Mark Smith - The Inquisitor

Harry rolled a sip of coffee around in his mouth and thought about how to word his plea to Geiger. He had logged on to AIM as Stickler and checked out the status of GGGG. Geiger was active. What should he write? How about “I’m about to lose it, man. I hurt all over and I’ve got a crazy person in tow and those fuckers are following me. Just tell me your address.” How had it come to this? He didn’t even know where the one person he considered a comrade lived.

He’d thought about calling Carmine and asking for help or at least a place to lie low, but the man gave him the creeps. He’d last seen him a year ago, at a session. The Jones had been supplying Carmine with bathroom fixtures for some townhouses, and Carmine had been tipped off that, as he’d put it to Harry, “the prick likes to spell ‘refurbished’ N-E-W.” The Jones had caved within minutes while Carmine watched, sipping Chartreuse VEP Green that cost one hundred and eighty-five dollars. After Harry had repacked the Jones for transport back to one of Carmine’s safe houses-an oxymoron if Harry had ever heard one-Carmine had come to him, squeezed his shoulder, and said:

“Harry, Harry. Our boy’s a thing of beauty, isn’t he? It’s like watching a chess match in a boxing ring.”

“Nicely put, sir.”

“Kasparov and Ali rolled into one. He’s a genius, our boy.”

Harry still remembered the chuckle that had finished the exchange; it was as smooth as the perfectly folded silk handkerchief that peeked from Carmine’s suit pocket. Carmine served as a reminder to Harry that some people did exactly what they pleased and got everything they wanted, usually because they had eyes in the back of their heads, a seemingly endless supply of aces and dirks up their sleeves, and no qualms or guilt about using them.

Right now, the only person who seemed knowable to Harry was Geiger. Even though yesterday’s bizarre act had sent Harry’s world off its axis, Geiger was still his only hope, the one hand that could pull him out of free fall. Geiger was all he had left.

Harry’s fingers went to the keyboard.

Ezra was still so frightened he couldn’t sit still. He wandered through Geiger’s loft, staring at the intricate floor as a way to control his panic. Geiger had been in the closet long enough for the CD player to finish a Honegger sonata and get halfway through Faure’s Sonata in E Minor. But Ezra had no idea whether the music was helping. The attack had come so suddenly and looked so violent that to him it seemed entirely possible that death would be the final result.

Ezra opened the closet door. Geiger’s fetal position made it difficult to tell if he was breathing, so Ezra gently nudged Geiger’s shin with his sneaker’s toe. Geiger’s left arm instantly pulled his knees in tighter against his chest; he curled up like a pill bug expecting an imminent attack.

“Are you asleep?” Ezra whispered.

He took a step inside and sat down beside Geiger. Leaning back, he stared at himself in the mirrors. That was what his father was: a visible but untouchable reflection. He was a two-weeks-a-year presence, or a voice on the phone, or an IM partner. A burst of heat ran down Ezra’s back, equal parts anger and fear. He wondered where his father was. He wished he was dead; he prayed he was safe. He hated him for his selfishness. It had put Ezra in this closet, and now monsters prowled the streets, searching for his scent.

Ezra rose. Careful not to jostle Geiger, he went to the desk and sat in Geiger’s chair in front of the computer. The AIM icon at the bottom of the monitor beckoned him. He clicked it, signed in as Guest, and set up a message to BigBossMan, the name on the account his father used for their sessions.

Ezra glanced over at Geiger’s dark, tucked figure, and then typed:

GUEST: Its EZBoy. Where are you?

He clicked “send” and sat back, staring at the boarded-up windows before him. No light made its way through, and only ghosts of the street’s shrillest sounds crept in past the soundproofing.

The ping of an incoming message straightened Ezra’s spine. He took a breath and leaned toward the screen. The upper right-hand quadrant displayed the message in a small, sans-serif font.

STICKLER: hey. its me.

Stickler? Ezra sank back into the soft leather. Who was Stickler? The greeting seemed personal, even intimate. Ezra’s hands reached out to the keyboard but only hovered there, his concentration failing him. For a moment he felt almost nauseous with fear-for himself, for his father, for the man in the closet. If Geiger didn’t wake up, what then? Ezra had no idea where he was, but he did know that he was locked in from the inside.

Ezra took a long breath and let his fingers fall to the keys.

Harry stared at the message.

GGGG: who are you?

This was absurdity of a new sort, the kind of cosmic joke only a petty God with too much time on his hands would stoop to pull. Harry was so astonished, he spoke aloud without realizing it.

“What the fuck?”

Heads all around the cafe rose, eyes swiveling to locate the boor. Even Lily looked up from her scone project, licking her fingers like a cat cleaning its paws. Harry ignored the gawkers and started typing.

STICKLER: who am i? who are you?

GGGG: this isnt geiger. im ezra.

STICKLER: the kid that got snatched?

GGGG: yes. who are you?

STICKLER: harry. geigers friend. where is he? go get him, right now.

GGGG: hes sleeping.

STICKLER: wake him up.

GGGG: im scared to. something happened to him. something bad.

STICKLER: whats that mean?

GGGG: he was really freaky. he had a kind of fit.

STICKLER: fit?

GGGG: screaming and stuff, on his knees. in terrible pain. sort of blinded. then he crawled into a closet and went to sleep on the floor.

Harry stopped. Had Geiger had a stroke? A heart attack? An epileptic seizure? But even as he wondered what had happened, Harry realized that he wasn’t shocked at the thought that Geiger might have had a meltdown. The episode at the session room and the decision to take the kid with him had only been a preview. For years he’d thought of Geiger as a man whose enormous strength was matched only by the massive weight of his burdens. Had they finally brought him to his knees? At the first rub of the question, Harry knew he’d been waiting for this moment for a long time.

Harry started typing again.

STICKLER: ill come there then. where are you?

GGGG: what do you mean? im at geigers.

STICKLER: i know. where is that?

GGGG: i dont know. I was blindfolded when he brought me in and all the windows are boarded up. i cant see outside. how come you don’t know? i thought you were his friend.

Harry rummaged around in the place where he kept his meager stock of patience, but the cupboard was almost bare. He was stretched thin, fed up with his own trespasses more than anyone else’s. And dealing with kids always gave him the heebie-jeebies. Their transparency made him feel clumsy, artless. He was going to have to walk a tightrope to the boy.

STICKLER: listen, kid. i know youre scared. i dont blame you. but i am his friend. ive just never been to his place. remember there was another guy there when he put you in the car? that was me.

GGGG: okay. but how are you going to find me? i dont know where i am and im locked in here.

STICKLER: ill think of something.

GGGG: hurry.

Frustrated, Harry slammed his palm down on the counter, sending a loud whomp rolling through the place. Lily twitched and heads bobbed back up.

“Jesus Christ!” he growled.

The Asian counter guy arrived, hovering at his side, espresso-stained fingers tugging at the beard surrounding his frown.

“You’re making too much noise, mister,” he said. “Much too much.”