The Inquisitor: A Novel (36 page)

“I’m so sorry,” Ezra said, shaking his head.

Harry turned to him. “For what?”

“This is all because of me.”

Harry pulled him closer. “No, it’s not, Ezra. It’s just…” He was desperate for more words, for something wiser or more soothing to say to the boy, but nothing came.

A car drove out of the woods, and a policeman jogged forward and stood in front of it, his arms up. The car stopped, and a tall, lanky woman got out. The cop approached her, a ten-second conversation took place, and then she shoved him out of the way and marched forward.

“Ezra?”

The boy looked up, startled by the sound of a familiar voice. Harry, smiling, gave Ezra’s shoulder a squeeze.

The woman caught sight of her son and started to run.

22

Business was bad. A dog days heat wave had driven people from the street, and it didn’t help that the city had started hauling away the wreckage of Geiger’s house. A storm fence with a gate had been put up in front of the lot, and the demolition crew had cordoned off a strip of the sidewalk.

Mr. Memz took a half-smoked cigarette from his pack, flicked his Zippo, and lit up. When the skinny guy with the cane stopped at his table, it took Mr. Memz a second or two to place him. But then the scene came back to him, and he remembered the name, too.

“Harry, right? Yeah, Geiger’s Harry. The cane threw me off for a sec.”

Smiling faintly, Harry raised the dark cherry cane and showed Mr. Memz its carved handle.

“Distinguished, huh?”

“Wish I could use one. It’s a nice look.” Mr. Memz glanced up at Harry hopefully. “Hey, Harry, you got a smoke?”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Damn. Hardly anybody smokes anymore.”

Harry scanned the street, his new habit. “So how’s business?”

“Shit, man—
what
business?”

A loud
crunch
made them both turn. A tractor had just dropped a load of debris from the ruined house into a dump truck.

Turning back, the two men looked at each other.

“He’s gone, man,” Harry said.

“‘Gone’ as in gone away?”

“No—drowned. Upstate, five weeks ago.”

Mr. Memz’s lips twisted into a dark grimace, and he shook his head. “Was it that July Fourth thing I heard about, the one on the river?”

“Yeah.”

For a moment Mr. Memz sat utterly still, but then he growled and slammed a fist onto the table. His books jumped.

Harry sighed. “I just wanted you to know.”

Mr. Memz said nothing. The growl had become a hollow mutter.

Harry tapped his cane on the sidewalk. “I gotta go now, okay? I gotta be somewhere.”

“Okay.” Mr. Memz nodded, his eyes blank. “See ya ’round.”

“Probably not, actually.”

“Okay. Won’t see ya ’round.”

Harry put his hand inside a jacket pocket, brought out an envelope, and dropped it on the table. “Just tying up some loose ends.”

Mr. Memz glanced at the envelope. “What’s that?”

“Just something to hold you over till business picks up. I really gotta go, man. You take care.”

Mr. Memz watched Harry walk off toward Amsterdam Avenue, and then his gaze came back to the envelope. He picked it up and pulled its contents halfway out. He slowly fanned twenty five-hundred-dollar bills with his fingertips.

“Jesus…”

He turned and looked up the block. He saw a dozen people on the sidewalk—mostly strangers, a few familiar faces—but Harry was gone.

*   *   *

A cab pulled over at the corner of 110th Street and Malcolm X Boulevard. Harry got out and walked into the north end of Central Park. The waters of the Harlem Meer were still and slate gray; half a dozen mallards paddled about aimlessly near the shore.

Harry hobbled down the walk, giving way to the rollerbladers and skateboarders. The ghosts followed him wherever he went—there had been no bodies to identify, there were no fresh graves and etched headstones—and he could not lay them to rest. He was a shepherd of the dead: Geiger, though a peripheral presence, was always nearby, but it was Lily who Harry kept closest to him. The concept of his sister’s death was still entirely abstract. Her sudden and complete absence from his life had tipped its scales out of balance, and the fact that he would never see her again was unacceptable. His dreams overflowed with the giddy laughter and rituals of children. His grief was exhausting and perpetual.

He sat on a bench facing the lake.

“Harry?” the man next to him said.

“Sorry I’m late,” Harry said, turning to shake David Matheson’s extended hand.

“Good to meet you finally.”

Harry glanced at Matheson and then looked away. He put the cane between his legs and toggled it back and forth by the handle, another new habit.

“Tell me, Harry. How did you figure out ‘BigBossMan’?”

Harry shrugged. “I was able to get into Geiger’s IMs. Through my PC.”

“Really? That’s pretty tough to do.”

“Took a while. But I’ve got some programs I cooked up.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a figure running toward him. He stiffened, his hands tightening on the cane, but then settled back when the jogger ran by.

