“We have to go,” Moth repeated. “Don’t leave anything behind,” he said.
Andy Candy nodded, then stopped. An idea-as if spoken deep within her by some truly evil force-pushed to the forefront of her head. “No,” she said. “We have to.” She hurried into the kitchen. On the counter was a jar with a couple of pens and pencils, next to a notepad and beneath a wall-mounted telephone. It was the sort of arrangement one might see in almost any kitchen.
She grabbed a large black marker, then returned to the living room, where Moth was standing, stiff, pale, gun still in his hand.
“He said ‘lucky drug dealer,’ ” Andy whispered. “What the cops should find is an unlucky drug dealer.” She approached an empty white wall in the room. Using the marker, she wrote in large block letters: Cheat Us Pay the Price Scorpions.
The last word was the only name of any drug dealing organization she could recall. They were from Mexico, and operated in California, and so might not be locally known, but she didn’t know if that would make a difference.
She put the pen in her pocket. Moth looked at what she had written, nodded, and went over to the killer’s body. He savagely ripped a piece of bloodstained shirt from the man’s chest. He took the cloth and smeared a streak of red on the wall, underlining the word Scorpions. An artist’s touch. Perhaps a signature. He turned to Andy and saw her reach out to him-the same extended arm a drowning person might offer up to a rescuer in a boat.
Hand in hand, they staggered out of the house, supporting each other.
One step. Two steps. Three.
The night seemed oppressively hot, asthmatic, thick. They expected to hear sirens in the distance, heading their way. There were none. They expected to hear strange voices, shouting at them, “Hey, you two! Stop! Freeze! Raise your hands!” They did not.
Four steps, five.
They wanted to run.
They did not.
Six. Seven. Eight.
Darkness enveloped them. Moth managed to croak out, “Don’t look back.” Weak light from downtown crept along in the sky above them, a yellow glow beneath the wide expanse of starry night. But the street was nothing but shadows. They turned into the cemetery, greeting the rows of the dead like old friends, grateful for the headstones and raised crypts that concealed them. Moth found his abandoned backpack and thrust the gun inside, next to the two empty bottles of Scotch and vodka that the killer had warned him about leaving behind. He took the paper with Susan’s picture and the laptop and tossed them in as well. He looked at Andy only once, and wondered whether he was as pale as she looked in the thick black air.
The two of them mounted the rented bicycles they’d left beside the graves and rode them back to the rental store. Moth dutifully locked them up, just as the Rasta proprietor had asked them to.
Then they walked down side streets, passing a few homes that were lit up, hearing a few voices from dinner parties in full swing. They passed one old lady walking her two pugs, but she was far more interested in the dogs doing their nightly business than in Moth and Andy Candy.
Andy thought this was remarkable, believing as she did that she was covered in blood. She realized then that she probably was not, but it sure felt that way.
Wordlessly, they returned to her car. She slid into the driver’s seat, unsure whether she could steer. Instinct took over. A momentary fumble with the keys, an inner admonition to stop shaking even though her hands were quivering and her body was nearly convulsing, a few deep breaths that seemed to help a little, and they took off.
Andy did not need Moth to remind her to drive slowly and carefully.
One mile. Two miles.
She couldn’t bring herself to look in the rearview mirror, for fear that she would see the flashing lights of a patrol car.
Four miles. Five miles. Six.
She didn’t even dare look sideways at Moth.
Twenty miles, she saw a spot by the side of the road, and pulled over. She opened her door, leaned out, and gave in to nausea, vomiting repeatedly.
Still, they said nothing. She wiped her mouth, put the car back in gear, and drove on.
They passed over the Seven Mile Bridge. 6.79 miles, Moth thought. He saw moonlight reflecting off the light black chop of the waters.
One hour. Two.
A frustrated man in a BMW sports car zoomed past them, just dodging the headlights of an oncoming panel truck in one of the single-lane portions of the road.
South of Islamorada, they passed Whale Harbor and then Bud and Mary’s Marina, where a huge plastic mock great white shark hangs just outside the entrance. Moth thought it was curiously appropriate: a fake fish unlikely to ever visit those waters acting as an invitation.
Three hours.
They continued silently over Card Sound Bridge and swooped past the edge of the Everglades, where the night blends seamlessly with the swamp, then the city of Homestead, and finally descended into the bright lights that mark South Dixie Highway into Miami.
Moth wanted to say: “I couldn’t have done it without you,” but that seemed wrong. He wanted to say, “It’s all over now,” but he was afraid it had just begun.
Andy Candy pulled her car into a parking place half a block from Moth’s apartment. Still without speaking, the two of them climbed out and walked arm in arm unsteadily down the street. It was like they were each holding the other upright. They went inside, climbing the stairs together. Moth found his keys, opened up, and held the door for Andy Candy. He dropped the backpack to the floor. She immediately went to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror for perhaps three or four minutes, searching every inch of her face for some sign of what this night had done to her, or even some bizarre other change. Dorian Gray looking at his portrait.
She knew she was different now, and she watched herself, seeking some outward sign, until, finally, not completely persuaded that some stranger wouldn’t be able to see what had happened to her face, she splashed water wildly onto her lips and eyes, cheeks and forehead. It did not make her feel clean.
At the same moment, Moth was bent over the kitchen sink, washing his hands. Once. Twice. A third time, trying to scrub murder off.
They collapsed together on Moth’s bed, arms entwined. For a fleeting instant Andy Candy thought they were like a sculpture resembling the fight earlier that night. There are, she realized, some touches more intimate even than sex. She closed her eyes, exhausted. Sleep, she thought, would feel like death. Still, she welcomed it, right beside the absolute uncertainty of life.
For a few seconds, Moth smelled her sweat, listened to her even breathing, stroked the skin of her arm. His last thought, before he, too, fell asleep was simple: He could not see how they could stay together. Nor could he see how they could ever be apart.
EPILOGUE: The Next Day and Beyond
24 hours after death:
“Hello,” Moth said. “My name is Timothy and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Timothy,” the gathering at Redeemer One replied. Usually this response was pro forma, a muttered reply that was merely a part of getting the evening rolling. This night, however, it enthusiastically burst from the lips of all the regulars, and Moth could feel a groundswell of energy amidst relief wrapped in the greeting.
“We’re very glad to see you, Timothy,” said the philosophy professor. He did not add the word alive, though that was what they were all thinking. This reply-far out of the normal-was seconded throughout the room.
“I’m glad to be here,” Moth said.
He paused.
“I have…” He hesitated. “Actually, I’m not exactly sure now how many days of sobriety I’ve got. Things have been confusing. A bunch, I think. I can’t tell any longer.”