Which is what I did.
I thrust my hand into my backpack.
Mr. Martin raised his eyebrows, looking confused. Had it never occurred to him to wonder what was in there? Had he assumed that he was in complete control of the situation?
I’d practiced. I should, in theory, have been able to pull out the gun before he closed the distance between us. Shoved it in his face just as he reached me.
My hand went straight to the handle of the weapon.
Mr. Martin moved forward.
I pulled out the gun. All of that practice had paid off. That part of the plan was flawless.
Mr. Martin hadn’t even made it halfway across the living room before I pointed the gun at him. The next move, which I’d also practiced, was to flick off the safety with my thumb.
He just stood there, staring at me.
“Well, shit,” he finally said.
6
I kept the gun pointed at him as I got up off the couch. “Sit back down,” I told him.
“Where?” Mr. Martin asked.
“Where do you think? Back in your chair. Don’t play stupid with me.”
Mr. Martin sat back down in the rocking chair. He didn’t look frightened or angry—he looked more bewildered that this had happened to him. “Planning to kill me?”
“I hope not.” My hands were trembling a bit, but not so badly that I was in danger of dropping the gun. I didn’t care if he noticed.
“Then what do you want?”
This was the part of the conversation I’d actually rehearsed out loud, fine-tuning it to make sure I sounded as cold-blooded as possible. I wanted him to know that he could not reason with me. I was in control. “I want information,” I told him. “I want you to tell me exactly what happened that night, and what you did with Todd after you drove away. I’ll know if you’re lying. The first lie, I’ll shoot you in the leg. The second lie, I’ll shoot you in the face. Have I made myself completely clear?”
Mr. Martin gave just the hint of a smile. “Goddamn, kid. You sound like a complete sociopath.”
“Have I made myself completely clear?” I repeated. I was speaking perfectly now—no need for a drink of water.
“Yeah, we’re clear. But have you thought this through? We’re not out in the middle of the forest. Neighbors will hear the gunshot. They’ll hear me screaming in pain. You’re only fourteen, but since you showed up here with a gun they’ll know this was completely premeditated. You’ll be tried as an adult. You could get the electric chair.”
“If that happens, it won’t be your problem. You’ll be dead.” I had indeed thought about that, which is why I’d lied to him: the first shot would not be in his leg. There would be no screaming. Maybe somebody would hear the gun go off, or maybe the neighbors were all at work. Either way, the occasional sound of a gunshot was not unusual around here, and my family, at least, had never dialed 911 when we heard one.
“Do you know what the electric chair is like?” he asked. “It’s not just a quick zap and you’re dead. It’s the most unbelievable pain you can imagine shooting through your body. It doesn’t always finish you off the first time. Sometimes they have to pull the lever a few times. You’ll shit your pants. Right there in front of all the witnesses. That’ll be how they remember you—face covered with drool, sitting in a pile of your own baked shit.”
I fully extended the arm with the gun toward him. “From now on, you only talk when I tell you to. You’re not going to get out of this by making up some ridiculous story about how they’ll send a kid to the chair.”
“It’s not—”
“Did you really just talk already?”
Mr. Martin closed his mouth.
“The first question is going to be yes or no. I’m going to be watching you very closely. I’ve spent the whole summer researching the signs that somebody isn’t telling the truth. If you lie to me, I will pull this trigger. Are you completely clear on how this is going to work?”
“Was that the first question?”
I lunged forward with the gun, just a bit. Mr. Martin flinched.
He was scared. Good.
“Again, are you completely clear on how this is going to work? Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Did you abduct Todd Lester?”
He was silent for a moment. “Yes.”
I suddenly wanted to burst into tears, but I kept myself under control. Now I needed to get enough details out of him that the authorities could prove his guilt. “How did you get him in your car?”
“I told him that his dad fell and cracked open his skull, and that his mom was in the emergency room, and that she was so frantic and scared that I’d offered to pick him up and take him there.”
“What was his reaction?”
“He started crying and got in.”
I didn’t want to ask this next question. I was sure I already knew the answer. “Is he dead?”
Mr. Martin sighed.
“I asked you if he’s dead. Yes or no?”
“What do you want me to tell you? That he’s happy and healthy?”
“I want the truth.”
“Yes, he’s dead.”
Once again I resisted the urge to burst into tears. “Did he suffer?”
Mr. Martin sighed again. He looked at the floor. “Depends on what you mean by suffer.”
“You know what the word suffer means.”
“Are you asking if it hurt? Yeah, it fuckin’ hurt. Did it go on and on and on? No. Five minutes at the most.”
“How did you do it?”
“A knife. You want the brand? You want me to see if we can find it in the Sears catalog? You want me to describe every detail of his final moments? I can probably do a pretty good impression of how his voice sounded, the things he said to me, but you don’t want that in your head. I don’t like having it in mine, and I’m the
