Desert Places

by Blake Crouch

  27

  I finished burying Walter a few minutes before five o’clock. Through the ceiling of pines, light was coming, and the white Cadillac would be plainly visible from the highway, if it was not already. The sky kindled with each passing second, and I felt the self-possession I’d known just hours ago disintegrating. Walking back through the trees, the mechanic’s suit rigid now with Walter’s frozen blood, I thought, I could crumble so easily.

  When I broke out of the trees, I saw three cars speed by, heading into Bristol. It was light enough that I could see the textureless black mountains clearly against the sky, and anyone passing, if they happened to look, would see me stumbling along the shoulder toward the car. On the eastern horizon a trace of day warmed above the Atlantic. The sun was coming. The moon had disappeared hours ago.

  I reached the Cadillac. Orson was unconscious in the trunk, an entire 4-mg vial of Ativan coursing through his bloodstream.

  The front seat was a mess—pools of blood on both floorboards, the driver’s side window smeared red. I managed to scrape enough blood and brain matter off the glass to drive. Exhausted, I started the car and pulled onto the highway, heading south, back into Woodside.

  I kept wondering what I’d do if a cop pulled me over. He’d see the bloodstained interior and the purple mass that was my left eye. I’d have to run. There’d be no other choice besides killing him.

  Returning to Orson’s house, I backed the Cadillac into his driveway and parked beside the white Lexus. I agonized over leaving the car out here when the town would be waking within the hour. But there was no alternative. I needed to get Orson inside, clean myself up, and figure out what the hell I was going to do.

  Reclining on a floral-print couch in Orson’s den, I dialed Cynthia’s home number. It was a sunny Saturday morning, eleven o’clock, and the sunbeams angled brilliantly through the blinds into the den, a scantly furnished room with a large television in a pine cabinet and a tower of CDs standing in the corner. Orson lay across from me on a matching couch, his hands still cuffed behind his back, feet bound with a bicycle lock I’d found in his study.

  She answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Cynthia.”

  “Andy.” I detected undeniable shock in her voice, and it concerned me. “Where are you?” she asked. “Everyone’s looking for you.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “The Winston-Salem Police Department called my office twice yesterday.”

  “Why are they looking for me?”

  “You know about your mother?”

  She was going to regret asking that.

  “What about her?”

  “Oh, Andy. I’m sorry.”

  “What?”

  “A neighbor found her dead in her house three days ago. On Wednesday, I think. Andy…”

  “What happened?” I let my voice quake. How could an innocent man explain not crying when he learns his mother has been murdered? Even the guilty manage tears.

  “They think she was murdered.”

  I dropped the phone and produced a few sobs. After a moment, I brought the receiver to my ear again. “I’m here,” I said, sniffling.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Andy, the police want to speak with you.”

  “Why?”

  “I um …I think…” She sighed. “This is tough, Andy. There’s a warrant for your arrest.”

  “What in the world for?”

  “Your mother’s murder.”

  “Oh no, no, no, no—”

  “And I know you didn’t do it. I believe you. But the best thing to do is just talk to the police and clear this mess up. Where are you? Let me have someone come get you.”

  “Thank you for everything, Cynthia.” I hung up the phone, thinking, They had to find her eventually. Orson, you fucked me again. I stared at my brother on the sofa. He’d be waking soon. Until you fix this, you don’t have a home. In fact, you might never go home again.

  Orson awoke in the early afternoon, strapped naked to a wooden chair in his den, handcuffs securing his arms behind the chair back, and a length of rope binding his legs to the chair legs. I’d shut the door, closed the blinds, and turned the television up so loud, the set buzzed.

  Sitting on the couch, I waited until he’d regained sufficient clarity of mind.

  “You with me?” I shouted. He said something, but I couldn’t hear over the television. “Speak up!” I could tell he was still disoriented.

  “Yes. What’s…” I saw it all come back to him—the fight, the trunk, Walter. He smiled, and I knew he was with me. Taking the remote control from the couch, I muted the television.

