Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy (88 page)

To someone who didn't know what to look for, the bruise might never draw a glance. But I'd seen her in the cold morgue, and the blackish-purple ring around her neck had been strikingly obvious then. It had looked as if someone had scribbled with black and purple magic markers on her soft, white neck. But now, in this reverent visitation room, only a light periwinkle shown through the makeup on her throat, like dull violets poking through snow.

I cried, touching her face. Though stiff and unnatural, it was hers. Her hands had been folded on top of each other, and they rested on her chest as if she merely slept. When I leaned down to whisper in her ear, I felt a pair of cruel, penetrating eyes staring through my back. My heart froze, and a cold sweat beaded on my forehead. Quickly, I spun around, darting my head towards the two sets of double doors on either end of the long, rectangular room. Jim, Hannah, and Wendy stood in a small circle, chatting by the entrance, and there was no one at the other end. I took a slow, measured breath, and turned back towards my mother, waiting for the icy feeling in my heart to retreat, though it never did.

# # #

White lights sparkled on the opposite shores, and a biting wind swept across the cold water. I stood shivering atop the grassy bank, watching the white Cadillac glide into the murky water. As it filled and lowered into the depths of Lake Norman, the air inside rushed out, breaking into tiny bubbles like a boiling cauldron on the surface. Then it was gone, the black, glassy surface smooth and calm again, except for where the wind stirred it.

I walked back through the woods, towards my property, the ground muddy from the construction that had begun on a new subdivision. No houses were finished, but concrete foundations, gravel roads, and skeletal wood frames were already in place. A wide swath of forest had been gutted, giving the landscape a bruised, beaten demeanor. It would be another six months before anyone moved here, and though my house was nearly half a mile up the shore, I still hated that I would one day have neighbors so close. I might even move when the yuppies came, with their four-wheel-drives and bratty kids.

Rarely did I think of Walter. Only when his wife called, wondering if he'd contacted me, did his face cross my mind and torture me. But for the most part, I'd mastered the management of guilt, simply by disconnecting myself from his memory. I hadn't killed him. Though heartbroken for the loss, it was business, another casualty of Orson. He knew the risk when he went to Vermont. He made the choice. It was remarkable how numb I felt.

Walter hadn't told Beth where or with whom he was going. All she knew was that on Wednesday morning, November 2
^nd
, Walter had left before dawn with enough luggage for several days. He'd told her nothing, and she had trusted him. Now, for reasons unknown to me, Beth had chosen my shoulder to cry on. I'd been on the phone with her earlier tonight before I drove her husband's car from my garage to this muddy section of woods and sent it rolling into the lake. Though I hated myself for lying to her, there was no other way. No one could know that Walter and I had been to Vermont. As I walked in the dark, feeling my way between frozen trees, I thought, I'll help her come to terms with the possibility her husband might be dead. I'll help her through this, for Walter.

Leaves crunched beneath my footsteps, and occasionally I'd step on a stick that snapped the silence. These woods are so different from the pine forests of Vermont, I thought, picturing that dark, intimate gravesite, cloaked in pines. Here the trees were larger, spread farther apart, the forest floor soft and deep with the decades of dead leaves.

Orson was always with me, at the edge of thought, an omniscient quality to him now, like an evil god. As I passed through the woods, I saw him behind every tree, lurking in the shadows, hiding in my quiet house. I couldn't bring myself to question what had happened in Middlebury, how a man could climb out of a hole with eight bullets in his chest and an overdose of tranquilizer coursing through his veins. But the alternative was more terrifying. If not Orson, who had I buried in Vermont? Here, the retrospection ended. I had a keen ability to think myself up to the edge of madness and stop before plunging into the abyss. I had one purpose now. Utterly at Orson's mercy, I would wait for him to contact me. There was nothing else I could do. You can't sneak up on God.

In the distance, I saw my glowing house, shining like a beacon in the dark, surrounded by the sweet, bitter-smelling red junipers I'd planted last spring. I'd left the lights on, and I walked through the yard towards the back porch steps, peering through the windows into the lonely interior. For a moment, I wanted someone, anyone to be with me. A loneliness grasped me, so overpowering tears burned down the sides of my face. But angrily, I wiped them away and cursed the weakness that had struck me. It was the sort of thing he preyed upon.

Warm and silent inside my house, I turned on the television, went to the wet bar, and fixed myself a Jack and Coke. It was after eleven o'clock, so the local news was on, and as I poured the whiskey over cubes of ice, I heard an anchorwoman say, "Heart Surgeon." I turned and looked at the screen as the video cut to Agent Harold Trent standing before a dozen microphones inside the FBI headquarters in Washington. The
soundbyte
began halfway through his first official statement to the press since October 31
^st
.

"…testing, we have confirmed that at least seventeen of the hearts found on East Street belong to the corresponding names. We have several leads, but I can't discuss further…"

The telephone rang, destroying my concentration. I left my drink half-made and walked into the kitchen, grabbing it on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"You son of a bitch." Her voice was heartless.

"Beth?"

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked.

"What are you talking…"

"I know you called me, Andy. I just dialed Star69 and you picked up the phone!"

"Beth, I don't understand…"

"Bullshit! Why didn't you call from a payphone this time?"

"I haven't called you, Beth."

"What'd you do to my husband?!" she screamed through tears. "Tell me where he is!"

"I don't know."

"You said insects were crawling in him. What does that mean?!"

