The Dead Student (36 page)

“So, they’re on their own?”

“
We
are on our own.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Moth nodding his head.

The philosophy professor leaned forward. He spoke to Susan, but actually addressed everyone in the room. “Well,” he said, wearing a wry smile. “This is a support group. So, how can we support you?” Then he smiled. “I have an idea or two.”

“Two important concepts to embrace,” the professor continued. He leaned forward, lowering his voice, but kept his eyes directly on Susan, probing her. She looked around and saw that the others in the room were fixed on her with the same intensity.
Can’t hide addiction from those looks,
she realized.

Moth had risen from his seat and was standing beside her. “What concepts are those?” he asked.

“The first is sobriety. Don’t let drugs or drink do the job of some serial killer,” the professor said. This might have been a cliché, but inside Redeemer One it was repeated endlessly with genuine passion.

Moth nodded. He could hear a murmur of assent through the room. He didn’t dare look over for Susan’s response.

“And one other important idea,” the philosophy professor continued.

The room grew silent.

“Be ready to kill before you are killed,” he said brutally.

The immediate torrent of responses from the room was like a waterfall of words splashing down on Moth’s head, but in all the confused answers he grasped a single ironic notion.
Frontier justice from an academic
philosopher.
He suspected that Susan did as well, although he didn’t trust her to be able to act. At least, not act in the same way that he could.

It is,
Andy Candy thought,
stifling.
It was the excuse she used to escape the cage of the car.

Weak cones of high-intensity light from haphazard overhead fixtures illuminated the church parking lot. Bushes and trees surrounded the perimeter, creating a moat of shadows. Although the church’s front door was brightly lit, suggesting safety, the spot felt unsettling, dangerous.

She paced forward aggressively, as if she determined to reach a specific destination. Then she stopped, hesitated, pivoted first to her right, then her left, looking suddenly lost, as if she’d taken too many steps in the wrong direction.

Stop thinking,
she told herself. She wanted to put on earbuds and blast brain-numbing hard rock music. A part of her wanted to sprint back and forth across the parking lot, dodging from light to light, until she was exhausted with effort. She contemplated holding her breath like a blue water diver. One minute. Two minutes. Three. Some impossible length of time that would take over all her senses, feelings, abilities and eradicate all the fears that resounded within her.

A part of her was drawn toward the meeting inside the church.
They’re safe in there,
she thought, although she realized that merely by being there everyone acknowledged how much danger they were in. But it was a different sort of danger, she understood.
They fear themselves. I fear someone else.

Andy Candy nearly dropped to her knees, suddenly weak. She reached out and steadied herself with a hand against the trunk of a car. Everything in her life seemed to require toughness.

She knew she had it. Somewhere. She was unsure whether she could find it. She had no idea whether she could actually use it effectively, if she did discover it. She wanted courage and determination. But wanting and acquiring are different things.

She looked around. She felt her knees weaken again, almost buckling beneath her. She had the sensation of being adrift.

She breathed in sharply. She could feel her pulse racing just as if she was facing a threat. But in the darkness around her, she could see none. Or many. She was unsure.

In that second she understood:
I no longer have a choice.

This unsettled her, but then she burst out in a sudden, wild, braying laugh. Nothing was funny. The sound she made was simply a release. When she looked up she saw Moth coming out of Redeemer One and felt a surge of relief.

Student #5 also saw Moth emerge from the church.

Sins completely expiated?
He sneered.

He was only feet away from Andy Candy. In the rearview mirror, he could see her hand steadying herself against his car. He didn’t move, remained frozen in his seat, fighting the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch her.
Only one thing more intimate than love,
he thought.
Death.
That she hadn’t spotted him seemed miraculous.
A miracle from the God of Murder,
he thought. Barely breathing, he watched Andy peel away from the side of his rental car and make her way toward Moth:
Like lovers rushing to greet each other after a long absence.
With each stride she took, he exhaled a little more, until his heartbeat returned to normal. He sniffed the night air. Wild scents, flowers, musky growth, all carried on the black, humid air, filled his nostrils. With so many different smells, he figured, the familiar and utterly unmistakable scent of killing would surely be hidden.

33

Roll the wrists.

Flex the fingers.

Back straight. Sit upright.

Both thumbs lightly touching middle C. First play all the C notes going up with the right, then the same going down with the left.

Student #5 dutifully listened to the instructions, followed each prompt as carefully as he could, while at the same time measuring, observing, and absorbing as much as he could without ignoring Andy Candy’s mother’s pleasant admonitions.

“You say this is your first time at the piano?” she asked.

“Yes, indeed,” he replied. This was a lie. It had been years since his childhood lessons, but years passing didn’t mean he wasn’t lying.

“I’m impressed. You are doing well.”

He tried a simple scale, and was a little surprised that what he played actually sounded like music. It was like a basic movie sound track to planning a killing. No John Williams swelling orchestra, just single, deadly sounds. Generic killing tones. The real notes weren’t being played on the
piano—they were in the photographs on the wall, the layout of the home, a careful assessment of where Andy Candy came from and who she seemed to be. There were also some sharps and flats that indicated where she hoped to go—but Student #5 realized those would be discordant.

“Do you live here all alone?” Student #5 abruptly asked.

This question was designed to be totally inappropriate. Unsettling. He could hear Andy Candy’s mother inhale just a little more sharply than before.

“Concentrate on the notes. Try to make your hands move fluidly.”

