The Confessor (7 page)

‘Close enough,’ he said, shook out three tablets and tossed them in his mouth. He swung the cabinet door closed – and heard its squeak continue for a second, like a faint, tardy echo that defied the laws of physics . . . and realized someone was on the hall steps. He flicked the light off and stepped into the dark hall. All he heard was his own fear-drenched breathing. He turned on the penlight, moved to the living room and pressed an ear to the door. Maybe the old cellist on the third floor was getting home uncharacteristically late. He glanced up at the ceiling and waited – a penitent hoping for a sign from above – but there were no footsteps. They’d seen him come in, and now somebody or bodies stood out there, almost certainly on an errand of erasure, unquestionably proficient at the task.

They had only one way in – through the door – either picking the lock or putting a heavy shoulder or foot to it. Or, they might bide their time and make their move when he opened the door to leave. There was a fire escape outside his bedroom, but he’d put a steel gate on the window years ago and God knows where the key was – and then, Harry thought of Geiger, and saw it all clearly. It hit him head-on, like a punch in the eye.

Geiger’s rule number one, in the work, in life, had always been
Never let the outside inside
– until he learned it was utter folly, and that cold truth had gotten him killed. But Harry had forgotten the lesson . . . and become a ridiculous man, a turtle of a man – crawling around in a tiny circle, ducking his head back inside his shell at every noise and tremor, as if the world wouldn’t notice him if
he
couldn’t see it.

He grabbed the bat and faced the door. If someone was out there, it didn’t matter what side of it he was on. He figured he might have an advantage – a half-second’s worth of surprise. He wouldn’t go left, where the stairs met the landing three yards away. He’d go straight out the door, take a single stride, grab the railing with his left hand and vault over it, and land halfway down the staircase. He played a movie of it in his head – and it looked doable. Whether he’d break an ankle was a question he decided not to address.

He took hold of the knob, blew out a deep breath to cleanse as much roiling stress as he could – then turned the cold brass and flung the door back . . .

He sensed a moving force – shapeless, black – a tenth of a second before it hit him. Strong hands grabbing his arms, yanking him around, pushing him up against the wall and pinning him there, face-first. He was squirming madly, trying to twist free.

‘Stop,’ said the enemy.

‘Fuck you!’

The hands shoved him harder against the wall, knocking the air and resolve out of him, and even with thick fear crushing his senses, he had time to feel incredibly stupid.

‘Calm down,’ said the voice in the familiar, singular, velvet tone. ‘It’s me.’

It’s . . . me
. Two syllables hit him a thousand times harder than the wall. The hands released him, and he heard the door close. He was holding his breath, while attempting the magic trick of turning absurdity into truth. He turned. The figure was a black imprint on the darkness of the room. Harry reached up and flicked on the light switch.

Geiger was dressed in black, and his physical transformation – the severe haircut and beard – added to Harry’s state of shock.

‘Hello, Harry.’

The best Harry could do, in a flat, stoned-out voice, was state the obvious.

‘. . . You’re . . . alive.’

‘Yes. I’m—’

Harry took a step and threw his arms around him in a hug. Geiger tensed, hands flicking to life at his sides. Then, slowly, they rose and came to rest on Harry’s back.

‘All right, Harry. All right,’ he said. He grasped him by the shoulders, put him at arms’ length, and then let go.

Harry watched the unblinking stare. It was unchanged. Fathomless, placid, but intent. Without feeling, but not unkind. A flesh and blood sphinx.

‘You don’t look well, Harry.’

A sharp, short bark of a laugh came out of Harry.

‘Y’think?’ he said. Geiger was back from the dead – but the edges of everything still glowed with an aura of fantasy. Harry’s grief was dug in deep. It wouldn’t surrender its territory easily. ‘I have to sit down, man,’ he said. He went to his favorite chair and lowered himself into it, head wagging slowly like a Parkinson’s victim. His pulse thudded in every cell. ‘Sorry. This is tough. I just need to let this settle in.’

He watched Geiger come and sit on the sofa, and noticed a subtle new hitch to his gait. They stared at each other. Harry was used to talking to ghosts, but this was different.

‘Jesus . . . We look like the fucking Smith Brothers.’

‘Who?’

