Thicker Than Blood - Crouch Blake - Страница 40
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Orson awoke in the early afternoon, strapped naked to a wooden chair in his den, handcuffs securing his arms behind the chair back, and a length of rope binding his legs to the chair legs. I’d shut the door, closed the blinds, and turned the television up so loud, the set buzzed.
Sitting on the couch, I waited until he’d regained sufficient clarity of mind.
"You with me?" I shouted. He said something, but I couldn’t hear over the television. "Speak up!" I could tell he was still disoriented.
"Yes. What’s…" I saw it all come back to him — the fight, the trunk, Walter. He smiled, and I knew he was with me. Taking the remote control from the couch, I muted the television.
"Orson," I said. "This is how this works. I ask the questions. You answer them. Quickly, concisely —"
"Where’s Walt? No. Let me guess. Is he in my hole?"
I cloaked my fury — I had a hunch the torture would be more effective if I remained placid. Composing myself, I asked him, "Do you still have the videotapes and pictures of you and me in the desert?"
"Of course."
"Where are they?" He smiled and shook his head.
I pressed the mute button and the television roared. It was the episode of The Andy Griffith Show that chronicles Barney Fife’s attempt to join a church choir, despite his glaring inability to sing. We watched this with our father.
Coming to my feet, I walked around to the back of the chair. From my pocket, I took a silver Zippo I’d found in Orson’s dresser and struck a flame. Regardless of the hell he’d put me through, I found it exceedingly difficult to burn him. But I did.
Orson grunted wrenchingly, and after six seconds, I withdrew the flame and returned to the couch. Sweat had broken out across his forehead, and his face had crimsoned. I silenced the television.
"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: <[email protected]>
>Date: Fr, 8 Nov 1996 20:54:33 -0500 (EST)
>To: David Parker <[email protected]>
>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: <[email protected]>
>Date: Sat, 9 Nov 1996 13:56:26 -0500 (EST)
>To: <[email protected]>
>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?
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