• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

"I’m surprised you haven’t asked about these," he says, motioning to a row of leather-bound journals. "Orson’s treatise is here. I should let you read it some time. You know, your brother was my only success story."

He’s puffing away, blowing smoke rings through smoke rings, as he returns to his chair. The room fills with the rancid sweetness of tobacco smoke. My heart pounds.

"What are you talking about? Orson—"

"Happened to Luther? Oh, no. We most certainly happened to him."

I straighten up in my chair. The grogginess evaporates. My hands tremble. Head throbs.

"I can see this is upsetting you, Andy. Should we talk about it another time?"

"Don’t fuck with me."

Rufus exhales a long stream of smoke.

"It’s been almost twenty years," he says. "It was summertime. My God, Luther was only fourteen. Maxine and I were walking along the beach south of Ramp 72, headed toward the southern tip of Ocracoke. It was windy. Sand blowing around like crazy, the sun liquid red as it sank into the dunes. It’s gorgeous out there. Soft white sand, far as the eye can see.

"At the end of the island, we came across this young man sitting in the sand, staring out across the inlet toward Portsmouth. He looked thoughtful and lonely, and I walked up to him and asked if he’d take a picture of Maxine and me. He obliged us. Your brother was such a sad young man, Andy. We got to talking. He told me he’d just quit college. I don’t know what was wrong with him. Depression probably. Whatever it was, I don’t think he’d have lasted much longer.

"I asked what he was doing on Ocracoke. Said he didn’t know. That he’d just been driving around from place to place, had never seen the Outer Banks, and so decided to come here on a whim.

"My wife, being the sweet angel that she is, invited him for dinner. He said no at first, but I could tell he was desperate for the company. We finally convinced him.

"Had a lovely dinner that night. Afterwards, Orson and I retired to this room. Sat in these very chairs. We were drinking black coffee and he was telling me about your father dying of cancer.

"Of course Orson’s coffee contained a substantial dose of Rohypnol. Boy, it’s always fun to watch them realize that something’s not quite right. Orson was chatting away, and all of the sudden he stopped and jumped to his feet. His legs just turned to milk chocolate and he staggered back into the chair and sat down, his chest heaving away. I explained that he would be staying with us indefinitely. He pissed in that chair you’re sitting in."

Rufus smiles. He sucks on the pipe but his flame has extinguished. He relights it and smoke clouds around him again like a foggy halo.

I’m fighting tears when I tell him, "But I read Orson’s journals. That’s how I found your house. I read about him kidnapping Luther."

Rufus shakes his head.

"You’re telling me Luther never attended Woodside College?"

"My boy never finished high school, Andy."

"I don’t understand. Why would Orson make that—"

"It isn’t necessary that you understand. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first thing Orson made up."

Rufus rises and walks over to the window. The sleet has turned to rain.

"I know Orson took you to his cabin several years ago," Rufus says. "He told me all about it. Please understand. That was a poorly rendered model of the experience you’re having with me."

I cannot ignore the horror that statement inspires in me. Rufus sets his pipe on the windowsill and runs his fingers through his hair. Then he nods at something behind me and a needle stabs into my shoulder.

Maxine stands behind my chair in a nightgown.

"Come on, boy," she says as the drug begins to envelop me. "Time for beddie-bye."

"Where are the girls, Rufus?" I ask. "Please. Are they dead?"

"Come on, boy," Maxine urges, pulling on my shoulder.

I rise to my feet, face the tiny old woman.

Then I punch her fucking lights out.

She hits the floor, unconscious. I hope I broke her jaw.

Rufus claps his hands and laughs and laughs.

"She