The Inquisitor: A Novel (12 page)

Geiger pulled up and parked twenty feet from his door. He looked into the rearview mirror and studied himself. He could feel his brow starting to tighten; from the far horizon of his mind, a storm had begun to move in.

He turned around and spoke to the boy, who was still stretched out on the seat.

“We’re going inside now. Twenty feet on the sidewalk, then three steps up, and then we’ll be in.”

He got out, opened the back door, and reached in. He took one of the boy’s cuffed hands and pulled him up into a sitting position.

“Ready?”

The masked head gave a tired nod; the boy could hardly hold his chin up. The tape across his mouth had a horizontal, inward crease where his mouth had reflexively tried to suck in air for hours. Geiger grabbed the violin case and glanced up and down the block. There was no one in sight.

“We’re going to walk fast now. Watch your head.”

He kept hold of the boy’s hand as he slid across the seat to the door. When he swung his legs out, Geiger pulled him up and the boy immediately turned his blinded face up to the rain as if seeking some form of purification.

“Let’s go,” Geiger said.

He linked his arm inside one of the boy’s and ushered him toward the house. “Three steps,” he said, and they went up without incident to the front door, which, exactly like the one at Ludlow Street, was made of heavy-gauge steel and had no external locks or knobs. On the wall beside the door was a keypad; Geiger punched in the code and a soft chirp preceded a louder click of disengaging chambers. After the door opened inward an inch or two, he pushed it open all the way and steered the boy inside. The door closed behind them, the locks clacking as they automatically reengaged.

Geiger knew that his actions had set something seismic in motion and that his place in the universe was somehow being redefined. But for a moment the silence was a palliative, a welcoming home. He put down the violin case, took a Swiss Army knife from a pocket, and cut the ties at the boy’s wrists.

“I’m going to take the tape off now,” he said.

Geiger tried, with thumb and forefinger, to get hold of a corner of the tape beneath the boy’s left ear lobe. Humidity and sweat had saturated the tape and emulsified the glue, and it wouldn’t come loose.

“This is going to hurt.”

The boy gave a grunt that seemed to sap him of the last of his strength, and he wobbled on his feet like a first-time drunk. Geiger took hold of him and guided him a few steps to the couch.

“Sit,” he said, lowering the boy onto the soft maroon leather. “I’m going to get some alcohol—that will help get the tape off. And when I get the tape off, we’ll talk about your mother and father.”

He walked down the hall and into the bathroom. There was a small shower, toilet, and pedestal sink with a face-sized oval mirror above it. He knelt at a chrome serving cart, knees resting on a floor inlaid with a diamond pattern of ash and teak, and reached to the bottom shelf.

It occurred to him that his voice had sounded like an intruder’s. Except for phone calls with Harry and minimal exchanges with the cat, he never had reason to speak at home. The thickness in his head added to the strangeness, producing a tinny sound in his ears that seemed to trail his words like a ship’s wake.

He found the rubbing alcohol, pulled a few tissues from their box, and came back down the hall. “We’ll figure things out. We need to be careful how we—”

He stared at the boy, who lay on the sofa on his side. The quiet breath of sleep ebbed and flowed from his nose.

Geiger went to the back door, unlocked it, and stepped out onto the stoop. The overhead motion-sensor light came on; twenty feet in front of him, a lone insomniac squirrel froze on the grass, primed for catastrophe.

PART TWO

10

The hot needles of the shower lanced Harry’s anxiety like a boil, and helped take him away to a place where his thoughts could catch their breath and he could begin to get a glimpse of the new future.

He had walked home through the narrow, hazy streets of Chinatown and over the Brooklyn Bridge, working up worst-case scenarios. He already had seventy thousand sitting in a safe deposit box. If it came down to it, he’d have no problem selling the apartment. He’d have to do it under the radar, for cash, and most likely through Carmine, so he’d take a hit. But he was up to the minute on the asking or sale price of every two-bedroom brownstone apartment in Brooklyn Heights with a city view, so he was sure he could put another three or four hundred grand in his pocket.

