by Blake Crouch
"Turn back around!" I said. "You wanna die?"
"Oh God!" she cried. "Please, no."
"Shut up!" I screamed as she hunched over into the sink. "Turn off the water," I said.
She cut it off, and aside from her quiet sobbing, the house was silent again. My voice lowered, I said, "If you look at me, I'll kill you. You got towels in the kitchen?"
"Yes."
"Blindfold yourself."
She opened a cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a large, white dishcloth. She opened it, rolled it up, and then tied it around the back of her head.
"Back slowly towards me," I said. When she was several feet away, I said, "Stop." I made sure the cloth covered her eyes and cinched the blindfold tighter.
"You can have whatever you want…"
"Walk to the study. I'll guide you."
She stumbled through the living room, and I pushed her through the narrow doorway. When we were inside, I shut the door and knocked her to the floor, at the foot of a tall bookshelf.
"On your stomach," I said.
Immediately she obeyed, remarkably calm, as if she'd done this before.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Mary Parker."
"Do you work at the university?"
"No, just my husband. I'm a lawyer."
"You're married to David Parker?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Why?"
I leaned down and put the gun to her temple.
"Six years," she said.
"That's impossible."
"I swear."
"When does he get home? I'll know if you lie to me, Mary."
"After seven. He has a meeting tonight."
"You expecting company?"
"No."
"Why's the fucking table set?"
"It always is. I swear."
"I'll kill anyone who shows up besides your husband."
"No one else is coming," she said, her voice begging me to believe her. "I promise."
"You have children?" I asked.
"No."
"Does your husband expect you to be home?"
"Yes." I sat down on the floor, breathing easily again, resisting the exhilaration.
"What do you want?" Mary asked, her voice so calm it unnerved me.
I took the radio from my fanny pack and spoke into the receiver. "Fred Flintstone," I said. "Complications. Safe now. Bring it home."
"Roger that, Wilma," the radio squeaked.
"How well do you know your husband?" I asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You've heard of the Heart Surgeon?"
"You're not…"
"No. David Parker is."
"There's no way," she said. "Are you FBI?"
"I know a hell of a lot more than the FBI. You know the name Orson Thomas?" I asked, but she didn't answer. "Have you heard the name?" I asked again.
"Yes." She trembled. Her back heaved heavily up and down against the floor as she panted like a dog, nearly out of breath.
"How do you know him?" I asked.
"He taught at the university, but he left, he disappeared. I don't know where."
Rising to my feet, I walked towards her. "You're protecting your husband."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she whined.
"Quit fucking with me!" I shouted. I knelt down on the floor, grabbed her throat, and held the gun to her head. "You think this is a joke? You know I'll kill you if you lie to me, so why protect him? You know what your husband does to people? He takes them to a cabin. He tortures them. He cuts their fucking hearts out, you stupid bitch, and you want me to believe you don't know this? That you don't have a part in it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she cried.
"Shut up!" I screamed, grabbing her hair and shaking her head. I rolled her over on her back and ripped the blindfold from her face. "Your husband doesn't look like this?!" I shouted.
"Orson." Her face turned white. "Why are you doing this to me? What are…"
"I'm not your husband, Mary. I'm his brother, and I'm gonna kill him, because he's a monster. You want to protect him, what does that make you?"
"I don't know what you're…"
"Turn over on your stomach."
"Why?"
"Do it or I'll kill you."
She turned over and lay flat on her belly. I held the gun by its short muzzle and crushed the back of her head with the hard, metallic handle. She let out a moaning gasp and was still.
My first thought was that she might bleed onto the floor, so I took the blindfold and pressed it into the back of her head. Only several drops of blood seeped through the white cloth, and I applied pressure until the bleeding stopped altogether.
A car pulled into the driveway, and I ran to the window. Walter's Cadillac backed in. He got out, opened the trunk, and returned to the driver's seat. I put the gun in my fanny pack and lifted Mary from the floor. Slinging her over my shoulder, I walked to the front door. By my watch, it was 5:15, and as I opened the door, I saw that the sky had deepened into a dark blue evening. Through the black-silhouetted trees, the first stars shined in the cold, night air.
I rushed down the steps, along the walkway, and stopped at the rear of the Cadillac. Setting Mary in the trunk, I slammed it shut and ran to Walter's lowered window.
"Who the hell is that?" he asked.
"His wife," I said. "I never thought he'd be married."
"Is she dead?"
"No. Get out of here. I'll call when he gets home. She said seven o'clock."
"I don't like this, Andy," he said. "We can't kill her. She might not know."
"She knows," I said. "Now's not the time. When the police come looking for them, the neighbors are gonna remember your car sitting in the driveway, so go. I'll call you."