‘The Smith Brothers. Y’know – the two guys with the beards? The cough drops?’

‘I don’t use cough drops.’

‘Never mind.’

Geiger turned his head to the right.
Click
. ‘Did Lily come back to shore, Harry?’

‘No. Lily’s gone.’ Harry felt a surge of melancholy coming on, and tried to head it off. He stood up. ‘I need a glass of water. You want some?’

Geiger shook his head. Harry pushed himself out of the chair and went into the kitchen. He got a glass from a cabinet.

‘Can I ask you some questions?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened – after the river?’

‘I swam to shore, hid out, and got back to the city. The details aren’t important.’

Harry turned on the faucet. The water had a tint of brown, so he let it run. ‘Where are you now?’

‘Here. In Brooklyn.’

‘Yeah? Since how long?’

‘Since the end of July. Three weeks after the incident.’

Harry shut the faucet. Some new emotion bubbled up in him, expanding. There was only so much room in him before he popped. He walked back into the living room.

‘You’ve been here for eight months – and you didn’t let me know?’

‘Harry . . .’

‘What the hell is that? I mean – maybe you don’t understand the concept of grief – but Jesus Christ, Geiger . . . I’ve been a fucking—’

‘
Stop
.’ The soft command might as well have been shouted by a staff sergeant. ‘Harry . . . You shut down the website. You changed your cell number. How was I supposed to contact you?’

Chagrin rushed into Harry’s stew of feelings. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry . . . I can barely think straight.’ He was uncertain of his balance, and put a hand on the chair. ‘Jesus . . . what’re the odds of you coming here tonight? I haven’t been here since July.’

‘I’ve been standing in the shadows across the street three or four nights a week for six months, waiting for you to come home.’

‘. . . You have?’

Harry felt the tears about to bloom, and his hand sprung to his eyes and he rubbed them with thumb and forefinger in a counterfeit display of weariness. When he was reasonably sure he wouldn’t weep he stopped, and smiled warmly.

‘Thanks, man.’

‘Don’t hug me again, Harry. No more hugging.’

Geiger’s classic deadpan made Harry’s smile stretch across his face.

‘Gotcha.’ Harry definitely had to sit back down, and did. ‘Does Corley know?’

‘No.’

Harry remembered the
unhhh
of the psychiatrist’s breath catching when he’d told him Geiger was dead . . . and then the terrible silence. Later, for months he’d thought of getting in touch but was too worried someone might be watching Corley’s apartment, or tapping his line, or hacking his e-mails. Geiger probably felt the same way. Poor Martin.

‘Geiger . . . Ezra lives in the city now.’

Geiger’s fingers fluttered to life in his lap. ‘. . . Where?’

‘In Matheson’s brownstone on Seventy-fifth. I have his cell, e-mail. You can—’

‘No, Harry.’

‘You’re not going to tell him?’

‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘But the kid’s having a really bad time, Geiger. He sees Corley three times a week – about
you
.’

‘I wasn’t meant to be part of his life, Harry – and I shouldn’t be. And he’ll be safer not knowing. Martin will get him through.’

‘But he needs—’

‘Ezra will be better off forgetting about me, Harry. And over time, he will.’

‘But—’

‘Harry . . . I know what works best for me.’

Harry wanted to push back, but he knew he’d hit solid rock. ‘What works best for me’ meant
This conversation is over
.
I have no need to be understood
. So Harry nodded, and sank back into the chair.

‘Do you know the Cairo videos went viral? Internet . . . TV.’

Geiger nodded. The cool, thoughtful torturer in the videos had made a strong impression on the world, depending on the audience. Villain, madman, patriot. Terrifying, repellent, heroic.

‘Harry . . . Are you working?’

‘Not really. But I’m sort of the unofficial computer guy for Veritas Arcana.’

‘You’re working with Matheson?’

‘I help out here and there. Tech stuff. It felt like the right thing to do.’ He grinned sadly. ‘Penance for my past sins.’

‘Do you want a job, Harry?’

‘A job?’

Echoes of the past chilled Harry. He could see Geiger waiting on the sidewalk outside of The Times Building twelve years ago.
‘I am going into a new line of work, Harry,’
he had said. ‘
Illegal. I need a partner.
’ Geiger had barely known Harry, but had offered him his trust with a paramount aspect of his life . . . and Harry had said yes. The strangest of pairs – alone, together.

