Mark Smith - The Inquisitor

Geiger saw the headlights coming up the driveway, close now, and he moved out onto the porch. Holding the broken railing, he looked down and saw Harry lying on top of Mitch, belly to belly, both as still as corpses.

Geiger started lumbering down the steps. “Harry?”

Harry’s head stirred, and then he rolled off Mitch, onto his back. The spike of one of the ground lamps protruded from Mitch’s sternum, and his dead eyes were open.

Harry’s chest shone with blood, but he looked up at Geiger and raised an arm. “I’m okay,” he said, pointing toward the river. “That way-both of them.”

Ezra stopped when he found a tree that looked thick enough to hide him. He stood with his back against it to make sure, then slid down its trunk to the ground. He had been running blind and so had lost all sense of bearing. The night was alive with sound: the continuing explosions in the sky, the far-off cheers of the crowd, the mosquitoes buzzing nearby. And he could swear he heard the perpetual rush of the unseen river.

Given the mayhem he had left behind at the house, it was impossible for him to guess who might have survived or who might be coming to look for him.

He clutched the bag and waited.

Hall moved silently through the trees. A night mist gave the woods a soft, smudged look, like a drawing in charcoal on gray paper. But every few minutes, a new hail of fireworks lit the sky, and suddenly the forest seemed alive with shadowy ghosts.

As Hall made his way toward the river, new possibilities came into sharp focus. Once he found the boy and retrieved the bag, the way forward was simple, clean, doable. He had the laptop’s satellite picture in his head; the dock and its rowboat were due west through these woods, about a hundred yards away. He would row out to the middle of the river so that no one could spot him from the shore, then float south with the current for a few miles. At the next town downriver, he’d row back in and find a way to get back to the city.

He knew the boy was near. Hall hadn’t been that far behind him, and he hadn’t seen anything move since he’d reached the trees. The boy was hiding someplace, scared to death, and it was almost a sure thing he wouldn’t budge. An adult might get wired by the adrenaline and make a move, but a kid would almost certainly be frozen by his fear. Hall didn’t expect to see any movement-he would have to coax the boy out.

“Ezra?”

The boy was drenched in sweat. Even so, the faint but distinct call of his name chilled him. It was less than a shout, more than a whisper. He couldn’t tell who was out there or how close the person was, but he was too frightened to peer around the base of the tree. Had Geiger come to rescue him, or was Hall hunting him down? He waved a hand at the swarm of mosquitoes that danced around his head.

The voice came again, closer this time. “Ezra? Where are you?”

This time he was almost sure it was Geiger’s voice. But something stopped him from answering. What if he was wrong? He pulled the gym bag tight to his chest. He didn’t know what was on the discs, but he felt as if he held his father’s life in his arms.

A new burst of fireworks exploded. His back reared up against the tree trunk, and a wave of panic hit him. The woods went quiet for a minute, and then the voice came again.

“Ezra? It’s me. ”

The promise in that final word so unnerved him that something finally came apart in the boy. Some tether, stretched beyond its limits, broke, and he began to weep. His sobs came in short, ragged bursts and would not be stemmed.

Hall had been weaving through the trees in a sideways two-step, calling the boy’s name. When he heard the noise he didn’t stop but veered twenty degrees west. There was no question-it was a human sound, and its source was very close by.

Hall slowed to a stop, staring at a pine tree thirty feet away whose impressive girth claimed a larger perimeter than its neighbors. He understood the sound now. It was the boy, and he was crying.

Moving counterclockwise, Hall closed in, and soon he saw the murky profile of a figure huddled at the base of the pine. He crept forward using a slow heel-to-toe step, but the soft crunch of a twig made Ezra flinch. Without a backward look, the boy started away in a frantic crawl and then rose to his feet, sneakers digging for traction. But Hall was quicker, and Ezra’s sprint lasted only five strides before Hall grabbed his ankles and sent him tumbling onto his chest.

Hall flipped the boy over and straddled him, clamping a hand over his mouth.

“Listen very closely, Ezra: I am not going to hurt you. No one else has to get hurt. I’m taking the bag, and you won’t see me again. When I go, don’t call out for Geiger. Just wait a few minutes, then get up and head that way, back to the house.” He jerked a thumb over a shoulder. “Okay?”

Hall lifted his hand up. The boy swallowed and then spoke.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Reaching for the bag, Hall stood up and gazed down at the boy. “Tell your father I might be in touch.”

A shout filtered through the woods. “Ezra!”

Hall dropped to his knees and his hand muzzled Ezra again. Even with the trees batting the sound about, Hall could tell Geiger was near. The man just wouldn’t stop.

“Ezra-tell me where you are!”

Hall leaned down and spoke into the boy’s ear.

“Sorry, kid,” he whispered. “Change of plans. You’re coming with me down to the river, just in case he shows up. And remember-I’ve got a gun and he doesn’t, so if you make a sound, you’re killing him. You do understand that, right?”

He stood up, pulling Ezra to his feet, locking the boy’s hand in his.

“Okay, now we run.”

They bolted through the woods, toward the river. Twice the boy began to fall behind and Hall had to yank him back alongside him. Soon they saw dark gray space beyond the legion of trees, and a moment later they stepped out into the open. The Hudson rolled before them. Another splash of fireworks lit the sky, allowing Hall to spot the dock jutting into the water only a hundred feet north. He saw a hump at the dock’s end: the rowboat.

Hall broke into a run, half-dragging the boy in his wake. As they raced onto the dock, the warped, loose planks beneath their feet clattered loudly, sounding like a volley of muskets. Hall came to a quick halt, freezing Ezra beside him, and looked back toward the house.

Nothing moved along the tree line. Turning, he pulled the boy quietly down the dock.

Sitting on the grassy riverbank just north of the dock, Lily looked up from the lights in the water when she heard the sound. The musical tones played by wooden planks beneath dashing feet called up a vivid picture in her mind: she saw tiny mallets in a child’s hands tapping on a toy xylophone. Then she turned and saw two figures sprinting magically across the river. She smiled.

Every time Geiger came down on his left foot, a fireball went off in his ravaged leg. Soon after he had entered the woods he’d felt his stitches giving way, so he’d taken off his shirt, torn a sleeve loose, and used it as a tourniquet to wrap his upper thigh above Dalton’s cuts. Now an off-kilter, rolling walk was the best he could do, and with each step the world wobbled and shook. His brain made the necessary calculations to maintain balance, but it was becoming harder to crystallize thought. An unknown voice spoke to him from somewhere: You can lose up to twenty-five percent of your blood before your organs start to shut down… Then he realized it was his own voice, reminding him of a biological truth he had passed on to others countless times.

He called Ezra’s name as he went-the darkness didn’t answer-but then a clattering noise pulled his head in the direction of the river. He knew it wasn’t fireworks; it was the sound of bodies in motion.