The dead student, p.39
The Dead Student, page 39
Student #5 was using a variation on the same theme.
“You killed the others, too,” Moth objected.
“No. They, too, killed themselves.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It depends on your perspective. You would agree that actions have consequences?”
“Yes.”
Student #5 lifted his hands in a dismissive gesture. “What they did to me in the past defined their futures. They killed me. Or killed who I was and what I was meant to be. Same thing as outright murder. In doing that, they effectively wrote their own death warrants. Same thing as killing themselves, no?”
The logic of revenge and murder twisted in Moth’s head. He could see that argument. He wanted to disagree, but could not.
“So, Timothy, your uncle Ed merely paid the price for an obligation he’d owed for years. No more, no less. As a psychiatrist, he understood that completely in his last moments.”
Moth felt pummeled. The killer’s rationale was spoken with such undebatable precision that he was at a loss for a reply. He felt weak and suddenly even more afraid, about not only what he’d done, but what he was going to do. He teetered on a familiar brink of doubt, one that usually resulted in a trip to a bar and enough alcohol to make him forget why he was doing what he was doing. He knew he had to change the direction of the conversation. If you want to kill him, he thought, best to create something different.
His mind was racing through possible replies just as Andy Candy walked into the back of the room. She had a single sheet of paper in her hand.
“Kill him,” she said shakily. “Kill him now.”
51
Don’t think. Take aim. Pull the trigger.
He didn’t act.
Whatever her sudden reasons were for saying what she had, he knew she was right. He should fire the gun, grab Andy Candy by the hand, and flee. Never look back.
Moth immediately regretted not instantly doing what Andy told him to. A part of him understood that he needed to act impulsively in order to kill. That moment had come and gone, and he was wildly unsure whether he could re-create it. Am I a killer? he demanded of himself. Well, not too long ago I was doing a fine job of killing myself. Of course, that’s not the same thing. Is it? Wrapped in conflicted thoughts, Moth caught a quiver in the man’s languid, easygoing facade. For a moment, the killer across from him had been scared. That’s something, he told himself. But what that something was he didn’t know.
Andy Candy stepped farther into the room. She moved slowly, as if reluctant to get too close. Her voice was stretched thin. “Kill him now,” she repeated, but this time softly, as if she was fading beneath the man’s stare.
Moth quietly asked, “Andy, what is it?”
She seemed to be staggering. She lurched next to Moth and thrust a single sheet of paper in front of him.
It was a printout of a page taken from the “Prosecutor’s Directory” at the Miami-Dade State Attorney’s Office. Major Crimes. Susan Terry, Chief Assistant. A nice, full-color photograph, not unlike a high school yearbook picture, accompanied by her bio and a list of some of her more prominent cases. It was the sort of page that exists on almost every such website. There was little special about it other than one obvious detail: It was in the possession of a killer.
“It’s Susan,” Andy said shakily. Then she added, accurately: “But it’s also us.”
Moth understood its implications. Something that was speculation had changed into a reality. He looked over at the killer. “Jesus,” he said. “You’ve already started.”
Before replying, Student #5 took a second to assess the situation. The Nephew hesitates. The Girlfriend is disintegrating. He clings to doubt. She is scared. Stay calm. Your moment will arrive. When he spoke, his voice had dropped some of the toying pretense. Now it was ice cold, and each word was as sharp as a weapon.
“I like to know who I’m up against,” Student #5 said.
There was silence. Moth was aware that Andy was breathing heavily at his side.
“Do you even know who I am?” Student #5 asked.
Moth’s head reeled. He thought he’d learned a great deal, but right at this moment, he believed he knew nothing.
Andy Candy stammered a reply: “Your name is Stephen Lewis. You’ve killed more than a half-dozen people …”
“No,” Student #5 said evenly. “Stephen Lewis has killed no one.”
She stepped forward slightly, waving her hand as if she could dismiss this reply. “We were there, when the trailer exploded and—”
“That man is dead. The man who lived there.”
“We were there when you shot Doctor Hogan …”
“The man who performed that murder is dead.”
“When Moth’s uncle died …”
“All dead.”
Andy’s voice started to get frantic. She waved her arms. “These are bullshit arguments that don’t mean anything …”
“You are wrong, Miss Martine. You are completely mistaken. They mean everything.”
She stopped mid-wave.
“The man you see before you has no connection to any of those deaths. Right now, I am Stephen Lewis, happy-go-lucky, never-hurt-a-fly drug dealer who made a single big score like more than one person down here, walked away, and is now an independently wealthy resident of Angela Street in Key West and coincidentally a completely law-abiding citizen of the state of Florida. I’m a member of Greenpeace and a reliable contributor to progressive causes. You have absolutely no right or reason to kill me.”
“We know who you really are,” Moth said. Some of the frantic tones he’d heard in Andy’s voice had crept into his.
“And you imagine that will justify what you do?”
“Yes.”
“Think twice, history student.”
He couldn’t even think once.
