Thicker Than Blood - the Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy - Blake Crouch [73]
My thoughts were with Beth Lancing and her children as I floated into sleep. I’m trying to save your lives, but I robbed you of a husband and a father. Robbed myself of my best friend. I wondered if she already sensed that he was gone.
28
I came down the staircase at 1:30 in the morning, having slept straight for eleven and a half hours. The house was so still. I could hear only the minute mechanical breathing of the kitchen appliances as they cut on and off in the predawn silence.
After starting a pot of coffee, I poked my head into the den. Orson’s chair had fallen over. He was unconscious, naked, still awkwardly attached to the toppled chair. He looked feeble, helpless, and for a moment I let myself pity him.
Barefoot, I walked into his study and sat down at the desk. As the monitor revived, crackling with static electricity, I saw that he had one message waiting. Typing in the password, I opened the new E-mail:
>From: >Date: Sun, 10 Nov 1996 01:02:09 -0500 (EST) >To: David Parker >Subject: > >O — > >Might be in SB Monday evng. Call when you hit Nbrsk and we’ll see about a rendezvous. > >L Shutting down the computer, I walked back into the den and gave Orson another injection. Then I went upstairs to take a shower. The hot water felt immaculate. After I’d tidied up the cuts on my face with a razor blade, I lingered in the stream, leaning against the wet tile, head down, the water cooling, watching the blood swirl under my feet into the drain. It took a while for the steam to settle in the bathroom, and I sat on the toilet while it did, thumbing through Orson’s wallet, yet another possession of his, identical to mine. Removing his driver’s license, I set it on the sink. I looked nothing like the picture. His hair was short and brown, his face clean-shaven. Rising, I wiped the condensation off the mirror. My beard had grown out considerably, gray and bristly. My hair was in shambles, the dye stripped from this last marathon shower. I shaved first, even my sideburns, and it was an improvement. There was an attachment on the electric razor for tonsure, so I climbed back into the shower and sheared my head. When I finished, I glanced again into the mirror — much, much better. "Hi, Orson," I said, smiling. IV 29 SUNDAY, before dawn, I loaded Orson into the trunk of his Lexus and pulled out of the driveway of his house in Woodside. I carried his wallet, filled with his cash and credit cards, and I felt reasonably sure that, should the necessity arise, I could pass for my brother. It was comforting to know that because Orson existed, Andrew Thomas could disappear. I drove to the Woodside Inn and slipped furtively up the noisy staircase into what had been Walter’s and my room. Our clothes were still scattered across the beds, and I stuffed everything from the drawers and the floor into our suitcases and lugged them down to the car. Heading out on Highway 116, I prided myself on my thoroughness. I’d remembered to check out of the inn. I’d removed all traces of my presence in Orson’s home (my blood in his room, my hair in his sink and bathtub), along with all signs of his abduction. I’d even taken care of Walter’s Cadillac, driving it down the hill to the Champlain Diner at 3:15 in the morning and leaving it parked beside an overflowing Dumpster. The jog back up into Orson’s neighborhood had been a bitch, but it was worth it. Nothing could link me to this town now, and though Walter’s gory car would more than likely be discovered within the week, I’d be long, long gone by then. Prior to leaving Orson’s house, I’d downed an entire pot of coffee and swallowed a double