by Blake Crouch
“I would be very careful.”
“I can’t give it to you right now. I have to use it this afternoon but—”
“Why?”
“I lost something in a tunnel and I have to find it with this.”
It made me sad that I couldn’t have it right now.
“But maybe… No, I shouldn’t. Your parents probably wouldn’t let you have—”
“Yes they would.”
“No I don’t think—”
“They would too.”
“Ben, if I give this to you you can’t show it to your parents. Or your brother. He would steal it and play with it. Your parents would take it and throw it away.”
“I won’t tell them.”
“You promise?”
“Yessir, I promise.”
“You can’t tell them about me either.”
“I won’t.” He got up and looked down at me.
“Later tonight I’m going to come knock on your window. You have to go to your backdoor and open it so I can give this to you. Can you do that, Ben?”
“Yessir.”
“You have to do it very quietly. If anyone wakes up and sees me I’ll have to leave and you won’t be able to have the laser pointer. Do you want to have it?”
“Yessir.”
“Say that you want to have it.”
“I want to have it.”
“Say it again.”
“I want to have it.”
“You’re obedient. That’s a good boy. I have to go now. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Can I do the laser again?” The long-haired man sighed.
I didn’t think he was going to let me but then he said, “All right, once more.”
8
LUTHER Kite straddles the thickest limb of the pine fifteen feet off the ground. It is suppertime on Shortleaf Drive, quiet now that the children have been called home, each house warm with lamplight and lively with the domestic happenings of a Sunday night.
His stomach rumbles. He has not eaten. He will eat afterward because this is North Carolina, land of Waffle Houses that never close. He’ll consume a stack of pancakes and scrambled eggs and sausage links and torched bacon and grits and he’ll drown it all in maple syrup. Especially the bacon.
A breeze stirs the branches and the vivid dying leaves sweep down in slowmotion upon the street. The sky has darkened so that he can no longer see the silhouette of the water tower that moments ago loomed above the rampart of loblollies across the lake. Only the red light atop the bowl signals its presence.
The October night cools quickly.
It will be warm inside the house he has chosen.
He smiles, closes his eyes, rests his head against the bark.
Just four hours.
The moon will have advanced high above the horizon of calligraphic pines, burnishing the empty street into blue silver. He sleeps perfectly still upon the limb, the smell of sap engulfing him, sweet and pungent like bourbon.
9
HORACE Boone had used credit card information to track Andrew Thomas to a postal outlet in Haines Junction, Yukon.
But he didn’t leave right away.
He continued working in Anchorage from April to August, saving everything he earned. In September he quit his job at Murder One Books, put what few possessions he owned into storage, and embarked in his stalwart Land Cruiser for the Yukon with four thousand dollars, a suitcase of clothing, and blind faith that he would find Andrew Thomas.
Upon arriving in Haines Junction, Horace staked out the downtown, studying the village’s sparse foot traffic for his man.
On the fifth morning, while wondering if he’d made a giant mistake, he watched the same long-haired man who’d graced Murder One Books several months back, enter Madley’s Store to retrieve his mail.
Horace was elated.
The next day, his twenty-fourth birthday, Horace rented a rundown trailer on the outskirts of the village and began taking copious notes for the book he wholeheartedly believed was going to make him a rich and famous and oft-laid writer.
His second week in the Yukon he ventured onto Andrew Thomas’s property late one night and spied on the cabin from a distance with binoculars.
The following week he’d crept all the way up to a side window, watched the man wash his supper dishes and write in his loft late into the night.
Now, more than halfway through October, his fourth week in Haines Junction, Horace had decided to take his first real chance.
It was Monday morning and the snow from two days ago still dallied in the shadows of the forest. A full but feeble moon remained visible in the iris-blue morning—a clouded cataractous eye.
Horace sat behind the wheel of his Land Cruiser in that worn space between the trees where he always parked. Andrew Thomas’s Jeep passed by right on schedule, village-bound, a dirtcloud rising in its wake. On this calm morning it would be almost an hour before the dust of its passage had settled.
Horace closed his purple wire-bound notebook and set it in the passenger seat.
He’d already finished outlining the second chapter of his memoir, tentatively titled Hunting Evil: My Search for Andrew Thomas. He was so excited about the book he was having trouble sleeping. It was a concept that couldn’t miss because he might be the only person in the world who knew the whereabouts of the most notorious murderer of the last decade.
Horace had grown up poor.
He wasn’t handsome.
Never been popular in school.
Writing was all he had.
He believed that after twenty-four years of having to see his stupid reflection in the mirror he was entitled to wild success.
Horace climbed out of the Land Cruiser and started down the faintly tread path to Andrew’s cabin, making sure he didn’t track through the patches of snow and leave evidence of his presence here.
He soon glimpsed the cabin through the trees.
He reached the front porch.
Turned the doorknob.
His hypothesis was correct: people who live in the wilderness aren’t compelled to lock their doors.
He stepped inside, his heart convulsing epileptically, brain teetering between exhilaration and outright terror. Unbuttoning his down jacket, he slung it over the railing of a daybed and commanded himself to settle down. He would hear Andrew’s Jeep coming down the driveway long before it reached the cabin.
