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"You're out of your mind," Orson said, his voice controlled, his words stronger now.

"I'm sure it seems that way to you," I said, taking the syringe and rising to my feet. I walked towards my brother, the needle in my left hand, the Glock in my right. "So what was the plan?" I asked, standing over him as he lay flat against the hardwood floor.

"Once again, I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm sure. Maybe a secret trip down to my lake? How many bodies of those thirty-seven hearts are buried on my property? I'm surprised you haven't tipped the FBI yet. Or were we due for another jaunt in the desert next summer, where you upped my ante to torture? Maybe it's a good thing for your sake that you only taught me the killing part."

"What do you want me to say?" Orson pleaded. "I don't understand what you want."

"Where's the evidence. You got a safety deposit box? A storage locker?"

"No."

"Then where is it? Where are your trophies? Where are the pictures of us cutting up those rednecks? Or Shirley Tanner? Where are the newspaper clippings, the videotapes?"

"I don't have a fucking clue what you want, or why you think I have it," Orson wept.

"You're lying," I said. "Does Mary know?"

"About what!?" he screamed.

"About what," I said calmly. "What does it take?" I asked. "He's hidden in there somewhere. What'll bring you out, Orson? Torture? I can do that, you know. It might not be as effective as you could manage, but it'd be persuasive."

"My name is David Parker."

I kicked him in the side, and ribs cracked. He groaned, and I dug one knee into his spine.

"Don't you move," I said. "I'll put your brains on that cabinet if you breathe." I set the needle on his back and took the Glock into my left hand, pressing the barrel into his head. "I'm gonna give you a sedative now," I said. "You'll feel a sting in your neck. There's a hollow point with your name on it if you flinch. I know deep down you must be proud. I couldn't have done this a year ago. But you taught me, didn't you? Gave me one hell of an education."

As the needle slid into a bulging vein in his neck, Orson grunted but didn't flinch. I injected the contents of the syringe, pulled the needle out, and stepped back away from him. "Sit up," I said, and Orson sat up against the cabinet. I went back to the sofa and put the needle and the vial, now empty, back into the fanny pack.

"What was that?" Orson asked, his words dragging, his eyes beginning to tire.

"A tranquilizer. You got a staggering overdose. I might not have to shoot you."

"What about Mary?" he asked, his eyes now half-closed.

"What do you care, huh? Don't pretend with me."

"I'm not…" His words trailed away, and he exhaled deeply, painfully.

"I caught your lecture on Caligula," I said, taking the radio out. "You were a good teacher, Orson. Should've devoted your life to it."

His eyes closed.

"Remember that poem you recited for me at the cabin when I was going under? "The Road Not Taken" by Frost. Hell, I'd recite it for you if I could remember the words."

Orson slumped over onto the floor, and I pressed the talk button. "Bring it home," I said.

# # #

Orson was too heavy to carry, so I dragged him through the hallway, into the living room, across the smooth, hardwood floor. Through the front windows, I could see Walter's Cadillac at the end of the driveway, the trunk closed, Walter waiting inside. I left Orson lying in the foyer and ran out to the car. Crossing the lawn, it felt colder than it had been three hours ago. My breath was now a white vapor, vividly exposed, and the air tickled my throat when I inhaled.

I knelt down by Walter's window as it lowered. "You're gonna have to help me bring him out," I said. "He's too heavy, and it'll look funny, me staggering around out here."

We ran up to the house and went back inside. Orson was still unconscious, lying on his stomach on the floor, his skin now a stormy, yellow pallor.

"Don't touch anything," I said, closing the door behind us. The phone rang, and we both