by Blake Crouch
"Ah shit," he muttered. He struck the back of my head again, but it wasn’t nearly as powerful a blow. "Ah, fuck you, Andy." He slumped onto the floor, crouching on his hands and knees, trying to preserve his consciousness. "Stay with it," he mumbled. "No. No."
Yanking the needle out of my back, I stood up and moved to the open doorway of his bedroom. My face felt swollen, and I could not see as clearly through my left eye. But the adrenaline masked the pain, even the deep microscopic holes in my back. Beneath the mechanic’s suit, lines of blood streamed down my legs. Orson fell over onto his side on the floor.
"No." He sighed sleepily, his speech beginning to slur. "Andy. Don’t do things…" He shut his eyes and was still.
There was a knock on the front door. I held the gun by the muzzle and hammered Orson across the forehead until I saw blood. Then I ran into the hallway and rushed down the staircase.
"Walter?" I yelled through the door.
"It’s me," he said, and I let him inside. The coldness of the night radiated off his clothes. "Where’s your broth — Oh God, your face…"
"I’m fine. Come on," I said, starting back up the steps. "Put on your latex gloves. He’s upstairs."
26
WHILE Walter dragged Orson down the steps in his boxer shorts and rolled him up in the florid Persian rug, I again searched every crevice of my brother’s bedroom. Searching under the bed, I located the shoe box of microcassettes and two more videotapes, but this was the extent of my discovery. Another thorough inspection of the closet produced nothing out of the ordinary. In the guest room, I found nothing, and by the time I’d begun a second perusal of the study, I waxed furious.
"You see this?" I said, exiting the hallway on the first floor and lifting the shoe box above my head. "It’s all he keeps in his entire house that would clue anyone in to what he is."
In a mechanic’s suit like mine, Walter sat on top of Orson, who was now cocooned inside the rug.
"There are more pictures than this," I said. "Pictures of me doing horrible things to people. In a self-storage unit or a safety-deposit box. You know what happens when this son of a bitch can’t pay the bill ’cause he’s dead? They clear out his space and find pictures of me digging a heart out of a woman’s chest." Now you know.
Walter looked at me, but he didn’t ask for elaboration. Standing up, he walked across the hardwood floor into Orson’s study. He lifted the decanter of cognac and poured himself an immoderately full snifter.
"You want one?" he asked, warming the brandy with a delicate swirling motion of the glass.
"Please." He poured me one, too, and brought it into the living room. We sat down on Orson’s futon before the hearth, swirling and sipping our brandies in silence, each waiting for that euphoric calm, though it never fully came.
"Will he tell us?" Walter asked finally.
"Tell us what?"
"About the pictures of you, and the man who wrote on Jenna’s arm."
I turned my head and found Walter’s eyes, my cheeks candescent with the liquor.
"Absofuckinlutely."
We carried him out the front door and down the steps. The moon shone bone white through the leafless, calligraphic trees. The alcohol numbed my face, diminishing the sting of the cold.
The rug wouldn’t fit into the trunk, so we unrolled it and let Orson slide into the dark, empty cavity. I checked his breathing, and though it was steady, they were damn shallow breaths. A light cut on in the house across the street. The figure of a man came to a bay window.
"Come on, Walter," I said. "This is just about the worst place we could be right now."
We headed back down the mountain the way we’d come and turned right onto Main Street. I stared out my window as we passed the campus, its brick walkways lighted but empty. Farther on, I caught a glimpse of the white gazebo, where I’d stood in the snow just yesterday, in search of the man who now lay unconscious in the trunk.
"We got him, didn’t we?" I said, and the brandy drew a smirk across my face.
"I’ll celebrate when he’s got a hundred pounds of cold dirt on top of his face, and we know where the man is who threatened my daughter."
Downtown Woodside was hopping for 10:30 at night. In spite of the cold, students filled the sidewalks. I could see a hundred miniature clouds of breath vapor, and hear their hollering through the glass. Dueling bars on opposite sides of the street had students milling outside the doors in long, anxious lines, waiting to reach the mirthful warmth inside. It made perfect sense to me. It was too cold in this town to do anything but drink.
Seven point eight miles from Beans n’ Bagels, Walter eased off the pavement, pulling onto the soft, wide shoulder of 116. He drove through the grass for a hundred yards and stopped in the shadow of two oaks.
"Your shovel’s back there," he said. "I saw it against that tree." He leaned back in his seat and killed the engine. I turned around and looked through the back windshield. Up and down the highway, bathed now in blue frozen moonlight, nothing moved.
"How’s your face?" he asked.
