Choice of Evil

human being, if you were culled out of the herd when you were little so you couldn’t earn honestly, what was left? But the ugly ones—the rapists, the child molesters, the torture freaks—they weren’t bad guys the way thieves were, they were stone evil. And it was their choice. That’s what they picked. They didn’t do it for money, they did it for fun. That’s what evil is, when you strip away the crap. It’s choice. This guy wasn’t sick. The way he was telling it, the rules didn’t apply to him, that’s all. He was above it. Above everything. He was killing kids for art. And that was his choice. I snapped out of it and started scrolling again, fast now, to make up for the lost time.

“Okay. Can we play chess now?” the child asked.

     I agreed. And, as I anticipated, she learned the rudiments of the game with alacrity.

     There was a languid, drifting quality about the next several days. My memory of them is. . . imprecise. Zoe continued to prepare her impossibly elaborate meals. I read. . . I believe I read. . . some technical manuals. We played chess together and I began to introduce her to plane geometry. She worked on her drawings.

     Tuesday night she woke me up, saying she was afraid. She would not elaborate further. I allowed her to sleep in my bed, sitting next to her in a chair. It appeared to comfort her, and she eventually fell asleep. I suppose I did too. When I awoke, it was Wednesday morning.

     Wednesday night, I explained the remainder of the operation to the child. She listened, fascinated as always. Suddenly she looked up at me.

     “I know who you are,” she announced.

     “What is it you know, child?” I asked her. “My name?”

     “No. It doesn’t matter. I have a name I call you, but I won’t tell you what it is. But I know who you are.”

     “And who is that, Zoe?”

     “You’re my hero,” she said solemnly. “You came to rescue me. Just like in the story I read. I was a princess. Sort of. And you came to rescue me.”

     “I do not—”

     “That’s your art,” the child said eagerly. “You’re always saying, we have our art. You and me. Zoe me. I draw. And you rescue little kids.”

     Try as I might, she refused to discuss the subject further. I saw no reason to interfere with her childish coping mechanisms. I detest cruelty.

     Thursday night, Zoe said: “I’m going to tell you a secret.”

     “What secret is that, child?”

     “I know your secret,” she said.

     Friday morning ran like a Swiss watch—pun intended. I returned to the hideout.

     “It’s time to say goodbye, Zoe,” I told her.

     “I know,” she said, eyes shining as though a special treat were in store.

     “Zoe, I have a. . . new art now. One I must practice and learn very well before I can reach the heights of my old art. You are the last of that, do you understand?”

     “Yes.”

     “Zoe, you cannot come with me, child. Do you understand?”

     “No!” she said sharply. “I *can* come with you. I’ll help you. Kill her. Kill Angelique. Kill her now!”

     Angelique drank the potion I prepared for her. I held Zoe while Angelique departed.

     As with all art, practice is essential. Someday, I shall achieve the same perfection with my new art as I had with what I have now discarded.

     I will return to this area soon.

     To practice.

What the hell? What was he telling me. . . that this was the last transmission? There was only one way to read it—I’d seen it coming a while back. But if he changed and started on. . . No, it was just. . . insane.

“Xyla!”

She was there before the last syllable of her name left my mouth. Dropped into the computer chair, waiting.

>>explain last answer<<

First time he didn’t put a word limit on my response. So I had stung him. “Type this,” I told Xyla. Then I watched it come up on the screen.

any freak can kill random targets.

a professional hits only the target

he is assigned to. *any* target.

When Xyla tapped one last key, the message vanished.

“He’s gone now, right?” I asked her.

“He’s gone every time,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “He can come back anytime he wants, but only if I ask him to. . . .”

“What do you mean?”

“The way it works, I change my address each time too. Then, later, I send out a message with the new one.”

“But. . . he knows you’ve got plenty of time to set up. So you could be waiting to trap him every time he sends a message, right?”

“Sure. He knows. Doesn’t matter. The only time his own modem is actually open is that last little thing at the end—when I send to him. He receives it, and the whole thing comes down. Fingering it would be a waste of time.”

“But if you don’t send him a new address. . .?”

“Hmmm,” she said. “I see what you mean. He couldn’t reach me. Unless he could. . .”

“. . . do what I wanted you to do,” I finished for her. “Right?”

“Right. You think he can?”

“I think he will,” I told her.