Walter eased down onto the street, and I walked calmly back towards the house. Inside, I locked the front door and picked up the bloody dishtowel in the study. I'd clean up the glass before Orson came. I wanted there to be no trace of a struggle, no evidence that these people had been abducted save the simple fact they could not be found.
# # #
I tapped on the ivory keys and waited. The Steinway horribly out of tune, the notes hung awkwardly in the still air. I'd turned on three living room lamps so the house would look warm and inhabited, but that had been two and a half hours ago. Now it was several minutes past eight o'clock, dark outside, and still no sign of Orson.
I'd walked through the entire house--the upstairs, the first floor hallway and den, even the basement. Nothing here suggested Orson's taste for violence. I'd found no trophies, no hearts or photographs, not even a newspaper clipping concerning the Heart Surgeon. There weren't even indirect links such as horror novels, videos, or paintings. (In Orson's room in Wyoming, a William Blake print of The Simoniac Pope hung above his bed--a pen and watercolor of souls being tortured in hell). I couldn't understand it. I'd expected Orson to live alone, surrounded by the paraphernalia of his hobby. David Parker now seemed to be more than just a safe name. He was a different lifestyle, one separated, almost completely, from Orson Thomas.
A car came up the hill and pulled into the driveway. I took the walkie-talkie from my fanny pack and pressed the talk button.
"Go Papa," I said, but there was no response. "Go Papa," I said again as a silver Mercedes stopped behind the Lexus and its headlights went dark.
"Copy that," the radio squeaked. I laid the syringe and the vial of Meprobamate on top of the piano and took the Glock into my hands, now trembling. When the car door slammed, I grabbed the needle and tranquilizer and ran through the living room. Turning right, I walked several feet down the hallway and then left into a small den. A green, cloth sofa sat against the back wall, facing a big-screen television and a stereo, both held in a large, yellow pine cabinet at the far end of the room. I turned off the lights and sat down on the sofa.
A moment passed, the house silent. The doorbell rang, but I didn't move. Frozen in place
, I prayed a neighbor or a friend of the Parker's hadn't just dropped by. It rang again, and I rose to my feet and walked quietly into the living room, stopping at the front door. Looking through the peephole, I saw him. His back was turned, but I recognized the wool suit and the gold, wire-framed glasses that rested neatly on his ears. He screamed pretentious intellectuality.
Orson turned towards the door, and I looked into his face for the first time since Wyoming. It took my breath away. He looked nothing like himself. He'd dyed his hair light gray, and it had grown out. In the orange porch light, his once blue eyes were brown. His face was the same, but the expression and intensity different. He could've passed for mid-forties, but the solid build beneath the wool suit reminded me of the man who'd taken me to the desert.
"Mary, it's me!" he shouted. "Come on, I'm freezing my ass off."
Turning the deadbolt, I stepped behind the door. It opened and Orson walked in.
"Honey?" He slammed the door behind him, leaving his back turned to me. "Mary?"
"Not exactly," I said. Orson spun around. He dropped his briefcase, and his eyes opened wide, a look of utter horror painted ghost white across his face.
"Orson?" he said breathlessly. "What the hell are you doing…"
"Mary tried that, too. Turn around."
"Where is she?"
"Turn around!" I yelled, and he did. "Walk slowly into the den," I said, and he walked across the living room floor.
"Did you hurt her?" he said, moving into the hallway. His voice shook.
"Where's that sadomasochistic edge?" I asked. "You going soft on me, brother?"
"What did you do to her?" he asked again.
"Mary's fine," I said. "She isn't here right now, but you'll be with her soon."
We walked into the den, and I cut the lights on.
"Sit on the floor," I said, and Orson obeyed, sitting beneath the pine cabinet. I sat down on the sofa, beside the needle and the vial, and stared at him. "You are a fucking genius," I said. "In all seriousness. I mean, I'm sitting here wondering if you even know what kind of a sick bastard you really are. You get a facelift or something? I can understand the hair and the colored contacts, but you don't even look…"
"I promise," Orson began, "that I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Damn. You are good," I said. "I have to keep reminding myself what you did to me and the others so I can even go through with this."
"Look, you need help. I can help you. Please, Orson, don't do this."
I raised the gun and pointed it at his head.
"Try that shit again," I said. "I dare you to call me Orson one more fucking time."
Orson looked down at the floor as if to cry. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, looking up at me, tears in his fake, brown eyes. "What the hell happened to you? You disappear for three years, and then you come back, for what? I can't help what the committee decided. You messed up." He was sobbing now. "There was no other way," he said.
