Page 56 of The Angel Maker

Another sip of water.

“Right,” Hobbes says. “We have also talked about one theological argument for determinism—that God’s omniscience requires the past, present, and future to be set in stone.But… that also creates problems for theology. For one thing, if it were true, how can anyone be praised or blamed for doing something they had no choice in? And as we all know from the lady who rants in the square by the refectory every Sunday, God is famouslyvery keenon right and wrong.”

Another ripple of laughter—albeit this time with a slight undertone of relief. Hobbes knows that talk of God leaves many of them cold.

No matter.

Just get through this.

“But what if we look at these problems together?” he says. “Imagine God as an artist. He can always see the whole canvas—yes, of course—and in that sense his knowledge is complete. But he is not finished. He keeps dabbing bits of paint here and there, making the picture deeper and more meaningful to him. Seeing what happens. And if some of those dabs were him giving us glimpses of the picture as it stood, wouldn’t the choices we made as a resultthenhave weight in his eyes?”

A final pause.

At this point in the lecture he almost always loses several of the students, and today is no different. Philosophy is meant to be a dry, logical discipline, and these flourishes of color have no real place in the discussion. But the hour is nearly over, and he has already covered the necessary components of the syllabus; he doesn’t mind so much if he leaves a few of them behind. Especially because he’s not really talking to them right now anyway.

Hobbes focuses his gaze on the shadow in the back row.

“And so the question, then,” he says, “is whether God wouldwantus to act on those revelations. Some might argue we should never go against God’s knowledge—that our duty is simply to carry out his will, whatever terrible things it compels us to do.Deus scripsit.But I would ask you this.If you were a father, which would you prefer? A child who always did as they were told, or a child who disobeyed you and tried to forge their own path—to do the best they could for themselves and for others?”

There is a moment of silence in the room.

The black figure at the back remains still and implacable.

And then the bell on the wall rings loudly, jarring almost everyone.

“I’ll leave that as a rhetorical question, then,” Hobbes says.

The students are already gathering their things together, shuffling along the rows, eager to escape into what they are correct to believe will be one of the last warm afternoons of the year. Hobbes can’t blame them. This is his final lecture of the day, and he is anxious to finish up some administrative work and get home to Charlotte. The thought of her makes him look again toward the far end of the hall.

The figure is gone.

Hobbes stares blankly for a moment, watching the other students filing out.

I had to protect her,Edward, he thinks.Because you were going to kill her.

I know you don’t understand that, but you were.

Then he turns back and begins collecting his own paperwork from the table by the projector. While, above him, the devil—perched there with his violin—continues to play.

It is October 4, 2017.

Hobbes opens the door of the bathroom cabinet and selects the various bottles he will need, lining them up one by one at the back of the sink. He does not swallow the pills yet; that moment comes later. They will not take action quickly enough to save him, and he will still be drifting in and out of consciousness when he is killed, but they should at least dull him to the worst of the pain. And after everything he has done, perhaps all he has earned is the right to shave the edges off the suffering due to him, not avoid it altogether.

He walks stiffly back through to the main room, which has been pareddown to essentials over the years, a few personal items excepted. He moves over to the bed. On the table beside it, positioned so he can see it if he turns his head when lying down, is a photograph in an old silver frame. He picks it up and brushes a sheen of dust from the glass, revealing a picture taken of Charlotte and him on their wedding day. They both look so young. So happy.

So long ago.

But, of course, there is really no such thing aslong ago, and for a few blissful seconds he can feel the warmth of the sun that day and the pressure of her hand in his. He doesn’t need to remember the love he felt for her, though, because it has never left.

I love you so much, he thinks.

Then he takes the photograph into what had once been Joshua’s room and stands by the desk. He looks up at the books on the shelves. In a day or two, they will all be gone. The instructions he has given to Richard Gaunt are detailed and specific. In the event of his death, most of the titles here will be kept in storage, but several of the titles will be donated to the university, while a few have been selected with care and affection to be sent to former colleagues and others who have become dear to him.

Hobbes picks up one in particular and rubs his hand tenderly over the cover. Then he takes the photograph out of the frame. The clasp is small, and his hands have been betraying him for months now, but when he finally manages it, he places the photograph facedown on the desk and then picks up the pen and adds a message on the back.

He turns it back over and looks at himself standing with Charlotte.

I love you, he thinks.I always have. I always will.

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