“Okay.”
“Are you planning to become a journalist, Curtis?”
“I don’t know. No. Not really.”
“I can tell. Because this is when you ask what they call ‘a follow-up’ question. Do you know what that means?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Then ask a follow-up question.”
I couldn’t think of one. And when I tried to admit that I couldn’t think of one, I couldn’t speak, either.
“It’s not that hard,” said Mr. Martin. “If you’re trying to get the full story for your paper, ask me if I know who told the police that I kidnapped Todd Lester.”
“Do you know?”
Mr. Martin shook his head. “No. I don’t. They wouldn’t tell me.”
“Oh.”
“Since you’re not doing a very good job with the questions, do you mind if I ask you one?”
“Sure,” I said.
“What’s your favorite Halloween costume?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you do. You’re not too old to trick or treat, are you? Maybe you are. I don’t know when kids stop. But you had a favorite Halloween costume in the past, right? Spider-Man, maybe? That gold robot from Star Wars? Something scary? A skeleton? A vampire? What was it?”
I should go for the gun. But I couldn’t make my arm move.
“I asked you a question,” said Mr. Martin. “If you’re not going to ask me questions, you can at least answer the ones I ask you.”
“I guess Spider-Man,” I told him.
“Good guess on my part, then. When did you dress as Spider-Man for Halloween? Last year? The year before? When you were six?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try to remember.”
“When I was eight, maybe.”
“You dressed as Spider-Man for Halloween when you were eight years old. I bet you were adorable. I’d like to see the Polaroids. Now I’m going to be a good journalist and ask you a follow-up question. Are you ready?”
“Yeah.”
“How old were you when you went as a mouse?”
5
I did everything I possibly could to keep my expression neutral. I’d gone through countless scenarios in my mind before I showed up here, and most of them included a moment where Mr. Martin figured out that I was the little bastard who’d ratted him out.
In those scenarios, I thrust my hand into my backpack, grabbed the gun, and pointed it at him before he knew what was happening.
Now, in the actual moment, I doubted my ability to whip out the gun in time. I’d be fumbling around in there while he casually walked over and slashed my throat with the knife he’d probably stashed in his pocket while he was getting my glass of water. I also doubted my ability to actually shoot another human being, even an evil one. In my imagination, I’d opened fire with deadly accuracy, hitting him a few times in the chest and sending him flying across the room, with about as much blood as you’d see in a PG-rated movie. In real life, I suddenly knew that it would be ugly. Awful. I’d never recover.
Mr. Martin had not stood up from the rocking chair.
Even if he rushed at me, I could probably get the gun. I was quick. I’d practiced.
This was why I was here. Not to run off like a coward, with absolutely nothing to show for this botched plan except the certainty that a psychopath now knew who I was.
I couldn’t make myself reach for the backpack. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe my uncooperative muscles were being controlled by the part of my brain that didn’t want me to make a fatal mistake.
I just had to pray that my face hadn’t given anything away.
I’d play dumb.
“Mighty Mouse?” I asked.
“Maybe,” said Mr. Martin. “Some cartoon mouse.”
“I’ve never been a mouse for Halloween.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I’d remember.”
“You don’t own a mouse mask?”
“No.”
Mr. Martin nodded. He didn’t look like he believed me.
Had he somehow walked into a trap that I’d failed to set? I’d blundered my way through this conversation without cleverly catching him in an inconsistency in his story, but had he been told about my mask? None of the news articles, and I’d read all of them, identified the witness as “a chubby kid in a mouse mask.” Would anybody have shared that detail with him? Had he just admitted to having information he shouldn’t have known?
And would that be sufficient? If I went back and said, “Hey, he knew what kind of mask I was wearing!” would that be enough to get him arrested?
What if they had told him? I wasn’t privy to any of the conversations he’d had with the authorities. Maybe they’d shared that with him. I couldn’t think of any possible reason that they would, especially since they were trying to protect my identity, but I wasn’t an expert on those kinds of things.
Should I confront him with this?
Did I want to be sitting a few feet away from a serial killer when he realized that he fucked up?
After a split second of indecision, I decided to compromise. I would not point out that Mr. Martin shouldn’t know about the mask—which might be a suicidal move—but I wouldn’t try to leave. I’d get more information to use against him. He’d proven that he could make a mistake.
“How many times have you been questioned?” I asked.
“I thought you said you had enough information for your paper.”
“I thought you said I didn’t.”
Mr. Martin shrugged. “That’s a boring question. The answer is just a number. If you want to impress your teacher, find out how I feel about being unfairly targeted. Capture the emotional impact of the story.”
I tried to speak but once again my voice failed me. Ironic, considering how often I got in trouble for speaking when I wasn’t supposed to. I coughed.
He stood up.
Walked over to me.
Picked up the glass of water, took a drink, and set it back down.
“See?” he said. “It’s fine. No poison. No drugs.” He walked back to his rocking chair and sat down.
“I didn’t think there was,” I managed to say. I still didn’t want to drink the water. He might not have put anything in it, but I didn’t want to drink from the same glass as the man who’d killed my best friend.
“Well, I can’t force you to drink. I’d offer you something else, but all I’ve got is beer in the fridge. Pretty sure your mommy and daddy wouldn’t appreciate that.”
“At least not this early in the morning,” I said.
Mr. Martin stared at me for a moment.
“Was that a joke?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Not bad.”
“Thanks.”
“Is humor your defense mechanism?”
“Sometimes, yeah.”
“I figured. You’re all sweaty and inarticulate, but you can make a joke. Feeling like you need a defense mechanism now, huh? Why are you so scared?”