Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy (85 page)

"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 worry 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?"

"This is Orson Thomas," I said. "The man we came to get. Don't pull this shit now, Walter. Pick up his feet so we can get the hell out of here."

"Tell me who this is right now," Walter said.

I let go of Orson and stepped up into Walter's face. "This is my twin," I said, my voice intentionally calm, "the Heart Surgeon. Every second that Cadillac sits in the driveway, we're risking getting caught. So, please, pick up his feet, so we can leave."

Walter grabbed Orson's feet up angrily and glared murderously into my eyes.

"I'll fucking kill you if this isn't Orson," he said as I lifted my brother again off the floor. "You had to lie to me?" he asked as we edged towards the doorway.

"I didn't lie to you…"

"Don't insult my intelligence by telling me this is your brother. He doesn't look a thing like you. I ought to fucking leave you here. Make me drive with a woman yelling in my trunk."

"She woke up?" I asked, turning the doorknob.

"That's why I didn't open the trunk. She's been screaming for the last hour."

"Shit."

"Yeah, shit's right, you prick…"

I kicked the door shut and dropped Orson. His head smacked onto the floor. I grabbed Walter by his shirt and flung him against the door, my right forearm digging into his soft neck.

"I'm not lying to you." I said. "That's my fucking brother whether he looks like it or not. How the hell do you think he's been able to kill for so long? And you want to walk out and leave him here. Suppose he lives? You just killed twenty or thirty more innocent people, because he won't ever stop. You've been tepid this whole trip, and even if you don't believe me, guess what? Too late. He's probably dead now, and you think that lady would forgive you if you opened the trunk and said you're sorry? Her husband's nearly dead. Her head's got a big fucking knot on it. You quit now, you go to jail, so do what you have to
to
finish this." I released him and he gasped for breath, clutching at his throat. Rage sizzled in his eyes but fear along with it.

We lifted Orson for the third time and walked back out into the night. I closed the door behind us, and we carried him carefully down the steps and across the grass. My eyes kept cutting back and forth from the icy blades beneath my feet to the surrounding houses with their warm, yellow lights and open curtains, the inhabitants moving carelessly about inside. It'd take one person glancing outside and seeing two strange men carrying something across the Parker's front lawn, to turn a mysterious disappearance into a murder investigation.

We set Orson down on the cold concrete, and Walter went to unlock the trunk. I could hear Mary crying inside, and her despair touched me in a very distant place.

"Don't open it yet," I whispered. "She's gonna scream bloody murder."

"No blood in my trunk," Walter whispered, as I took the
Glock
from my fanny pack.

"She's gonna wake the neighborhood when we throw Orson on top of her."

"I'll risk it," he said. "Nobody's blood is gonna stain that trunk."

"Then you lift that heavy bastard off the ground," I said, putting the
Glock
back into the fanny pack. I took the keys from Walter, and when he'd hoisted Orson up against the rear bumper, I turned the key and the trunk popped open. Mary didn't scream. Curled up in a corner with wild eyes like a caged animal, she looked at me and then Walter. She started to speak when her husband rolled on top of her and the trunk slammed shut, leaving her again in darkness.

# # #

"I wish it was misty again," Walter said as we sped along the highway. "Last night was perfect. That moon's worse than a fucking spotlight."

"You watching the mileage?" I asked, annoyed at Walter's apparent lack of attention to the most important detail of the night.

"3.7."

"The second it turns over to 4.8, you stop."

"Quit telling me the same…"

"I'll tell you as many times as I think it's necessary. You feel like digging another hole? It's a different ballgame when the dead people are with you."

4.8 miles north of the coffee shop in downtown Middlebury, Walter eased across the road, onto the wide shoulder of 116. He parked the car as close to the forest's edge as he could get, using the pine shadows to obscure the white Cadillac from moonlight. We stepped out and slammed the car doors, their echoes racing down the empty highway.

I buried my hands in the pockets of my suit before they could go numb. The air stung my cheeks, and I could only be thankful that the night was without wind or snow. The moon, rising now above the Green Mountains in the east, was as bright and full as I'd ever seen it. It turned the sky navy instead of black and kept the most luminous stars from showing.

"I see it!" Walter yelled, running through the stiff grass. He pointed to the large, flaking trunk of a pine, ten yards ahead, and I saw the shovel, too, it's head stabbed in the frozen earth.