Heading out on Highway 116, I prided myself on my thoroughness. I’d remembered to check out of the inn. I’d removed all traces of my presence in Orson’s home (my blood in his room, my hair in his sink and bathtub), along with all signs of his abduction. I’d even taken care of Walter’s Cadillac, driving it down the hill to the Champlain Diner at 3:15 in the morning and leaving it parked beside an overflowing Dumpster. The jog back up into Orson’s neighborhood had been a bitch, but it was worth it. Nothing could link me to this town now, and though Walter’s gory car would more than likely be discovered within the week, I’d be long, long gone by then.
Prior to leaving Orson’s house, I’d downed an entire pot of coffee and swallowed a double dose of a sinus medication that always keyed me up. Caffeine raged through me, and with unfettered energy, I drove southwest out of Woodside into New York State. If nothing went awry, Luther would be dead, and I’d be in Wyoming in less than forty-eight hours.
I sped westbound on I-80 through eastern Nebraska. It was 11:45 P.M., and the luster of driving without sleep from Vermont to Wyoming had waned. Orson was awake. He’d been kicking the inside of the trunk for the last fifty miles and cursing at me to pull over.
Traffic was light, and because there was nothing but hewn corn-fields and distant farmhouse lights as far as I could see, I obliged him. Pulling into the emergency lane somewhere between Lincoln and York, I hopped out into the chilly Nebraska night and popped the trunk. Lying on his back, in his bathrobe, handcuffed, he lifted his head.
"I’m thirsty, you bastard," he croaked. "I’ve been dying back here."
"Well, there’s some ice-cold water up front with your name on it. But you gotta earn it." Taking Luther’s E-mail from my pocket and unfolding it, I asked him, "Is SB Scottsbluff, Nebraska?"
"Why?"
I went back to the front seat and grabbed the full squeeze bottle from the passenger side. Returning to Orson, I stood in front of him and squirted a stream into my mouth.
"Wow, that’s refreshing!" I could see the pining thirst in his eyes. "This is all the water that’s left," I said, "and when it’s gone, it may be hundreds and hundreds of miles before I stop again. Now, I’m not very thirsty, but I’ll stand here and guzzle it just the same if you aren’t a model of cooperation. Is SB Scottsbluff?"
"Yes."
"What’s the significance?"
"Of what?" I squirted another long stream into my mouth. "There’s this girl there who Luther stays with sometimes. He’s always on the road."
"What’s her name?"
"Mandy something."
"You don’t know her last name?"
"No."
"What’s Luther’s last name?"
"Kite."
"Like fly a kite?" He nodded. "Open up." I shot him a mouthful of water. "I saw Luther on the phone list in your wallet. Is that number the best way to reach him?"
"It’s his cell. What are you trying to do, Andy?"
"You ever met Luther in Scottsbluff?"
"Once."
"Where?"
"Ricki’s. Can I —"
"Who’s Ricki?"
"It’s a bar on Highway Ninety-two. Please, Andy…"
I touched the open nozzle to his lips and squeezed cold water down his throat. He sucked frantically, and I pulled it back after three seconds as a transfer truck roared by. I took Orson’s cell phone from my pocket. Dialing Luther’s number, I held up the half-empty squeeze bottle.
"The rest of it’s yours," I said. "Find out if Luther can meet at Ricki’s tomorrow night. And be peppy. Don’t sound like you’ve been drugged up in a trunk for twenty hours. Fuck anything up and you’ll die slowly of thirst. I mean it. I’ll keep you on the brink of madness for days." He nodded. "Brevity," I said. Then I pushed the talk button and held the phone to his ear.
On the first ring, a man answered. I could clearly hear his voice.
"Hello?"
"Luth?"
"Hey." I dribbled water onto Orson’s face.
"Where are you?" Orson asked.
"Gateway to the west. Just crossing the Mississippi. I can see the arch right now. Where are you?"
I mouthed, "Eastern Nebraska."
"Eastern Nebraska," Orson said. "You staying with Mandy tomorrow night?"
"Yeah, you wanna hook up at Ricki’s?"
"What time?"
"How’s nine? I’m staying tonight in St. Louis, so I won’t be in Scottsbluff till late tomorrow."
"All right." I moved my finger across my throat. "Hey, Luth, you’re breaking up."
I pressed the button to end the call and returned the phone to my pocket. Then I gave Orson the rest of the bottle and watched the desperation finally retreat from his eyes.
"You need something to eat?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I’ve gotta piss, Andy."
"Can’t help you there."
"What do you want me to do, piss in the trunk?"
"It’s your car."
I opened the back door and fished out a syringe and a vial of Ativan from the fanny pack. Another car passed us, heading toward Lincoln, and I suddenly felt anxious to get on the road again.
"Turn over, Orson." I stuck him with the needle.
"Andy," he said as I put my hands on the trunk to close it, "you’re very good at this."
The coffee and sinus medication had worn off hours ago, and on the tediously straight roads of western Nebraska, I now operated solely on the determination not to fall asleep.
I’d been driving for twenty-three hours and thirty-five minutes, and I existed in a limbo between sleep and consciousness. Occasionally, my forehead would touch the steering wheel, and I’d jerk back up and cherish a five-minute oasis of petrified alertness. Then my mind would drift back, and I’d lose consciousness for that split second and scare myself to death all over again.
Heading up Highway 26, fifty miles northwest of Ogallala, the prairie awoke. A peach sunrise was lifting out of the eastern horizon, and as the light strengthened, the land spread and spread and spread, farther than it seemed possible. It had changed overnight, and because I had not witnessed the gradual topographic expansion, this sudden revelation was staggering. For an easterner driving west, the stark vastness of the land and sky is always inconceivable, and I imagined a symphonic aubade to accompany the majesty of the morning.
At 6:30 A.M., I crossed the tree-lined North Platte River into the town of Bridgeport. In the southern distance, the tips of numerous sandstone buttes were catching coral sunbeams. Though several miles away, it looked like I could reach out and touch them.
Highway 26 cut through the sleeping town. On the western fringe, there was a motel called Courthouse View (named after a prominent butte five miles south), and I got a room there. Since I’d given Orson enough Ativan to maintain sedation for the better part of the day, I left him in the trunk, walked inside, and crashed.
I’d be meeting Luther in fourteen hours.
I checked out of Courthouse View in the late afternoon, and heading northwest toward Scottsbluff on Highway 92, I started mulling over what I’d gotten myself into with Luther. In all honesty, I’d done a stupid thing. It was already 5:07, and that left me a little under four hours to determine how I would kill him, dispose of him, and leave town unnoticed. Finally, I concluded that I was being hasty and reckless. Besides, I couldn’t get past the idea that I was going to get myself killed fucking with this guy. So fifteen miles outside of Scottsbluff, I decided not to go through with it. I’d been methodical up to this point, and while it was tempting to orchestrate a quick, clever way to do in Luther Kite, four hours wasn’t an adequate length of time in which to do it.