In the middle of the story, and without so much as a good-bye, the animal dealer hung up on the movie star.
Then, after a brief consultation with his tax attorney, who did a half hour's research on his behalf, the movie star determined that it would be in his best interests to make a charitable donation of one orangutan to the primate research facility at his alma mater, a small liberal arts college in central Florida.
The college's research facility was run by a professor whose specialization was behavioral psychology. For ten years the professor had been depending on captive-born monkeys, gibbons, chimps, and crab-eating macaques for his experiments in stress management. Customarily, the monkeys and apes were strapped for twelve to fifteen hours a day into aluminum chairs and were subjected to a variety of noises, lights, movements, and odors. Pulse rates and blood pressure and even cholesterol levels were monitored continually.
In ten years of lab research, the professor had produced forty-three articles on the results of his experiments. They detailed changes of heart function and blood serum as well as a host of other biological changes resulting from the stresses applied.
In all cases, what he found was the same. Stress caused clear and decisive deterioration in general health. While the stages of deterioration varied in individual cases, there was no doubt that when macaques were forced to listen to jet engine noise reproduced at 80 to 100 decibels on a continual basis, their health was negatively affected.
Although some of his colleagues at the college criticized his experiments as facile and predictable, scholarly journals continued to accept his articles, and the professor's career flourished.
Lately, however, he had begun to observe that his laboratory subjects were growing numb to his testing. They showed less and less inclination to react to the loud noises, the bright lights, the foul odors that he discharged into their cages. Their pulse curves had flattened considerably, much smaller swings in their blood pressure. It seemed they were becoming callous and indifferent.
New animals were extremely expensive, and as usual, because of low enrollments, the college was suffering financially. If the college's endowment continued to shrink and the professor's publishing productivity substantially dwindled, there was a very real danger that he might have to begin teaching undergraduate classes again, a fate he had successfully avoided for the last ten years.
So when his dean called him on Friday, November eleventh, to inform him of the movie star's generous gift to the college, the professor was elated. With a new experimental subject, it was possible he could extend his research for years.
Immediately after the dean hung up, the professor began to consider new stress tests. Air horns, gunfire, ultraviolet sunlamps, the smell of putrefying flesh, sewage. And just as exciting was the prospect that when the orangutan had supplanted his other research animals, the professor might then be free to use the macaques and gibbons in some of the more hazardous experiments in physical stress that he'd hesitated to perform before.
Some years ago, the professor had used grant money to purchase a machine with a compressed-air-driven piston, something like a small jack-hammer. It was capable of exerting very precise impact forces up to five thousand pounds. It was his hope to use the apparatus to study impact tolerance. The Chrysler Corporation had awarded him the grant in hopes that the professor could establish the exact breaking point of skull plates, so they could design their newest models without wasting extra steel.
But because the danger of inadvertently killing his experimental subjects had heretofore scared the professor off, the machine sat unused in a corner of his office. Now, with the orangutan's arrival, he believed he would feel comfortable with such a risk.
The professor had long ago sketched out the details of a set of potential experiments. First he would totally immobilize his chimps and macaques in heavy plaster casts, then fix the casts to specially designed steel chairs. Using the jack-hammer, he would slam the piston at very precisely controlled impact levels against joints, soft tissues, cranial pressure points. Strike the animals, measure damage, short-and long-term recuperation, measure biological reactions. And of course, try to keep the strikes just below lethal pounds-per-square-inch dosages.
Barring accidents, there was every likelihood that the professor could keep his primates alive for several more years of useful research.
CHAPTER 31
That Friday afternoon, well into happy hour now, the White brothers' usual quitting time, Ray set the local section of Thursday's Miami Herald in front of Orlon and went over to his own desk and sat down. Orlon was dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt with the sleeves hacked off. Black cowboy boots. Doing his Harley-guy imitation. Ray still in his Beverly Hills cool-guy threads. Rocket ship tie.
Orlon glanced at the newspaper, then looked up at Ray.