The room grew quiet, before Student #5 said: “I won before you even arrived here. I won every step of the way—because I was right about what I did, and you are wrong. You don’t have any choices left, Timothy. The gun in your hand is useless, because if you pull that trigger and try to kill me, you will take your life just as effectively as you take mine. You are the criminals here tonight, not me. This state still has the death penalty. But maybe you will only go to prison for the remainder of your life. Poor choice, that.”
Again silence. Moth realized that the killer was saying almost exactly what Susan the prosecutor had said. The same warning. Opposite sources.
“And even were you to get up in court and claim you killed me out of a sense of revenge—well, can’t you just hear someone telling a jury: ‘What right did he have to take the law into his own hands?’ ”
Moth didn’t reply, at first; he thought hard, then said: “You took the law into your hands.”
“No I didn’t. The people I pursued didn’t break any law. They were guilty of something far greater. They made their choices and then they paid their debt. That’s not your situation, is it, Timothy?”
Moth swallowed hard. He had imagined much about this evening—but a conversation about psychological truths versus legal truths had not been something he’d considered. I am lost, he said to himself. He wanted to hide.
“No, Timothy, the truth is, you are screwed either way. You were screwed the moment you arrived here.”
“If we walk away …” Moth started. Weak.
Student #5 shook his head.
“We could take all we know to the police,” Moth continued. Weaker.
“Has that worked out for you before?”
“No.”
“But even if they did follow up on what you say, what will they find should they actually listen to your crazy story?” Moth didn’t answer, so Student #5 filled in the silence. “They will find some signs of an innocent man who no longer exists. And that will be where their trail ends.”
Again the room grew quiet. It was Andy who finally croaked out: “Are you going to kill us?”
Student #5 recognized the provocative nature of this question. It was the last, crucial question. He knew if he said no they would not believe him, no matter how much they might want to. If he said yes then they might pull the trigger, because they had nowhere else to turn, no move left on the chessboard of death. And so, he decided on uncertainty.
“Should I?” he asked, returning the nonchalant tone to his voice even as he tensed every muscle in his body.
Moth felt like he was swimming, exhausted, barely able to keep his head above a darkened sea of doubts. He tried to picture his uncle’s dead body, hoping that this vision would give him the strength to do what he knew he needed to do, even if it was wrong and touched on the same evil that had fueled him all the way to this room.
Andy Candy felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. Nothing was right. Nothing was fair. Everything that she had once imagined for her life had evaporated. Fog surrounds me, she thought. I am trapped in a burning building being overcome by great clouds of smoke. The only future she had was staring across the room at her. “Kill him,” she whispered, without conviction.
“You are not killers,” said the killer in front of them. “You should not attempt to be what you are not.”
“Kill him,” Andy repeated, even softer. Can Moth fire a bullet into the cancer that killed my father? Can he shoot the arrogant date-rapist who pitched me into despair? Can he kill both our pasts so we can start anew?
“I think this evening, interesting as it has been, is finished. Timothy, take your friend Andrea and leave now. Best to hope we never see one another again.”
“Can you promise that?”
“There’s no promise I can make that you would believe. You might want to believe it. You will try to persuade yourself to believe it. But all that is delusion. Really you can only hope that is the case. And that hope—well, that hope is your best option.”
Moth looked at the gun in his hand. In all his studies—of great men and great events—he knew about risks and uncertainty. Nothing was ever certain. Nothing was ever sure. Every choice had unseen outcomes. But the choice of not acting was the only one that was crippling.
He lifted his eyes. “Let me ask you a question, Mister Lewis—or whoever you decide to be tomorrow. If I kill you now—whose fault really is it?”
An existential question. A psychological question. The exact same question the killer had demanded of his uncle.
Student #5 knew the only true answer was, Mine.
And in that same instant, Student #5 knew the game he was playing had abruptly changed. If he answered correctly, it would give a murderous license to the historian in front of him. And there was no convenient lie that might shove the question into some safer spot.
“Whose fault is it?” Moth repeated.
He waited for the reply.
“Kill him,” Andy repeated, for the last time. But this time she added, “Please …” She didn’t think she had the strength to say those words again. The words came out of her mouth like kicked gravel. Her voice sounded weak, sickly, as if she was going to pass out.
And, in that same moment, Moth made his first and worst mistake. He heard all the built-up pain in Andy’s voice and, distracted by the river of emotions, turned slightly to the girl he had loved, now loved, and imagined he would always love, taking his eyes off the killer before them.
Student #5 had always prided himself on the ability to act. Even with all his planning, scheming, and analysis, he recognized there were moments when the demands of the moment required action. Instantly, he saw his opportunity: Eyes averted. Concentration lapsed. Finger resting beside the trigger, not on it. He had trained himself physically and mentally for this moment, seen it in his head on more than one occasion, and didn’t hesitate.
He exploded.
Thrusting himself out of the chair, Student #5 threw himself the few feet between his chest and the gun barrel.
Andy didn’t scream—but she shouted in shock.
Moth, too, cried out, in sudden panic. He tried to tell himself, Shoot! But the moment was fumbled.
And then, he and Student #5 were locked together.
