That conclusion was what tripped the cacophony. In a room devoted to thoughtful sharing of troubles, expressed patiently, one at a time, everyone seemed to have something to say at once.
“That’s not right.”
“Of course you can.”
“Can’t you call the police?”
“That makes no sense whatsoever.”
“You can’t just stand around and let some killer kill again.”
“Why do you think there’s nothing you can do?”
This last question was the one she decided to answer. “Because I fell off the wagon and now I’ve been suspended. I’m not allowed to have any contact with anyone in law enforcement. Until I get straight.”
Another silence. Susan peered around. “Maybe someone here wants to make that call?”
More silence. It lasted seconds, during which Susan felt as if she were being dragged into darkness, as if the lights around her were slowly being dimmed. The philosophy professor finally spoke:
“You have no friend in a homicide office you can approach informally?”
She shook her head. “Right now, the only friends I have are here,” and she was unsure even about that.
The philosophy professor-sandy-haired, wearing old-fashioned wire-rimmed glasses, tall and lanky but with the sort of look that seemed to indicate he would clumsily drop a basketball if one were handed to him-nodded his head, as if agreeing with a brilliant graduate student.
“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.