Mark Smith - The Inquisitor

Mitch sipped his coffee. It was cold, but he didn’t mind. It tasted just fine.

Geiger held the phone to his ear but kept a finger on the cradle’s release. He was trying to resurrect Matheson’s phone number: 917-555-0… His mind’s eye squinted at the murky vision of the numbers he’d written on his hand after their IM session: 061-what? 8?

He dialed the number. It rang once.

“Hello?” said a man’s voice.

“Matheson?”

“Who?”

“Matheson?”

“There’s no Matheson here,” said the voice.

Geiger hung up and let his forehead rest against the booth’s siding. He was managing the pain and the loss of blood, but doing so required nearly all his resources, and very little energy remained for focus and recall. He tried to see himself writing the number on his palm: 061… 7?

He dialed again. Someone picked up before the first ring finished.

“Yes?” a man said.

“Matheson?”

“Yes.”

There was blood in Geiger’s mouth. He swallowed. “Listen carefully.”

“Where is my son?” Matheson said, his voice vibrating with fear and anger.

“Matheson, do not speak. Your only part in this conversation is to listen. This is not a negotiation. You will go where I tell you to go and bring what I ask you to bring. If you don’t, your son will not survive your recklessness. So please, listen carefully…”

Geiger got out of the cab and headed into Central Park. He felt light-headed as he walked, and he was aware that some people stared at him as he made his way toward the quadrangle of ball fields. All four fields had games in progress, and because of the July Fourth holiday, there were so many spectators that a person could easily become an anonymous part of the crowd.

Geiger had told Matheson to sit on a bench behind the westernmost field with a New York Times rolled up tightly on his lap, but even without the setup he could have picked the man out of a mass of strangers. He had seen this sort of extreme fear so many times: the raccoon eyes from sleeplessness, the high-strung shoulders, the anxious, bouncing heel. Matheson’s gray suit needed pressing and his handsome, stone-cut face needed a shave. Geiger could see that under less stressful circumstances he would look very much like a thirty-four-year-old Ezra.

Geiger came up behind him.

“Matheson?”

He tried to talk out of the right side of his mouth to minimize the pain, and it made his words oddly slurred. Matheson started to turn, but Geiger planted his hands firmly on the other man’s shoulders to stop the maneuver.

“Don’t turn around. Just watch the game.”

“Where is Ezra?”

“You have something for me, yes?”

“You get it when my son is sitting right here.” Matheson patted the bench. “Where is he?”

“You’ve lost the right to be with your son.”

“What?”

“From now on, it will be Ezra’s decision whether you see him or not. You have no say in it.”

“What the hell are you-”

He started to turn again, and this time Geiger dug his fingers into the hollows above his clavicle. Matheson froze with a soft yowl.

“Do not try and turn around again. If you do, I will break your neck.”

Matheson felt something tug at his brain. It was the voice. He’d heard it somewhere before.

Hall shot up straight in the driver’s seat at Mitch’s news.

“Matheson? You’re sure?”

“Yup,” Mitch replied, his voice coming through the cell. “I followed Geiger’s cab to the park, and now I’m about fifty feet away from them. Matheson’s sitting on a bench and Geiger’s standing right behind him. Goddamn fucking jackpot, man!”

Hall’s lips held their tight, hard line. He wasn’t ready to celebrate just yet. “But the kid’s not with him?”

“No. No kid.”

“Then what the hell is this about?” Hall’s fingers did a drum roll on the steering wheel. “What are they doing now?”

“Nothing. Talking.”

Hall stared at his cell. He would have to make another status call soon, and he wondered how long he could put it off before the man on the other end of the line decided to not answer his call.

“Who are you?” Matheson said.

“Not who you think I am.”

“Meaning what-that you’re not one of them? So why won’t you give me Ezra?”

“Because right now, you’re as much a danger to Ezra as they are. Whatever you’re peddling, you brought your son into it. You made him a target, and a victim.”

“Peddling? I’m not-”

“So here is what is going to happen. You’re going to give me whatever it is they’re looking for-let’s just call it the package. Then I’m going to take Ezra to his mother-”

“Julia? She’s here?”

“And once Ezra is safe, I’m going to contact the men who are after you. I will tell them that I have the package, and assure them that as long as they stay away from Ezra they won’t have to worry about it ever seeing the light of day.”

“You don’t know who I am,” Matheson said, “or what this is all about, do you?”

“And I don’t care, either.”

“Have you heard of Veritas Arcana?”

“The whistle-blowers?”

“Yes. That’s who I am. But Veritas Arcana isn’t an organization-it’s only me and a few committed volunteers. And now you’re asking me to bury something the world needs to know about. Except it doesn’t belong to me-or you.”

“And you’d put Ezra’s life up as collateral?”

“No. I love my son-I would never do that.”

“You don’t understand, Matheson. You already did.”

Matheson started to say something, then stopped. He brought one hand up to his face, bowed his head, and covered his eyes. “Christ,” he said. “I had no idea they were so close. I just needed six or seven more hours. Just…” He sighed deeply and went silent.

A batter approached the plate, doffed his cap to the crowd, and patted his substantial belly. There were as many laughs as cheers.

“Two crucial points, Matheson,” said Geiger. “One: as much as anything, luck is the reason that your son isn’t already dead. And two: they won’t stop. Not as long as they feel there is the slightest chance they can accomplish their task. That’s what they do. They don’t stop.”

Something scratched at Matheson’s mind again.

“I know your voice,” he said.

“No, you don’t.”

The cost of his conversation with Matheson was making Geiger tremble with exhaustion. It was time to get what he came for and go.

“Matheson, hand the package over-now.”

Matheson nodded at the ground, then reached inside his jacket. He took out a manila envelope and held it up. Geiger took the envelope and slipped it into his bag.

Matheson sighed again. “Would you tell Ezra I love him-and that I’m sorry?”

“Matheson just gave him an envelope,” reported Mitch. “Manila, about four by ten.”

“Fuck.” Hall had a cigarette going and took a deep drag. “Why would Matheson give it to him?” He was asking himself more than Mitch. “And how could Geiger even know what it is?”

“Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s not our stuff. Maybe it’s money and Geiger is holding Matheson up before he gives the kid back. Jesus, Richie-who cares? This is our chance. I’m fifty feet away. I could steamroll ’em and grab-”

“No! You’re in a crowd in Central Park, for chrissake. Since 9/11 every fucking New Yorker wants to be a hero. You’d have a dozen people jumping on you before you know it.”

“Okay, Richie, but now Geiger’s leaving. Who do I stick with?”

Hall turned on the Lexus’s emergency flashers, and for a moment he watched them blink on and off. Did they even need Matheson anymore?