Harry’s face creased in a wary squint. ‘What
kind
of job?’

‘Don’t worry, Harry. It’s not IR. I’m done with it. Completely. I make furniture now, Harry – and I need someone to sell it.’

‘You make
furniture
?’

‘I know a lot about wood.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since I was a boy. My father taught me.’

Harry’s head did a hunting dog tilt. ‘Your . . .
father
?’ Geiger never spoke in any kind of personal mode. ‘You
are
Geiger, right?’

‘Are you interested, Harry?’

‘Geiger, I don’t know anything about furniture.’

Geiger rose from the sofa. From this angle Harry thought he looked thinner. Not in the sense of a dedicated dieter, or someone who had come through an illness. It was as if Geiger had shed something beneath the Hudson that night – as if the river had taken something from him.

‘You’ve always been a quick study, Harry. Think about it.’ He started for the door. ‘My e-mail is Oldwood – one word – at Gmail dot com. Send me your cell number. I’ll be in touch.’ He reached the door. ‘And Harry . . . I think you can stay here if you want. I doubt they’re looking for you. The videos are out there. Everyone’s seen them. You’re of little concern to them now.’ He opened the door. As with everything he did, the movement had a simple elegance to it. A touch of the dance. A hint of affliction.

‘Geiger . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s really good to see you.’

Harry was the only person alive who could tell that the nearly imperceptible bend at the corners of Geiger’s lips might have been a smile. Geiger stepped out into the darkness and closed the door behind him. It didn’t make a sound.

The world was in the wood – strength, vigor, decay, texture, aroma – the names themselves a savory, musical pageantry.
Sugar maple, hemlock.
Completion was in the wood, waiting to be found.
Palisander, ironwood, hickory.
Truth was in the wood, and this above all made the work a sister to IR. The prep and strategy for remaking what was already formed, the exploration of characteristics – its strength, malleability, breaking point. Application of methodology – force, patience, finesse. It was all in his hands and vision – seeing the end, but letting the way reveal itself. A way to find a new life.
Spruce, black cherry, tigerwood.

‘Willow, weep for me . . . Willow, weep for me . . .’ Billie Holiday’s slinky voice purred from the Hyperion speakers. Geiger placed the butt chisel against a side of the crescent recess he’d dug out of the mahogany slab. He wore only a pair of gym shorts. When possible, he kept his quadriceps free from friction. The jagged scars left by Dalton were a stark contrast to the elegant tapestry on his hamstrings and calves his father etched for years by the cabin fire. Geiger gave the chisel a tap with the beech mallet, shaving the wood. It would ensure a tight fit for the inlay.

‘Listen to my plea . . . Hear me, willow, and weep for me . . .’

He had been listening exclusively to female vocalists while he worked. Dalton’s torture had opened a door and his father had come barging out – and now something else was stirring, barely an essence, like a harbor fog at the edge of his senses – fragile, ghostly, feminine – and he was saturating the air with voices – Holiday, Nina Simone, Bonnie Raitt, Joplin. Perhaps they would help draw the essence out.

The notes drifted to the high ceiling like an angel’s lament. His new home had been built in 1912 as a Pentecostal chapel and had changed hands four times. Geiger had seen a picture in a real estate office window when he’d gone to Brooklyn after returning from Cold Spring. The heavy wooden door in a gothic arch had caught his eye. It was set back sixty feet from the sidewalk behind stores, accessible by an alley – a twenty-by-twenty one-room construction of cut stone, the cathedral ceiling eighteen feet high at its apex.

The reason Geiger had been in Brooklyn that day had nothing to do with living space. It was about money and, in a sense, Carmine Delanotte – his patron, mentor and, ultimately, betrayer. When Geiger’s house in Manhattan had imploded on July Fourth he’d lost everything, including a key to a safe deposit box at the 96th Street Chase with half a million dollars in it, and the only way to it went directly through questions and gazes from a bank manager, in the company of a surveillance system. But – ten years ago, Geiger had had one of his lunches with Carmine at his restaurant, La Bella, in Little Italy.