Thicker Than Blood - Crouch Blake - Страница 16

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"Why didn’t you go through with it?"

"What would I say to her?" He paused, swallowing. "She ever ask about me?"

I considered lying but could find no reason to spare his feelings. "No."

"You ever talk to her about me?"

"If I do, it’s just about when we were kids. But I don’t think she even likes those stories anymore." Down the highway, northbound headlights appeared, so far off, I couldn’t distinguish the separate bulbs.

"That car won’t pass this spot for ten minutes," he said. "It’s still miles away. These roads are so long and straight, the distance is deceiving."

My right hand throbbed in the grip of the metal cuff. Blood wasn’t reaching my fingers, but I didn’t complain. I massaged them until the tingling went away.

"What do you really want with me?" I asked, but Orson just eyed those approaching headlights like I hadn’t said a word. "Orson," I said. "What do you —"

"I told you the first day. I’m giving you an education."

"You think reading boring fucking books all day constitutes an education?"

He looked me dead in the eyes. "The books have nothing to do with it. Surely you realized that by now."

He cranked the engine and we rolled toward the highway. Dark now, the sky completely drained of light, we crossed the pavement and pulled onto the shoulder. I watched the headlights through the windshield, and for the first time, they seemed closer. Confused, I looked at Orson.

"Sit tight," he said. Turning off the car, he opened his door and stepped out. He withdrew a white handkerchief from his pocket and tied it to the antenna. Then he shut the door and stuck his head through the open window. "Andy," he warned, "not a word."

He sat with his arms crossed on the edge of the hood. Rolling my window up, I tried to assuage my apprehension, but I just stared ahead, praying the car would pass. After awhile, I heard its engine. Then the headlights closed in, seconds away.

A minivan rushed by. I watched its brake lights flush in the rearview mirror. The van turned around, glided slowly back toward us, and stopped on the opposite shoulder. The driver’s door opened and the interior lights came on. Children in the backseat. A man our age climbed out, said something to his wife, and walked confidently toward Orson. His kids watched through the tinted glass.

The man wore khaki shorts, loafers, and a red short-sleeved polo shirt. He looked like a lawyer taking his family on a cross-country vacation.

"Car trouble?" he asked, crossing the dotted yellow line and stopping at the shoulder’s edge.

My brother smiled. "Yeah, she’s thirsty for oil."

Through the windshield, I noticed another set of northbound headlights.

"Can I give you a lift or let you use my cell phone?" the man offered.

"Actually, we’ve got someone on the way," Orson said. "Wouldn’t want to trouble you."

Thank you, God.

"Well, just wanted to make the offer. Bad spot to break down."

"Sure is." Orson extended his hand. "But thank you anyway."

The man smiled and took my brother’s hand. "I guess we’ll be heading on, then. Hoping to make Yellowstone before midnight. The kids are just wild about that damn geyser."

"Have a safe trip," Orson said. The man crossed the road and climbed back into his van. My brother waved to the kids in the backseat, and they giggled and waved back, delighted. As the van drove away, I watched its taillights begin to fade in the rearview mirror.

The next car was close now. It slowed down before it passed us, then pulled over onto the shoulder on our side of the road, stopping just ten feet from the front bumper of Orson’s Buick. From a black Ford pickup truck, one of the enormous new models with a rack of blinding KC lights mounted above the cab, a large man with a substantial beer gut hopped down from behind the wheel. He left the truck running, and the headlights fried my eyes. A country ballad blared from the speakers, and as the driver walked unsteadily toward Orson, I could tell he was drunk. Two other men climbed down out of the passenger side and approached my brother, too.

"Hello, gentlemen," Orson said as they surrounded him. Each man nursed a pinch of dip crammed between his teeth and bottom lip. The two passengers wore cowboy hats, and the driver held a ragged Redskins cap, his long hair, tangled and greasy, hanging in his face.

"Something wrong with your car?" the driver asked. He spat into the road, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and wiped his hand across his black tank top, which had a blue-and-silver Ford emblem across the front. He hadn’t shaved recently.

"Don’t know," Orson said. "I was hoping someone would stop who had a little mechanical expertise." The two passengers dissolved into a drunken giggle, and the driver glanced over at them and smiled. Their teeth were gray and orange from excessive dipping, but regardless of the men’s deficient hygiene, not a one looked older than thirty.

"Where you from, boy?" one of the passengers asked.

Orson assessed the tall, skinny man on the far left and smiled. "Missouri."

"You a long way from home, ain’t ye?" he said, then took a sip from his beer can.

"Yes, I am," Orson said, "and I’d appreciate your help."

"It might cost you something," the driver said. "It might cost you a whole lot." He looked at his buddies again, and they all laughed.

"I don’t want any trouble, now."

"How much money you got?" asked the heavyset man standing in the middle. With dark, bushy sideburns and a hairy belly poking out between his black jeans and white grease-stained T-shirt, he looked so hideously disheveled, I imagined I could smell him through the windshield.

"I don’t know," Orson said. "I’ll have to go get my wallet and see."

Orson stepped cautiously by the driver and headed for the trunk, smiling and winking at me as he passed my window. I heard the trunk open, followed by the sound of rustling plastic.

The driver caught me looking at him through the windshield.

"What in the goddamn hell you looking at, boy?" he said. Orson walked by my door again and stopped on the right side of the hood. The three men stared at him suspiciously, though too drunk to notice that he now wore black gloves.

"Your friend’s gonna get his ass whupped if he keeps staring at me."

"He’s harmless," Orson said. "Look, I could give you twenty dollars. Would that be sufficient?"

The driver glared at him, dumbfounded. "Let me see your wallet," he said finally.

"Why?"

"Motherfucker, I said give me your wallet." Orson hesitated. "You stupid, boy? Wanna get your ass kicked?"

"Look, guys, I said I don’t want any trouble." Orson let the fear ooze from his voice.

"Then cough up your wallet, you dumb shit," said the obese middle passenger. "We need more beer."

"Will you fix my car?" The men broke into laughter. "I have more than twenty dollars," Orson pleaded. "At least look under the hood and see if you can tell what’s wrong."

Orson moved to the front of the Buick. Reaching through the grille, he pulled a lever and lifted the massive hood. Then he returned to where he’d been standing, on the right side of the car, near me. I could see nothing now but my brother, still talking to the men.

"Just take a look," Orson prodded. "Now if you guys don’t know anything about cars…"

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