by Blake Crouch
When Jeff and Wilbur were cuffed together, Orson ordered them to get out. Wilbur had difficulty moving his leg, so Orson directed me to drag him out of the trunk. As he screamed, I pulled him onto the ground, and Jeff fell on him, crushing the injured thigh.
Leaving their cowboy hats in the trunk, the two men came slowly to their feet, and Orson led them toward the back of the shed. As he unlocked the door, he told me to go wrap the driver up in the plastic lining and remove him from the trunk.
"I can’t lift him by myself," I said. "The blood’ll spill everywhere."
"Just go shut it, then. But we gotta get him out before he starts stinking."
I returned to the car and closed the trunk. Walking back toward the shed, I felt the keys jingle in my pocket. Staring at the brown car, dull beneath the floodlights, I thought, I could go. Right now. Get in the car, turn the ignition, and drive back to the highway. There’s probably a town, maybe thirty or forty miles away. You find a police station, you bring someone here. Maybe you save them. Sliding my hand into my pocket, I poked a finger through the key ring. Orson’s voice passed through the pine structure, taunting the groaning man inside.
Go. I started for the driver’s seat. Shit. The hood was still raised, and I quietly lowered it so that it closed with a soft metallic click, which Orson could not have heard from inside the shed. With the key held firmly between my thumb and forefinger, I opened the car door, my hands shaking now, and sat down in the driver’s seat. Key into the ignition. Check the parking brake. Don’t shut the door until you’re moving. Turn the key. Turn the key.
Something tapped on the window, and, flinching, I looked over at Orson, who was standing by the passenger door, pointing the revolver at my head through the glass.
"What in the world are you doing?" he asked.
"I’m coming," I said. "I was coming." I pulled the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car. "Here." I tossed him the keys and walked toward the shed. Don’t shoot me. Please. Pretend this didn’t happen. At the back door he stopped me.
"I’m considering killing you," he said. "But you’ve got an opportunity in here to dissuade me. After you."
He followed me into the shed and locked the door behind us, having already collared the men individually and chained them to the pole. You’ve seen this before. It won’t be as bad as Shirley. Can’t be. We let the family go. We let the family go. Those kids will see Old Faithful tomorrow. Hold on to that.
Orson retrieved his handcrafted knife and inserted a tape into a video camera that sat on a black tripod in the corner. I didn’t recall seeing a video camera on Shirley’s night.
When he noticed me looking at the camera, he said, "Hey, I gotta have something to tide me over." Orson walked to the center of the room with his knife as Wilbur moaned on the floor.
"Jeff," Orson said, "you’re smarter than your recalcitrant friend here. I’ve known you only forty minutes, and it’s an obvious fact." Orson looked at me and said, "Drag the plastic over here, Andy." I walked to the corner, where at least two dozen neatly folded sheets were stacked. On a nearby shelf, I noticed a cardboard box filled with votive candles, and I wondered to what use Orson put them.
"Look," Jeff said, "please just listen —"
"Zip it, Jeff. It’s futile. Normally, I’d have given you two a test, but your roadside manner automatically flunks you both. So with that matter settled, get up, gentlemen."
Jeff stood, but Wilbur struggled. He’d already bled a little pool onto the floor. I spread the sheet near the pole, and the men sat back down, Jeff looking with confusion at the plastic beneath him.
"Jeff," Orson continued, "how long you known Wilbur?"
"All my life."
"Then this might be a difficult decision for you." I was leaning against the double doors, and Orson looked back at me. "Have a seat, Andy. You’re making me nervous."
As I sat down in the lawn chair, Orson turned back to Jeff and held up the knife and the revolver. "Jeff, the bad news is you’re both going to die tonight. The slightly better news is that you get to decide who gets the easy way and who gets the fun way. Option A. My brother executes you with this three fifty-seven. If you choose the gun, you have to go first. Option B. I take this gorgeous knife and cut your heart out while you watch." Orson smiled. "Take a moment to think it over."
