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"Are you all right?"

"I don’t know."

"Andy, the police want to speak with you."

"Why?"

"I um…I think…" She sighed. "This is tough, Andy. There’s a warrant for your arrest."

"What in the world for?"

"Your mother’s murder."

"Oh no, no, no, no —"

"And I know you didn’t do it. I believe you. But the best thing to do is just talk to the police and clear this mess up. Where are you? Let me have someone come get you."

"Thank you for everything, Cynthia." I hung up the phone, thinking, They had to find her eventually. Orson, you fucked me again. I stared at my brother on the sofa. He’d be waking soon. Until you fix this, you don’t have a home. In fact, you might never go home again.

Orson awoke in the early afternoon, strapped naked to a wooden chair in his den, handcuffs securing his arms behind the chair back, and a length of rope binding his legs to the chair legs. I’d shut the door, closed the blinds, and turned the television up so loud, the set buzzed.

Sitting on the couch, I waited until he’d regained sufficient clarity of mind.

"You with me?" I shouted. He said something, but I couldn’t hear over the television. "Speak up!" I could tell he was still disoriented.

"Yes. What’s…" I saw it all come back to him — the fight, the trunk, Walter. He smiled, and I knew he was with me. Taking the remote control from the couch, I muted the television.

"Orson," I said. "This is how this works. I ask the questions. You answer them. Quickly, concisely —"

"Where’s Walt? No. Let me guess. Is he in my hole?"

I cloaked my fury — I had a hunch the torture would be more effective if I remained placid. Composing myself, I asked him, "Do you still have the videotapes and pictures of you and me in the desert?"

"Of course."

"Where are they?" He smiled and shook his head.

I pressed the mute button and the television roared. It was the episode of The Andy Griffith Show that chronicles Barney Fife’s attempt to join a church choir, despite his glaring inability to sing. We watched this with our father.

Coming to my feet, I walked around to the back of the chair. From my pocket, I took a silver Zippo I’d found in Orson’s dresser and struck a flame. Regardless of the hell he’d put me through, I found it exceedingly difficult to burn him. But I did.

Orson grunted wrenchingly, and after six seconds, I withdrew the flame and returned to the couch. Sweat had broken out across his forehead, and his face had crimsoned. I silenced the television.

"Whew!" He smiled through the pain. "Man, that’s unpleasant! But you know, the back isn’t the most sensitive part of the body. You should burn my face. The lips, the eyes. Make ’em boil."

"Orson, are the videotapes and pictures in this house?"

"No."

"Are they in Woodside?"

"Flame on!"

The cacophony of the television again filled the room. Leaning forward, I positioned the lighter against Orson’s inner thigh as he watched with rabid interest. This time, I felt less squeamish about applying the pain.

He hollered over the dissonant voice of Barney Fife as the tonguelike flame licked his skin. When the patch of hairy white flesh began to bubble, I extinguished the flame and hit the mute button. He was still yelping, eyes closed, teeth clicking, breathless.

"I think you missed your calling," he said, wincing and sucking through his teeth, stifling the squeals. Glancing down at his thigh, I noticed the afflicted skin had blossomed into a bright blister. I could smell the sweet charred flesh, a pleasantly devious odor, like gasoline.

"All right, Orson," I said. "Take three."

"Maybe it’s in a storage unit in some town you’ll never find. Maybe —" The television blared, and standing up, I held the lighter beneath Orson’s right eye. When the flame leapt out, he shrieked, "In the desert! In the desert!"

Stepping back, I cut the volume. "I think you’re lying."

"Andy," he gasped, "my videos, my photographs, everything I used to blackmail you — it’s all out there."

"Where out there? In the cabin?"

"Take me to Wyoming,