“I know. I won’t.”
“I try to keep to myself and make an honest living. I don’t bother anybody. The assholes at the end of the block have loud parties every Friday night, blasting the shittiest music you can imagine, crap that I wouldn’t force a dog to listen to, but I’m the creepy villain around here.”
“Do people say anything to you?”
“Would you come up and talk to me if you believed that I murdered some kids?”
“I guess not.”
Mr. Martin shook his head. “They don’t say anything. Yeah, a couple of guys at work tried to start some shit, but I shut that down real quick. Still, everybody looks at me. I know what they’re thinking. You know that I didn’t actually get arrested, right?”
“Yeah.”
“They didn’t even take me into the station. They’ve got nothing. Either somebody else took Todd Lester, or he ran away. He’s either dead or in Anchorage.”
“Okay.”
“You stopped writing again.”
“I thought we were still off the record.”
“Were you friends with Todd?”
“Yeah.”
“Close friends?”
“Yeah.”
“Best friends?”
I shrugged.
“We can go back on the record again,” he said.
“I think I’ve got what I need,” I told him. This had been a spectacularly bad idea. I honestly couldn’t even remember the many clever ways I’d planned to trap him in a lie. All I could think of now was that it would be in my best interest to get the hell out of his house as soon as possible.
“Excuse me?”
“This should do it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes,” I said, standing up. “I’ve got enough.”
“No, no, no,” said Mr. Martin. “You didn’t interrupt me on my day off for a half-assed interview. You’re going to turn in an A-paper that we both can be proud of. Ask me another question.”
“It doesn’t have to be a very long paper.”
“Sit down and ask me another question.” He was able to convey the tone of shouting without actually raising his voice.
I sat back down on the couch. The moment my butt hit the cushion, I decided that I should’ve just fled for the door. Taken my chances that I could get out of the house before he grabbed me by the shirt collar and threw me to the floor.
I struggled to come up with something to ask. “Do you, uh, do you think you’ll stay around here?”
“Ask me a better question.”
My mind was completely blank. Was I in danger? Should I go for the gun?
“Why were you a suspect?” I asked, and then immediately regretted it.
“That’s a very good, interesting question.” Mr. Martin leaned forward in the rocking chair. “Somebody told the police that I was the one who did it. That’s all they have. An unreliable eyewitness.”
“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
