Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake - Страница 87

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A twig snapped in the distance.

“Aren’t you doing this for your family?” I asked. “Think about them when you’re scared. What it’ll feel like to see the animal who threatened Jenna bleeding in that hole.”

The woods had become unnervingly dark.

“It may get rough tomorrow,” I said. “We may have to…do things to him if he won’t tell us what we need to know. You up for that?”

“I will be.”

Walter started in the direction of the highway. I picked up my shovel and followed him, counting the steps from Orson’s grave to the edge of the forest. When we emerged from the trees, the highway was silent, and a cold fog was descended from the high country. I could only see a hundred yards down the road now — beyond, an impenetrable black mist.

I left my shovel leaning against the largest pine tree I could find. We would need some marker to find this place at night. As we climbed back into the car and the interior lights came on and the seat belt warning beeped, something sank inside of me. Walter was wrong. Perhaps the foggy dusk intensified it, but I was afraid. Driving back toward the inn, my hands trembled as they gripped the steering wheel. I wondered in the back of my mind if I could do it. In spite of everything he’d done, Orson was my brother. My twin. There was a bond.

Walter and I didn’t speak. I imagined our silence might be analogous to that which develops between soldiers who have a bloody task ahead of them. No place for superficial chatter. Only an intense focus on the coming hours, and mental preparation to do a horrible thing.

24

FRIDAY, early afternoon, as the sun reached its apogee and crossed into the western sky, my bed resembled a small arsenal: my subcompact .40 Glock; Walter’s full-size .45; two boxes of Remington .40-caliber 180-grain semijacketed hollow-points; two boxes of Remington .45-caliber 185-grain semijacketed hollow-points; two extra magazines for each handgun; a pair of Amherst RS446 walkie-talkies; eighteen vials of benzodiazepines; one vial of antidote; three hypodermic needles; latex gloves; leather gloves; a penlight; handcuffs; and two mechanic’s suits I’d purchased from an Army-Navy surplus store in Davidson.

The benzodiazepines had been tricky to come by. Walter’s mother-in-law suffered from a panic disorder, and among the sundry medications she stockpiled was a medium-acting sedative called Ativan. He’d helped himself to thirteen 1-mL vials. According to our on-line research, this would be sufficient to keep Orson sedated for a couple of days if need be. The downside, however, was that the onset of Ativan took upward of twenty minutes, and I needed something that could knock Orson down in less than two.

So I’d done a very bad thing.

Horror writers get away with murder in the pursuit of realism, and over the years, I’d befriended attorneys, detectives, and professionals in various fields, all of whom had graciously consulted with me on the accuracy of my novels. The investigative and courtroom procedures in my stories are religiously unerring. I always get the gun right. A coroner friend of mine even let me sit in on an autopsy, just so I could nail the olfactory experience in the opening chapter of my latest book.

There’s a vignette in Blue Murder where the protagonist steals drugs from a hospital. So in the course of my research for the book, I’d asked my doctor, “If you wanted to steal narcotics from a hospital, how would you do it?” Writers can ask these questions, and no one suspects their motives because “it’s for the book,” and they show up in the acknowledgments.

He told me exactly what to do, and goddamn if he wasn’t right. His advice: “Raid the recovery room. It doesn’t matter if the narcotics are locked up, as long as the keys are left in drawers that aren’t. Pray for incompetent nurses. Know where the cameras are. Acquire a janitor’s uniform, and stay busy long enough to see where the keys to the narcotics cabinet are kept.”

Thanks to careless, unobservant nurses in the recovery room, two days before we left for Woodside, I walked out of Mercy Hospital in Charlotte, North Carolina, with five 1-mL vials of the short-acting benzodiazepine, Versed. Used for sedation in surgical procedures, when administered intravenously, it can render someone unconscious inside of ninety seconds. Unfortunately, it also has the potential to induce respiratory depression, so I’d stolen a vial of its antidote, flumazenil, as well.

In addition to my larceny, I’d extensively researched intravenous and intramuscular injection. I knew the dosages and monographs for Ativan and Versed. I’d done my homework, had reliable firearms, and a well-devised plan. As Walter and I sat on opposite love seats, pushing the brass-shelled hollow-points into the magazines, a calmness settled upon me. We’re actually doing it, I thought. Who does this kind of thing? Pretty fucking gutsy. It’d make one hell of a book.

While Walter took a catnap, I went downstairs. Dirty dishes and empty wine bottles cluttered the dining room table — casualties of lunch. I walked back into the kitchen and asked the chef if he would make me a turkey sandwich. He didn’t want to. Lunch had already been served. But reluctantly, he agreed and said I could wait by the fire.

I sat down in a rocking chair. In the brick hearth, a fire was in the process of burning out. I imagined it had been blazing in the early-morning hours, before the dusting of snow had melted, as other guests planned their day. It still warmed the snug sitting area, though now halfheartedly. As I waited, I stared at the only remaining log. It glowed underneath, the embers slowly eating it away, turning the wood to ash and smoke.

In the nearby lounge, a TV blared. I heard the voice of Agent Trent, discussing recent developments in the search for the Heart Surgeon.

A couple walking by on their way to the front door glanced curiously at my outfit. A gray one-piece mechanic’s suit was anomalous attire for this upscale inn.

Jennings Road branched left off of Main Street, a mile beyond the college. Leafless sugar maples and birches shielded the road from the sky as it climbed a hillside. There were mounds of leaves along the sides of the road. I pictured them in full, fiery color, littered across the street and through the lawns, turning this small New England neighborhood into a mystical universe all its own.

Near the top of the hill, on a black mailbox in slanted white numbers, I saw 617. Walter slowed the car, but I told him to drive casually by and park a ways up the street. As we continued on, I gazed at Orson’s home, disbelieving I’d actually found it. From the outside, it was modestly elegant. A white two-story house, with dormer windows protruding from the second floor, larger bay windows from the first. A split-rail fence enclosed the front lawn, and flowers grew along a brick walkway that curved from the driveway to the front porch. There was no garage, and there were presently no cars in the driveway.

We crested the hill and Walter parked near the curb, scattering a pile of leaves. He turned off the engine and looked warily at me as I reached under my seat and grabbed the walkie-talkies.

“Channel eight, subchannel seventeen,” I said, handing one to Walter. We adjusted our frequencies accordingly. “We passed a diner before we turned onto Jennings. Wait there. This car looks conspicuous sitting up here, especially with an out-of-state tag. You’ll get the first communication at the diner. I’ll say, ‘Go, Papa.’ That’ll mean he’s home, so get your ass up here and start circling the neighborhood. The second communication will be ‘Bring it home,’ and that means come to six seventeen and back into the driveway. I’ll want you to open the trunk for me and get back in the car. When you’re inside and the trunk’s open, I’ll bring him out. He’ll be unconscious. I’ll put him in the trunk, and you’ll drive us to his hole on One sixteen. Any questions?”

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