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

It took a while for the steam to settle in the bathroom, and I sat on the toilet while it did, thumbing through Orson’s wallet, yet another possession of his, identical to mine. Removing his driver’s license, I set it on the sink. I looked nothing like the picture. His hair was short and brown, his face clean-shaven. Rising, I wiped the condensation off the mirror.

My beard had grown out considerably, gray and bristly. My hair was in shambles, the dye stripped from this last marathon shower. I shaved first, even my sideburns, and it was an improvement. There was an attachment on the electric razor for tonsure, so I climbed back into the shower and sheared my head.

When I finished, I glanced again into the mirror—much, much better.

“Hi, Orson,” I said, smiling.

29

SUNDAY, before dawn, I loaded Orson into the trunk of his Lexus and pulled out of the driveway of his house in Woodside. I carried his wallet, filled with his cash and credit cards, and I felt reasonably sure that, should the necessity arise, I could pass for my brother. It was comforting to know that because Orson existed, Andrew Thomas could disappear.

I drove to the Woodside Inn and slipped furtively up the noisy staircase into what had been Walter’s and my room. Our clothes were still scattered across the beds, and I stuffed everything from the drawers and the floor into our suitcases and lugged them down to the car.

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 cornfields 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.”