“Where?”
“Guy standing alone at the corner of the bar, looking around, talking to nobody.”
“Gotcha. Can you read his nametag?”
“No. Too far.” Luther stood up and pushed his way through the crowd, passing within several feet of the mark. He circled back around and sat down on the couch again, said, “Richard Bryson.”
Lucy flipped through the booklet and found the man’s picture and bio. She read it aloud: “Richard Bryson is not only the author of Against the Law, a thriller about a corrupt police force, but the publisher as well. He is currently working on a new book.”
“Perfect,” Orson said. “Luther, head on up. We’ll be there in ten.”
Orson sat with Lucy after Luther had left, watching Bryson drink his beer alone.
“All right, Lucy, tell me how you’d get this man we’ve never met up to our hotel room.”
“Um, I’d tell him we have a party going on and invite him to come.”
“Okay. If some person you’d never met invited you up to their hotel room, would you go?”
“I don’t know.”
“The answer is no. You wouldn’t. Listen, look at me. You’re small and young, you have no physical strength, so if you want to do this, over and over and over again, without getting caught or killed, you have to be smart.”
She rolled her eyes. He was sounding a little like her mother.
“Oh, am I boring you? Get the fuck out of here then, you little brat.”
“You’re not. I’m sorry.”
“I’m trying to help you. So tell me. How would you get Bryson up to our hotel room?”
“I don’t know.”
“You ready to learn something?”
“Yes.”
“Vanity. Know what that is?”
She nodded. “When you’re in love with yourself.”
“Exactly. We’re all in love with ourselves. It’s our weakness. Our main failing. If you can play on that, if you can appeal to someone’s vanity without them knowing you’re doing it, you can get them to do anything you want.”
“I don’t understand.”
Orson stood up. “Follow me. Keep your mouth shut. And watch and learn.”
She followed Orson through the throng of people, stood behind him as he leaned his elbows on the bar and waited for the bartender to notice him.
After a minute, Orson began to look around, and when his eyes fell upon Richard Bryson standing right beside him, Lucy saw a huge smile break across Orson’s face.
He said, “Oh my God, you’re Richard Bryson!”
As the man glanced over at Orson, Lucy got her first decent look at him. He seemed old as shit to her, at least fifty. His coarse blond hair was long and wavy and on the verge of turning gray, and he had what she thought was a gross mustache.
The man gave a skeptical smile that belied insecurity and said, “Um, yeah, who are you?”
“Well, for starters, I’m a huge fan of Against the Law. I thought it was the best book I’ve read this year.”
“Oh, well thank you. You know, I just made it available as an ebook.”
“A what?”
“An electronic book. I put it up on my website as a free download.”
“Oh, neat.”
Oh stupid, Lucy thought. Like people would ever want to read books on an electronic screen.
“Ebooks are going to be the future of publishing. I’m sure of it.”
“Are you working on a new book?” Orson asked.
“Yeah, I am actually.” Orson was right. Lucy saw Bryson beginning to come alive as he talked about himself.
“Can you tell me anything about it?” Orson asked.
“Well, it’s a sequel to Against the Law.”
“Oh, fantastic.”
“You know how Rodriguez died at the end?”
“Yeah, sure. That was so heartbreaking.”
“Well, he’s not really dead.”
“No kidding?”
“And he’s back and pissed off and looking for revenge.”
“I can’t wait to read it. Look, Mr. Bryson—”
“Please, Richard.”
“Richard, my name’s Vincent Carmichael, and I’m a freelance reviewer. I do stuff for Kirkus, Booklist, Publishers Weekly. I would love to do an interview with you and pitch it to PW or Kirkus. I think they’d be all over it.”
“That’d be great.”
“Do you have some time right now?”
“Um, sure.”
“What do you say we go up to my room? My recorder is up there and we can see what happens. By the way, this is my niece, Michelle.”
“Hi, Michelle.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bryson,” Lucy said.
Bryson pulled out his wallet. “Let me just pay for my beer.”
“Get out of here.” Orson pulled a five dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it on the bar. “It is so good to finally meet you, Rich.”
He patted the man on the shoulder and pulled him away from the bar.
As they rode up in the elevator, Lucy marveled at the persona Orson had adopted: an attentive, personable book reviewer who was utterly fascinated with the life and work of Richard Bryson. She didn’t know how he controlled himself, because as the doors opened and they walked off the car onto the fourteenth floor, her body was beginning to buzz with anticipation.
At last, they reached the door to 1428, and Lucy pulled the keycard out of her pocket, her hands trembling.
