Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy (84 page)

ALTERNATE ENDING

The slim figure of a woman, between forty and fifty, with frosted hair that may have once been jet black, walked up the sidewalk towards the front porch. She wore a long, navy trench coat that dropped to her ankles and carried a brown briefcase in her right hand. The sky darkened fast behind her, and as she ascended the steps and disappeared from view, my mind turned to chaos.

When I heard the deadbolt turning, I ran from the study, through the living room, and past the staircase. I turned right into the dining room and stood by the open passageway which connected it to the kitchen. From here I could watch the sunroom where I'd made my entry, and make sure she never saw the broken glass.

I held the gun by my face, pressed my back up against the wall, and listened. The front door opened and slammed shut. High heels clicked against the floor, and I heard her drop her briefcase. I could tell that she walked through the living room, and I prayed she'd go down the hallway, but instead she stepped into the kitchen. My chest raced furiously up and down.

The answering machine came on, and as the messages played, she opened the fridge. Her back is turned, I thought. Go now. I didn't move. The refrigerator door shut, and she walked to the kitchen sink. She turned on the water, and I thought again, her back is turned. Go.

I stepped out of the dining room into the threshold and pointed the gun at her back. She was bent over the sink trying to scrub something off her hands.

"Don't move!" I shouted. She gasped. Slowly, she craned her neck, trying to see me.

"Turn back around!" I said. "You wanna die?"

"Oh God!" she cried. "Please, no."

"Shut up!" I screamed as she hunched over into the sink. "Turn off the water," I said.

She cut it off, and aside from her quiet sobbing, the house was silent again. My voice lowered, I said, "If you look at me, I'll kill you. You got towels in the kitchen?"

"Yes."

"Blindfold yourself."

She opened a cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a large, white dishcloth. She opened it, rolled it up, and then tied it around the back of her head.

"Back slowly towards me," I said. When she was several feet away, I said, "Stop." I made sure the cloth covered her eyes and cinched the blindfold tighter.

"You can have whatever you want…"

"Walk to the study. I'll guide you."

She stumbled through the living room, and I pushed her through the narrow doorway. When we were inside, I shut the door and knocked her to the floor, at the foot of a tall bookshelf.

"On your stomach," I said.

Immediately she obeyed, remarkably calm, as if she'd done this before.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Mary Parker."

"Do you work at the university?"

"No, just my husband. I'm a lawyer."

"You're married to David Parker?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Why?"

I leaned down and put the gun to her temple.

"Six years," she said.

"That's impossible."

"I swear."

"When does he get home? I'll know if you lie to me, Mary."

"After seven. He has a meeting tonight."

"You expecting company?"

"No."

"Why's the fucking table set?"

"It always is. I swear."

"I'll kill anyone who shows up besides your husband."

"No one else is coming," she said, her voice begging me to believe her. "I promise."

"You have children?" I asked.

"No."

"Does your husband expect you to be home?"

"Yes." I sat down on the floor, breathing easily again, resisting the exhilaration.

"What do you want?" Mary asked, her voice so calm it unnerved me.

I took the radio from my fanny pack and spoke into the receiver. "Fred Flintstone," I said. "Complications. Safe now. Bring it home."

"Roger that, Wilma," the radio squeaked.

"How well do you know your husband?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You've heard of the Heart Surgeon?"

"You're not…"

"No. David Parker is."

"There's no way," she said. "Are you FBI?"

"I know a hell of a lot more than the FBI. You know the name Orson Thomas?" I asked, but she didn't answer. "Have you heard the name?" I asked again.

"Yes." She trembled. Her back heaved heavily up and down against the floor as she panted like a dog, nearly out of breath.

"How do you know him?" I asked.

"He taught at the university, but he left, he disappeared. I don't know where."

Rising to my feet, I walked towards her. "You're protecting your husband."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she whined.

"Quit fucking with me!" I shouted. I knelt down on the floor, grabbed her throat, and held the gun to her head. "You think this is a joke? You know I'll kill you if you lie to me, so why protect him? You know what your husband does to people? He takes them to a cabin. He tortures them. He cuts their fucking hearts out, you stupid bitch, and you want me to believe you don't know this? That you don't have a part in it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she cried.

"Shut up!" I screamed, grabbing her hair and shaking her head. I rolled her over on her back and ripped the blindfold from her face. "Your husband doesn't look like this?!" I shouted.

"Orson." Her face turned white. "Why are you doing this to me? What are…"

"I'm not your husband, Mary. I'm his brother, and I'm gonna kill him, because he's a monster. You want to protect him, what does that make you?"

"I don't know what you're…"

"Turn over on your stomach."

"Why?"

"Do it or I'll kill you."

She turned over and lay flat on her belly. I held the gun by its short muzzle and crushed the back of her head with the hard, metallic handle. She let out a moaning gasp and was still.
             

My first thought was that she might bleed onto the floor, so I took the blindfold and pressed it into the back of her head. Only several drops of blood seeped through the white cloth, and I applied pressure until the bleeding stopped altogether.

A car pulled into the driveway, and I ran to the window. Walter's Cadillac backed in. He got out, opened the trunk, and returned to the driver's seat. I put the gun in my fanny pack and lifted Mary from the floor. Slinging her over my shoulder, I walked to the front door. By my watch, it was 5:15, and as I opened the door, I saw that the sky had deepened into a dark blue evening. Through the black-silhouetted trees, the first stars shined in the cold, night air.

I rushed down the steps, along the walkway, and stopped at the rear of the Cadillac. Setting Mary in the trunk, I slammed it shut and ran to Walter's lowered window.

"Who the hell is that?" he asked.

"His wife," I said. "I never thought he'd be married."

"Is she dead?"

"No. Get out of here. I'll call when he gets home. She said seven o'clock."

"I don't like this, Andy," he said. "We can't kill her. She might not know."

"She knows," I said. "Now's not the time. When the police come looking for them, the neighbors are gonna remember your car sitting in the driveway, so go. I'll call you."

Walter eased down onto the street, and I walked calmly back towards the house. Inside, I locked the front door and picked up the bloody dishtowel in the study. I'd clean up the glass before Orson came. I wanted there to be no trace of a struggle, no evidence that these people had been abducted save the simple fact they could not be found.

# # #

I tapped on the ivory keys and waited. The Steinway horribly out of tune, the notes hung awkwardly in the still air. I'd turned on three living room lamps so the house would look warm and inhabited, but that had been two and a half hours ago. Now it was several minutes past eight o'clock, dark outside, and still no sign of Orson.

I'd walked through the entire house--the upstairs, the first floor hallway and den, even the basement. Nothing here suggested Orson's taste for violence. I'd found no trophies, no hearts or photographs, not even a newspaper clipping concerning the Heart Surgeon. There weren't even indirect links such as horror novels, videos, or paintings. (In Orson's room in Wyoming, a William Blake print of
The
Simoniac
Pope
hung above his bed--a pen and watercolor of souls being tortured in hell). I couldn't understand it. I'd expected Orson to live alone, surrounded by the paraphernalia of his hobby. David Parker now seemed to be more than just a safe name. He was a different lifestyle, one separated, almost completely, from Orson Thomas.

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.