"Lay on your stomach," I said, and Orson turned hesitantly over. I opened the vial of Meprobamate and dipped the needle into the concentrated solution, filling the syringe with the tranquilizer and then tapping it to remove air bubbles.
"Tell me something," I said, setting the needle on the floor. "Why'd you kill Mom? I have a theory, but I'd like to hear your reasoning."
"You're speaking Greek."
"It wasn't to make me come for you," I continued. "Because I think it never crossed your mind that I'd find you. I think you shit your pants tonight when you saw me standing behind your door. Though I'm sure it appealed to you that Mom's death would destroy me, I'm pretty confident there was another reason. As much as it goes against your nature, I think you were ashamed for your mother to see your accomplishment. And that's all I'm gonna say about Washington. I'm not even gonna dignify what you did there with the tiniest remark."
"You're out of your mind," Orson said, his voice controlled, his words stronger now.
"I'm sure it seems that way to you," I said, taking the syringe and rising to my feet. I walked towards my brother, the needle in my left hand, the Glock in my right. "So what was the plan?" I asked, standing over him as he lay flat against the hardwood floor.
"Once again, I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm sure. Maybe a secret trip down to my lake? How many bodies of those thirty-seven hearts are buried on my property? I'm surprised you haven't tipped the FBI yet. Or were we due for another jaunt in the desert next summer, where you upped my ante to torture? Maybe it's a good thing for your sake that you only taught me the killing part."
"What do you want me to say?" Orson pleaded. "I don't understand what you want."
"Where's the evidence. You got a safety deposit box? A storage locker?"
"No."
"Then where is it? Where are your trophies? Where are the pictures of us cutting up those rednecks? Or Shirley Tanner? Where are the newspaper clippings, the videotapes?"
"I don't have a fucking clue what you want, or why you think I have it," Orson wept.
"You're lying," I said. "Does Mary know?"
"About what!?" he screamed.
"About what," I said calmly. "What does it take?" I asked. "He's hidden in there somewhere. What'll bring you out, Orson? Torture? I can do that, you know. It might not be as effective as you could manage, but it'd be persuasive."
"My name is David Parker."
I kicked him in the side, and ribs cracked. He groaned, and I dug one knee into his spine.
"Don't you move," I said. "I'll put your brains on that cabinet if you breathe." I set the needle on his back and took the Glock into my left hand, pressing the barrel into his head. "I'm gonna give you a sedative now," I said. "You'll feel a sting in your neck. There's a hollow point with your name on it if you flinch. I know deep down you must be proud. I couldn't have done this a year ago. But you taught me, didn't you? Gave me one hell of an education."
As the needle slid into a bulging vein in his neck, Orson grunted but didn't flinch. I injected the contents of the syringe, pulled the needle out, and stepped back away from him. "Sit up," I said, and Orson sat up against the cabinet. I went back to the sofa and put the needle and the vial, now empty, back into the fanny pack.
"What was that?" Orson asked, his words dragging, his eyes beginning to tire.
"A tranquilizer. You got a staggering overdose. I might not have to shoot you."
"What about Mary?" he asked, his eyes now half-closed.
"What do you care, huh? Don't pretend with me."
"I'm not…" His words trailed away, and he exhaled deeply, painfully.
"I caught your lecture on Caligula," I said, taking the radio out. "You were a good teacher, Orson. Should've devoted your life to it."
His eyes closed.
"Remember that poem you recited for me at the cabin when I was going under? "The Road Not Taken" by Frost. Hell, I'd recite it for you if I could remember the words."
Orson slumped over onto the floor, and I pressed the talk button. "Bring it home," I said.
# # #
Orson was too heavy to carry, so I dragged him through the hallway, into the living room, across the smooth, hardwood floor. Through the front windows, I could see Walter's Cadillac at the end of the driveway, the trunk closed, Walter waiting inside. I left Orson lying in the foyer and ran out to the car. Crossing the lawn, it felt colder than it had been three hours ago. My breath was now a white vapor, vividly exposed, and the air tickled my throat when I inhaled.
I knelt down by Walter's window as it lowered. "You're gonna have to help me bring him out," I said. "He's too heavy, and it'll look funny, me staggering around out here."
We ran up to the house and went back inside. Orson was still unconscious, lying on his stomach on the floor, his skin now a stormy, yellow pallor.
"Don't touch anything," I said, closing the door behind us. The phone rang, and we both jumped. Walter looked at me, tangible fear dripping from his eyes. "Don't wor
ry about it," I said, and the phone continued ringing until the answering machine cut on. I turned Orson over on his back and grabbed him underneath his armpits.
"Take his feet," I said, but Walter didn't move. "What? You wanna stay for dinner?"
"That's not your twin," he said. "Who the fuck is this, Andy?"
