"Yeah?"
"I killed a man in Wyoming."
He didn’t say anything, and we were quiet for some time.
"You remember that party I threw last May?" I asked finally.
"Yeah."
"I keep thinking about that night. We were sitting out on my pier —"
"Pretty drunk, if I recall."
"Yep. I distinctly remember thinking: You lucky, lucky man. Thirty-four, successful, respected. You have a quality of life most people can’t even fathom…. One week later, to the day, I received that envelope from Orson…. How do we go home after this? I can’t imagine ever wanting to write again. Or feeling normal. Like anything’s good. Like people are capable of goodness." I motioned to Orson. "When we were in the desert, he told me I had murder in my heart."
"I think it’s safe to say he was projecting."
I glanced down at the gun in my lap.
"I think he was right, Walter."
"You are not an evil person."
"No, but I could be. I see that now. We’re a lot closer to it than you think." I dropped my Glock into the fanny pack. "Will you stay awake and watch Orson?"
"Yeah."
"Wake me up in an hour, and I’ll let you sleep."
"There’s no way I’m going to sleep."
"Then wake me when he wakes." I curled up in the seat. To fall asleep, I imagined I was lounging in a beach chair in Aruba. The vents were my tropical breeze, and I could even hear the ocean in the vibration of the idling engine.
Hands shook me, and I sat up. My head ached as if a fault had rifted around the perimeter of my skull. Walter stared at me, the .45 in his lap.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"One. He’s stirred, but I don’t think he’s waking up anytime soon. Not coherently at least."
"All right. I’ll give him the antidote."
I searched through the fanny pack until I found the 10-mL vial of the benzodiazepine antidote, flumazenil. Aspirating the entire vial, I climbed into the backseat and took hold of Orson’s left arm. Locating the same vein I’d hit before, I penetrated the skin, depressed the plunger with my thumb, and injected one milligram of flumazenil. When the syringe was empty, I slid it out and climbed back into the front seat.
"You ready?" I asked. "He’s gonna come out of this fast. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."
A minute elapsed. Then Orson moved, rubbing his face into the seat and trying to sit up. There was a nasty gash on his forehead where I’d coldcocked him with the butt of the Glock. A trail of dried blood traversed a path from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, like runaway mascara. He mumbled.
"Sit him up," I said, coming to my knees again and facing the backseat.
Walter grabbed him by his hair and jerked him ruthlessly up into the center seat. Orson steadied himself and opened his eyes. When he saw me, he produced an enervate smile.
"Andy," he said clearly, "what in the world —"
"Where are those videotapes you made of the killings? And the pictures you took, like that card you sent me?"
"I had a dream we fought," he said. "I kicked the shit out of you, as I recall." The reversal of the sedation was miraculous. Orson was lucid, pupils dilated, heart racing.
"Hit the cigarette lighter, Walter," I said, and he punched it in.
"Walt?" Orson said. "What are you doing here?"
"Don’t talk to him," I said to Walter.
"He can talk to me if he wants to. How’s the fam, Walt?"
"Orson," Walter growled. "I’m gonna —" I grabbed Walter’s arm and, catching his eyes, shook my head. Flushed, he nodded.
"No, let him talk," Orson said. "He’s probably a little pissed at me and wants to get it off his chest."
"No, Orson. Tonight’s about you."
Orson smiled, finding Walter’s eyes in the rearview mirror. "How’s little Jenna?" Hands on the steering wheel, Walter looked down into his lap at the .45. "I hear she’s precious. I’ll bet you’re proud as —"
"Walter isn’t moved by your taunts," I said. "You aren’t in any position to —"
"If he isn’t moved, why’d he just look down at his gun?" Orson smiled at Walter. "Thinking of doing something rash?"
"Orson," I said, "this is between —"
"I think he’s upset because one of my other protégés has his eye on the Lancing clan."
Walter’s fingers constricted around the Glock. Coming to his knees, he faced my brother.
"His name’s Luther," Orson continued. "Would you like to know more about him, Walter? He may become a big part of your life. In fact, he may already be a big part of your life. You see, when I took him out to the desert three years ago, he took an avid interest in —"
"Walter, just ignore —"
"Let him finish."
"Not that it’s my inclination," Orson said, "but among his many interests, Luther likes little things. Well, more specifically, he likes to hurt little things, and me not being one to pass judgment, I told him, ‘I know two little things named Jenna and John David Lancing who could use a little hurting.’ "
"I don’t believe you."
"You don’t have to believe me, Walter. Luther believes me, and that’s all that matters. His visit to Jenna’s school was just an introduction. He’s met Beth, too, though she didn’t realize it. At my urging, he’s added your address to his Rolodex, and if he hasn’t already, I’m sure he’ll come calling at Fifteen eighteen Shortleaf Drive any day now. Oh, that’s right, Beth took the kids away. Well, Luther will find them, if he hasn’t already. He’s very motivated — what the FBI profilers would call a ‘hedonic thrill killer,’ which means he receives sexual gratification from the agony of others. Believe me when I tell you, he’s one macabre motherfucker. He even scares me."
Walter pressed his gun against Orson’s chest.
"No," I said calmly. "Just sit back."
"When I pull this trigger," Walter said to Orson, "the force of the bullet impacting your chest will be so intense, your heart might stop. How does it feel, Orson?"
"I imagine I feel like your wife and children are going to feel. And trust me on this, Walter. You could flay me, and I wouldn’t call off Luther."
"Put that fucking gun down," I said. "This is not the way to do this."
"He’s talking about my family."
"He’s lying. He will tell us."
"I’m not lying, Walter. Shall I tell you how Luther’s planning to do your family, or do you want it to be a surprise?"
Walter ground his teeth together, trembling with explosive rage.
"I’m not telling you again," I said. "Put it down."
"Fuck off, Andy."
I took my Glock from the fanny pack and pointed it at my best friend. "I won’t let you shoot him. Not yet. Think about it. If you kill him, we aren’t gonna find out where Luther is. You’re risking your family now."
"If he’s dead, maybe Luther will leave us alone. Orson’s just doing this because I know about him." He chambered the first round.
"Walter, you’re a little crazy now, so just —" I leaned forward to take the gun from him, but he jerked back and turned his .45 on me.
"You put the gun down."
My finger moved onto the trigger.
"You gonna shoot me?"
"You aren’t a parent," he said, incensed. "You don’t know." He trained the gun back on my brother. "Count to three, you piece of shit."
"Okay. One."
"Walter!"
"Two."
"You kill him, you kill your family!"
Before Walter reached three, Orson drew his knees into his chest and kicked the back of my seat. Jerking forward into the dashboard, I felt my finger slip, and though I didn’t hear the gunshot, my Glock recoiled.