Mark Smith - The Inquisitor

Whatever the type of wood, whatever its shape or state, the process was always the same. Geiger would saw, shave, and whittle-as much by instinct as finite measure-to create the shape of the piece he saw in his head. Three lengthy sanding sessions with increasingly fine paper would take the wood down to its original, natural surface. Then, after treating all sides of the piece with a homemade concoction of beeswax and china wood oil, he would set it into the whole. One after another, the scraps became part of a huge, six-hundred-square-foot jigsaw puzzle.

He started from the outer borders and worked inward. He used more than seven hundred pieces, some as long as five feet and as wide as four inches, some no bigger than a bottle cap. The wood was teak, Brazilian tigerwood, oak, mahogany, ash, hemlock, elm, chestnut, heart pine. It took Geiger seven months to complete the fantastic mosaic, a creation a visitor would have marveled at had any seen it. In fact, the boy would be the first ever to set foot inside the place.

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.

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 amp; 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.