Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake - Страница 95
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“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.”
“Can’t help you there.”
“What do you want me to do, piss in the trunk?”
“It’s your car.”
I opened the back door and fished out a syringe and a vial of Ativan from the fanny pack. Another car passed us, heading toward Lincoln, and I suddenly felt anxious to get on the road again.
“Turn over, Orson.” I stuck him with the needle.
“Andy,” he said as I put my hands on the trunk to close it, “you’re very good at this.”
The coffee and sinus medication had worn off hours ago, and on the tediously straight roads of western Nebraska, I now operated solely on the determination not to fall asleep.
I’d been driving for twenty-three hours and thirty-five minutes, and I existed in a limbo between sleep and consciousness. Occasionally, my forehead would touch the steering wheel, and I’d jerk back up and cherish a five-minute oasis of petrified alertness. Then my mind would drift back, and I’d lose consciousness for that split second and scare myself to death all over again.
Heading up Highway 26, fifty miles northwest of Ogallala, the prairie awoke. A peach sunrise was lifting out of the eastern horizon, and as the light strengthened, the land spread and spread and spread, farther than it seemed possible. It had changed overnight, and because I had not witnessed the gradual topographic expansion, this sudden revelation was staggering. For an easterner driving west, the stark vastness of the land and sky is always inconceivable, and I imagined a symphonic aubade to accompany the majesty of the morning.
At 6:30 A.M., I crossed the tree-lined North Platte River into the town of Bridgeport. In the southern distance, the tips of numerous sandstone buttes were catching coral sunbeams. Though several miles away, it looked like I could reach out and touch them.
Highway 26 cut through the sleeping town. On the western fringe, there was a motel called Courthouse View (named after a prominent butte five miles south), and I got a room there. Since I’d given Orson enough Ativan to maintain sedation for the better part of the day, I left him in the trunk, walked inside, and crashed.
I’d be meeting Luther in fourteen hours.
I checked out of Courthouse View in the late afternoon, and heading northwest toward Scottsbluff on Highway 92, I started mulling over what I’d gotten myself into with Luther. In all honesty, I’d done a stupid thing. It was already 5:07, and that left me a little under four hours to determine how I would kill him, dispose of him, and leave town unnoticed. Finally, I concluded that I was being hasty and reckless. Besides, I couldn’t get past the idea that I was going to get myself killed fucking with this guy. So fifteen miles outside of Scottsbluff, I decided not to go through with it. I’d been methodical up to this point, and while it was tempting to orchestrate a quick, clever way to do in Luther Kite, four hours wasn’t an adequate length of time in which to do it.
Ricki’s was a true shithole. On the southern outskirts of Scottsbluff, in the shadow of the eight-hundred-foot bluff from which the town assumed its name, I pulled into its dirt parking lot and turned off the car. Stepping outside into the dry, tingling cold, night was imminent, though the sun still illumined the prairie and the spire of Chimney Rock, tiny but distinct in the distance. The tourist brochure in the motel claimed that the five-hundred-foot inselberg had been a landmark for pioneers on the Oregon Trail — the first indication of the Rocky Mountains, which lay ahead. Walking toward the trunk with two squeeze bottles of water and three bags of potato chips, I stared at the golden sandstone buttes of the Wildcat Hills, thinking, I’d like to pick one of those hills and lie down on top and never leave. I’d just sit out there and erode, alone.
I’d bought the food at Courthouse View, but the motel parking lot had been too crowded to risk opening the trunk. Ricki’s parking lot was empty except for Orson’s Lexus and a pickup truck.
Orson was awake. Even the sallow evening light burned his eyes, so he closed them. He’d pulled his cuffed hands under his feet, so they were now in front of him.
“Here,” I said, placing a squeeze bottle in his hands. As he drank it like a baby, I dropped the bags of chips and the other bottle inside. “It won’t be much longer,” I said. “We’re just thirty-five miles from the Wyoming border.”
I had a syringe prepared and I shot another 4-mg vial of Ativan into his ass.
I located a pen in the glove compartment and tore off a piece of the Vermont state map. I’d considered just calling Luther and having Orson cancel our meeting, but I had misgivings about my brother’s current ability to mask the atrophy in his voice. So stuffing the pen, paper, and Glock into my jeans pocket and pulling on a gray wool sweater, I locked the car and walked across the dirt parking lot toward the bar.
Above the door, a neon sign displayed RICKI’S in blue cursive. I walked under the humming sign and entered the deserted bar, which was smaller than my living room. Its ceiling was obtrusively low, booths lined the walls, and with only two windows, one on either side of the door, I felt as though I were stepping into a smoky closet.
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