“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.