"My nose feels broken, but it’s not." It was hot to the touch, the skin across the bridge having tightened from swelling. My left eye had nearly closed, but, surprisingly, it didn’t hurt.
"You wanna help me get him out?" I asked.
Two door slams echoed through the pine forest and up the slopes. An owl hooted somewhere above us, and I pictured it sitting on the flaking branch of a gnarled pine, wide-eyed, listening. I was tipsy from the brandy, and I staggered a little en route to the rear of the Cadillac.
Walter inserted a key and popped open the trunk. Orson lay on his stomach, his arms splayed out above his head. I reached in without hesitation and, grabbing his arms just above the elbows, dragged him out of the trunk and let him fall into the grass. Though he was shirtless, the cold didn’t rouse him. Walter opened the back door and then lifted my brother’s feet. We crammed him into the backseat, and Walter climbed on top of him and handcuffed his wrists behind his back. Turning Orson over, he slapped him hard across the face five times. I didn’t say anything.
Hurrying back to the door, I hopped inside. "Turn the heat on," I said. "It’s cold as shit."
Walter cranked the engine, and it idled noiselessly. I bent down and held my face before the vents, letting the engine-heated air thaw my cheeks.
"Orson," I said, getting up on my knees in the seat and facing the back. He lay unmoving on his stomach, stretched out from door to door. I could see his face — his eyes were closed. Reaching into the backseat, I grabbed his arms and shook him violently, but he made no sound.
I climbed into the backseat and knelt down on the floorboard so we were face-to-face. "Orson," I said, so near to his lips, I could’ve kissed him. "Wake. Up." I slapped him. It felt good. "Wake. Up!" I shouted, but he didn’t flinch. "Fuck it." I crawled back into the front seat. "Guess we’ll just wait."
"How much did you give him?" Walter asked.
"Fifteen milligrams."
"Look, I don’t want to sit out here all night. Just give him the antidote."
"It might kill him. It’s a hell of a shock. We should let him come to on his own if he can."
I stared down the highway and watched a set of headlights suddenly appear and vanish.
"Out in Wyoming," I said, "you can see headlights when they’re still twenty or thirty miles away." I angled the seat back and turned onto my right side, facing the door. "Walter?"
"Yeah?"
"I killed a man in Wyoming."
He didn’t say anything, and we were quiet for some time.
"You remember that party I threw last May?" I asked finally.
"Yeah."
"I keep thinking about that night. We were sitting out on my pier —"
"Pretty drunk, if I recall."
"Yep. I distinctly remember thinking: You lucky, lucky man. Thirty-four, successful, respected. You have a quality of life most people can’t even fathom…. One week later, to the day, I received that
envelope from Orson…. How do we go home after this? I can’t imagine ever wanting to write again. Or feeling normal. Like anything’s good. Like people are capable of goodness." I motioned to Orson. "When we were in the desert, he told me I had murder in my heart."
"I think it’s safe to say he was projecting."
I glanced down at the gun in my lap.
"I think he was right, Walter."
"You are not an evil person."
"No, but I could be. I see that now. We’re a lot closer to it than you think." I dropped my Glock into the fanny pack. "Will you stay awake and watch Orson?"
"Yeah."
"Wake me up in an hour, and I’ll let you sleep."
"There’s no way I’m going to sleep."
"Then wake me when he wakes." I curled up in the seat. To fall asleep, I imagined I was lounging in a beach chair in Aruba. The vents were my tropical breeze, and I could even hear the ocean in the vibration of the idling engine.
Hands shook me, and I sat up. My head ached as if a fault had rifted around the perimeter of my skull. Walter stared at me, the .45 in his lap.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"One. He’s stirred, but I don’t think he’s waking up anytime soon. Not coherently at least."
"All right. I’ll give him the antidote."
I searched through the fanny pack until I found the 10-mL vial of the benzodiazepine antidote, flumazenil. Aspirating the entire vial, I climbed into the backseat and took hold of Orson’s left arm. Locating the same vein I’d hit before, I penetrated the skin, depressed the plunger with my thumb, and injected one milligram of flumazenil. When the syringe was empty, I slid it out and climbed back into the front seat.
"You ready?" I asked. "He’s gonna come out of this fast. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."
A minute elapsed. Then Orson moved, rubbing his face into the seat and trying to sit up. There was a nasty gash on his forehead where I’d coldcocked him with the butt of the Glock. A trail of dried blood traversed a path from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, like runaway mascara. He mumbled.
"Sit him up," I said, coming to my knees again and facing the backseat.
