The Dead Student (50 page)

The killer tried to lurch back, but Moth held him steady. “I said don’t move,” he repeated. He continued to sound far more in control than he really was.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andy Candy running up to them. Holding the pistol to the man’s throat, Moth maneuvered first to his knees, then to his feet. The two of them stood up together, like a loving couple moving onto a dance floor as slow music starts to play.

“Inside,” Moth said. For the first time, he looked directly at the killer. The man had a slightly bemused look on his face. “Do you recognize me?” Moth asked.

“Oh yes,” Student #5 replied. His voice was low, even, and utterly without fear or panic despite the barrel pressed up beneath his chin. “You’re the young man I should already have killed but now is going to die tonight.”

49

Think like a killer.
Easy to imagine. Hard to actually do.
“The young man who will die tonight?” I guess that’s me. Well, here goes,
Moth thought, responding with significantly more bravado than he truly felt: “Well, maybe yes. Maybe no. We’ll see, won’t we.”

The two stayed locked together, the gun barrel pressing hard into Student #5’s throat.
A smart killer would just pull the trigger and run,
Moth told himself, then decided that was wrong.
Maybe that’s exactly what a stupid killer would do.
He didn’t know. His academic mind was struck with the notion that every action presented multiple possibilities with dozens of potential outcomes. Fascination and fear mingled within him—electric and ice. Still, he stuck to the design he’d come up with, having little to no idea whether it actually made sense from an assassin’s perspective. He knew he would find out soon enough.

“Inside,” he demanded again.

Student #5 smiled wryly. “You want me to invite you into my home? You think I’m that polite? Why would I do that?”

“You don’t have a choice,” Moth said, mustering toughness.

“Really?” Student #5 replied. Mocking. “There are always choices. I would think more than most people, a history student would know that.”

Student #5 grinned a little. This hid the quick churning in his head. It had taken him half a dozen deep breaths to overcome his initial surprise at the gun’s being pressed into his throat, then his realizing who wielded it. But yoga and Zen training had managed to stifle shock and replace it with calm. He knew he had to unsettle The Nephew quickly and change the dynamics of death. Then he would see how to seize the upper hand.

Student #5 started to envision scenarios, opportunities, and ideas—seeing things as if he were watching a drama being played out on a movie screen with an unruly and frantic horror film audience shouting directions impotently at characters who could not hear them. He knew one thing for certain: Every second that The Nephew delayed pulling the trigger, he grew stronger and the man with the gun grew weaker. Oddly, confidence surged through Student #5.

“Where’s the house key?” Moth insisted.

“Okay. If you think that’s the right thing to do, who am I to stand in your way?” Student #5 said with a small snort. “Right front pocket.”

Moth nodded at Andy Candy, who stepped to the side and reached into the pocket, feeling around for the key.

“Careful there, young lady,” Student #5 said with a dry laugh. “We haven’t been properly introduced, and this seems a bit intimate.”

Andy Candy listened to each tone in the killer’s voice as she seized the house key. It was a little like hearing a distant song being sung, and she tried to recall every note from their prior conversation. “Yes we have,” she replied. Her voice seemed hurried and high-pitched, a band being stretched tightly. “You introduced yourself on the phone.”

She stepped past him, the key in hand.

“There just might be an alarm on that door,” Student #5 pointed out as Andy opened it up. “Fail to hit the right code and maybe the cops will be
here in a minute or two. That would make a mess of whatever you have planned for tonight, wouldn’t it?”

Andy turned to him. She shook her head. “No,” she said with fake confidence. “Calling the police for help? That wouldn’t be you, would it?”

Student #5 didn’t reply. Moth shifted position, moving the gun barrel around the killer’s neck, and then giving him a small shove in the back. “Inside,” Moth repeated.

“An interesting approach,” Student #5 replied. “But you don’t know what might be waiting in there, do you?” This was a thinly veiled reference to the booby-trapped exploding fake meth lab in Charlemont, but immediately he shifted the anxiety to other fears: “Maybe I have a big, loyal dog just waiting to rip your throat out.”