"You just reading about this? Man, it happened about six hundred years ago. Lots of water been flushed since then. Lotta shit passed on through the pipes."
Ray fidgeted with the brand-new Webster's Pocket Dictionary, fanned the pages, then set the fat book off to the side of his desk. He looked across at Orlon. His brother was going over the article, humming to himself as he read.
Ray looked out at the Mazda place. Watching people arriving to pick up their cars, others dropping theirs off. Ray wondered about Tricia, if this was what she'd had in mind for him, a show-down with Orlon. But then, he thought, no, she'd wanted Ray to figure it out himself. Do it with no help from her. Very mysterious, Tricia telling him he'd know when it was accomplished.
"Tell me why you felt you had to do something like this. Cut their noses, the snakes. Kill all those people. Why, man?"
Orlon looked up.
"Is it my fault?" Ray said. "Did I bully you into this?"
"Bully me?"
"When I said what I did to you about facing your fear."
Orlon grimaced in disdain and shook his head.
"Shit, no, Rayon. The things you say to me, they have absolutely no effect on my behavior whatsoever. Never have."
"Never?"
"You know that movie Chinatown? You've seen it, right?"
"We're discussing an important matter here, Orlon. I don't want to talk about goddamn movies, all right?"
"Well, there's that one scene. Roman Polanski directed it. He also acted in it, a little part, some Mafia bad guy. And in this one scene, Roman puts a knife blade into Jack Nicholson's nose, right into his nostril, holds it there for almost a minute. They're having this whole, long conversation with a knife blade in Nicholson's nose the entire time.
"I mean, that in itself is a great moment in filmmaking. First time I saw it, I put my popcorn down, couldn't pick it up for ten minutes. So after Polanski threatens Jack, gives him this long speech, then, like it's just an afterthought or something, very casual, he slices the everloving shit out of Nicholson's nostril.
"Now, I been over and over that moment, looking at the video in slow-mo, clicking the frames by one at a time. I scrutinized the hell out of it, but fuck if I can see how they special-effected it. So what I started thinking was, and I'm telling you, Rayon, this is revolutionary in the annals of movie criticism — what I think is, they didn't fake the nose thing.
"What Polanski did was, he cut Jack's nose for real. And even more wild than that, Jack wasn't in on it. Like maybe they rehearsed the scene with a rubber knife, but then when the cameras were rolling, Polanski put a real blade into Nicholson's nostril just so he could get that incredible look in Jack's face. Jack feels the cold steel in his nose, realizes what Polanski's doing to him, and the fucking fear in his face, man, it's like he's just about to load up his Jockey shorts with yesterday's hot lunch.
"Must've freaked the fuck out of Jack. Polanski flicks the knife, and there's damn blood flying everywhere. Real blood. Jack's genuine, hundred-percent real blood. And imagine what the rest of the cast was thinking, the crew, everybody. They look at this guy, Polanski, their boss, and hey, he just cut the shit out of this fa
mous actor, and now the crew, they see Polanski is as crazy as a tattooed dick. Guy'll do anything for his movie. Any fucking thing he thinks'll make it better."
Ray was staring hard at his brother, shaking his head from side to side in absolute, total disbelief. But Orlon didn't seem to notice. When he'd finished with his movie criticism, he just bowed his head, went back to reading the article again.
"What in fuck's name are you talking about?"
Orlon looked up.
"What? You don't see my point?"
"What fucking point? You got no point."
"I was explaining myself to you, is all." Orlon stood up. "You asked me why I had to kill those motorcycle guys, so that's what I was doing, explaining the psychology of it. I was doing to those people the same thing as Polanski did to Jack. Pushing the envelope. Making the best movie I could."
"Making a movie? What movie?"
"The fucking movie in my head. The one I'm shooting every second of my life. My eyes are the camera. I zoom in, zoom out. I'm the director, writer, producer, best boy, everything. My epic movie. The Story of Orlon White. Life on the Wild Side."
