Desert Places (Andrew Z. Thomas/Luther Kite Series 1)

Agent Trent took a deep breath, his exhaustion already evident on the screen that transported his image into my living room. He looked into the cameras and spoke words that would be repeatedly broadcast as sound bites in the coming days.

“There’s a long road ahead of us,” he said. “It’ll take some time to verify if these are actually the hearts of missing persons or known murder victims. I pray it’s not the case, but this appears to be the work of a serial murderer. And if it is, he’ll continue to kill until he’s caught.” The sturdy black agent walked away from the microphones as reporters shouted questions that he ignored.

The nation was captivated, and the media fueled its obsession. Rampant speculation ignited as the country fell in love with its own fear. Even before the FBI confirmed that the hearts represented actual murders, the media had conceived and birthed a monster.

To the dismay of doctors, they would call him “the Heart Surgeon,” the professional title marred from that day forward. No one could say the words without provoking images of FBI agents and the Washington, D.C., bomb squad loading cardboard boxes, the work of a madman, into an armored truck.

How strange it felt to be the only one who knew.

19

MIST whipped my face as my boat crawled toward the middle of the lake. I could hear nothing over the gurgling clatter of the outboard motor mounted to the stern of my leaky rowboat. The evening sky threatened rain as I glided across the leaden chop, scanning the empty lake for Walter’s boat.

A half mile out from my pier, I cut the motor. The cold, darkening silence closed in on me, and I wondered if I’d make it home before the rain set in. Though I despised coming out on the lake, I couldn’t speak to Walter in my house anymore without fear that Orson was eavesdropping.

I heard the groan of Walter’s boat before I saw it. My nerves took over, and I regretted not having knocked back several stiff drinks to facilitate what I had to tell him. Walter pulled his equally powerless rowboat beside mine, tossed over a rope, and I tied us together.

“What’s up?” he asked when he’d killed the motor.

“You see the news?”

“Yeah.”

He pulled a pack of Marlboro Lights from his brown raincoat and slid a cigarette into his mouth. From a pocket on my blue raincoat, I tossed him a butane cigar lighter. “Thanks,” he said, blowing a puff of smoke out of the corner of his mouth and throwing the lighter back to me. “The media’s tickled pink,” he said. “You can see it in their ambitious little faces. I’ll bet they blew their load when they got the tip.”

“Think they were tipped, huh?”

“Oh, whoever planted those boxes knew exactly what they were doing. Probably called a dozen newspapers and TV stations after the drop. I’ll bet he told them there was a bomb behind the White House. Then that jogger called nine-one-one, confirming the story, and boom …media frenzy.” Walter took a long drag from his cigarette and spoke as the smoke curled from his mouth. “Yeah, the only person happier about those hearts than the press is the sick f**k who left them there. He’s probably sitting in front of a TV right now, jacking off, watching the nation drool over his—”

“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 f**k 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.”