  “Orson,” I said. “This is how this works. I ask the questions. You answer them. Quickly, concisely—”

  “Where’s Walt? No. Let me guess. Is he in my hole?”

  I cloaked my fury—I had a hunch the torture would be more effective if I remained placid. Composing myself, I asked him, “Do you still have the videotapes and pictures of you and me in the desert?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where are they?” He smiled and shook his head.

  I pressed the mute button and the television roared. It was the episode of The Andy Griffith Show that chronicles Barney Fife’s attempt to join a church choir, despite his glaring inability to sing. We watched this with our father.

  Coming to my feet, I walked around to the back of the chair. From my pocket, I took a silver Zippo I’d found in Orson’s dresser and struck a flame. Regardless of the hell he’d put me through, I found it exceedingly difficult to burn him. But I did.

  Orson grunted wrenchingly, and after six seconds, I withdrew the flame and returned to the couch. Sweat had broken out across his forehead, and his face had crimsoned. I silenced the television.

  “Whew!” He smiled through the pain. “Man, that’s unpleasant! But you know, the back isn’t the most sensitive part of the body. You should burn my face. The lips, the eyes. Make ’em boil.”

  “Orson, are the videotapes and pictures in this house?”

  “No.”

  “Are they in Woodside?”

  “Flame on!”

  The cacophony of the television again filled the room. Leaning forward, I positioned the lighter against Orson’s inner thigh as he watched with rabid interest. This time, I felt less squeamish about applying the pain.

  He hollered over the dissonant voice of Barney Fife as the tonguelike flame licked his skin. When the patch of hairy white flesh began to bubble, I extinguished the flame and hit the mute button. He was still yelping, eyes closed, teeth clicking, breathless.

  “I think you missed your calling,” he said, wincing and sucking through his teeth, stifling the squeals. Glancing down at his thigh, I noticed the afflicted skin had blossomed into a bright blister. I could smell the sweet charred flesh, a pleasantly devious odor, like gasoline.

  “All right, Orson,” I said. “Take three.”

  “Maybe it’s in a storage unit in some town you’ll never find. Maybe—” The television blared, and standing up, I held the lighter beneath Orson’s right eye. When the flame leapt out, he shrieked, “In the desert! In the desert!”

  Stepping back, I cut the volume. “I think you’re lying.”

  “Andy,” he gasped, “my videos, my photographs, everything I used to blackmail you—it’s all out there.”

  “Where out there? In the cabin?”

  “Take me to Wyoming, and I’ll show you.”

  “I guess you like being burned.”

  “No. Don’t. Just listen. If I told you, Andy, even after you’d tortured me, you’d have no way of knowing if it was the truth till you got out there. And trust me, it wouldn’t be. Now think about that.”

  “You think I’m gonna haul you to Wyoming?”

  “How are you gonna find the cabin? My dirt road’s in the middle of nowhere. You have to watch the mileage from a certain point even to have a chance at finding it
, and I’m not telling you where that is. Not here. No fucking way. You need me; I need you. Let’s take a trip.”

  “I can find it on my own.”

  “How?”

  “I found you.”

  He snorted. “That fucking cowboy.”

  I considered holding the flame to Orson’s eye until he screamed exactly where in the cabin or shed I could find the paraphernalia of his obsession. But he was right: I wouldn’t know if he’d told the truth until I got out there.

  I wanted to ask him about my mother and how he’d framed me, but I was afraid the rage would undermine me like it had Walter, and there were things I still had to know.

  “Where’s Luther?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Luther drifts.” Discomfort strained his voice.

  “How do you communicate?”

  “E-mail.”

  “What’s your password?” Part of me wanted him to resist. I flipped open the Zippo.

  “W-B-A-S-S.”

  “Pray he hasn’t touched them.” I got up and opened the door.

  “Andy,” he said. “Can I please have whatever you’ve been giving me? This hurts like hell.”

  “It’s supposed to hurt.”