My brother walked to me as the men stared at each other on the plastic — Jeff crying, Wilbur on the verge of losing consciousness. Orson leaned down and whispered into my ear: "Whoever you shoot, you’re doing them an act of kindness. They’ll feel nothing. I’m not even gonna make you watch what I do with this knife tonight. You can go back to the house and go to bed."
Orson returned to the center of the room and looked down at the men. "Jeff, I’m gonna have to ask —"
Jeff sobbed. "Why are you —"
"If the next words from your mouth aren’t ‘Shoot me’ or ‘Shoot him,’ I’ll take both your hearts out. Decide."
"Shoot me," Jeff cried, his lips pulling back, exposing rotten teeth. Wilbur, still holding his leg, glared at Orson.
My brother walked to the back door and said, "Andy, I thought about it, and I’m only leaving you one bullet in the gun. Wouldn’t want you to do them both a favor." Orson emptied the cylinder and reloaded one round.
"Behind the ear, Andy. Anywhere else and you might not kill him. He’d just lay around suffering." Orson set the gun on the floor. "I’d love to stay and watch, but after that incident with Miss Tanner, well…I’ll come back when I hear the gunshot. Don’t do anything heroic like not shoot him or destroy the gun. I have others, and we’d have to play our little game again. I think the stakes are up to sixty percent now against you, and I’m sure you don’t want those odds. And if that doesn’t encourage you, let me say this. Anything goes wrong, I’ll punish our mother. So…I’ll leave you to your work. Jeff" — Orson flippantly saluted him — "it’s my brother’s first time, so take it like a man. Don’t beg and plead with him not to shoot you, because you might convince him, and then you’d have to die my way. And I promise you," he said, smiling at Wilbur, "my way’s a shitty way to die." Orson stepped out, shut the door, and turned the dead bolt. I was alone with my victim.
Rising, I crossed the floor to the gun, picked it up, and carried it back to the chair. The way Jeff watched me felt unnatural. No one had ever feared me like this.
I sat down to think, my hands sweating onto the metal. Jeff stared at me, and I stared back. Our eyes met, eyes that in another time or place might have been cordial or apathetic, now gravely opposed. This is preventing his torture.
When I stood, my legs jellied, like those nightmares when you have to run, but your legs refuse to work. I walked toward Jeff. It’s for his own good. Be professional, calm, and swift. Even through his pain, Wilbur cursed me under his malodorous breath. Are you actually going to do this?
"A joke?" Jeff laughed strangely. "This is a funny joke. Isn’t this a funny joke, Wilbur? Let’s go now. We have to be at Charlie’s before twelve."
Lifting the gun in my right hand, I pointed it at Jeff and tried to aim, but my hands shook. I stepped forward so that, despite my trembling, Jeff’s head remained in the sight.
"Don’t shoot my face," he begged as tears welled up again in his eyes. Jeff knelt down and leaned forward like a Muslim facing Mecca, his dirty blond hair in his eyes, his right arm stretched out, still connected to Wilbur. He touched the skin behind his ear. "Right here," he said, his voice quaking. "Get close if you have to."
You aren’t going to do this.
I took a step closer. His face now inches from my boots, he made fists and grunted, preparing to die. With both hands, I steadied the gun, and my finger found the trigger.
I squeezed, but the hammer only clicked.
Jeff gasped.
"I’m sorry," I said, and as his back heaved up and down from hyperventilation, I stepped back. The cylinder of a Smith & Wesson rotates counterclockwise. Orson had loaded the eleven o’clock
chamber instead of the two. You did that on purpose, you bastard. I dropped the round into the hot chamber, put the barrel behind Jeff’s ear, and thumbed back the hammer.
He went limp and rolled onto his left side. I hadn’t heard the gunshot or felt my finger move, but a stream of dark blood flowed fast onto the plastic. In five seconds, it had surrounded Jeff above the shoulders, a crimson halo that reflected the lightbulb redly. I could see into his right eye, open but blank, without soul or will. As the pool expanded across the plastic, Wilbur jerked back, dragging Jeff’s body with him, and shrieking his name. Do not analyze this moment. You couldn’t bear it.
The back door opened, and Orson entered, an expression of awe upon his face as he stared at the plastic. He pulled the Polaroid camera from his pocket, and captured me looking down at Jeff.
