Thicker Than Blood

"His name’s Luther," Orson continued. "Would you like to know more about him, Walter? He may become a big part of your life. In fact, he may already be a big part of your life. You see, when I took him out to the desert three years ago, he took an avid interest in —"

"Walter, just ignore —"

"Let him finish."

"Not that it’s my inclination," Orson said, "but among his many interests, Luther likes little things. Well, more specifically, he likes to hurt little things, and me not being one to pass judgment, I told him, ‘I know two little things named Je

"I don’t believe you."

"You don’t have to believe me, Walter. Luther believes me, and that’s all that matters. His visit to Je

Walter pressed his gun against Orson’s chest.

"No," I said calmly. "Just sit back."

"When I pull this trigger," Walter said to Orson, "the force of the bullet impacting your chest will be so intense, your heart might stop. How does it feel, Orson?"

"I imagine I feel like your wife and children are going to feel. And trust me on this, Walter. You could flay me, and I wouldn’t call off Luther."

"Put that fucking gun down," I said. "This is not the way to do this."

"He’s talking about my family."

"He’s lying. He will tell us."

"I’m not lying, Walter. Shall I tell you how Luther’s pla

Walter ground his teeth together, trembling with explosive rage.

"I’m not telling you again," I said. "Put it down."

"Fuck off, Andy."

I took my Glock from the fa

"If he’s dead, maybe Luther will leave us alone. Orson’s just doing this because I know about him." He chambered the first round.

"Walter, you’re a little crazy now, so just —" I leaned forward to take the gun from him, but he jerked back and turned his .45 on me.

"You put the gun down."

My finger moved onto the trigger.

"You go

"You aren’t a parent," he said, incensed. "You don’t know." He trained the gun back on my brother. "Count to three, you piece of shit."

"Okay. One."

"Walter!"

"Two."

"You kill him, you kill your family!"

Before Walter reached three, Orson drew his knees into his chest and kicked the back of my seat. Jerking forward into the dashboard, I felt my finger slip, and though I didn’t hear the gunshot, my Glock recoiled.

Walter fell back onto the steering wheel, and it bleated through the countryside. I lifted him off the horn and he sagged into my lap, spilling all over me.

I wept; Orson laughed.

27

I finished burying Walter a few minutes before five o’clock. Through the ceiling of pines, light was coming, and the white Cadillac would be plainly visible from the highway, if it was not already. The sky kindled with each passing second, and I felt the self-possession I’d known just hours ago disintegrating. Walking back through the trees, the mechanic’s suit rigid now with Walter’s frozen blood, I thought, I could crumble so easily.

When I broke out of the trees, I saw three cars speed by, heading into Bristol. It was light enough that I could see the textureless black mountains clearly against the sky, and anyone passing, if they happened to look, would see me stumbling along the shoulder toward the car. On the eastern horizon a trace of day warmed above the Atlantic. The sun was coming. The moon had disappeared hours ago.

I reached the Cadillac. Orson was unconscious in the trunk, an entire 4-mg vial of Ativan coursing through his bloodstream.

The front seat was a mess — pools of blood on both floorboards, the driver’s side window smeared red. I managed to scrape enough blood and brain matter off the glass to drive. Exhausted, I started the car and pulled onto the highway, heading south, back into Woodside.

I kept wondering what I’d do if a cop pulled me over. He’d see the bloodstained interior and the purple mass that was my left eye. I’d have to run. There’d be no other choice besides killing him.

Returning to Orson’s house, I backed the Cadillac into his driveway and parked beside the white Lexus. I agonized over leaving the car out here when the town would be waking within the hour. But there was no alternative. I needed to get Orson inside, clean myself up, and figure out what the hell I was going to do.

Reclining on a floral-print couch in Orson’s den, I dialed Cynthia’s home number. It was a su

She answered on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Hi, Cynthia."

"Andy." I detected undeniable shock in her voice, and it concerned me. "Where are you?" she asked. "Everyone’s looking for you."

"Who’s everyone?"

"The Winston-Salem Police Department called my office twice yesterday."

"Why are they looking for me?"

"You know about your mother?"

She was going to regret asking that.

"What about her?"

"Oh, Andy. I’m sorry."

"What?"

"A neighbor found her dead in her house three days ago. On Wednesday, I think. Andy…"

"What happened?" I let my voice quake. How could an i

"They think she was murdered."

I dropped the phone and produced a few sobs. After a moment, I brought the receiver to my ear again. "I’m here," I said, sniffling.

"Are you all right?"

"I don’t know."

"Andy, the police want to speak with you."

"Why?"

"I um…I think…" She sighed. "This is tough, Andy. There’s a warrant for your arrest."

"What in the world for?"

"Your mother’s murder."

"Oh no, no, no, no —"

"And I know you didn’t do it. I believe you. But the best thing to do is just talk to the police and clear this mess up. Where are you? Let me have someone come get you."

"Thank you for everything, Cynthia." I hung up the phone, thinking, They had to find her eventually. Orson, you fucked me again. I stared at my brother on the sofa. He’d be waking soon. Until you fix this, you don’t have a home. In fact, you might never go home again.