Authors: Blake Crouch
He threw off the covers and came to his feet, already fully clothed in a camouflage bib and down hunting jacket he’d purchased last week at The Woodsman, one of the local outfitters.
Moving out of the tiny bedroom, he crossed the “living room” in three steps and entered the kitchen.
The refrigerator was the hotspot of the trailer this morning and he pulled open the door and grabbed a carton of orange juice.
Shaking it up, he took a long sip of the acidic slush and then began foraging the kitchen cabinets for his breakfast.
While he consumed a stale
Poptart
he leaned against the sink and glanced through the living room at the wretchedness he’d called home for the last month.
The mattress, the television, and that disgusting couch comprised the furnishings of his trailer.
You could only sit on the left end of the couch where the springs still held weight.
And if you smacked the brown cushions on a clear day, you could watch them emit a mushrooming cloud of dust into the sunbeams from their inexhaustible store.
He’d been doing most of his writing in the village at Bill’s diner, sitting in a booth near the window, drinking obscene amounts of coffee.
In the last two weeks he’d written the first three chapters of his book on lined college rule notebook paper.
They chronicled his first encounter with Andrew Thomas at the bookstore in Anchorage, his journey to the Yukon, and his sneaking into Andrew’s cabin.
He kept the purple notebook with him at all times during the day and stored it in the freezer while he slept so that if the trailer caught fire his manuscript might have a chance.
On October 30, the seventh anniversary of my mother’s death, I discovered that my life in Haines Junction, a life I loved madly, was over.
Just before noon I was sitting in the computer lab of the public library reading an emotional Live Journal entry from an internet friend I knew only as Tammy M.
Midway through a hefty paragraph in which she analyzed her incapacity for shallow social interaction, the Champagne woman sitting at the computer beside me turned to her husband and said, “Look at that, Ralph.
Andrew Thomas is back.”
Adrenaline shot through me, I felt the
bloodheat
color my face, but when I glanced over at the couple I saw the woman pointing to a news headline on her monitor.
Feeling my gaze, she looked at me.
“Horrible, isn’t it?”
I couldn’t speak.
“Says he slaughtered a whole family.”
“Where?”
I choked on the word.
“I’m not sure, let me see.”
She scrolled to the beginning of the article.
“Here it is.
Davidson, North Carolina.”
Something inside of me died right there.
I found the website and skimmed the article and the names of the victims.
In the third paragraph I read these words:
The next door neighbor of the
Worthingtons
, Elizabeth Lancing, was kidnapped on Monday.
Though unforthcoming with details at this time, authorities have alluded to their belief that her kidnapping is related.
Her husband was Walter Lancing, a former friend of the suspected serial killer, novelist Andrew Thomas, and is believed to have been one of Mr. Thomas’s victims, though his body was never recovered.
My head ached and I feared losing consciousness so I sent the article to the network printer and logged off the computer.
Taking my printout, I walked out of the library into the fierce noonday cold.
I reached my Jeep, climbed inside, pored over the rest of the article.
The description of the lighthouse and what had been done to poor sweet Karen broke me.
My safe little world had just been blown the fuck apart.
On the off chance that Andrew Thomas was in fact a psychopath, Horace Boone stopped to use a payphone on the way to his cabin.
It took him a moment to recall the number.
The phone booth stood in an alley against the building that housed The Lantern.
It was a clear day, blue and very cold.
He looked at his watch.
There was something awfully depressing about knowing it was lunchtime when the sky shone no brighter than 9:00
a.m.
and wouldn’t for months to come.
She answered, “Hello?”
“Mom?”
A brief pause and then, “Hello, Horace.”
“Look, I should’ve called before.
I—”
“Where are you?”
“Canada.”
“Well thanks for letting me know you’re alive.
I’ll pass along the good news to Dad.”
“Mom, stop it, just—”
“No, you don’t get to not call me for two months and then be friends.”
“Will you just stop talking for two seconds?
Something very big has happened in my life.
I can’t talk about it now, but it’s exciting.
I just wanted to call and say I love you.”
“What, are you in danger?”
“No.
I don’t think so.
Look, I have to go.
I promise I’ll call you again soon.”