“I guess if you are a piano teacher, you have to open your door to just about anyone.” He said this with a half-laugh, a subtle tone of nastiness, while bending toward the simple sheet music in front of him. “Even if it’s Ted Bundy or Hannibal Lecter who wants lessons.” He did not have to look at Andy Candy’s mother’s face to imagine the impact those names had. All he had to do was feel the way she shifted about uncomfortably on the piano bench.

“I think I would hate to be alone with strangers so much of the day,” Student #5 said. “I mean there’s no telling who could come walking through that door. It’s not unreasonable to think even some killers want to learn to be musicians.”

He enjoyed sounding so thoughtful, and bent toward the keyboard. “Like, what keeps you safe? Not much, I guess.” He nodded toward a crucifix on the wall. “Not even faith, I bet.”

Student #5 didn’t expect an answer to that provocative question. He doubted there was anything else he could say that would make the mother any more nervous, except his next question, as he rippled through a set of notes:

“Do you keep a gun in the house?”

He heard her cough. Again no answer. This wasn’t a surprise, although he imagined she was churning with replies:
“Yes, I keep a Dirty Harry .44 Magnum at my side at all times”
or
“No, but my neighbor is a cop and he watches out for me,”
or
“My dogs are savage and trained to attack at my command.”

It was amusing.

The lesson lasted thirty minutes. At the end, Student #5 shook hands with Andy Candy’s mother, who handed him a
So You Want to Learn the Piano
textbook and several handwritten exercises for his next session. But at the same time, she said, haltingly, “You know, I usually don’t do adult lessons. Mostly just young kids and teens. Can I recommend someone you can continue with?” She was half-gesturing, half-pushing him toward the door.

“Are you sure you can’t? I’ve enjoyed this time so much. I feel like we’ve connected. I’d really like to see you again.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “Sorry. I think my next lesson is here.”

“But you advertise ‘Children and Adults’ on the web, when your page comes up …” he persisted falsely.

“I think you need someone with more expertise than me,” she said, trying to sound as final as possible. The more stern her tone, the more nervous it meant she was. This was precisely the sensation that he’d wanted to create.
Crumbs.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “But I feel like we were just getting to know each other.” He put a special emphasis on the word
know
.

Can’t be any more creepy than that,
he thought. He reached abruptly for his wallet, a really quick motion that made Andy Candy’s mother recoil slightly, as if he was going to produce a knife or gun and torture, rape, and murder her right then and there. But this was part of his sleight of hand.
Houdini would smile,
he thought.

As he removed three $20 bills, Student #5 dropped his Massachusetts driver’s license to the floor at Andy Candy’s mother’s feet. Like any polite person—even a scared one—she reached down and picked it up. Anything to hurry him out of her home. But he fumbled with his wallet some more, head down, ignoring the license in her outstretched hand, to give her time to examine the front.

“Massachusetts is a long ways, Mister Munroe,” she said, eyes fixed on the license.
Just long enough to get his name, maybe register the town of Charlemont.
“I thought you said your name was …” She stopped abruptly, then said, “I thought you said you were local …”

He snatched the license from her hand as if it was on fire. Again, she took a half-step backward.
What an actor. I should have been on Broadway.

For the last part of the night, Student #5 parked a half-block away from his destination. It was a neighborhood of modest, cinder-block homes, flat-tiled red roofs, and as many chain link fences as there were palm trees.

He waited.

The first order of business was to make sure there were no cops around. Nor did he want his voice to be picked up on a bug planted in a ceiling light fixture or a telephone wiretap, nor some infrared observation
trap
camera to identify a heat signature and start clicking frames. What he wanted was a few private moments.

Waiting patiently, Student #5 kept his eyes on a single home.

If I were a drug dealer,
he thought,
what would I do to guarantee my safety? Especially after being arrested, then unarrested and released.

I would have video monitoring cameras mounted by the front door and the rear entry, a high-tech alarm system. Surely I would have invested in tempered steel bars on windows and doors and a state-of-the art intercom. Lots of electronics in a nondescript, modest house.

What else? A variety of weapons placed in key locations inside. A handgun. A 12-gauge shotgun. Maybe an AK-47. Good for all situations.

Bodyguard? Hired muscle?

Not for the ordinary transactions. I would keep some names on speed dial if an occasion presented itself where I needed some imposing backup, like if I developed a supply or bill-collection issue and needed some intimidation at my side. But for routine business I would rely upon my electronics and my state-of-the-art locking system.

Student #5 wondered whether any of that had been seized or damaged when the police broke in the other night—following his anonymous tip.
Probably. But don’t count on it. And repair services in Miami that cater to these sorts of needs work around the clock.

Looking about, up and down the street, as if measuring the depth of night darkness, Student #5 fixed a cheap wig to his head. A maroon baseball
hat emblazoned with the letters “UMASS” and a logo of a colonial Minuteman brandishing a musket was scrunched down on his head to hold the wig in place. Then he slid on large aviator sunglasses.

The street outside his car was empty. He exited and walked briskly to the dealer’s house. At the front door, he rang a buzzer and waited.

It took a moment for the answer to come from inside.

“Not doing business right now.”

Student #5 replied: “Not here for that.”

A pause. “Give me your name, remove your hat and sunglasses, and look up into the camera above your left shoulder.”

“No,” Student #5 said firmly.

“Then get the fuck out of—”

He interrupted: “Don’t you want to know who dropped the dime on you?”

A tease that couldn’t be ignored.

Another hesitation. Tinny, intercom reply: “I’m listening.”

“Call this number: 413-555-6161. Make the call from a secure phone, and not one that the cops have tapped. Better figure that every line you’ve got, including the cell phones you purchased today at the mall, are being checked, so get out of your house. You’ve got thirty minutes to make the call.”