‘Matheson, too.’

Geiger awkwardly picked up Zanni’s gun and rose, and reeled so precipitously he had to grab the chair-back to keep from falling. He closed his eyes and slowly sucked in air, trying to equalize the pressure. He was summoning the things that had always killed the feelings, petitioning the Inquisitor to come back one last time.

‘Stay here,’ he said, and headed for the open back door with a weave in his step. He needed to let the pain spread and set him on fire, and then draw the power from it – a blazing furnace to stoke a locomotive, to keep the pistons churning.

He went a few paces outside and stopped, listening. The day was as glorious as it was dreadful – a polished, spotless, blue-glass sky and the lavender untroubled in the breezeless air. A postcard from Provence day. Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.

He heard a car door close.

Dalton reached up to the driver’s seat visor and grabbed the car keys. The twisted righteousness of his anger was flooding him. He’d been fair and true to his word, right from the start. Geiger had come of his own free will, made his own choices each step of the way . . .

He put the key in the ignition and turned, the engine coughed itself to life and the locks clicked shut. He grabbed the stick shift . . . and movement caught his eye – through the windshield, in the field of lavender. The rainbowed serpents were rising again – but this time there was no internecine battle. The cunning eyes were all gazing his way. They shared one mind, one desire.

‘That’s right. Come to Papa.’

And they did – curling out of the lavender, flowing like long-tailed kites in the wind, terrible and majestic, coming to him, fangs gleaming in the sun. The first to arrive was the most beautiful of all. Monster and angel, regal and cruel. And it could speak . . .

Geiger brought the gun up in both hands. ‘Get out of the car,’ he said.

Dalton stared at him through the glass. ‘You don’t kill people, Geiger. Go away.’

Geiger pulled the trigger.

The bullet shattered the driver’s window and passenger window, showering Dalton with thousands of tiny, edged glass missiles – and his face broke out in a rash of bloodied dots.

Geiger leaned in and put the gun’s muzzle to Dalton’s forehead. ‘Get out.’

He backed up three steps and Dalton came out – leaning back against the car, dazed by the shot’s percussion, a dozen ruby rivulets coming slowly down his face. He wiped some blood off his cheek and stared at his hand.

Geiger could tell by the soggy feel of his legs that he needed more adrenaline. A junkie in serious need of a fix.

‘You said we weren’t done,’ he said.

Dalton looked up at him. ‘I know.’ He rubbed his sleeve across his mouth. ‘So tell me how it ends?’

Geiger tossed the gun away.

Dalton grinned. ‘Good. Very good.’

Geiger stepped to him and drove his fist into the center of Dalton’s chest as hard as he could. Every part of Dalton seemed to give way, except for his mouth – which opened into a large circle.

The pain in Geiger’s hand was a constant rush, like a river in a downpour – so strong it had a sound to it, a rumble in his ears. But he reloaded and hit him again, and again – and stood back as Dalton slid down against the car to the ground. A dry, dusty noise came out of him, in irregular intervals.
Huhsssss . . . Huhsssss . . .

Geiger slumped against a post of the lean-to. A new kind of fuel was pumping through him, combustible, hot. It was fury. He’d never known it before. And the blending of it with the pain felt like it could blow him apart.

Dalton tipped over onto all-fours and spit blood. ‘Is that it? All the anger, the pain . . . You’re lying, Geiger. There’s more in there. Much more.’ He grabbed the handle of the car’s back door and pulled himself up to his feet, laying his cheek against the steel, then took a long, ragged breath.

‘Geiger . . .’

‘What?’

‘Is she dead?’

‘. . . Yes.’

Dalton turned his blood-smeared face around. ‘Make sure to tell Harry I said thank you.’

Geiger felt the match being struck – saw it flicker to life behind his eyes – and then thought and pain and reason were obliterated by the blast. In the second it took to reach Dalton rage had risen from the flames like a phoenix – and he grabbed him, swung him round and sent him crashing into the house with a bony clunk, crumbling in an ungainly heap on the grass.

Geiger hoisted him back up by the shirt and slammed him against the wall.

There would be no stopping. Not yet . . .

He pounded Dalton into the house again.

Not while the fire still raged . . .

He yanked him close and then slammed him back against the old wood. Dalton’s head dropped forward like a tapped-out drunk.

‘Not yet!’ growled Geiger.

Not until there was nothing left to burn, and the fire consumed itself and died . . .

Geiger pulled Dalton back and shoved him into the house again – but he was starting to flag. Dalton was growing heavier by the second. He kept the body pinned against the wall while he waited for strength.

‘No more, Geiger. It’s enough.’

Geiger turned to the haunted voice.

Harry stood ten feet from him. ‘It’s enough.’

Geiger’s forehead dropped onto Dalton’s chest – and he let his breath and mind slowly come back to him. In the sudden stillness, another presence made itself known – an uneasy, troubled whirr. Geiger looked left.

The wasps’ massive nest – more than two feet in diameter – was five feet away, nestled beneath an eave. The series of shocks against the house had set off insectan alarms, and a dozen of the creatures had come out to investigate, hovering in a tense buzz around the entry hole.

Geiger was not the only one aware of their displeasure. Dalton whispered in his ear.

‘Hear that? They’re mad.’ The drooping skull slowly rose. The eyes opened. ‘Not . . . finished.’ It was like a death-bed voice.

Geiger looked into the eyes. He could see himself. He was in there, with Dalton.

‘Look at you, Geiger. I set you . . . free.’

. . . Beginning . . .

‘You . . . owe me.’

. . . Middle . . .

‘Finish it.’

. . . End . . .

Geiger’s grip tightened – he pulled Dalton away from the wall and hurled him toward the nest. He hit it face first – and it broke into three large pieces as it came loose from its mooring – and body and nest fell to the ground together.

