Thicker Than Blood - the Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy - Blake Crouch [244]
"They'll execute you," I said. "You won't gloat long."
"Twelve years is the average from courtroom to death chamber. I can live with that."
The wind had begun to die down. "I had to come to Montana to hear this?" I asked.
"There's a town west of here. Choteau. I'm turning myself in there tomorrow, and I want you to be with me. It'd be a brotherly thing to do, and it might help you with your biography."
It made me sick on my stomach to think of writing a book about him. "Why Montana?"
"I'm in love with this state, Andy. I want to die at the prison in Deer Lodge."
"You've killed in too many states, Orson. Everybody's gonna want to prosecute you. You may end up on death row in Missouri or Kansas. It could be anywhere."
"But I can influence that decision before I turn myself in by making people think of me when they think of big sky country. I can do something so terrible here, everyone will want Montana to have the privilege of putting me to death."
I could feel my hands beginning to tremble. "How?" I asked, but he hopped off the wall.
Running towards the car, he shouted, "Let's go! I want a soft bed tonight!"
The pounding inside my head was excruciating. I needed a drink. As I climbed down and followed Orson back across the bridge, I searched myself for the hate towards him that had burned inside me, but it only felt like a vacuum in my chest. I just wanted it all to be over.
# # #
We hurtled west along the straight, lonely highway. Nothing existed outside the car save the pavement in the headlights. The landscape was draped in blackness, no moon or stars, and the drone of the engine had become imperceptible. Orson hadn't spoken since we left the wildlife refuge nearly two hours ago. He'd turned away from me, now leaning his head against the window as if he slept, but I couldn't tell for sure.
"You awake?" I whispered, but he didn't answer. "Orson, we're fifteen miles from Great Falls. Where are we stopping?"
"I'll let you know when. I'm not sleeping."
I glanced over to the passenger seat, hesitant, but then asked, "Who was David Parker?"
"If you just wait," he said, "you'll know everything. And I mean everything."
"When?"
"This time tomorrow," he said, becoming annoyed. "Every question you can possibly think of will be answered. But for now, please shut the fuck up."
I drove in silence for the next forty-five minutes, through the small town of Great Falls, with its truck stops, 24-hour gas stations, and dirty motels. I wanted to stay in town because of all the restaurants, but I didn't ask. Even though I was starving, I drove on through and watched the collection of lights grow dim again in the rearview mirror.
Twenty miles west of town, where 87 branched off into 89, there was a gas station, the New Atlas Bar, and the Blue Sky Motel. According to several signs, this spot was the last place to get gas, lodging, and a cold beer for the next seventy miles.
"This is it," Orson said.
A little after nine, I turned into the motel driveway and parked by the front office, beside a large sign with "Vacancy" and "BLUE SKY MOTEL" above it in cursive, neon blue letters. We both got out of the car and stretched. Though cold and windy, it felt good to breathe fresh air again and walk the stiffness out of my legs.
The motel was hardly spectacular. There was no pool or restaurant, only a two-story complex with twelve rooms on each floor. Across the street, live country music poured out of the New Atlas Bar, accompanied by rowdy laughter and yelling. Occasionally, a couple would stumble out the front doors and either cross the empty highway towards the motel or wander into the bar's dark parking lot. Farther up the road, the gas station glowed against the black prairie.
We walked into a single-wide trailer which served as the front office. To the right, a smooth-faced old man wearing a leather cowboy hat sat behind a desk. His feet propped up on the tabletop,