“No,” Andy repeated firmly, “that’s also not who you are.” She put the key into the lock. “You like doing things alone, don’t you?” She turned the key and opened the door, not waiting for an answer. She did not see the shadow of anger pass over Student #5’s face, nor the sudden clenching of his right hand into a fist. Student #5 did not like being categorized, and even more, he hated being categorized accurately.

“Move,” Moth said, pushing Student #5 in the small of the back. Still linked by the pressure of the gun barrel, they entered the house, passing through the weak porch light. Moth wondered for an instant whether anyone might see them. He hadn’t considered
accident
in his approach. A passerby noticing the gun. Calling the police. Disaster. The old rhyme came to him:
For want of a nail, the shoe was lost …

Like a maître d’ at a fine restaurant, Andy Candy held the door for the two of them, ushering them inside. Then she pushed ahead, as Moth jabbed the gun barrel into Student #5’s neck at the same time that he steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.

“The living room is to the right,” Student #5 said. “We’ll be comfortable in there …”

For a man with a handgun being held to the back of his head, his voice was surprisingly even and collected. It might have been Moth’s first indi
cation of whom he truly was up against. Fantasy—
I can handle confronting a serial killer.
Versus reality—
Who do I think I am?
Outside of the weapon in his hand, he had little else that might be considered an advantage.

“… until someone dies,” Student #5 completed his sentence.

Andy Candy flicked on lights, then went to the windows and closed the wooden shutter shades.
Privacy,
she thought.
What else does murder need?

The furor inside Redeemer One had increased in tempo. Angry addicts, infuriated alcoholics, raised voices, and relentless questions pummeled Susan Terry. She remained rooted in front of the gathering, like a bad comic being booed by a nightclub crowd. Inwardly she reeled.

“I simply don’t understand how you could let Timothy try to face down a killer. You’re the goddamn professional here. You know the danger he’s putting himself in!”

This came from a quiet architect with a predilection for morphine-based drugs. He hadn’t opened his mouth once in all the time that she’d been attending meetings, but now he suddenly seemed genuinely incensed.

“Right. Jesus,” said a dentist. “Does Timothy really know anything about what he’s up against? I can’t believe—”

Susan interrupted. “He’s more capable than you’re giving him credit for.”

“Well, that’s just great.
Sure
he is,” Fred the engineer said sarcastically. He followed this with, “Fine. Dandy.
Kee-rist!
What a lousy, flimsy excuse.” He turned in his seat, looking toward the others, away from Susan, as he raised a hand and pointed directly at her and said, “If
she
had gone to confront this guy, she would have taken an entire fucking SWAT team with her.”

A flurry of
“That’s right!”
and
“No shit!”
replies flooded the room. The priest who ran the meetings tried to interject some calm. “Folks, listen … Susan isn’t to blame …”

“Bullshit,” Sandy the lawyer blurted, slicing off the mealy-mouthed priest instantly.

“What,” the philosophy professor demanded, “do you—in your
professional
opinion … ,” this word spoken at Susan with utter contempt, “… think Timothy’s chances of surviving this night are?”

This question, which went directly to the core of the matter, quieted the group. Coming from a man so attuned to oblique interpretations of obscurity, it carried even more weight.

Susan hesitated before replying: “Not good.”

She could hear several regulars gasp. “Define
not good
please,” the professor cautiously continued.

Around the room, addicts bent forward. She could feel electricity around her, as if each word she spoke was plugged into a socket. She looked at eyes that burrowed into her, and she realized that Timothy Warner meant much more to each of them than she’d ever imagined. The power of looking at Timothy Warner and seeing their younger selves in the mirror was profound. He was little more than a child, and he’d been lost—just as they once had been. His recovery was a part of their recovery. His life—
one day at a time—
gave each of their lives an added meaning and gave each of them an added incentive. This went beyond loyalty, into some realm of devotion. Timothy straightening out his life meant they could continue to keep their lives straightened out. Timothy finding love, a career, and satisfaction beyond the bottle meant they had found it too, or had reconstituted something they’d once had. Timothy surviving meant
they
might survive. His struggles mirrored their struggles. His youth gave them hope.