Stepping forward, he glanced once through the monster’s home, committing to memory every detail—the sinkful of dishes in the kitchen, the halfeaten pie on the breakfast table, ashes steaming in the doused fireplace, the bearskin rug at his feet. The place smelled of woodsmoke, baked raspberries, venison jerky, and spruce. The floorboards creaked beneath him. He couldn’t believe that he was actually here.
He unlaced his boots, walked in sockfeet to the ladder, and climbed into the writing loft. His eyes gravitated first to the poster of Edgar Allen Poe and those stormy melancholic eyes. Then he read one of the numerous Post-It notes stuck to the rafters:
describe the woman in Rock Springs in the puffy pink jacket who heard Orson yelling in the trunk
Stepping carefully over an unfolded roadmap of Wyoming, Horace found himself standing before Andrew Thomas’s writing desk, bookended by bookshelves, cluttered with a typewriter, dictionary, Bible, thesaurus, and The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Trees (Eastern Region).
He found what he’d come for in the middle drawer—unbound pages stacked neatly between boxes of red felt-tip pens. Taking a seat in Andrew’s chair, Horace lifted out the manuscript with trembling hands. What in the world has this man been writing?
The title page:
“Desert places”
a true story by
Andrew Z. Thomas
Horace heard something outside, stopped breathing to listen. He decided it was only wind moving through firs. He turned the title page over on the desk and read the short preface:
The events described hereafter took place o
ver seven months,
from May 16 to November 13, 1996.
***
“And I alone have escaped to tell you.”
- Job 1:17
Horace flipped the page to Chapter One and began to read.
On a lovely May evening, I sat on my deck, watching the sun descend upon Lake Norman. So far, it had been a perfect day. I’d risen at 5:00 a.m. as I always do, put on a pot of French roast, and prepared my usual breakfast of scrambled eggs and a bowl of fresh pineapple. By six o’clock, I was writing, and I didn’t stop until noon.
10
IN the North Carolina night Luther shins down the pine. On the ground he checks the time and dusts the bark off his jeans. He shoulders the Gregory daypack that holds the tools of his trade: duct tape, latex gloves, .357, small tape recorder, hairnet, two pairs of handcuffs, four Ziploc bags, sharpening stone, and one very special bowie, constructed of a five and a half inch battle-proven blade and ivory hilt. He appropriated the knife seven years ago from Orson Thomas’s desert cabin. He treasures it and is thinking of giving it a name.
Shortleaf Drive runs for a quarter mile along the shore of the moonlit lake, a cul-de-sac at each end, the houses built on roomy wooded lots, draped in sweet suburban silence.
As Luther walks down the road he registers all sounds: the handful of chirping crickets which will be silenced by month’s end, a jet cruising in the darkness overhead, the horn of a distant train carrying across the water.
The Worthingtons live in the brick ranch with long eaves, second from the cul-de-sac, surrounded and shaded by tall broad oaks. The house is dark. Because the blinds aren’t drawn he is tempted to sit in the driveway and stare through those windows into rooms he will soon inhabit. But that isn’t how one carries oneself on a residential street at 1:30 in the morning. So he moves on down the driveway past a Volvo and minivan, each adorned with the obligatory bumper stickers boasting of terrific Honor Roll children.
He creeps along the side of the house into the backyard. The grass runs down to the water where a pier is rotting into the lake. A monster oak stands in the center of the lawn, an elaborate tree house built twenty feet up upon its staunchest limbs. A rope swing hangs from a branch overhead and on this calm October night is absolutely still, like the minute hand of a watch that no longer keeps time.
Luther kneels down in the grass below the boy’s window, thankful that the old oak shades him from the brilliant harvest moon. He unzips his backpack and removes the latex gloves. After pulling his hair into a ponytail he slips on a hairnet and rises.
The window comes to his waist.
He peers inside.
The boy lies asleep in bed. A nightlight spreads soft orange illumination upon the wall beside the open doorway.
Caricatures of stars shine weakly from the ceiling.
Luther aims the laser pointer and a red dot appears on the boy’s pillow. The laser moves onto his face and holds against the eyelid. The boy jerks his head, rubs his eyes, and is still again. The pinpoint of bloodlight finds the eyelid once more. The boy sits up suddenly in bed.
With his middle knuckle Luther raps twice against the glass.
Seven-year-old Ben Worthington regards the dark shape of the man at the window.
The laser shines on Ben’s pajamatop.
In the blue darkness the boy looks down at the glowing dot on his chest, then back at Luther, smiling now, remembering.
Luther smiles too.
Ben waves to Luther and climbs down out of bed. He walks in pajamafeet through scattered Legos to the window. Sleeplines texture the left side of his face.
“Hey!” he says at full volume.
Luther touches his index finger to his lips, dangling the laser pointer between his thumb and forefinger.
And boy and man whisper plans to make their rendezvous at the back door.
11
FOUR hours later Horace returned the manuscript to the drawer. He sat for a moment in Andrew’s chair in sheer shock. If he were to believe the preface, that this manuscript was true, then Andrew Thomas was one damned unlucky human being.