That was scenario number one, based on the premise that he would never work again. He couldn’t imagine himself taking another job. With no current employment record and no references, who would hire him? And what would he do—fix motherboards in a computer shop’s back room? Hawk cyber software online? Drive a cab? No way, but at least he could lead an unemployed, cash-only life for seven or eight years. As far as the government was concerned, Harry Boddicker had ceased to exist. His Con Ed and phone bills were addressed to Thomas Jones. He hadn’t paid taxes in a decade. He could pretty much disappear.

And then there was scenario number two, which added his sister to the equation. Unless she finally gave up her seat on the bizarro bus or the evil bump in his groin murdered him first, in four years she would suck him dry without even knowing he existed.

When Harry had arrived home, the prospect of having to converse with anyone had made him feel nauseous. He woke the nurse, gave her an extra fifty, and shooed her out the door, telling her he’d call tomorrow when he was ready to send Lily back. A peek into the second bedroom, at the end of the hall, revealed Lily asleep on top of the bedcovers in a tucked, fetal position. She’d always slept that way.

Now Harry turned off the shower and stepped out. The Ray Charles greatest hits CD he’d set to “repeat” was halfway through another cycle, and the soul-cleansing voice made him feel a little better. He fought the impulse to fish around in his groin while wiping himself down with one of the oversized Frette towels from Bed Bath & Beyond. He smiled wanly—he wouldn’t be spending forty bucks on a towel again—and walked into the living room. He hadn’t turned on the lights when he’d come in, and outside the sunrise was only a hint of the day to come, so he didn’t see the figure on the couch until he was almost in front of it.

“Sit down, Harry.”

Hall’s statement was one-third invitation, two-thirds command, and his voice had the gruff edge of someone dealing with heavy physical pain. As surprised as Harry was, he was equally embarrassed by his nakedness.

“Can I put something on?”

“Sit, Harry.
Now.
”

Harry lowered himself into his favorite leather chair. It felt warm and sticky against his bare back, thighs, and ass. As casually as he could, he put his hands in his lap, covering his genitals.

“Your partner is a very strange guy,” Hall said. “Full of surprises.”

“Tell me about it.”

“He made a big mistake, Harry.”

“Yeah. I already told him that.”

“Did he agree with you?”

“Geiger and I don’t have those kinds of conversations.” Harry shifted in his seat, his damp skin making a sucking sound as it pulled away from the leather. “Could I at least have my coat?” He pointed at his sport jacket, which was lying on the couch where he’d tossed it when he’d come home. Hall picked it up and lobbed it to him, and Harry spread it over his lap.

“I want the boy, Harry. Right away.”

“You got your money back. My guess is that’s the best you’re going to do.”

Hall leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. “I don’t care about the money, Harry.” He took a deep breath, his lips spreading in a flat, wincing grimace. His hand went to his sternum and his fingertips gently explored the bruised area. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered. “What’ve you got to drink?”

“Sorry, I don’t drink anymore. Sure wish I did.”

Hall stood up, walked to the window, and stared out at the East River. In the dim light, Harry could see that the back of Hall’s shirt and collar had a long red stain, and the back of his head had a small white patch on it. As Ray Charles finished singing “Georgia,” reflections of the lights on the bridge floated on the water’s surface like globs of golden oil.

“Great voice,” Hall said.

“Sure is.”

“Where are they, Harry?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where does Geiger live?”

“Don’t know that either.”

“You’ve been partners for how long?”

“Eleven years.”

“And you don’t know where he lives?”

“Never been to his place. Like you said—he’s a very strange guy.”

Harry was doing his best to sit very still and keep his tone low-key because he was beginning to feel truly scared. It wasn’t a visceral, heart-in-the-throat fear of imminent violence. But something about Hall, something about the atmosphere in the room, something about
everything
was slowly heating Harry up, gathering loose doubts and confusion like tinder and stoking the fear inside him.

“Harry, I let you finish your shower because I wanted you relaxed, thinking straight.” Hall turned back to the room. “What’s your read on me, Harry—right now?”

“You’re in a lot of pain?”

“What else?”

“Running out of patience?”

“Bull’s-eye. Now…” Hall went into his pants pocket and took out Harry’s cell phone. “I’ve checked your cell—there are no sends or receiveds on it.”

