The Confessor Read Free Page A

they might’ve thought he was some superhero able to stop speeding vehicles with his bare hands.
    The door swung open and the driver hopped out. He looked a few hard years past twenty, had a beer bottle in hand, and wore a sweatshirt that read ‘STAR SPANGLED BANGER!’ in red, white and blue letters. He ran a hand across his buzz-cut, then spread his arms like a rainmaker about to pray to the sky.
    ‘What the fuck, man? What the fuck’re you doing, huh?’
    Geiger straightened up. ‘You drove through a red light,’ he said.
    Something about Geiger’s smooth, uninflected tone put a grin on the man.
    ‘Red light? This is fucking
Brooklyn
, man.’
    ‘You should be more careful. It was a stupid thing to do.’
    The man’s smile held its ground. He glanced at the others. ‘He says I’m stupid.’
    The other man in the truck laughed, and threw an empty beer can through the open door at his friend. ‘He’s right, you dumb asshole!’
    The driver turned back to Geiger, and held up his bottle. ‘You made me spill my beer, man. It was almost full – my last one. Bummer.’
    Since his return Geiger had kept face-to-face events to a minimum, but the man’s chatter was firing his sensors, probing beneath the surface of words and tone for intent. Somewhere a fire engine was keening for a new tragedy. He took out his earbuds.
    ‘You should get back in the truck now.’
    ‘C’mon, Dougie,’ said the woman. ‘Let’s go.’
    ‘In a sec.’ The driver was staring more intently now. ‘You’re not from around here – are you, man? We, uh – we drive around and, y’know, keep an eye on things in the nabe . . . and I don’t think I seen you before.’ He cocked his head like a Doberman getting a whiff of hamburger. ‘Hey . . . Are you a moozle? Cuz – you sorta look like one.’
    Geiger felt the pulse in his temples ticking like a clock. ‘I don’t know what a moozle is.’
    ‘Sure ya do. Y’know . . .
moozle
. Towel-head. Mosque rat.’ The man shrugged. ‘A moozle.’ He looked back at the other two. ‘Looks kinda like one, don’t he?’
    ‘I guess,’ said the man in the passenger seat. ‘Sorta.’
    ‘I’m not a Muslim,’ said Geiger, ‘so you can go now.’
    ‘In a sec.’ The man started across the asphalt in a chummy shuffle. Geiger’s fingers started tapping against his thighs. The breath in his nostrils turned hot. The driver stopped inches from him and held up the bottle. ‘Have a drink, yeah? Just so there’s no hard feelings. I mean
moozles
can’t drink – but you’re not a moozle, so you can.’
    ‘I don’t drink.’
    ‘C’mon . . . not even a swig of Bud?’ His grin had a lazy droop to it, like his heart wasn’t really in it. His buddy stuck his head out of the passenger window.
    ‘Are we cool here, Dougie – or what?’ he asked.
    Geiger felt the memory of the hundreds of fates held in his hands – the sweat of fear on skin, muscles tensing in alarm, wills succumbing to his touch. His inheritance, his expertise – the creation of pain . . . the construction of suffering . . . the extraction of truth . . .
    ‘Douglas,’ Geiger said, ‘get in the truck and leave.’
    The last pretense of amity abandoned the man’s face. ‘Well how ’bout
you
get on your fucking camel . . .’ He planted his forefinger in Geiger’s chest. ‘. . . and—’
    Movement was so fast it precluded the man from making another sound. Geiger grabbed the collar and pulled him in, while his other hand latched onto a wrist and spun him around as he twisted the arm up behind the man. The bottle shattered at their feet.
    Geiger’s right arm locked round the neck and they stood pressed together, chest to back. Every time the man tried to move, Geiger hitched the arm higher – and the man stopped.
    The young woman jumped out to the street. She wore a powder-blue version of the driver’s sweatshirt. ‘Dougie!’
    The driver started to speak, but Geiger’s forearm tightened round the throat and