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.
Sandy the lawyer snorted. “Let’s call the police right now. No delays. Presumably Susan knows where to send them.”
She dug her cell phone out of a large Gucci purse, and held it up.
“The wrong person will get arrested,” Susan said quietly. “You don’t get it.”
The woman hesitated, finger poised over the dialing screen. “Get what? What do you mean?”
“It’s Timothy who is the killer tonight.”
Again the room burst into objections. “No way” and “Don’t be crazy” and “That’s stupid” filled the area, a torrential downpour of disagreement.
“It’s Timothy who has the weapon and the motive and is breaking the law tonight. Premeditated. You all know that word. We’re not talking about the bad guy-right now, he’s innocent. So who do you think the cops will take into custody when they show up? The person who owns the house, or the person who broke in, armed and dangerous? That’s assuming Timothy surrenders promptly. I wouldn’t want to make that assumption.”
“Well, perhaps,” Sandy countered. “But a call from you would direct them to the right guy…”
“Without evidence? With only wild and crazy suppositions? I tell them, ‘Hey, don’t arrest the guy bent on murder and revenge. Arrest the other guy.’ They won’t do that. And even if they did-how could they hold him? And if they can’t hold him, I know one thing for certain.”