“It’s programmed that way.”

“Whatever, but I need you to call Geiger right now—and tell him that if he doesn’t get the kid back to me asap, you’re going to have a real bad time of it. Maybe I’ll even take you to Dalton. Think you can do that?”

Harry felt a quick bubble of panic rise up, but then he found himself biting his tongue to keep from laughing. He didn’t doubt Hall’s sincerity, but the accoutrements to this little drama—his ridiculous nakedness, Ray Charles’s doleful voice, the summer dawn reaching the river—all conspired to decorate the horror of the moment in a tacky wrapping that smacked of parody. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that fate was playing his last moments on earth for laughs.

Harry took a breath and collected himself. “Geiger won’t pick up,” he said. “He told me not to call him and said he’d call me if he needed to. Even if I left a message and told him what you plan on doing, I don’t think that would change his plans, whatever they are. And I wouldn’t call him anyway.”

“No? You’re not just stringing this out?”

“Nope. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

As Ray Charles belted the second chorus of “Hit the Road, Jack”—
“and don’t you come back no more, no more”
—Hall whirled around and marched toward the glowing red lights of the stereo equipment. He grabbed the CD player, ripped it loose, and hurled it against the wall. The housing shattered into pieces and the music died.

“I hate that fucking song,” Hall muttered.

“Me, too. Thanks.”

Hall came back to the couch and grunted softly as he settled into the cushions. Harry stared at the gun in Hall’s belt holster. Harry had a gun, too—a .32-caliber Beretta Tomcat with a seven-shot clip that he kept in a holster attached to the underside of his desk. He’d bought the gun last year through Carmine, after he’d heard about a series of break-ins a block away. He’d never fired it and had only taken it out of the holster a few times to clean it, per Carmine’s strict instructions.

“The thirty-five grand is in my van, Harry. Take the money and make the call.”

“Nah. It wouldn’t last me very long—I’ve got some expensive obligations.”

“Don’t we all,” said Hall. He sighed, flipped Harry’s cell phone open, and punched some buttons. Harry heard it ring once, and then someone answered.

“Come up,” Hall said, and snapped the phone closed.

Harry’s gaze strayed to the monitor on the desk. The Jackson Pollock screen saver glowed with a close-up of black and red blobs on a tawny surface. It looked like a NASA photo of an alien terrain. He wished he were there—he was certain that on Mars or Venus there were no trained killers waiting for a phone call to come up the stairs and put a bullet in his skull.

Hall looked at him and shook his head. “You’d go down this road for Geiger and a kid you don’t even know?”

“It’s got nothing to do with them, Mr. Hall, or whatever your name really is.”

Harry wondered whether his neighbor was home. He shared the brownstone with a garrulous commodities broker who owned the bottom floor; they’d kibitzed on the sidewalk a while ago, and the guy had mentioned that he was taking the wife to Europe for part of the summer, but Harry couldn’t remember when. If they were downstairs and Harry started screaming, they might very well hear him. But as soon as the idea occurred to him, he knew he wouldn’t do it. He wasn’t going out like a jerk, even if he’d spent too much of his life being one. For a second, he was back in Central Park, drunk in the mindless night, lying on the ground spitting blood and teeth while the muggers stood over him and asked yet again, “Gonna give us the fucking ATM code?” He’d looked up at them and said, “Something’s happening here but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?” They’d gone back to work with their boots, and then Geiger had come along …

The front door swung open. Harry and Hall turned in unison to see a tall silhouette in the dark hallway.

“No go?” a man asked.

Harry knew the voice, recognized it the way you catch a glimpse of a familiar face in a crowd but can’t remember the context of your association.

“No go,” said Hall.

As the silhouette started into the apartment, Hall reached to the side table and turned on the lamp.

“Jesus,” said Harry, the word pulled from him slowly.

The panhandler he’d given twenty dollars to on Ludlow Street stood scowling at him.

“Harry,” Hall said, “this is Ray.”

“Hi, Ray,” said Harry.

“There’s a woman asleep in the back room,” Hall said to Ray. “Go get her.”