Ray kept shaking his head, and looked back over at the Mazda place. Kept looking as he tried to sort this out, letting the goose bumps die down. He heard Orlon scoot his chair back, get up, come over. Stand beside him.
"Hell, I thought maybe the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders were naked out there, the way you were staring."
"I'm looking at the cars, is all. All those Mazdas lined up."
"Place is jumping today, that's for sure."
Ray glanced up at Orlon. His little hairless brother was studying the Mazda repair shop, totally focused on that now. Blipping right from murder to nose cutting, from noses to movies, movies to Mazdas, like everything was equal to everything else.
"You know," said Orlon. "Like I always say, if it's got tits or tires, sooner or later it's going to cost you."
Ray stood up, came around his desk, got face-to-face with Orlon. His brother pinched at a stray hair he'd found on his wrist. Then he brought his wrist up to his mouth and nibbled at the thing, his eyes moving to Ray's eyes as he chewed. Ray could hear his teeth click.
"Listen to you, Orlon," Ray said. "You're acting like this is some kind of goddamn joke. You killed those people. Murdered a dozen American citizens, women included. Do you hear me? This is a Ted Bundy thing. Son of Sam. This is not some flicking movie. It's not something going on in your head. It's out here, out here in the real world where everybody else is."
Orlon squinted up at his brother. Took his wrist out of his mouth.
"Whatta you all worked up over?"
"We got ourselves a problem here, a serious problem."
"What problem? Did I leave a trail of bread crumbs to our door? You see any cops around here?"
"There's other problems besides just the law."
"Yeah? Like name one for me, why don't you?"
"There's scruples. Right and wrong. It's not all just about getting caught or not getting caught."
"Where'd you get a dickhead idea like that? Scruples? Jesus, you been sneaking off to church or what?"
"Where I got that idea," Ray said, "was from Mom."
Orlon shut up, turned his head away so Ray couldn't see his face, but Ray could picture it, which of Orlon's looks it was. Same expression he got when a woman dumped on him in public. Eyes dull, mouth slack, a bland, snoozy look. Like he didn't give a shit, this didn't hurt, didn't hurt a bit. Go ahead, cut another inch off his cock, see if he flinched.
"We gotta find some way," Ray said, "the both of us, some way we can make up for the evil we've perpetrated. It's what Darlene Annette would've wanted. We've done some disgraceful, evil shit, now we got to find a way to make it right again. Get back to how it was before."
"We do, huh?" Face still turned away, but Ray could tell the expression was still there. Voice dull, a sleepwalking tone. "Make things right 'cause of our dead mom."
"Yeah, that's what we got to do."
"You got some particular idea in mind, or is this just more of Rayon White's hocus-pocus psycho-bullshit. Say it today, forget it tomorrow."
"I'm working on some ideas," Ray said. "Ways to make amends. Reparations."
More cars lining up at the Mazda place. People getting off work, coming directly to the repair shop. Out there talking to each other, waiting to get written up. Comparing depressing stories about what shitty cars they'd bought.
"First off, I want you to go in with me, talk to my shrink."
"Give me a break."
"I'm serious, Orlon. This is important to me."
"Hell," Orlon said. "Before you get it all figured out, how we're going to get all this fucking forgiveness, maybe you should come take a look at something."
"At what?"
"More disgraceful shit you can add to your list."
Orlon headed off into the warehouse without a look at Ray.
Ray closed his eyes, blew out a breath, then followed.
He caught up to Orlon back in the primate room. Orlon stood in front of the empty orangutan cage, only as Ray could see as he got closer, it wasn't empty at all. There was a guy inside it.
The guy from the other night. Kurt Franklin's partner, hunched up, knees up around his throat, arms hugging his ankles. He had blood running down from his hair, little dried trails of it across his forehead. And there were some shit-ugly bruises on his cheeks.
Guy must've weighed near two hundred pounds. Ray would've liked to know how in hell Orlon lifted him up there, three feet off the ground, crammed him inside.