She swiped the card as Bryson said, “You should ask me about my publishing company, too. I hate the big New York publishers, so I’ve decided to…” He stopped talking as Lucy pushed the door open, and she knew exactly why. A subdued but foul odor seeped out of the room into the hallway.
“After you, Rich,” Orson said. He was glancing up and down the hallway, which for the moment, was empty.
Bryson hesitantly entered the hotel room and Lucy and Orson followed after him. Lucy heard the subtle click of Orson locking the door.
“My goodness,” Bryson said. “Smells like something died in here.”
“You can smell that?” Orson said. They had all passed the closed bathroom door and now stood in the dark bedroom. “It must be that sandwich half I threw away last night. It sure went bad quickly.”
Bryson took off his sports jacket. “Do you mind if I use your restroom before we get started? That beer is moving right through me.”
“Of course. Right through that door.”
Lucy stood next to Orson, watching Bryson disappear into the bathroom.
“Where’s Luther?” she asked.
“About to have some Luther fun.”
She could see the light come on under the door, the sounds of Bryson shuffling around inside.
“Orson?”
“Shhh,” he whispered. “Let’s just enjoy this moment together.”
Bryson said, “Oh God!”
Something crashed to the floor, and through the door came the sound of a desperate struggle, something banging into cabinets and walls, and then the meaty thud of hard punches.
Bryson went quiet, but there was still movement inside the bathroom. After a minute, the door opened, and Luther walked out smiling.
“Come see,” he said.
Lucy hurried over to the open door.
Bryson lay unconscious on the floor, hog-tied with zip-ties, and a ball-gag in his mouth.
“Nice work, Luther,” she said.
“You should’ve seen his face. He sat down on the toilet to take a dump, and just as he was starting to notice all the blood, I swept the shower curtain back and had Mark Darling waving to him. Good thing he was on the toilet, ’cause he shit.”
“Can I have my straight razor back?” Lucy said.
Orson glanced down at her. “Of course. But you know we aren’t just going to kill him right away.”
“Why not?”
He smiled. “Sweet, Lucy. So much to learn.”
Richard opened his eyes f
ifteen minutes later, naked and shivering. The balls of his feet just barely touched the dead man sprawled beneath him across the shower tile. His wrists were stretched far above his head, the zip-tie between them hanging from an anchor bolt that had been screwed into the ceiling. A giant ball had been wedged into his mouth.
Orson sat across from him on the toilet. Lucy stood beside him, and Luther sat on the surface of the sink.
“I just want to thank you again, Richard, for taking the time out of your busy schedule to sit for this interview.” Orson smiled and looked at Luther. “I think we should let Lucy go first. Okay with you?”
“As long as we get to stay in here and watch. Lucy?”
“What?”
Luther patted a red Craftsman toolbox. “I know you have a straight razor, but if you’d like to borrow anything in here, you’re welcome to it.”
“Look at you,” Orson said. “Sharing.”
Lucy saw Richard’s eyes bug out when Luther opened the box. Hers did too. “What in the world?”
“I collect ancient surgical tools.”
She lifted out a long cylinder with six tiny blades at the end. “What is this?”
“It’s called an artificial leech. It tears a superficial wound in the skin and creates a vacuum to suck up the blood.”
“It looks fun.”
“Oh, it is.”
She set it on the countertop and pulled out another tool. Richard’s bladder let loose.
“That’s in my top three,” Luther said. The metal of the instrument was dark brown with rust and looked to be several hundred years old. It had handles at the end, that when pulled apart, made the other end open wide. “It’s called a cervical dilator,” Luther said, “but it works beautifully on gentlemen as well. It fell out of use, because it typically just tore the insides apart, as you’ll see.”
She pulled out a strange-looking knife.
“For circumcisions.”
What looked like a pair of pliers, but instead of metal grippers, had a needle at the end.
“That’s called a hernia tool. I know it looks cool, but it’s kind of hard to use. Here, let me show you my favorite.” Luther reached into the toolbox and withdrew a long metal tool with a gently curving shaft. “This is called a lithotome. Shaft goes up the anus and then you squeeze the handle and a blade comes out on a spring release.”
“What was it used for?”
“To cut the bladder to release kidney stones.”
“Oh, this looks wicked.” She pulled out a hollow metal cylinder with circular blades at one end.”
“That’s a scarificator. Used for bloodletting.” He grabbed another tool. “This is a tonsil guillotine.” And another. “This is a trephine for skull drilling. Here’s a vaginal speculum, and these are hemorrhoid forceps.”
The toolbox was empty now, a veritable horrowshow on display on the bathroom sink.
“I dream of coming back as a Victorian doctor,” Luther said.
Orson laughed.
“Decisions, decisions,” Lucy said, reaching for the lithotome.
