Thicker Than Blood - the Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy - Blake Crouch [230]
A moment passed, the house silent. The doorbell rang, but I didn't move. Frozen in place, I prayed a neighbor or a friend of the Parker's hadn't just dropped by. It rang again, and I rose to my feet and walked quietly into the living room, stopping at the front door. Looking through the peephole, I saw him. His back was turned, but I recognized the wool suit and the gold, wire-framed glasses that rested neatly on his ears. He screamed pretentious intellectuality.
Orson turned towards the door, and I looked into his face for the first time since Wyoming. It took my breath away. He looked nothing like himself. He'd dyed his hair light gray, and it had grown out. In the orange porch light, his once blue eyes were brown. His face was the same, but the expression and intensity different. He could've passed for mid-forties, but the solid build beneath the wool suit reminded me of the man who'd taken me to the desert.
"Mary, it's me!" he shouted. "Come on, I'm freezing my ass off."
Turning the deadbolt, I stepped behind the door. It opened and Orson walked in.
"Honey?" He slammed the door behind him, leaving his back turned to me. "Mary?"
"Not exactly," I said. Orson spun around. He dropped his briefcase, and his eyes opened wide, a look of utter horror painted ghost white across his face.
"Orson?" he said breathlessly. "What the hell are you doing…"
"Mary tried that, too. Turn around."
"Where is she?"
"Turn around!" I yelled, and he did. "Walk slowly into the den," I said, and he walked across the living room floor.
"Did you hurt her?" he said, moving into the hallway. His voice shook.
"Where's that sadomasochistic edge?" I asked. "You going soft on me, brother?"
"What did you do to her?" he asked again.
"Mary's fine," I said. "She isn't here right now, but you'll be with her soon."
We walked into the den, and I cut the lights on.
"Sit on the floor," I said, and Orson obeyed, sitting beneath the pine cabinet. I sat down on the sofa, beside the needle and the vial, and stared at him. "You are a fucking genius," I said. "In all seriousness. I mean, I'm sitting here wondering if you even know what kind of a sick bastard you really are. You get a facelift or something? I can understand the hair and the colored contacts, but you don't even look…"
"I promise," Orson began, "that I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Damn. You are good," I said. "I have to keep reminding myself what you did to me and the others so I can even go through with this."
"Look, you need help. I can help you. Please, Orson, don't do this."
I raised the gun and pointed it at his head.
"Try that shit again," I said. "I dare you to call me Orson one more fucking time."
Orson looked down at the floor as if to cry. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, looking up at me, tears in his fake, brown eyes. "What the hell happened to you? You disappear for three years, and then you come back, for what? I can't help what the committee decided. You messed up." He was sobbing now. "There was no other way," he said.
"Lay on your stomach," I said, and Orson turned hesitantly over. I opened the vial of Meprobamate and dipped the needle into the concentrated solution, filling the syringe with the tranquilizer and then tapping it to remove air bubbles.
"Tell me something," I said, setting the needle on the floor. "Why'd you kill Mom? I have a theory, but I'd like to hear your reasoning."
"You're speaking Greek."
"It wasn't to make me come for you," I continued. "Because I think it never crossed your mind that I'd find you. I think you shit your pants tonight when you saw me standing behind your door. Though I'm sure it appealed to you that Mom's death would destroy me, I'm pretty confident there was another reason. As much as it goes against your nature, I think you were ashamed for your mother to see your accomplishment. And that's all I'm gonna say about Washington.