"What the hell!"
"While you were off playing footsie with your brain doctor, I was over at Allison's. Just sitting there, parked, same place as before, when who walks up but this guy. Lying son of a bitch ape-kisser, just like I said. There he is, cahooting with the enemy."
Ray looked in the cage, the guy staring out at him, eyes set on high.
"Why the fuck did you do this, Orlon? Bring him here?"
"So you and me, we could take our own happy time." Orlon poked a finger through the grid of bars, jabbing the guy's knee. "Interrogate the hell out of him, find out where he's secreted Ms. Allison Ballcrusher Farleigh. Then when we're done, we can figure out the exact best method of exterminating the lying ape-kissing son of a bitch."
***
Friday afternoon, only a few minutes after Brad Randolph's phone call to Hickman College, the orangutan left Brad's compound in West Palm strapped tightly into a child's car seat in the back of a white Cadillac limousine.
By the time the limo was an hour north of Palm Beach, the ape discovered that he could wriggle his finger under a seam in the backseat. Little by little, as the miles went by, he widened the tear and began to explore the batting and springs below.
At five forty-five the chauffeur found his way to the Hickman College psychology lab and parked the car and got out. Watching him come to the rear door, the orangutan scooped up the pile of cotton stuffing, foam, springs, and electrical wiring, and when the chauffeur opened the rear door, the orangutan sat very still until the man ducked his head inside, and the orangutan filled the air with the curious fruits of his afternoon's labor.
***
It was the eastern diamondback rattlesnake that finally got Thorn's full attention. Orlon held the snake right up against the guy's penis, saying, "So tell us, Thorn. You and Allison are real close, I take it, real bosom buddies. Maybe you're so close, you let the lady handle your pet snake? Something like this."
Orlon rubbed the rattler's head through the guy's pubic hair, jerking it aside when the snake tried to strike.
Ray stood in the doorway of the primate room watching the guy squirm his naked butt on the bare concrete floor. Shorts pulled down to his shins, his hands tied behind his back with a few dozen turns of heavy fishing line. Fingers a dark, oily blue and puffy from how tight Orlon wrapped the line.
The snake hissed, its mouth wide open, hypodermic needle fangs hinged o
ut, its rattles chattering like a field of dried-out milkpods.
"The walls are soundproofed," Orlon told the guy. "So go on, yell the 'Star-Spangled Banner' if you want, scream the pledge of allegiance. Isn't anybody gonna stand up and salute."
Gripping the diamondback by the throat, Orlon bent over the guy again, brought the snake down slowly. The rattler was a six-foot monster, body fully inflated, rough-scaled, big wedge-shaped head, purplish gray body, white X's braiding up and down its length. Large thermal pits between eyes and nose. Crotalus adamanteus.
A diamondback that large sold for a hundred and a quarter. Most dangerous snake in North America. Such a mean fucker, brimming over with venom, that even after all these years in the business Ray had never touched one. Always used the loop pole. But Orlon was different. It was a point of honor with him. Point of manhood.
Now Orlon brought the snake lower. Thorn glared at the diamondback like he thought there was a chance he could stare that snake down. Orlon moved the rattler close, rubbed its head again through the guy's thick sandy pubic hair, worked it down toward his dick.
"I know Allison's not at home, 'cause I had a nice look through her house just before you got there. So what I need to know now is, where'd you hide the bitch? I got a deal to offer her. A tit-for-tat kind of thing."
Thorn said nothing, staring into Orlon's eyes like he was looking for signs of life. Good luck on that, was all Ray could think. His brother was in the zombie zone. You could set off a stick of dynamite next to him, he wouldn't blink.
Orlon drew the rattler away. Ray watched it all, helpless. A minute ago, quiet as a priest, he had things on the right track, getting it out in the open. Saying reparation like he'd used the word all his life. Feeling calm as he explained to Orlon that they'd have to make amends. Now look.
Gone Wild (Thorn Series Book 4) Page 31
