Thicker Than Blood - the Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy - Blake Crouch [11]
The walls of the living room were covered, floor to ceiling, with books. They stood on rustic shelves that protruded from the logs, and I was amazed at the diversity of the titles. I recognized, on the end of one shelf, the colorful jackets of the five books I’d written.
My brother walked to the other side of the room, which became a tiny kitchen. A record player sat on a stool by the front door, a three-foot stack of records beside it. Orson looked at me and, smiling, set the needle on a record. "Freddie Freeloader" sprang out from two large speakers, and I eased down on the sofa.
As the song progressed, Orson took a seat on the other end of the couch. The way he stared unnerved me. I wanted my glasses.
"Do you think I could have my things now?"
"Oh, you mean this?" Nonchalantly, he pulled my .357 out of his jeans pocket. "I did tell you to bring the Smith and Wesson, didn’t I?" His voice filled with angry sarcasm as his cold eyes dilated and burned through me.
"I’m sorry," I said, shifting uncomfortably on the couch, mouth running dry. "Wouldn’t you have done the same? I mean, I didn’t know —"
"Trying to put me in your shoes won’t work." He walked to the record player and lifted the needle. The cabin now in absolute silence, he moved to the center of the living room.
"You fucked up, Andy. I told you just bring clothes and toiletries, and you brought a gun and a box of bullets." He spoke casually, as though we lounged on a back porch, smoking cigars.
"When you don’t follow my instructions, that hurts both of us, and the only thing I can think of to do is show you that not following them isn’t in your best interest." He opened the cylinder of the .357 and showed me five empty chambers. "You fucked up once, so we’ll load one bullet." He took a round from his pocket and slipped it into a chamber.
I grew sick with fear. "Orson, you can’t."
"Andy-Andy-Andy. You never tell a man with a loaded weapon what to do." He spun the cylinder, flipped it back into the gun, and cocked the hammer. "Let me explain how this punishes me also, because I don’t want you to think I’m doing this just for kicks.
"I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to bring you out here, and if your luck suddenly runs out and the twenty percent chance of this bullet being in the hot chamber bites your ass, I’ve done a lot of work for nothing. But I’m willing to take that chance to teach you a lesson about following my instructions."
When he pointed the gun at my chest, I uselessly held out my hands. He squeezed the trigger — click — and took a bite of his apple. I could hardly breathe, and as I buried my face in my hands, Orson put the record back on. The music started again, and he snapped his fingers to the offbeat, smiling warmly at me as he returned to the couch. When he’d removed the round from the chamber, he set the gun on the floor and plopped back down beside me. A wave of nausea watered my mouth, and I thought I might be sick.
Holy fucking shit, he’s out of his goddamned mind. I’m going to die. I’m alone in a desert with a psychopath who is my brother. My fucking brother.
"Andy, you’re free to roam the house now, and the desert. The shed outside is off-limits, and I’m gonna lock your door every night when you go to bed. You can quit pissing in the bowl. Shower at the well by the outhouse. It’s cold, but you’ll get used to it. The electricity comes from a new generator out back, but I’ve been too busy to put in plumbing."
"May I use the outhouse now?" I asked, scarcely able to muster my voice.
"Sure. Always let me know when you leave. I don’t ever want to have to come find you."
Still shaking, I crossed the room and opened the door to sunlight ripening upon the russet wilderness. I shivered, girding the white bathrobe I’d worn for the last two days more snugly around my waist. When I reached back to shut the door, Orson stood in the threshold.
"I have missed you,"