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

“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 f**king 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.

Walter fell back onto the steering wheel, and it bleated through the countryside. I lifted him off the horn and he sagged into my lap, spilling all over me.

I wept; Orson laughed.

27

I finished burying Walter a few minutes before five o’clock. Through the ceiling of pines, light was coming, and the white Cadillac would be plainly visible from the highway, if it was not already. The sky kindled with each passing second, and I felt the self-possession I’d known just hours ago disintegrating. Walking back through the trees, the mechanic’s suit rigid now with Walter’s frozen blood, I thought, I could crumble so easily.

When I broke out of the trees, I saw three cars speed by, heading into Bristol. It was light enough that I could see the textureless black mountains clearly against the sky, and anyone passing, if they happened to look, would see me stumbling along the shoulder toward the car. On the eastern horizon a trace of day warmed above the Atlantic. The sun was coming. The moon had disappeared hours ago.

I reached the Cadillac. Orson was unconscious in the trunk, an entire 4-mg vial of Ativan coursing through his bloodstream.

The front seat was a mess—pools of blood on both floorboards, the driver’s side window smeared red. I managed to scrape enough blood and brain matter off the glass to drive. Exhausted, I started the car and pulled onto the highway, heading south, back into Woodside.