I climbed back into the Lexus and shed my wet clothes. Throwing them onto the floorboard of the backseat, I opened my suitcase and put on a clean pair of underwear, a sweatsuit I’d packed to sleep in, and two pairs of socks.
"Should I turn the car on?" I asked. "Will that run down the battery?"
"It shouldn’t. But leave it off for now, at least till it’s pitch-black out there. We’ll need it to run all night for the heat." He leaned against the window, still haggard and sluggish from the drug. "How are we on gas?"
"Half a tank."
Orson brought his legs up into the seat and turned over on his side, his back to me.
"You cold?" I asked.
"A little."
From Walter’s suitcase, I grabbed a pair of sweatpants, wool socks, and a gray sweatshirt featuring the UNC insignia in Carolina blue. Placing them across Orson’s lap, I picked up the Glock, which had been at my feet, and took the handcuff key from my pocket.
"I’m gonna uncuff you so you can get out of that nasty robe," I said. "Then they’re going right back on." I unlocked the handcuffs and removed them from his wrists. Disrobing, he dropped the bathrobe at his feet and bundled up in Walter’s clothes. I moved to put the cuffs back on him, but he said, "Hold on a second," and lowered his sweatpants so he could inspect the burn on his inner thigh. "It itches," he said, and after he’d scratched around the perimeter of the peppermint patty–size blister, he pulled his sweatpants back up, placed his hands behind his back, and allowed me to cuff him.
I tilted my seat back and listened to the wind ravish the car. Lightning blinked against the snowy dusk; thunder promptly followed.
"Orson," I said, "I want you to tell me why you killed our mother."
"You know."
He was right.
"I want you to say it. I’d have come after you for Walter’s family. Maybe just for me."
"I’m sure you would have."
"You’re an abomination. I’ve got another theory. Want to hear it?"
"Sure," he said, staring into the storm.
"Because she brought you into this world."
He looked at me like I’d caught him sniffing panties.
The temperature inside the car had already begun to plummet when I selected a box of Ritz crackers, a cylinder of provolone cheese, and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon from the stash of groceries.
"We aren’t gonna be able to drink this," I said. "No corkscrew."
"There’s a pocketknife with one on it in the glove compartment," Orson said.
Finding the Swiss army knife under a stack of road maps, I uncorked the bottle and swilled the spicy wine. Then I tore open the box of crackers and lined them up on my legs.
"You hungry?" I asked, slicing into the smoked cheese with the dull blade. "Here." Sandwiching a disk of provolone between two crackers, I placed it in his mouth. Then I lay back in my seat and watched the night come.
Once the windshield froze, the snow stuck to the glass. The wind blew so savagely that the flakes clung to every window, and within fifteen minutes, we could see nothing of the blizzard all around us. Only the constant shrieking and the cold, voracious energy confirmed its presence.
Orson noticed the bloody clothes beneath his feet.
"Andy," he said, "is that Luther’s blood?" I nodded. "Wow. Where’d you do it? Ricki’s?"
"We were supposed to meet at nine. I went at six to leave a note with the barkeep that you couldn’t make it. Luther walked in as I was getting ready to leave. If he hadn’t come early —"
"He came early because he knew something wasn’t right."
"How do you know?"
"He’s smart. But you were, too. You had your gun. Otherwise, you’d be dying right now."
"Are you sad he’s gone?"
"No. And that’s nothing against him. We did a lot together."
"Well, I’m delighted he’s dead."
Orson smiled. "He’s wasn’t all that different from you, Andy."
"Sure."
"I happened to him like I happened to you. He just took to it a little faster."
I stared at Orson, astounded.
"You know, you’ve done worse than kill me," I said. "You’ve wrecked me. You’ve taken my mother, my best friend. I can’t go home. I can’t return from this."
"No, I saved you, Andy. Your home was a sham. You no longer flit around like everyone else, blind to that black hole you call a heart. Be grateful. You now know what you’re capable of. Most people never do. But we live honestly, you and I. Truth, Andy. What did Keats say? It’s beauty. Not just pretty truth. We have black hearts, but they’re beautiful."
We devoured the entire box of crackers and most of the cheese. The wine was diluting my chary vigilance, so I slowed my consumption.
When we’d finished eating, I unzipped my fanny pack. There were two vials of Ativan remaining and two vials of Versed, but because it was the safer drug, I took the last of the Ativan.
"Andy," he said as I poked the needle into the first vial and began drawing the solution up through its hollow shaft.
"What?"
"You remember the summer they found that man under the interstate behind our house?"
"Yeah, I remember that."
Orson sat up straight and stared at me, his head cocked to one side, as though he were buried in thought. I drained the second vial and thumped the syringe. It was steadily darkening in the car — beyond twilight now.
"What do you remember?" he asked.
"Come on, man, I’m tired."
"Just tell me what you remember."
"We were twelve. It was June."
"July."
"Okay. July. Oh, yeah. Around the Fourth. In fact, it was on the Fourth when they found him. I remember that night, sitting in the backyard, holding a sparkler and seeing three police cars pull up on the curb. The officers came running through our backyard with two German shepherds. Dad was grilling hamburgers, and we watched the men disappear into the woods. A few minutes later, the dogs started going crazy and Dad said, ‘Sounds like they found whatever it is they’re looking for.’ "
Orson smiled. "Willard Bass."
"Huh?"
"That’s who they found in the tunnel."
"I can’t believe you remember his name."
"I can’t believe you don’t."
"Why would I?"
Orson swallowed, eyes asquint. "He raped me, Andy."
Thunder vibrated the glass. I stared into the half-empty bottle of wine between my legs. My fingers wrapped around the cool neck. I lifted the cabernet to my lips and let it run down my throat.
"That didn’t happen," I said. "I can look at you and —"
"And I can look at your face right now and see that you know it did."
"You’re lying."
"Then why do you have a funny feeling in your guts? Like something you haven’t touched in years is waking up in the lining of your stomach."
I took another jammy sip and set the bottle between my feet.
"Let me tell you a story," he said. "See if —"
"No. I’m giving you this so I can sleep. I’m not gonna sit here and listen to —"
"Do you have a cigarette burn on the end of your dick?"
It felt as though ants were traversing the back of my neck.
"Me, too," he said.
"That didn’t happen. I remember now. It was a story you made up after those kids found him."
"Andy."
I didn’t want to know, but I did. I sensed it had always been there, tucked away in an alley of my memory, where I could walk by and know that something awful lurked there, without ever wandering down the corridor to behold it with clarity.
"It happened late one afternoon during a thunderstorm," he said. "In a drainage tunnel that ran beneath the interstate. The water was only a couple inches deep and the tunnel was high enough for a man to walk upright in. We played there all the time.