The chair Moth occupied smashed backward, as the two of them instantly tumbled to the floor. A stray shoulder and wildly flung forearm caught Andy across the bridge of her nose, and she slammed sideways, crunching against the wall in a heap. She was overcome by panic and the shock of pain and she clasped her hands over her ears, as if the sounds of the fight threatened to deafen her. In her vision, amidst the shadows, Moth and the killer had become one entity, a hydra-like murder beast rolling on the floor. She could see kicking, punching, blows flying—but she lost sight of the gun. It had disappeared, trapped between the two fighters.
Moth was beneath the killer, feeling Student #5’s weight bearing down on him. He kicked up, trying to bring a knee to the groin, anything that might turn the fight in his favor. He knew one thing: He could not release his grip on the gun—although he could barely tell whether he was still attached to it or not. His thoughts were like electric currents, sparking wild arcs.
The gun is death.
No matter what happens, do not lose it.
His right hand was wrapped around the pistol handle, a death grip in more ways than one. He tried to get his left hand free, to ward off the cascade of blows slamming down upon him. At the same time, he felt the killer’s hand encircling his own, around the gun’s grip, twisting his index finger savagely, threatening to break it. He could feel the killer’s thumb trying to force its way inside the trigger guard. He could feel the barrel moving—away from the killer, toward his own chest—and he realized he was millimeters from dying.
Moth tried to shout, but words were stifled as the killer’s free hand punched at him, then found his throat and started to choke him.
Student #5 battled—all his expensive tae kwon do and yoga training had made him exceptionally strong and well educated in points of vulnerability—but Moth’s wiry muscles rendered the struggle oddly even. Student #5 fought furiously, one hand grasping for the gun—Get the gun! Kill them both!—the other trying to encircle Moth’s neck and choke him into unconsciousness.
Using all his weight and strength, Student #5 thrust down and felt the steel of the weapon, and knew he was seconds away from jamming it against Moth’s abdomen and shooting. He expected he might wound himself as well—but he didn’t fear injury. Small price. He felt no fear at all, just a cold-minded singleness of purpose. And he knew he was about to win.
Moth could sense blackness creeping over him. Oblivion seemed near. I’m going to die here now. He struggled, gathering whatever he had left inside him and trying to concentrate it on the gun in his hand. But he could feel it all slipping away. He had faced so many ends with bottle in hand; that was how he thought he would die. Those moments were all lies.
This was death.
He felt his eyes start to roll back and he tried to swallow a last breath, lungs screaming for air.
He wanted to shout, No, no, no, I don’t deserve this, but he could not.
In that second, there was a sudden rogue wave that struck him with immense power.
It was Andy Candy, slamming into the killer from the side. She hit him first with her shoulder, the way she imagined a football linebacker would, crashing the three of them sideways into a tangled heap on the floor. She wrapped her arms around Student #5’s neck, pulling back as hard as she could, thinking only that she had to separate the killer from Moth before the boy who had been her only love was murdered.
In that second, the dying equation changed. Student #5 let out a grunt that was almost a shout. He released his hand from Moth’s throat and reached behind himself to claw at Andy Candy. But his nails only ripped her shirt.
Moth gasped for air. Red fury replaced black oblivion.
Andy kept one hand around the killer’s neck and fiercely grabbed at his wrist, dragging his right arm back. She was strong—not as strong as him, but strong enough to compromise his grip on the gun.
The three of them, entwined, tugging, battling, lost any idea or plan. They were animals now. Prehistoric. It was simply a fight for survival.
For an instant, it seemed like they were all balanced precariously on a cliff edge. Two against one—two young, naïve, and confused; one singular, determined, experienced.
Moth felt the gun shift position, caught between the killer and himself. He was pushing it as hard as he could, desperately trying to envision where it was pointed. He did not know if this second would be his first opportunity, his only opportunity, or no opportunity at all. He did not know if firing a bullet—right now!—would kill a furious killer, kill a onetime lover, or kill a recovering drunk. But he jabbed back on the trigger regardless, fearing death, hoping for life.
The blast from the Magnum was like a huge thump! in the room. The tangled bodies helped to muffle most of the report.
Moth thought for a minute that he was dead.
Andy Candy imagined a sheet of pain, blood pouring from her body.
Student #5 managed a thought: Impossible.
The force of the bullet lifted him a few inches as it crashed through his core, ripping through stomach, intestines, and lungs before finally lodging next to his heart. It simply ravaged his midsection.
He felt like a puppet whose strings had been severed. It did not hurt. But he could sense the collapse within him. He took three shallow breaths. Blood instantly burbled to his lips. He rolled over, pitched sideways by a great thrust from Moth, who used what he believed was his last remaining ounce of energy. Like two spiders scuttling away, both he and Andy retreated from the quivering killer. Student #5 stared up, saw the paddle fan spinning above him, thought, This isn’t right—I have been killed by children. Then he twitched and died.
Andy Candy wanted to scream or cry, but remained in a crippled silence. The violence in the room had been like a waterfall of noise and anger, mixed with fear and adrenaline.
Moth stared at the dead figure on the floor, and his only thought was, I can never go back, but back to what wasn’t part of the mental computation.