"I didn't…" A chill descended my spine. "Wait," I whispered. I brought the phone to my chest and listened. The television blared through the house, so I set the phone on the counter, walked into the living room, and cut it off. Now I could hear nothing but my heart, pounding like a blacksmith's hammer. I returned to the phone. "Beth," I whispered.

"I'm calling the police."

"I didn't call you. I got home five minutes ago, and that means someone has been in my house. You said this person has called you before?"

"Yes." Her voice trembled.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"He said he'd kill me and my children if I told anyone. He said he'd know."

"You have to believe that wasn't me," I said. "I promise you, Beth. Do you believe me?"

"Yes," she said, though still hesitant.

"You're in danger," I said. "We both are. You have someplace you can take your kids?"

"Yes, I have an…"

"Don't tell me. Just go. Go right now and stay there till you hear from me. I'll leave a message on your answering machine. Don't tell anyone you're leaving. Not a soul."

"What about the police?"

"Not even them."

"This has to do with Walter, doesn't it?"

"We don't have much time," I said, glancing at the living room, then up the staircase towards the darker second floor. "I'll explain it to you later. You have to trust me now."

"I have to know about my husband," she said, crying again. "Please tell me."

"If you don't leave now, you and your children will die tonight. Now go." I hung up the phone and wiped my sweaty hands across my jeans. A gun, I thought. Shit, I don't have a gun. My
Glock
, Walter's 9mm, the silencers, and even the boxes of rounds sat on the bottom of the lake. So I grabbed a butcher knife from the cutting block and walked towards the staircase.
           

My footsteps echoed through the house as I ascended the steps. The second floor hallway was dark, along with the open guestroom. I moved from the hardwood steps into the carpeted hall and flipped on the ceiling lamp. The white walls became yellow under the orange light, and the sickening pulse of fear ran through me, making my stomach hurt, my legs weak. Turning right, I walked towards the end of the hallway to my bedroom. The door was closed, but I couldn't remember shutting it.

With the knife in my right hand, I turned the doorknob and cracked the door, then kicked it open and turned on the light. My bedroom seemed empty. The two windows on the left wall, which looked out on the meandering drive, were hidden behind their blinds. I walked quickly through the threshold to the walk-in closet on the right, and without giving consideration to my fear, opened the door and pulled the light switch. Empty. Moving to the bathroom beside it, I opened the door, and in the dim glow of the nightlight, ripped off the shower curtain. Empty.

Coming out of the bathroom, I noticed an impression on the bedspread. I ran my hand across the warm, ruffled blanket, sat down, and picked up the phone on the bedside table. Pressing redial, the numbers blitzed through silence, followed by two rings.

"Hello?"

"Beth, it's Andy. I wanted to make sure you're leaving."

"I'm packing now."

"Good girl. I'll call you soon." I hung up the phone and stood up. My hands shook, still holding the knife. As I walked towards the door, something on the dresser facing the bed caught my eye. An unmarked envelope, which hadn't been there before, lay on a stack of
New Yorkers
. Opening it, I expected to find a sheet of paper with that horrible black ink. But I only withdrew an airline ticket. Under the illumination of a stained-glass lamp standing on the dresser, I examined the ticket: November 21
^st
, 8:00 a.m., Billings, Montana. Two weeks away.

Setting the knife on the dresser, I closed my eyes for a moment. I was tired of this. Tired of the fear. When I opened my eyes again, I looked into the circular mirror above the dresser and gasped. In black magic marker, there was something written on the glass, and I couldn't imagine how I'd missed it:

RENT A CAR AND DRIVE TO THE C.M. RUSSELL

WILDLIFE REFUGE FIRST THING 11/22

WAIT FOR ME WHERE 19 CROSSES THE MISSOURI R.

I collapsed onto the bed. For a long time, I stared up at the bumpy ceiling, my eyes traversing the tiny clumps of paint that looked like a vast, snow-covered range of mountains.
  

# # #

Fifty miles north of Billings, Montana, in the midst of an empty, nothing land, I pulled off the road to piss. I left the car running on the flat shoulder and stepped out into swaying grass. It was bitter cold, and dry, sterile grassland extended in every direction, as far as I could see. The crystal sky had clouded, now a uniform gray, and a biting wind blew incessantly across the plain.

I climbed back into the warm rental, a red, four-door Buick, and continued north on 87. This time, I carried no gun. I’d packed only a small suitcase with provisions for several days. In a way, I was calmly putting my head to the chopping block, leaving my life in Orson's hands. He’d won. Invulnerable, he'd already set in motion the events that were destroying my world. Walking out of my lake house yesterday morning, I listened in the doorway as Detective Prosser left a message on my answering machine, all but ordering me to come to Winston that afternoon for more questioning. They suspected me, and it was only a matter of time before they indicted me. Then what? How hard would they have to look to find that I'd been to Vermont with Walter, now missing? It didn't surprise me that at my weakest hour, Orson had wanted to meet.

I entered the C.M. Russell Wildlife Refuge on highway 19 after five o'clock. The sun had nearly set, and on the horizon, above a distant range of mountains, it managed to peek through the clouds and set the prairie on fire. Yellow grasses turned gold, and miles ahead, I saw glittering radiance like sunbeams dancing on moving water. I hadn’t passed another car in the last hour, and I was beginning to understand why Orson had chosen this place. The vacancy was overwhelming. A distant migraine pounded in my head, and I knew it'd torture me in the coming hours. Only fear would overshadow it, and I felt it, too, deep in my gut. The river was close.