And all that was in jeopardy this night.

“By
not good
I mean exactly that.
Not good.
He’s up against a smart, skilled, professional, and completely remorseless sociopath who has killed perhaps a half-dozen people, although that number is open to debate. An expert in killing.”

The room erupted again.

“Should I sit there?” Student #5 asked lightly. “That’s my favorite chair.”

“Yes,” Moth replied.

“Wait a second,” Andy Candy interrupted.

She went over to a thickly upholstered armchair. She removed the seat, checking beneath it. Then she got down on her knees and inspected the back.
No hidden gun or knife.
There was a small side table with a lamp and a vase with dried flowers on it. She moved this several feet away, so that even with a lunge Student #5 wouldn’t be able to reach anything.
Can a glass vase be a weapon?
She imagined the answer was
yes.

Student #5 held his hands up and waited, watching what Andy Candy was doing. “The young lady is being wise,” he said. “Thinking ahead. Tell me, Timothy, have you really thought this through?”

Moth did not reply, other than to grunt, “Okay. Sit down.”

“Moth, are you sure he’s not armed?” Andy asked.

Jesus,
Moth swore to himself. It hadn’t occurred to him to check.

“Frisk him carefully,” he said, keeping the gun at the man’s neck.

Andy moved behind Student #5 and ran her hands over his pockets. She removed his wallet, felt beneath his arms, checked out his shoes and socks, and even patted down his crotch area.

“Now we’re definitely getting to know one another better,” he said, laughing, as if she was tickling him. She wished she had some clever rejoinder that would put him in his place, but none leapt to her lips.

“Too bad,” Student #5 continued, “that you decided to be here tonight. You know, now that I think about it, there’s still time for you to leave. You can get away. Be safe. Not sorry.”

A cliché
from a killer,
Moth thought.
Remarkable.
He didn’t dare look at Andy Candy for fear that what the killer suggested just might make sense to her.

“I’m not—” Andy started.

“Think carefully about what you’re doing,” Student #5 interrupted. “Decisions you make in the next few minutes will last a lifetime.” He gestured toward the chair, and Moth gave him a small shove in that direction.

Student #5 sat down, ignoring the pistol being pointed at him, fixing his glance on Andy. “You don’t seem like the type to ignore good advice, Andrea, regardless of what the source is,” he continued. His using her first
name familiarly felt chilling to her. “You might keep that in mind. There’s still time for you. Not much, but a little.”

Student #5 thought,
Even a little wedge between the two of them is good. Play upon uncertainty. Tonight I know what I’m doing even without a weapon. But they don’t, even if they do. So, who’s really armed here?
This formulation made him grin.

Moth kept his gun trained on the killer. Andy Candy realized Moth was still standing, looking uncomfortable and out of place, so she took a chair from a corner of the room and placed it across from the killer for Moth to sit in, a few feet away.

Like a couple on a first date that wasn’t going well, Moth and the killer eyed each other. Moth thought:
Duct tape. I should have purchased duct tape, so I could bind his hands and feet. What else did I forget to bring?

“Actually …” the philosophy professor said deliberately, classroom style, “the pressing issue before us is simple: What can we do right at this precise moment to help Timothy?”

Silence filled the room.

“Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing,” the professor added.

The Redeemer One room remained quiet.

“Ideas?” the professor asked.

“Yes, God damn it, we need to send help,” insisted Fred the engineer. “Right fucking away.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Susan said. She didn’t elaborate. She continued to stand in front of the group, but they were no longer encircling her with their gaze, turning instead to one another, before blurting out possibilities.