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This is the easy part, Geoff reminds himself.
He stands with his hands on his hips in a coat that isn't enough to keep him warm. A heavy curtain of rain has rolled in over the harbor with the dusk. From the concrete outcropping, Geoff can gaze out over the sea all the way to the steel-grey horizon. The surface of the water is in constant motion, white foam swirling on the waves. Beside him, inside the car, the barely audible radio forecast assures him that the rain will last far into the night.
When he looks into the passenger's seat, Geoff can see that Michael has forgotten his jacket. He must be missing it, wherever he is right now. Probably with Gavin. Geoff buries his hands in the pockets of his coat. Michael and Gavin, testing out flamethrowers or assembling bombs or God knows what else.
He's glad that they're not out here, freezing in the rain, taking care of this.
Geoff's eyes wander past the backseat where grocery-store plastic bags and worn hoodies conceal tattered seats. This isn't the nice car. This is the car that smells like cigarettes even though none of them smoke. The one that feels just unresponsive enough that you often wonder, for just a split second, if someone cut the brakes. He runs his hand over the grimy metal at the back and pops the trunk.
Then, he covers his nose and mouth with his sleeve as he bends over the body. It is stark white on the black tarp. The eyes are closed, but the teeth gleam as they bite into the cloth gag even in death.
It takes two hands to pull the corpse out. It is heavy, but not heavy enough. There is brick and ropes to amend that below the tarp, water running in rivulets down the creases of the plastic. With his arms wrapped around the cold, cold torso, Geoff starts to make his way down the pier. He can hear how gravel gets caught in the dead man's clothes, burying into his skin. The heels of a pair of black dress shoes scrape against the asphalt.
The sea breathes, waves hitting land, uncaring.
Geoff pauses halfway to the edge. He lets the body lie at his feet as he heaves for fresh air. It occurs to him that there might not be fresh air anywhere in this city. It is all contaminated one way or another. Oil spills, factories - and the bodies under the waves, nurturing vast ecosystems of bottom-feeders and creatures that crawl in the muck.
He sees no figures beyond the rain when he looks back towards the harbor.
He resumes his task.
Now, the man's suit jacket tears at the sleeves - shoddy work, that jacket, nothing like Geoff's own. And clothes make men. As skin is revealed along the man's wrists and arms, Geoff can see the marks left by zip ties and duct tape and plain old punches. They are borderline green and yellow in places. The right hand is missing two fingernails. The left is missing a little finger.
Geoff starts to sweat, proving that no matter what he thought a few minutes ago, he actually could get wetter. He'll look a mess when he gets back. He makes it a few more steps backwards. So goddamn heavy. He's earned a warm shower. He's earned someone with him in that shower. A warm, living body pressed against his, brushing wet hair from his cold face.
The corpse stares at him as they arrive at the edge of the pier. When did those eyelids move, and when did the eyes roll in the hollows of the skull?
"There we go, buddy," Geoff says. It's not a good sign to be talking to the body, but it's better than tense silence. Manners make men, too.
He does his final check. He knows that Ryan will have frisked the man thoroughly before he even packed him up in the car, but it doesn't hurt to be safe. It is a very crucial part of the whole affair. Geoff gets on his knees next to the corpse and rifles through its pockets. He feels the peculiar clammy air that resides between cold clothes and dead limbs. There's no driver's license, no wallet, no membership card forgotten. He hooks two fingers into the man's mouth. Clinically and efficiently, he determines that no, there'll be no dental identification either. No nothing.
No way to tell who this man is. He'll be John Doe when he goes into the water, and this is what Geoff and Ryan do to those who would threaten them.
He remembers how it felt to take a tight grip on the man's collar and lead him to an abandoned building, straight into the Vagabond's arms.
And much, much later, how it had felt to see that car, parked with a full tank and a heavy load.
Geoff picks up the body for the third and final time, groaning with effort. The corpse shields him from the rain. He wonders if Ryan had fun as he killed this man. Maybe he invited someone else along - Geoff can imagine it easily. Ryan's hand on Jeremy's hand on the knife as he teaches the lad how to learn what he needs through any means necessary. Or maybe he was on his own, mask off for once because he had no reason to care about hiding his face in front of a dead man.
All that doesn't matter.
All Geoff has to take care of is the easy part. He can move what amounts to a heavy object and tie a few knots. Then all there's left is a final, solid shove.
The waves and the weather swallow the body in increments. The limbs go under first while the center floats, black and unclear as it blends into the dark water like so much floating trash.
Geoff has forgotten his flask.
As he walks to the car, dreading the drive back already, he considers calling Jack and asking her to have a glass of whiskey waiting for him. Anything to get warm again. Once he is behind the wheel, however, he decides against it. He doesn't really want to hear any voice right now but his own, humming the song on the radio.