“How’s Ezra?” he said.

“Beginning to work through things, but still not in great shape. I’ve only seen him once—secretly, and just for a few hours at a hotel with his mother. It’s not fair for me to be around him much with all the heat on me now. I’m never in one place more than a day or two. Anyway, he says he’s playing a lot of violin. I guess that’s a good thing.”

“I guess,” Harry said. “Tell me something, Matheson. Were you ever in the art business?”

“No. That was just a cover so I could move around.”

Harry quickly surveyed his surroundings and then took a small package from a pocket. “I found a way to open the digital lock, so now you’ve got the originals and two copies.”

“Much appreciated,” Matheson said. He took the package and slid it into a small bag on the bench next to him. “You’re very good at what you do, Harry.”

“Thanks.”

“In fact, Veritas Arcana could really use someone with your skills. We’re getting bigger every day—four servers now, all over the globe—but those who don’t like what we do are always breathing down our necks, trying to shut us down.”

“I don’t think so, man. Sorry.”

“Well, think about it. If you change your mind, you obviously won’t have any trouble finding me.”

*   *   *

The eastern horizon showed the faintest illumination, a preface to dawn.

Atop the back fence that had been fashioned into a miniature skyline, a cat appeared. After walking a few feet along the jagged edge, the cat jumped down into the yard.

All that was left of the structure that had once occupied the lot was the cleared foundation and its concrete stoop in back. The cat went up the two steps, lay down on the stoop, and began to lick himself clean from his night’s labors.

At the sound of uneven footsteps, the cat looked up. A man sat down on the stoop and began scratching the scar above the the cat’s eyeless socket. The cat responded with a rumbling purr.

No one from the neighborhood would have recognized the man. He wore black-framed glasses, and curls spilled out from under a back-turned baseball cap. A trim black beard reached almost to his cheekbones.

In his hand the man held a dusty, palm-sized portion of broken flooring. He wiped it clean on his pants and studied it: the fragment was made of mahogany, with an ash inlay of a crescent moon. Holding it with his fingertips, he turned it twenty degrees clockwise, then twenty degrees back the other way, as one might do with a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that was not yet part of the whole.

“The world knows nothing of you. That is my gift to you. You are no one.”

The man slid the piece of wood into his pocket, picked up the cat, and perched the animal on his shoulder.

“Time to go,” he said.

He got to his feet slowly, turned, and started across the foundation toward the sidewalk. He had a slight limp, but somehow the man incorporated it into the swing of his body as he moved.

One could say it lent him a certain measure of grace.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I consider myself immeasurably blessed to have so many people to thank:

Stephen Rubin, publisher and president of Henry Holt, for reading this book and deciding that others should have an opportunity to do the same.

John Sterling, my editor, for his skill and dedication, his imagination and diligence, and his honesty.

Andre Bernard, friend and scholar, who, in a very real sense, made this all happen, and to whom I shall be forever grateful.

Cari-Esta Albert, the true-bluest pal, critic, confidant, and sounding board on this tiny planet, and Susan Brecker, whose love, strength, and support are treasures.

Liz Robinson and Dodie Gold, best of managers and dearest of friends, for their guidance and loyalty all these many years.

Drs. Robert Zevin and Lawrence Weisberg and Jaine O’Neill, for always taking the time to let me pick their wise brains about bodies and minds.

Luis Rumbaut, for his tireless, dead-on translations.

Dr. Andrew C. Lotterman, whose insight and care helped me see what it was I was really trying to write, and
why.

And, most especially, Nat Sobel and Judith Weber, my agents and friends, who thought that there was something worthwhile about this book, and, in so doing, changed my life. While writing the five additional drafts Nat demanded, it became clear to me that (at least) one of the reasons he was drawn to the book was his affinity for the black art performed within its pages. In turning my manuscript into a novel, Nat was my tireless mentor, ruthless editor, and torturous taskmaster—and I thank him deeply for his passion, faith, and wisdom.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

M
ARK
A
LLEN
S
MITH
, who lives in New York City, has worked for many years in the film and television industries as a screenwriter, investigative news producer, and documentary filmmaker. This is his first novel.

Henry Holt and Company, LLC

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Copyright © 2012 by Mark Allen Smith

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Smith, Mark Allen.

   The inquistor : a novel / Mark Allen Smith.—1st ed.

          p.   cm.

   ISBN 978-0-8050-9426-8 (hardback)

 1.  Tortures—Fiction.   2.  Boys—Fiction.   3.  Journalists—Fiction.   4.  New York (N.Y.)—Fiction.   I.  Title.

   PS3619.M5919167 2012

   813'.6—dc22                                         2011026552

First Edition 2012

eISBN 9781429949941

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.