Thicker Than Blood - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги онлайн TXT) 📗

A car came up the hill and pulled into the driveway. I took the walkie-talkie from my fanny pack and pressed the talk button.

"Go Papa," I said, but there was no response. "Go Papa," I said again as a silver Mercedes stopped behind the Lexus and its headlights went dark.

"Copy that," the radio squeaked. I laid the syringe and the vial of Meprobamate on top of the piano and took the Glock into my hands, now trembling. When the car door slammed, I grabbed the needle and tranquilizer and ran through the living room. Turning right, I walked several feet down the hallway and then left into a small den. A green, cloth sofa sat against the back wall, facing a big-screen television and a stereo, both held in a large, yellow pine cabinet at the far end of the room. I turned off the lights and sat down on the sofa.

A moment passed, the house silent. The doorbell rang, but I didn't move. Frozen in place, I prayed a neighbor or a friend of the Parker's hadn't just dropped by. It rang again, and I rose to my feet and walked quietly into the living room, stopping at the front door. Looking through the peephole, I saw him. His back was turned, but I recognized the wool suit and the gold, wire-framed glasses that rested neatly on his ears. He screamed pretentious intellectuality.

Orson turned towards the door, and I looked into his face for the first time since Wyoming. It took my breath away. He looked nothing like himself. He'd dyed his hair light gray, and it had grown out. In the orange porch light, his once blue eyes were brown. His face was the same, but the expression and intensity different. He could've passed for mid-forties, but the solid build beneath the wool suit reminded me of the man who'd taken me to the desert.

"Mary, it's me!" he shouted. "Come on, I'm freezing my ass off."

Turning the deadbolt, I stepped behind the door. It opened and Orson walked in.

"Honey?" He slammed the door behind him, leaving his back turned to me. "Mary?"

"Not exactly," I said. Orson spun around. He dropped his briefcase, and his eyes opened wide, a look of utter horror painted ghost white across his face.

"Orson?" he said breathlessly. "What the hell are you doing…"

"Mary tried that, too. Turn around."

"Where is she?"

"Turn around!" I yelled, and he did. "Walk slowly into the den," I said, and he walked across the living room floor.

"Did you hurt her?" he said, moving into the hallway. His voice shook.

"Where's that sadomasochistic edge?" I asked. "You going soft on me, brother?"

"What did you do to her?" he asked again.

"Mary's fine," I said. "She isn't here right now, but you'll be with her soon."

We walked into the den, and I cut the lights on.

"Sit on the floor," I said, and Orson obeyed, sitting beneath the pine cabinet. I sat down on the sofa, beside the needle and the vial, and stared at him. "You are a fucking genius," I said. "In all seriousness. I mean, I'm sitting here wondering if you even know what kind of a sick bastard you really are. You get a facelift or something? I can understand the hair and the colored contacts, but you don't even look…"

"I promise," Orson began, "that I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Damn. You are good," I said. "I have to keep reminding myself what you did to me and the others so I can even go through with this."

"Look, you need help. I can help you. Please, Orson, don't do this."

I raised the gun and pointed it at his head.

"Try that shit again," I said. "I dare you to call me Orson one more fucking time."

Orson looked down at the floor as if to cry. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, looking up at me, tears in his fake, brown eyes. "What the hell happened to you? You disappear for three years, and then you come back, for what? I can't help what the committee decided. You messed up." He was sobbing now. "There was no other way," he said.

"Lay on your stomach," I said, and Orson turned hesitantly over. I opened the vial of Meprobamate and dipped the needle into the concentrated solution, filling the syringe with the tranquilizer and then tapping it to remove air bubbles.

"Tell me something," I said, setting the needle on the floor. "Why'd you kill Mom? I have a theory, but I'd like to hear your reasoning."

"You're speaking Greek."

"It wasn't to make me come for you," I continued. "Because I think it never crossed your mind that I'd find you. I think you shit your pants tonight when you saw me standing behind your door. Though I'm sure it appealed to you that Mom's death would destroy me, I'm pretty confident there was another reason. As much as it goes against your nature, I think you were ashamed for your mother to see your accomplishment. And that's all I'm gonna say about Washington. I'm not even gonna dignify what you did there with the tiniest remark."

"You're out of your mind," Orson said, his voice controlled, his words stronger now.

"I'm sure it seems that way to you," I said, taking the syringe and rising to my feet. I walked towards my brother, the needle in my left hand, the Glock in my right. "So what was the plan?" I asked, standing over him as he lay flat against the hardwood floor.

"Once again, I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm sure. Maybe a secret trip down to my lake? How many bodies of those thirty-seven hearts are buried on my property? I'm surprised you haven't tipped the FBI yet. Or were we due for another jaunt in the desert next summer, where you upped my ante to torture? Maybe it's a good thing for your sake that you only taught me the killing part."

"What do you want me to say?" Orson pleaded. "I don't understand what you want."

"Where's the evidence. You got a safety deposit box? A storage locker?"

"No."

"Then where is it? Where are your trophies? Where are the pictures of us cutting up those rednecks? Or Shirley Tanner? Where are the newspaper clippings, the videotapes?"

"I don't have a fucking clue what you want, or why you think I have it," Orson wept.

"You're lying," I said. "Does Mary know?"

"About what!?" he screamed.

"About what," I said calmly. "What does it take?" I asked. "He's hidden in there somewhere. What'll bring you out, Orson? Torture? I can do that, you know. It might not be as effective as you could manage, but it'd be persuasive."

"My name is David Parker."

I kicked him in the side, and ribs cracked. He groaned, and I dug one knee into his spine.

"Don't you move," I said. "I'll put your brains on that cabinet if you breathe." I set the needle on his back and took the Glock into my left hand, pressing the barrel into his head. "I'm gonna give you a sedative now," I said. "You'll feel a sting in your neck. There's a hollow point with your name on it if you flinch. I know deep down you must be proud. I couldn't have done this a year ago. But you taught me, didn't you? Gave me one hell of an education."

As the needle slid into a bulging vein in his neck, Orson grunted but didn't flinch. I injected the contents of the syringe, pulled the needle out, and stepped back away from him. "Sit up," I said, and Orson sat up against the cabinet. I went back to the sofa and put the needle and the vial, now empty, back into the fanny pack.