Walter grabbed him by his hair and jerked him ruthlessly up into the center seat. Orson steadied himself and opened his eyes. When he saw me, he produced an enervate smile.
"Andy," he said clearly, "what in the world —"
"Where are those videotapes you made of the killings? And the pictures you took, like that card you sent me?"
"I had a dream we fought," he said. "I kicked the shit out of you, as I recall." The reversal of the sedation was miraculous. Orson was lucid, pupils dilated, heart racing.
"Hit the cigarette lighter, Walter," I said, and he punched it in.
"Walt?" Orson said. "What are you doing here?"
"Don’t talk to him," I said to Walter.
"He can talk to me if he wants to. How’s the fam, Walt?"
"Orson," Walter growled. "I’m gonna —" I grabbed Walter’s arm and, catching his eyes, shook my head. Flushed, he nodded.
"No, let him talk," Orson said. "He’s probably a little pissed at me and wants to get it off his chest."
"No, Orson. Tonight’s about you."
Orson smiled, finding Walter’s eyes in the rearview mirror. "How’s little Jenna?" Hands on the steering wheel, Walter looked down into his lap at the .45. "I hear she’s precious. I’ll bet you’re proud as —"
"Walter isn’t moved by your taunts," I said. "You aren’t in any position to —"
"If he isn’t moved, why’d he just look down at his gun?" Orson smiled at Walter. "Thinking of doing something rash?"
"Orson," I said, "this is between —"
"I think he’s upset because one of my other protégés has his eye on the Lancing clan."
Walter’s fingers constricted around the Glock. Coming to his knees, he faced my brother.
"His name’s Luther," Orson continued. "Would you like to know more about him, Walter? He may become a big part of your life. In fact, he may already be a big part of your life. You see, when I took him out to the desert three years ago, he took an avid interest in —"
"Walter, just ignore —"
"Let him finish."
"Not that it’s my inclination," Orson said, "but among his many interests, Luther likes little things. Well, more specifically, he likes to hurt little things, and me not being one to pass judgment, I told him, ‘I know two little things named Jenna and John David Lancing who could use a little hurting.’ "
"I don’t believe you."
"You don’t have to believe me, Walter. Luther believes me, and that’s all that matters. His visit to Jenna’s school was just an introduction. He’s met Beth, too, though she didn’t realize it. At my urging, he’s added your address to his Rolodex, and if he hasn’t already, I’m sure he’ll come calling at Fifteen eighteen Shortleaf Drive any day now. Oh, that’s right, Beth took the kids away. Well, Luther will find them, if he hasn’t already. He’s very motivated — what the FBI profilers would call a ‘hedonic thrill killer,’ which means he receives sexual gratification from the agony of others. Believe me when I tell you, he’s one macabre motherfucker. He even scares me."
Walter pressed his gun against Orson’s chest.
"No," I said calmly. "Just sit back."
"When I pull this trigger," Walter said to Orson, "the force of the bullet impacting your chest will be so intense, your heart might stop. How does it feel, Orson?"
"I imagine I feel like your wife and children are going to feel. And trust me on this, Walter. You could flay me, and I wouldn’t call off Luther."
"Put that fucking gun down," I said. "This is not the way to do this."
"He’s talking about my family."
"He’s lying. He will tell us."
"I’m not lying, Walter. Shall I tell you how Luther’s planning to do your family, or do you want it to be a surprise?"
Walter ground his teeth together, trembling with explosive rage.
"I’m not telling you again," I said. "Put it down."
"Fuck off, Andy."
I took my Glock from the fanny pack and pointed it at my best friend. "I won’t let you shoot him. Not yet. Think about it. If you kill him, we aren’t gonna find out where Luther is. You’re risking your family now."
"If he’s dead, maybe Luther will leave us alone. Orson’s just doing this because I know about him." He chambered the first round.
"Walter, you’re a little crazy now, so just —" I leaned forward to take the gun from him, but he jerked back and turned his .45 on me.
"You put the gun down."
My finger moved onto the trigger.
"You gonna shoot me?"
"You aren’t a parent," he said, incensed. "You don’t know." He trained the gun back on my brother. "Count to three, you piece of shit."
"Okay. One."
"Walter!"
"Two."
"You kill him, you kill your family!"
Before Walter reached three, Orson drew his knees into his chest and kicked the back of my seat. Jerking forward into the dashboard, I felt my finger slip, and though I didn’t hear the gunshot, my Glock recoiled.
Walter fell back onto the steering wheel, and it bleated through the countryside. I lifted him off the horn and he sagged into my lap, spilling all over me.
I wept; Orson laughed.
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, an
d 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?"
