Thicker Than Blood - the Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy - Blake Crouch [62]
It smelled good in his study, like aged paper and cigars. A lavish desk dominated the center of the room, identical to the one in my office. Even his swivel chair was the same. Sifting through the drawers, I found nothing. Every letter was addressed to Dr. David Parker, and most of the files consisted of research materials on ancient Rome. There weren’t even pictures on the desk — just a computer, a cedar humidor filled with Macanudo Robusto cigars, and a decanter of cognac.
The walls were covered by bookcases. The titles indicated the same specific, academic sort of subject matter as the books I’d seen in his office: Agrarian Society in Rome in the Third Century B.C. Tribunal Policy and Imperial Power Before Caesar. Foreign Relations: Rome, Carthage, and the Punic Wars.
The low shudder of a car engine pulled me to the window. I split the blinds with two fingers and watched a white Lexus sedan turn into Orson’s driveway. I waited, my stomach twisting into knots. If Orson came in through the back door, he’d see the broken glass.
[Alternate ending of Desert Places begins here...]
He appeared suddenly, walking swiftly up the sidewalk in an olive suit, briefcase in hand. I stepped back from the blinds, dropped to my knees, and crawled under his desk.
A key slid into the dead bolt, and the front door opened. Orson whistled as he strode inside, and I drew back as far as I could into the darkness under the desk. His footsteps moved through the living room, then into the study. A deafening clump shook the desk and set my heart palpitating. He’d dropped his briefcase on the desktop. As he came around the desk toward the chair, I readied the gun.
A phone rang somewhere in the house. He stopped. I could see his legs now, his pointed black wing tips. I smelled him — clean, cologne-sweet, familiar. The scent of our sweat after a long day was identical. The phone rang again, and he rushed out of the study, mumbling something indecipherable under his breath.
He answered from the kitchen after the third ring. "Hello?…Hi, Arlene…. Yes, of course…. Well, why don’t you, then? We’ll put something on…. No, don’t do that. And just come on in…. All right. Sounds good. See you then."
He hung up the phone and went back into the living room. For a moment, I thought he was returning to the study, and I raised the gun. But his footsteps died away as he ran up the staircase.
Shaking, I climbed out from under the desk. As the shower cut on upstairs, I squatted down, took the walkie-talkie from the fanny pack, and pressed the talk button.
"Wilma," I whispered. "Wilma? Over?"
"Over." Walter’s voice crackled back through the speaker. I lowered the volume. "You’re Wilma. I’m Fred," he said.
"He’s here," I whispered. "Upstairs, taking a shower."
"Did you find —"
"Can’t talk now. Go, Papa."
"What?"
"Get up here and wait for the next signal."
I turned off the walkie-talkie and walked into the living room. The staircase was carpeted, so my footsteps fell silently as I ascended to the second floor. Emerging in the center of a dim hallway, I saw there was a bedroom at each end, and a closed door directly ahead, which, because it glowed underneath, I presumed to be the bathroom. Orson’s shoes, his navy-speckled brown socks, black belt, and olive suit trailed right up to the door.
He sang the Beatles’ "All You Need Is Love" in the shower.
I stepped toward the bathroom. Open the door, slip inside, and then stick him with the needle through the shower curtain….
The doorbell rang, and I froze in the hallway, wondering if he’d heard it, too. After five seconds, the shower cut off, and I heard the plop of wet feet on tile and cloth rubbing frantically over skin. I ran down the hallway, then into the bedroom on the right. Because there were clothes strewn all over the floor, I assumed this was his room. To my right, a dormer window overlooked Jennings Road and, beyond