There were hundreds of them – a single mind and purpose, their communal anger as loud as a race car’s engine, the sun turning them into a gleaming, trembling veil as they gathered. They had no interest in Geiger. They knew who the enemy was. And they descended, and attacked.

Dalton’s face and upper body disappeared beneath the swarm. Geiger watched the legs flinch, and the arms wave about feebly, the hands twitching like living things. If Dalton was making a sound, it could not be heard over the vengeful drone.

And a hand closed around his arm.

‘Come on,’ said Harry. He gave a gentle pull but Geiger was a statue, hard and heavy as marble. ‘Hey . . .’ He gave a firmer tug. ‘
Geiger . . .
’

Geiger turned to him. Harry caught a glimpse of something in his eyes – a change, distinct but indefinable. If it was a reflection of the soul, Harry couldn’t tell if something had been gained or lost.

‘All right,’ said Geiger, and he walked toward the back door.

They had arranged the bodies side by side on the floor of Dalton’s den. Befitting the task they had gone about it in silence. Then Geiger had sent Harry down the road to see if Zanni had left the car where they had parked it when they first arrived.

The only one who looked at rest was Zanni. Victor had a bluish glaze and a crooked grimace to go with the crushed neck. Matheson had bled out to a ghastly white. Dalton’s face was so swollen that his features were barely visible – it looked like a loaf of risen dough ready to be baked. But Zanni could have had a beating heart, asleep with a dream, waiting for the summer to give some color to her pale, smooth skin.

He felt heavy, and sodden. Drenched to the bone with death.

He heard the car coming near, and then the engine shutting off.

He had been tracing it back from the start. Zanni, Victor, Dewey – they had been his chaperones. Keeping an eye on the unpredictable guest of honor, letting him go his own way, being on hand if needed. Just as long as he came to the party . . .

Harry got out of the car with a small suitcase in hand and headed into the house. His gait was slow, tentative, like someone lost or unsure of where he wants to go. He came into the den. Geiger was seated in Dalton’s desk chair. Harry held up the suitcase.

‘This was in the car. I looked inside. It’s hers.’

‘Put it anywhere.’

‘Passport says “Deirdre Gold”. Is that her name?’

‘No. That’s a fake. Her name was Rosanna Soames.’

Harry put the case on the floor. ‘Did the patch work at all?’

‘Yes.’

Harry had rummaged through the house and found some of Dalton’s old fentanyl patches. They were past their expiration date but, very much to his surprise, Geiger had agreed to wrap one around his hand for fifteen minutes.

‘Your bag is still in the car.’

‘All right. Take it out and leave it by the front door.’

Fogged out as Harry was, he assumed he had misunderstood.

‘Whaddaya mean?’

‘When you leave. Put the bag by the door.’

‘When
I
leave? We’re not going together?’

‘I need to do this by myself, Harry. And you need to go.’

Harry knew that tone better than anyone else, so he knew the discussion was over before it began. He’d be talking to no one. Geiger was already gone. He just hadn’t left yet.

‘Where are you gonna go?’

‘I don’t know, Harry. I haven’t thought about it yet. Do you have money?’

‘A little.’

‘There’s plenty in my bag. Take some.’

‘Okay. I will.’

Geiger stood up. ‘You should head out now.’

Harry understood what Geiger’s presence in this house meant, what it spoke to without need of words – this strangest of bonds – so he chose to remain wordless about it himself.

‘I need to ask you a question first,’ he said.

‘Go on.’

‘When I came in the room – when you were in the chair, with Dalton and her . . . I had the gun up and you said, “Harry, no.” Why did you say that?’

‘Harry . . . I don’t want to talk about—’

‘Geiger . . . I
killed
her. I need to know. Why did you say, “Harry, no”?’

‘. . . Because she was trying to save me.’

The air turned arctic around Harry. A cruel, biting cold.

‘But – but she was one of them.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why would she do that?’ There was a whisper of despair in the question.

‘I can’t answer that, Harry. I don’t know why. I don’t think she did either.’

The thought came to Harry like a lonely orphan. ‘She wasn’t going to shoot . . .’ He looked over at Zanni. ‘Jesus . . . She wasn’t going to shoot.’

‘Harry . . . Let it be – for now.’

Harry’s eyes slowly came back to Geiger. ‘How do I do that?’

They stood there. Brothers at a mass funeral – then Geiger took a large, thick manila envelope from the desk and walked to Harry.

‘Take this with you.’

‘What is it?’

‘Dalton’s memoirs. You can throw it away – or you could put it up on Veritas Arcana. I think Matheson would.’

Harry nodded, and took the manuscript.

‘Harry . . . Christine knows. Go see her.’

And then Geiger walked out of the room.

Harry listened to the footsteps on the old floors grow fainter, deeper into the house, until their sound was gone – and then he headed for the front door.

When he neared the crest of the woods he put his bag down and lay back on the crisp pine needles. It was very still here, but up above a breeze jostled the trees’ tops and the high branches swayed back and forth across the sun, chopping it into gold slivers over and over again – left to right, right to left . . .

The pain was constant – dense and kinetic – but oddly enough, if he didn’t look at his hands, it felt as if the fingers were still part of them. The phantom limb sensation. He’d read about it, and suspected that, at the start, it might be more troublesome to deal with than the actual physical loss.

Then the scent of pine smoke reached him – and he sat up.

Down below, the house was ablaze, flames reaching higher than the roof. The fire he started in the den had spread quickly. Old wood burned fastest – time had patiently prepared it – and the can of kerosene found in the backyard shed held just enough to splash each room and hall’s floor with a thin, wet strip. He wondered if Tulette had a fire truck, or if once the smoke was spotted someone would make a call to a nearby village.