“Horace—”
He hung up the phone, walked back to the Land Cruiser, where he sat behind the wheel for a moment, clearing his head, going once more over everything he would say to Andrew Thomas—the praise, the questions, the threat.
Then he cranked the engine and headed off toward the woods, trying to ignore the very real possibility that he would not be coming back.
24
HURTLING down the dirt road toward my cabin, I discovered what an enormous coward I had become.
All the way home I tried to pretend I hadn’t read the news.
My dream was to remain in the wilderness outside Haines Junction until the end of my days, writing for the joy of it.
I’d intended to die out here, an old recluse.
This last year I’d been happy for the first time since Orson and Luther ripped my life away from me.
I felt at home in these woods and I had never expected to feel that again.
I reached my narrow drive and turned into the forest.
The anger subsided but fear crept in, eroding the lining of my stomach with that old familiar ache.
It conjured a parade of images I’d spent years trying to forget, and as I glimpsed my cabin through the trees something whispered,
One of them is alive.
No.
I’d watched my brother Orson take a full load of buckshot to the chest.
I’d seen the vacancy in his eyes thirty seconds later, the life running out of him.
I’d left him frozen on the porch of a remote desert cabin.
My twin was dead; he wasn’t coming back.
I parked in front of the cabin and turned off the Jeep.
Staring through the cracked windshield, I thought of Luther Kite, recalled standing over him holding a twelve gauge to his chest, my finger grazing the double triggers.
But I hadn’t killed him.
I’d thrown the shotgun across the room and left him to die on that cold front porch, severely wounded and miles from the nearest town with no mode of transportation.
He could not have survived.
He was dying when I left him.
Please God, You would not have let that monster survive.
And then this piercing thought:
What if my unwillingness to pull that trigger has cost six people, including an entire family, their lives?
I wasn’t ready to accept that.
Luther Kite died with Orson in that snowy Wyoming desert.
The
Worthingtons
’ and Karen’s killer—whoever had blazed that gory trail across North Carolina—was a copycat.
It’s not my fault.
I opened the door, stepped out of the Jeep, the woods cold and still.
Walking toward the porch, I wondered,
But why kill in Davidson across the lake from my old home?
And why kidnap Beth Lancing?
As I thought her name, my self-interest evaporated and it registered for the first time that she’d been taken, that if she weren’t dead now she was in the company of a madman.
Halfway up the porch steps, a sob spurted out of me.
I sat down and wept like I hadn’t wept in years, hanging blame around my neck for everything that had befallen that ill-starred family.
The
Lancings
would’ve been better off never to have known me.
I’d taken everything from them.
Everything.
And now, seven years after the death of Walter, their association with me continued to produce suffering.
How could I not try to help Beth?
I stood up and walked into the cabin, aware that the defense mechanisms in my brain were attempting to unplug me.
The immense pain I’d endured through those dark years had nearly turned me into a stoic.
The tears surprised me.
I’d wondered recently if I had it in me to ever cry again.
Between the time I closed the door and set the news article on the breakfast table, the decision was made and I’d acknowledged that it could only be Luther.
So I walked over to my bed and dragged a suitcase out from underneath it, shaking as I began to pack.
I was rummaging the bottom drawer of a dresser in search of an envelope of hundred-dollar bills when I heard a car approaching down my drive.
Closing the drawer, I came to my feet in pure astonishment.
In the five years I’d lived in this cabin I rarely received visitors and was not expecting one now.
Though only three in the afternoon, the sun had slipped back behind the peaks, the forest draped in an eerie twilight.
I heard a door slam and through the window watched a figure step onto the porch.
There was a knock.
Taking the subcompact .40 caliber
Glock
from the top dresser drawer, I slipped it into the pocket of my fleece pullover and went to greet my guest.
When I opened the front door, firelight from inside the cabin streamed across the gaunt visage of a young man I’d seen around the village these last few weeks, a small kid with an acne-cratered face, swallowed in a huge down jacket.
The moment we made eye contact he looked away.
“Help you?” I asked.
He found my eyes again, his hands fidgeting behind his back.
“Mr. Carmichael?” he said.
“Yes?”
I sensed a frightened innocence behind those
twentysomething
eyes.
“May I come in for a moment?”
“Why?”
“There was something I wanted to talk to you about.”