"This moment…" he began, but did not finish the thought. His eyes glistened, joyful. "My God, Andy." He came and took the gun from my hands. Embracing me with tears in his eyes, he rubbed my back. "This is love, Wilbur," he said. "Real as it gets." Orson let go and wiped his eyes. "You can go now if you want, Andy," he said. "You’re welcome to stay, but I know you probably don’t wanna see this. I won’t force you."
As Orson looked at Wilbur, I could see his mind drift from what I’d done. His preoccupation with his next victim took precedence, and his eyes glazed over with predatory concentration. He walked across the room and returned with the sharpening stone. Then he sat down on the concrete and began sliding the knife blade against the stone, returning it to the razor edge it had held before Shirley Tanner. You killed a human being. No, stop that. Stop thinking.
"Staying or going?" he asked, looking up at me.
"I’m going," I said, watching Wilbur watch the knife as it scraped across the stone for him. I wondered if Orson would make the knife speech after I left. Orson set the knife on the floor and walked me to the door. When he opened it, I gladly stepped outside. Wilbur strained his neck to see the desert, and Orson noticed.
"You interested in something out here, Wilbur?" he asked, turning around as I stood in the threshold. "Well, take a look," he said. "Take a long, long look at that night sky, and the stars, and the moon, ’cause you’ll never see them again. Not ever."
Orson’s icy stare returned to me. "I’ll see you in the morning, brother."
He slammed the door in my face and locked it. I trudged toward the cabin, the sound of the knife blade on the sharpening stone reaching faintly through the walls.
Ahead the black mass of the cabin pressed against the navy sky. The desert had turned blue again in the moonlight. I thought of my quiet room inside. I would sleep tonight. This staggering numbness was my lifeboat.
As I stepped onto the front porch and reached for the door, the first scream rushed out of the shed and splintered the gentle night. I could not fathom the pain that had inspired it, and as I walked inside and closed the door behind me, I prayed the cabin walls would impede the sound of Orson’s handiwork from reaching my ears.
13
ON the eleventh day, I didn’t leave my room. Orson slipped in during the afternoon. I wasn’t sleeping, though. Since first light, I’d been awake. He brought me a ham sandwich and a glass of port and set them on the bedside table. I lay on my side, facing him, staring into nothing. The despondence that always struck him afterward was evident in his cumbrous eyes and hushed voice.
"Andy," he said, but I didn’t acknowledge him. "This is part of it. The depression. But you’re prepared for it." He squatted down and looked into my eyes. "I can help you through it."
Raindrops ticked on the tin roof. I had yet to get out of bed to look outside, but the light that struggled shyly between the window bars was far from the brilliance of a desert afternoon. Soft and gray, it sulked in the corners. The turpentine fragrance of wet sagebrush perfumed the desert and my room.
"I’m through with you now," he said. "You can go home."
A current of hope flowed through me, and I found his eyes.
"When?"
"Pack today, leave tomorrow." I sat up in bed and set the plate on my lap. "Feel better?" I took a bite of the cold smoked-ham sandwich and nodded. "I thought you would," he said, moving to the door. As he opened it, a cool draft swirled into my room. "I’m locking the door. I’ll bring you dinner later this evening. The only thing I ask is that you’re packed before you fall asleep tonight."
When he was gone, I closed my eyes and saw Lake Norman — mosquitoes humming on the surface, a baby blue sky reflected in the mild water. I could smell the pines again, the rich, living soil. The plagiary of mockingbirds and children’s laughter echoing across the lake filled the dead air of the cabin. I could turn this all into a dream. I’m not home yet. My eyes opened again to somber reality — the sound of Orson moving about the cabin, and rain flooding a desert.
Day 11
I’d estimate the hour to be approaching midnight. It’s raining, as it has been all day, and storm clouds have shrouded the moon, so the desert is invisible except when lightning jolts the sky. But it comes without thunder. The heart of the storm is miles away.