  I walked through the living room into Orson’s study and booted up the computer. His password gave me access to his E-mail account. Six new messages: five spam, one from LK72:

  >From:

  >Date: Fr, 8 Nov 1996 20:54:33 -0500 (EST)

  >To: David Parker

  >Subject:

  >

  >O—

  >

  >Getting antsy. Need to head north soon. Ask me about that strpt at stlns. Funny stuff! AT is still gone. As is WL. Still? as to the L. whereabouts. I’ll wait if you want. Otherwise, there’s someone I need to go visit asap up in Sas. Still all over the tube. Wow! Looking forward to OB.

  >

  >L

  I searched Orson’s deleted, sent, and received message folders, but he kept nothing saved or archived. When I’d printed out the E-mail, I took it with me into the den.

  “Decipher this,” I said, setting the cryptic E-mail in Orson’s lap. “It is from Luther, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s from him.”

  “So read it back to me like it makes some fucking sense.”

  He looked down at the page and read aloud in a weary, crestfallen voice: “Orson, getting antsy. Need to head north soon. Ask me about that stripper at Stallion’s. Funny stuff. Andrew Thomas is still gone. As is Walter Lancing. Still no idea as to the Lancing whereabouts. I’ll wait if you want. Otherwise, there’s someone I need to go visit asap up in Saskatchewan. Still all over the tube. Wow. Looking forward to the Outer Banks. Luther.” He looked up at me. “That’s it.”

  “So he’s still in North Carolina, waiting for you to tell him what to do about the Lancings?”

  “Yes.”

  Returning to the desk in his study, I sat for a moment, staring out the window at a woman raking her lawn across the street. As I drafted the message in my head, it occurred to me all at once what I would do—about Luther, the photographs, even Orson. It was a revelation not unlike the epiphanies I’d experienced upon finding my way out of the woods in the plotting of a novel.

  As I typed, I worried that my E-mail response to Luther would deviate too conspicuously from Orson’s format and style, but I risked it:

  >From:

  >Date: Sat, 9 Nov 1996 13:56:26 -0500 (EST)

  >To:

  >Subject:

  >

  >L,

  >

  >Head on to Sas. I may take care of the L’s later if need be. I’m heading cross-country, too, to you know where. Want to meet somewhere en route late tomorrow or Monday, and tell me about that strpr in person?

  >

  >O

  I walked back into the den and filled a syringe with two vials of Ativan. Then I jabbed the needle deep into the muscle of Orson’s bare ass. On my way out the door, he called my name, but I didn’t stop. I ascended the staircase and headed for the guest room, unwilling to sleep in his bed. The mattress was cramped and lumpy, but I’d been up for thirty hours and could’ve slept on broken glass. Through the window, I heard the college bell tower striking two, birds bickering, wind in the trees, and cars in the valley below—the sounds of a New England town on a Saturday afternoon. I am so, so far from that.

  My thoughts were with Beth Lancing and her children as I floated into sleep. I’m trying to save your lives, but I robbed you of a husband and a father. Robbed myself of my best friend. I wondered if she already sensed that he was gone.

  28

  I came down the staircase at 1:30 in the morning, having slept straight for eleven and a half hours. The house was so still. I could hear only the minute mechanical breathing of the kitchen appliances as they cut on and off in the predawn silence.

  After starting a pot of coffee, I poked my head into the den. Orson’s chair had fallen over. He was unconscious, naked, still awkwardly attached to the toppled chair. He looked feeble, helpless, and for a moment I let myself pity him.

  Barefoot, I walked into his study and sat down at the desk. As the monitor revived, crackling with static electricity, I saw that he had one message waiting. Typing in the password, I opened the new E-mail:

  >From:

  >Date: Sun, 10 Nov 1996 01:02:09 -0500 (EST)

  >To: David Parker

  >Subject:

  >

  >O—

  >

  >Might be in SB Monday evng. Call when you hit Nbrsk and we’ll see about a rendezvous.

  >

  >L

  Shutting down the computer, I walked back into the den and gave Orson another injection. Then I went upstairs to take a shower.