He climbed down from the loft, laced his boots, buttoned his jacket, and stepped out into the premature darkness of the afternoon.
On the way back to his Land Cruiser, he couldn’t stop thinking about Orson Thomas and Luther Kite, how they’d destroyed Andrew Thomas’s life.
A splinter of pity worked its way in.
Having grown up with all those terrible stories about Andrew Thomas, that manuscript was hard to believe. Maybe it was full of lies. But why would a man living in the middle of nowhere in assumed anonymity have any reason to lie? What if the monsters were really Orson and Luther?
He was running through the woods now, eyes watering from the cold.
When the idea hit him, Horace laughed.
But by the time he’d reached the Land Cruiser, he knew what he would have to do for his book.
Next time he came out here, he would drive right up to Andrew Thomas’s cabin, knock on the door, and politely ask the alleged serial killer for an interview.
12
BEN Worthington turns the deadbolt as Luther grins at him through a pane of glass. When the boy has opened the backdoor, Luther extends an arm from behind his back and unfurls his long slender fingers to reveal the coveted laser pointer.
“All yours,” Luther whispers.
The boy steps through the doorway onto the deck, bigeyed as his little fingers grasp what has been foremost on his mind since midafternoon.
Luther gently places his right hand against the back of the boy’s skull and his left palm flat against his forehead.
“You’re a bad boy, Ben,” Luther says, and twists his little head around one hundred eighty degrees.
The warmth of the house envelops him as he closes and relocks the backdoor. He stands in the kitchen holding the dead boy in his arms, the linoleum Kool-Aid-sticky beneath his feet.
The sink blooms with dishes.
The odor of burnt popcorn permeates the air.
Two greasy Tupperware bowls sit on the Formica table beside him, the unexploded kernels still pooled in the bottom.
The liquid crystal display on the stove turns to 1:39.
He hesitates, listening: the muted breath of warm air murmurs up through vents in the floor. A water droplet falls every fifteen seconds from the faucet into a slowly filling wineglass and in another room the second hand of a clock ticks just on the edge of audible. The refrigerator hums soothingly. As the icemaker releases new cubes into the bin, the sound is like a great glacier shelf calving into the sea.
Luther kneels down, stows the boy beneath the table. Then he moves on into the dining room, turns right, and passes through a wide archway into the den.
Plushycushioned furniture has been arranged in a semicircle around the undeniable focal point of the room: a gargantuan television with satellite speakers positioned strategically in every corner for a maximum auditory experience. A third Tupperware bowl has been abandoned between two pillows on the floor. Bending down, he scoops out a handful of popcorn and crams it into his mouth.
He walks to the edge of the hallway, eyes still adjusting to the navy darkness. The electronic snoring of the kitchen cannot be heard from this corridor of the house. But there are other sounds: the toilet runs; a showerhead drips onto ceramic; three human beings breathe heavily in oblivious comfort. Beneath this soundtrack of suburban sleep the central heating whispers on and on, safe as his mother’s heartbeat.
Luther stands in the hallway scraping chunks of popcorn from his molars, thinking, They need this noise. They would go mad without it. They think this is silence…they have never known silence.
He steps through the first doorway on the right, a bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet above the sink, he takes out a box of grape-flavored dental floss. When his teeth are clean to his satisfaction he returns the floss to its shelf and closes the cabinet. Stepping back into the hall he tiptoes across the carpet into t
he first room on the left.
A black and orange sticker on the door reads “Private—Keep Out!” and below it in stenciled characters: “Hank’s Hideout.”
The room is tidy—no toys on the floor, beanbags pushed into the corners.
A dozen model airplanes and helicopters hang by wires from the ceiling.
A B-25 sits near completion on a desk. Only the wings and the ball turret remain to be affixed.
He smells the glue.
A bevy of Little League trophies lines the top of a dresser, each golden plastic boy facing the bed, frozen in midswing. Luther reads the engraving on the base of one of the trophies.
Hank’s team is called The Lean, Mean, Fighting Machine.
He won the sportsmanship award last year.
Removing his backpack, Luther lies down beside Hank atop a bedspread patterned with a map of the constellations. The boy sleeps on his side, his back to the intruder. Luther watches him for a moment under the orange gleam of a nightlight, wondering what it must feel like to have a son.
Because he’s dreaming, the boy’s neck snaps more easily than his little brother’s.
Luther rises, unzips the backpack. He takes out the gun, the handcuffs, the tape recorder, Orson’s bowie. The gun is not loaded. Silencers are hard to come by and under no condition will he fire a .357 at two in the morning in a neighborhood like this.
Slipping the handcuffs into his pocket, he moves back into the hall and arrives at last in the threshold of the master bedroom where Zach and Theresa Worthington sleep.
In the absence of a nightlight the room is all shape and shadow.
He would prefer to stand here, watching them from the doorway for an hour, glutting himself on anticipation. But this isn’t his only project tonight and the sun will be up in four hours.
So Luther sets the tape recorder on a nearby dresser and presses record. Then he thumbs back the hammer on the .357 and strokes the light switch with his latex finger though he does not flip it yet.