My duffel bag is packed. I think Orson’s waiting for me to fall asleep. I’ve heard his footsteps approach my door and stop several times in the last hour, as if he’s listening for the sound of my movement. This makes me a tad nervous, particularly since he’s been so kind today. But strangely enough, I trust him. I can’t explain it, but I don’t think he’ll hurt me, especially after last night. That really touched him.
Hopefully, this is the last entry I’ll ever make in this cabin. Through writing these pages, I saved some degree of sanity and autonomy, but I haven’t written down everything that occurred here. The reason for this is that I intend to forget. Some people find the cravenness to lose entire years of their childhood. They tuck things into their subconscious so that it only eats them away a little at a time, in small, painless bites.
This idea of repression is my model. My goal is to forget the unspeakable events of these past eleven days. I’ll gladly pay the price in episodes of depression, rage, and denial that are destined to plague my coming years. Nothing can be as devastating as the actual memories of what I’ve seen and done.
I signed my name at the bottom of the entry and folded the sheet of notebook paper into thirds. Then I walked to the duffel bag and stuffed it down between the dirty clothes with the other entries I’d saved. Turning out the lantern on the bedside table, I slid under the blanket. Rain on the tin roof was more effective than a bottle of sleeping pills at lulling me to sleep.
Lightning broke the darkness, and I saw the whites of Orson’s eyes. He stood in my room, dripping onto the floor. When the sky went black again, my pulse raced, and I sat up in bed.
"Orson, you’re scaring me." My voice rose above the tinkling roof.
"Don’t be afraid," he said. "I came to give you an injection."
"Of what?"
"Something to help you sleep. Like what you had at the motel."
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Awhile. I’ve been watching you sleep, Andy."
"Will you turn the light on, please?"
"I shut the generator off."
My heart wouldn’t decelerate, so I grabbed a book of matches from the bedside table and lighted the kerosene lantern. As I turned up the flame, the walls warmed, and the terror faded from my heart. He wore jeans and a green poncho, soaking wet.
"I need to give this to you," he said, showing me the syringe. "It’s time to leave."
"Is it really necessary?" I asked.
"Extremely." He took a step closer. "Lift your sleeve."
Pushing the T-shirt sleeve above my shoulder, I turned my head away as Orson jabbed the needle into my arm. The pain was sharp but brief, and I didn’t feel the needle pull out. When I looked back at Orson, the room had already grown fuzzy, and my head fell involuntarily back onto the pillow.
"You don’t have much time now," Orson said as my eyelids lowered,
his voice as distant as the storm’s thunder. "When you wake, you’ll be in a motel room in Denver, a plane ticket on the dresser, the three-fifty-seven locked up in your duffel bag. At that point, you can know that Mom is safe, and the evidence I have against you is in a secure place, in my possession. You’ve upheld your end of the agreement. I’ll uphold mine.
"I think we’ve passed this stage in our relationship, but I’ll say it once more. Tell no one what you’ve done, where you think you’ve been. Say nothing about me, or Shirley Tanner, or Wilbur and the boys. You were in Aruba the whole time, relaxing. And don’t waste your energy coming back out here to look for me. You may have deduced the location of this cabin, but I assure you I’ll be leaving this desert with you.
"In the coming months, things may happen that you won’t understand, that you may never have dreamed of. But Andy, never forget this: Everything that happens, happens for a reason, and I’ll be in control of that reason. Never doubt that.
"You’ll see me again, though it won’t be for some time. Carry on with your life as before. Guilt will come for you, but you have to beat it back. Write your books, embrace your success, just keep me in the back of your mind."
His face was blurry, but I thought I saw him smile. The sound of the rain had hushed, and even Orson’s voice, an eloquent, soft-spoken whisper, I could scarcely understand.
"You’re almost gone," he said. "I see it in your slit eyes. I wanna leave you with something as we say good-bye and you fall into that blissful unconsciousness.
"I know you like poetry. You studied Frost our freshman year of college. I hated him then; I love him now. Especially one poem in particular. The thing about this poem is, everyone thinks it applies to them. It’s recited at graduations and printed in annuals, so as everyone takes the same path, they can claim uniqueness because they love this poem. I’ll shut up now and let Bob put you to sleep."