  The hot water felt immaculate. After I’d tidied up the cuts on my face with a razor blade, I lingered in the stream, leaning against the wet tile, head down, the water cooling, watching the blood swirl under my feet into the drain.

  It took a while for the steam to settle in the bathroom, and I sat on the toilet while it did, thumbing through Orson’s wallet, yet another possession of his, identical to mine. Removing his driver’s license, I set it on the sink. I looked nothing like the picture. His hair was short and brown, his face clean-shaven. Rising, I wiped the condensation off the mirror.

  My beard had grown out considerably, gray and bristly. My hair was in shambles, the dye stripped from this last marathon shower. I shaved first, even my sideburns, and it was an improvement. There was an attachment on the electric razor for tonsure, so I climbed back into the shower and sheared my head.

  When I finished, I glanced again into the mirror—much, much better.

  “Hi, Orson,” I said, smiling.

  29

  SUNDAY, before dawn, I loaded Orson into the trunk of his Lexus and pulled out of the driveway of his house in Woodside. I carried his wallet, filled with his cash and credit cards, and I felt reasonably sure that, should the necessity arise, I could pass for my brother. It was comforting to know that because Orson existed, Andrew Thomas could disappear.

  I drove to the Woodside Inn and slipped furtively up the noisy staircase into what had been Walter’s and my room. Our clothes were still scattered across the beds, and I stuffed everything from the drawers and the floor into our suitcases and lugged them down to the car.

  Heading out on Highway 116, I prided myself on my thoroughness. I’d remembered to check out of the inn. I’d removed all traces of my presence in Orson’s home (my blood in his room, my hair in his sink and bathtub), along with all signs of his abduction. I’d even taken care of Walter’s Cadillac, driving it down the hill to the Champlain Diner at 3:15 in the morning and leaving it parked beside an overflowing Dumpster. The jog back up into Orson’s neighborhood had been a bitch, but it was worth it. Nothing could link me to this town now, and though Walter’s gory car wo
uld more than likely be discovered within the week, I’d be long, long gone by then.

  Prior to leaving Orson’s house, I’d downed an entire pot of coffee and swallowed a double dose of a sinus medication that always keyed me up. Caffeine raged through me, and with unfettered energy, I drove southwest out of Woodside into New York State. If nothing went awry, Luther would be dead, and I’d be in Wyoming in less than forty-eight hours.

  I sped westbound on I-80 through eastern Nebraska. It was 11:45 p.m., and the luster of driving without sleep from Vermont to Wyoming had waned. Orson was awake. He’d been kicking the inside of the trunk for the last fifty miles and cursing at me to pull over.

  Traffic was light, and because there was nothing but hewn cornfields and distant farmhouse lights as far as I could see, I obliged him. Pulling into the emergency lane somewhere between Lincoln and York, I hopped out into the chilly Nebraska night and popped the trunk. Lying on his back, in his bathrobe, handcuffed, he lifted his head.

  “I’m thirsty, you bastard,” he croaked. “I’ve been dying back here.”

  “Well, there’s some ice-cold water up front with your name on it. But you gotta earn it.” Taking Luther’s E-mail from my pocket and unfolding it, I asked him, “Is SB Scottsbluff, Nebraska?”

  “Why?”

  I went back to the front seat and grabbed the full squeeze bottle from the passenger side. Returning to Orson, I stood in front of him and squirted a stream into my mouth.

  “Wow, that’s refreshing!” I could see the pining thirst in his eyes. “This is all the water that’s left,” I said, “and when it’s gone, it may be hundreds and hundreds of miles before I stop again. Now, I’m not very thirsty, but I’ll stand here and guzzle it just the same if you aren’t a model of cooperation. Is SB Scottsbluff?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the significance?”

  “Of what?” I squirted another long stream into my mouth. “There’s this girl there who Luther stays with sometimes. He’s always on the road.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Mandy something.”

  “You don’t know her last name?”

  “No.”