Mark Smith - The Inquisitor

Outside, a shrill, nasty sound was gathering. Corley rose and stepped onto the terrace just as a big squadron of black birds rose up from the rooftops and went into a steep dive. They were twirling and spinning, their formation changing like a kaleidoscope’s fractals, perfectly conjoined. They made Corley think of Geiger. He was a crippled man-child, his psyche the handiwork of immeasurable cruelty. By sheer will, he somehow kept all his parts moving in sync. For weeks, Corely had sensed a shifting of emotional plates in Geiger, and an approaching event. He didn’t think the man had an inkling that the dream was proof of defended structures giving way within him. The demon was knocking on the door, and it would not be denied entry.

Corley watched the flock of birds disappear into the leaves of the sidewalk trees. He was weary of routine, of the inexorable drift from passion to ritual, of wisdom gained at the sacrifice of optimism. He was weary of the penitents, the guiltmongers, the un-Geigers who lay on his couch addicted to their imperfections. And he was equally weary of his abetment, the fifty-minute doses of attention and patience dispensed to help them share a wan smile or shed a few tears before he sent them back out into the world.

Inside, he walked into the kitchen and flipped the lights on. The pale blue tiles above the counters still reminded him of Sara’s eyes. Too many of his thoughts were prompted by memories, and the knowledge that his future would be little different from his life now weighed him down.

Corley poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down at the breakfast nook. The New York Times lay before him, and the headlines read like recycled slogans. “Mass Grave Unearthed Near Kabul.” “Suicide Bomber Kills 56 in Chechnya.” “Bodies Discovered in Cairo Factory-Evidence of Torture Reported.” The story about Egypt was accompanied by a photograph of a windowless bunker. The floor was covered with dark blotches, and the walls were spattered with dots and arching squiggles-clearly they were the canvases of a brutal painter. Corley sipped his coffee and tried to decide whether the world had become more barbaric or if cable television, round-the-clock bloggers, and websites dedicated to whistle-blowers simply meant that less remained hidden.

I could just quit, he thought. Pack it up. He pictured the house up in Cold Spring. Of all the possessions he and Sara had accumulated, it was the only thing he’d really wanted. Since the divorce, his trips to Cold Spring had become more and more infrequent, but though he was deaf to selling, he was unwilling to consider why. Maybe he should take the rest of the summer off and spend every day in the hammock with a case of Guinness and a pack of Camels, reading novels while his gut grew and his liver and lungs went to ruin.

Corley snorted at himself. He wouldn’t leave-it was foolish even to imagine otherwise. He would sit in his office with Geiger until the breakthrough came, until the psychic walls collapsed and the horror came spilling out and he tried mightily to pull the little boy from the muck and wash him clean.

A sudden, rising, angry chorus made Corley turn to the window. It was the black birds. They were leaving.

Smith, Mark Allen

The Inquisitor: A Novel

Harry stared out the windshield of the van at a large flock of noisy birds moving south from uptown. They tilted over the East River like a single giant wing, so black that it stood out against the evening sky, and then the flock came apart and melted into the lattice of the Brooklyn Bridge that stretched out around him.

Hours ago, when he’d left the diner, Harry had returned to Brooklyn and picked up the rental van. Richard Hall would be delivering the Jones tonight, but it was Geiger’s SOP that Harry have a vehicle on hand at all sessions-another example of crossing of t ’s and dotting of i ’s as a way to keep the outside world’s powers of chaos in check. Then Harry had stopped back home, given Melissa a dozen of Lily’s favorite CDs, and spent a few hours on the couch watching his sister while she sat cross-legged in a chair, fingering a button on her blouse. He had tried a few questions-“Lily, do you want something to eat?” and “It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” and “Do you remember my name, sis?”-but she responded only once, to his last query, saying:

“I remember all the names. I know them.”

Harry took the bridge off-ramp and headed crosstown toward Ludlow Street. He loved the feel of the city at this end. The air smelled different than uptown-spicier, more exotic. The song of the street had a sweeter pitch, the light seemed softer, and when a job was finished he could walk just two blocks to the tiny dim sum place on Division Street and sit down to a feast for twenty bucks. Best deal in town.

Last week he’d received an e-mail informing him that Lily’s nut would go up to one hundred and ten thousand a year, so tonight’s asap was a godsend. He had also negotiated top dollar with Richard Hall-thirty-five grand. Geiger always left that part of the business to him and he’d gotten good at it. Who could have guessed?

On the June day in 1999 when Harry had walked out of the Times Building to find Geiger waiting for him on the sidewalk with a business proposition, Harry had no idea what he’d be getting into, and no way to make a decision based on a financial forecast. In the end, he made a life-altering choice based on his instinctive response to Geiger’s matter-of-fact presentation. “I am going into a new line of work,” Geiger had said. “Illegal. I need a partner. You’ll get twenty-five percent of the profits.” As Geiger described his vocation, Harry wondered: What was the going rate for torture? How do you build a clientele? The research part would be a snap, his forte, but the human carting might prove challenging. Forget, for a moment, the moral and legal aspects. Could he do it? Was that in him? He let the exhilaration in his chest provide the answer.

Harry pulled the van up to the gate of the lot next to the Ludlow Street session house and checked his watch. Hall was due with Matheson in fifteen minutes. He got out, unlocked the heavy-gauge gate, and pushed it open. As he was about to turn back to the van, he felt the presence of someone coming up behind him. He froze, and silently cursed his carelessness-why had he left the Louisville Slugger on the van’s floor? Slowly he turned.

A ragged redwood of a black man stood before him, wearing a tattered New York Knicks sweatshirt and pants of a blotched, now indistinguishable color. His clothes hung on thick, broad bones, and Harry saw the glare of mean hunger in his bottomless eyes. Harry’s mind measured the steps to the van’s door. Seven, maybe eight. A tricky maneuver to pull out the bat and swing for the fences. Trickier if the guy was agile-Harry never could hit a curveball. But if it came to it, he’d die trying. Nobody was ever going to beat on him again.

A hand the size of an oven mitt came out from behind the man’s back. The upturned palm was desiccated and deeply furrowed.

“Gimme somethin’, man,” the guy said, his voice sepulchral. “Five bucks.”

Harry realized he wasn’t breathing; he inhaled. “Shouldn’t sneak up on people, man,” he said. “Not cool.”

“I’ll send you a fucking letter next time. Now goddamn gimme somethin’.” His pupils flared with molten emotion. “C’mon, motherfucker!”

“Motherfucker?” Harry said. “Hey-do I owe you something?”

The man’s great paws grabbed the lapels of Harry’s sport jacket and pulled him in close. Harry’s nostrils bristled at the thick, sour smell of unwashed flesh.

“Fuck you very much,” the man said.

An airy giggle came from somewhere very near, and then a small, shiny-eyed face peeked out from behind the man’s tree-trunk legs. The girl wore a soiled orange jumpsuit and sneakers with the toes wrapped in frayed duct tape, and the gap between her front teeth blinked at Harry when she grinned. She couldn’t have been more than five. If Harry believed in God, he would have sworn she was an angel.