by Lee Goldberg, Scott Nicholson, J A Konrath, J Carson Black,
“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 injec
tion. 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.
IV.
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 would 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 corn-fields 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.”
“What’s Luther’s last name?”
“Kite.”
“Like fly a kite?” He nodded. “Open up.” I shot him a mouthful of water. “I saw Luther on the phone list in your wallet. Is that number the best way to reach him?”
“It’s his cell. What are you trying to do, Andy?”
“You ever met Luther in Scottsbluff?”
“Once.”
“Where?”
“Ricki’s. Can I —”
“Who’s Ricki?”
“It’s a bar on Highway Ninety-two. Please, Andy…”
I touched the open nozzle to his lips and squeezed cold water down his throat. He sucked frantically, and I pulled it back after three seconds as a transfer truck roared by. I took Orson’s cell phone from my pocket. Dialing Luther’s number, I held up the half-empty squeeze bottle.
“The rest of it’s yours,” I said. “Find out if Luther can meet at Ricki’s tomorrow night. And be peppy. Don’t sound like you’ve been drugged up in a trunk for twenty hours. Fuck anything up and you’ll die slowly of thirst. I mean it. I’ll keep you on the brink of madness for days.” He nodded. “Brevity,” I said. Then I pushed the talk button and held the phone to his ear.
On the first ring, a man answered. I could clearly hear his voice.
“Hello?”
“Luth?”
“Hey.” I dribbled water onto Orson’s face.
“Where are you?” Orson asked.
“Gateway to the west. Just crossing the Mississippi. I can see the arch right now. Where are you?”
I mouthed, “Eastern Nebraska.”
“Eastern Nebraska,” Orson said. “You staying with Mandy tomorrow night?”
“Yeah, you wanna hook up at Ricki’s?”
“What time?”
“How’s nine? I’m staying tonight in St. Louis, so I won’t be in Scottsbluff till late tomorrow.”
“All right.” I moved my finger across my throat. “Hey, Luth, you’re breaking up.”
I pressed the button to end the call and returned the phone to my pocket. Then I gave Orson the rest of the bottle and watched the desperation finally retreat from his eyes.
“You need something to eat?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve gotta piss, Andy.”
“Can’t help you there.”
“What do you want me to do, piss in the trunk?”
“It’s your car.”
I opened the back door and fished out a syringe and a vial of Ativan from the fanny pack. Another car passed us, heading toward Lincoln, and I suddenly felt anxious to get on the road again.
“Turn over, Orson.” I stuck him with the needle.
“Andy,” he said as I put my hands on the trunk to close it, “you’re very good at this.”
The coffee and sinus medication had worn off hours ago, and on the tediously straight roads of western Nebraska, I now operated solely on the determination not to fall asleep.
I’d been driving for twenty-three hours and thirty-five minutes, and I existed in a limbo between sleep and consciousness. Occasionally, my forehead would touch the steering wheel, and I’d jerk back up and cherish a five-minute oasis of petrified alertness. Then my mind would drift back, and I’d lose consciousness for that split second and scare myself to death all over again.
Heading up Highway 26, fifty miles northwest of Ogallala, the prairie awoke. A peach sunrise was lifting out of the eastern horizon, and as the light strengthened, the land spread and spread and spread, farther than it seemed possible. It had changed overnight, and because I had not witnessed the gradual topographic expansion, t
his sudden revelation was staggering. For an easterner driving west, the stark vastness of the land and sky is always inconceivable, and I imagined a symphonic aubade to accompany the majesty of the morning.
At 6:30 A.M., I crossed the tree-lined North Platte River into the town of Bridgeport. In the southern distance, the tips of numerous sandstone buttes were catching coral sunbeams. Though several miles away, it looked like I could reach out and touch them.
Highway 26 cut through the sleeping town. On the western fringe, there was a motel called Courthouse View (named after a prominent butte five miles south), and I got a room there. Since I’d given Orson enough Ativan to maintain sedation for the better part of the day, I left him in the trunk, walked inside, and crashed.
I’d be meeting Luther in fourteen hours.
I checked out of Courthouse View in the late afternoon, and heading northwest toward Scottsbluff on Highway 92, I started mulling over what I’d gotten myself into with Luther. In all honesty, I’d done a stupid thing. It was already 5:07, and that left me a little under four hours to determine how I would kill him, dispose of him, and leave town unnoticed. Finally, I concluded that I was being hasty and reckless. Besides, I couldn’t get past the idea that I was going to get myself killed fucking with this guy. So fifteen miles outside of Scottsbluff, I decided not to go through with it. I’d been methodical up to this point, and while it was tempting to orchestrate a quick, clever way to do in Luther Kite, four hours wasn’t an adequate length of time in which to do it.
Ricki’s was a true shithole. On the southern outskirts of Scottsbluff, in the shadow of the eight-hundred-foot bluff from which the town assumed its name, I pulled into its dirt parking lot and turned off the car. Stepping outside into the dry, tingling cold, night was imminent, though the sun still illumined the prairie and the spire of Chimney Rock, tiny but distinct in the distance. The tourist brochure in the motel claimed that the five-hundred-foot inselberg had been a landmark for pioneers on the Oregon Trail — the first indication of the Rocky Mountains, which lay ahead. Walking toward the trunk with two squeeze bottles of water and three bags of potato chips, I stared at the golden sandstone buttes of the Wildcat Hills, thinking, I’d like to pick one of those hills and lie down on top and never leave. I’d just sit out there and erode, alone.
