Thicker Than Blood - Crouch Blake - Страница 28
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"It’s Orson," I said. Walter took in a mouthful of smoke, attempting to look unfazed.
"How do you know?" he asked, coughing a little as he exhaled.
"He keeps the hearts. In his cabin in Wyoming, there was a freezer full of them. They’re his trophies, his little keepsakes."
"Andy…"
"Just listen for a minute, Walter."
A gust banged our boats together, and a raindrop hit my face.
How do you tell a man you’ve endangered his wife and children?
"The thing in Washington," I said, "is small potatoes. My mother’s dead. Orson strangled her last night. He videotaped it…. It’s…" I stopped to steady myself. "I’m sorry. But I think I’ve put you in danger." His head tilted questioningly. "I don’t know how, but Orson knows or suspects that I told you about the desert."
"Oh Christ." Walter flicked his cigarette into the water, and it hissed as he put his face into his hands.
"I should never have told you anything about —"
"You’re goddamn right you shouldn’t have."
"Look —"
"What did he say?"
"Walter —"
"What the fuck did he say?" His voice rang out across the lake. A fish splashed in the water nearby.
"The exact words aren’t —"
"Fuck you." He wiped the tears from his face. "What did he say?" I shook my head. "Did he mention my family?" Tears, the first of the day, streamed from my eyes as I nodded. "He mentioned my family?" Walter hyperventilated.
"I am so —"
"How could you let this happen, Andy?"
"I didn’t mean —"
"What did your brother say? I want to know each word, each syllable, verbatim, and I dare you to say exact words aren’t important. Tell me!"
"He said because I can’t keep my mouth shut…" I closed my eyes. I want to die.
"Finish it!"
"He was considering having a friend of his come visit you. And your ‘beautiful family.’ "
Walter looked back toward his pier and his house, concealed behind the orange leaves. It was drizzling now, so I pulled up the hood of my rain jacket. An inch of water had collected in my boat.
"Who’s his friend?" he asked.
"I have no idea."
"Is this —" He started to hyperventilate again.
"Walter, I’m gonna take care of this."
"How?"
"I’m gonna kill Orson."
"So you do know where he is?"
"I have an idea."
"Tip the FBI."
"No. Orson can still send me to prison. I’m not going to prison."
Our boats rocked on the rough water. I felt queasy.
"If I find Orson," I said, "will you come with me?"
"To help you kill him?"
"Yes."
He guffawed sardonically. "Is this real? I mean, are you off your rocker?"
"Feels that way."
The drizzle had become rain. I shivered.
"I have to get home," he said. "I’ve gotta take John David and Jenna trick-or-treating."
"Will you come with me?" I asked again.
"Take a wild guess."
"I understand."
"No. No, you don’t. You don’t understand anything." He started to cry again, but he managed to hold himself together for another moment. "Let’s get something straight, all right? Don’t call me. Don’t come to my house. Don’t e-mail me. Don’t think about me. Don’t do one goddamn thing that would make this monster think we’re friends. We clear?"
"Yes, Walter. I want you to —"
"Don’t you say another word to me. Give me the rope."
I untied our rowboats and cast the end of the rope to him. He cranked the outboard motor and chugged away, making a wide circle back toward his pier.
It was nearly dark, and the rain fell steadily and hard into the lake. I started the motor and pressed on toward my pier. Were the safety of Walter and his family not in question, I would have been heading home to kill myself.
20
THE walls of my office consist almost entirely of windows, and because the room juts out from the rest of my house into the trees, I feel as though I spend my hours writing in a piedmont forest. My desk is pushed against the largest wall of glass, facing the forest, so that nothing but an occasional doe or gray fox distracts me from my work. I can’t even see the lake from my desk, and this is by design, because the water mesmerizes me and would only steal my time.
Books abound, stacked on disorganized shelves and lying in piles on the floor. In one corner, there’s an intimidating stack of manuscripts from fans and blurb-seekers. A mammoth dictionary lounges across a lectern, perennially open. There’s even a display case, which holds first editions and translations of my novels, standing on one side of the door; a small gold frame enclosing a mounted photocopy of my first, meager royalty check hangs on the other.
Staring into the black forest as streams of rain meandered down the glass, I sat at my desk, waiting for the Web page to load. This would be the fifth college Web site I’d checked. I was focusing my search on the history departments of schools in New Hampshire and Vermont, but as the doors closed one after another, I’d begun to wonder if that cowboy’s memory wasn’t askew. Franklin Pierce, Keene State, the University of New Hampshire, and Plymouth had given me nothing. Maybe Dave Parker was Orson bullshit.
When the home page for Woodside College had loaded, I clicked on "Departments," then "History," and finally "Faculty of the History Department (alphabetical listing)."
Waiting on the server, I glanced at the clock on my desk: 7:55 P.M. She’s been dead twenty-four hours. Did you just leave her in that filthy basement? With his gig in Washington, I couldn’t imagine that Orson had gone to the trouble to take our mother with him. Depositing her body outside of the house would have been time-consuming and risky. Besides, my mother was a loner, and she’d sometimes go days without contacting a soul. My God, she could lie in that basement a week before someone finds her.
The police would have to notify me. I hadn’t even given consideration to reporting her murder, because for all I knew, Orson had framed me again. Matricide. It seems unnatural even among the animals. I couldn’t begin to wonder why. I was operating on numbness again.
At the top of the Web page listing faculty was a short paragraph that bragged about the sheer brilliance and abundant qualifications of the fourteen professors who constituted the history department. I scanned that, then scrolled down the list.
Son of a bitch.
"Dr. David L. Parker," the entry read.
Though his name was hyperlinked, his page wouldn’t load when I clicked on it. Is that you? Did I just find you because of one short exchange with a stoned Wyoming cowboy?
The doorbell startled me. I was not expecting company. Picking up my pistol from the desk (I carried it with me everywhere now), I walked through the long hallway that separated my office from the kitchen and the rest of the house. Passing through the living room, I turned right into the foyer, chambered the first round, and stopped at an opaque oval window beside the door.
The doorbell rang again.
"Who is it?" I said.
"Trick-or-treat!" Children’s voices. Lowering the gun, I shoved it into the waistband at the back of my damp jeans. Because my house stood alone on ten acres of forest, at the end of a long driveway, trick-or-treaters rarely ventured to my door. I hadn’t even bought candy for them this year.
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