“It’s sad how he keep passing out,” Lucy said.
Luther was holding a bottle of smelling salts under Bryson’s nose.
“Yeah, you’ve got to be careful,” Orson said. “The biggest buzz-kill is when they lose too much blood. They just go into shock and die, and that’s it. Superficial cuts are key.”
Richard jerked back into consciousness and started to scream again through the ball-gag.
“These aren’t ideal conditions,” Orson said. “Of course, no matter what, we can’t take the ball-gag out of his mouth. What I’m afraid is going to happen is he’s going to throw up and choke to death.”
“I wish I could hear him scream.”
“Me, too. It adds so much more.”
Six hours later, they washed Luther’s surgical tools, left the remains of Bryson hanging in the shower, and walked out of 1428 for the last time.
It was almost nine o’clock and many of the conference attendees had already left, the lobby much quieter now.
Orson bought Luther and Lucy dinner in the restaurant downstairs, everyone happy for the moment, a quiet contentment settling over the meal.
“When do you guys leave?” Lucy asked.
“First thing tomorrow.”
“Can I come with you?”
“No.”
Lucy felt a lump swelling in her throat. “Don’t you like me?”
“Of course,” Orson said. “But I can’t take you with me, I’m sorry.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“That’s for you to figure out. Are you going home?”
“No. And my car’s booted. I only have a hundred and fifty dollars and my guitar case.”
Orson reached into his pocket, opened his wallet, pulled out a roll of bills. “Here,” he said. “This should get you started.”
Lucy thumbed through the money. Almost five hundred dollars.
“Thank you,” she said, but the sadness was still there. “How am I supposed to get anywhere? I don’t have a car.”
“You could hitchhike,” Luther said.
“That’s dangerous.”
“You’ll have to be careful,” Orson said. “Although, I have a feeling, it’s the poor people who pick you up that we should be more concerned for.”
Luther laughed. “You need to get your hands on some painkillers. Oxycodone. Something hard-hitting that you can drug people with. That’s the only way you’ll be able to overpower someone bigger than yourself. And let’s face it. Everyone’s bigger than you.”
“Seriously.” Orson reached across the table and touched Lucy’s hand. “You have to be careful. You have to learn to read people. One day, you’re going to meet someone out there like me and Luther, only they may not be so hot to take you under their wing. They might rather hang you up in a shower.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“How?”
“I won’t trust anybody.”
“Good.”
Lucy squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Orson,” she said. “I’m glad I met you. You too, Luther.”
Luther smiled. It was still scary, but for the first time, he didn’t look like he was thinking about killing her.
They walked Lucy through the lobby and out the revolving doors of the hotel. Bellhops were stacking suitcases on luggage carts and hailing cabs.
“You could stay one more night,” Orson said.
“Thanks, but I’m ready to go.” She wrapped her arms around Orson and squeezed him. “I’ll never forget you.”
He knelt down in front of her. “You’re a special girl, Lucy. You know what you are, and you’re not afraid of it, and I admire that. I admire the hell out of it.”
She turned to Luther and shook his hand, then lifted her guitar case and walked away from the hotel, out onto the sidewalk into the night.
Lucy had walked ten blocks before the first pair of headlights appeared in the distance.
She dropped her guitar case on the pavement, a small pit of nerves tightening in her stomach.
The car was getting closer.
She could hear its engine, and for the first time in her life, but certainly not the last, she stuck out her thumb.
A minivan pulled over to the curb and the front passenger window rolled down, a thirty-something woman smiling under the dome light.
“You need a ride, sweetie?” she asked.
Lucy conjured up a smile. “If it’s not too much trouble. It’s really cold out here.”
“I’ve got groceries in the front seat, but you’re welcome to climb in the back.”
Lucy pulled open the side door and stepped into the minivan, stowing her guitar case on the floor and sitting down beside a car seat, where an infant slept.
The woman looked back between the seats at Lucy.
“Just try to keep it down, if you don’t mind,” she said quietly. “As you can see, my little angel is sleeping.”
“No proble
m,” Lucy whispered, staring down at the baby, thinking, No Luther, not everyone’s bigger than me.
For the continuing adventures of Lucy, read Serial and Serial Uncut, by Blake Crouch, Jack Kilborn, and J.A. Konrath.
For the continuing adventures of Orson and Luther, read Desert Places and Locked Doors by Blake Crouch.
Read on for an interview with Blake Crouch, plus excerpts from all four of his books, Desert Places, Locked Doors, Abandon, and Snowbound…
An Interview with Blake Crouch by Hank Wagner
Originally Published in Crimespree, July 2009
According to his website, Blake Crouch grew up in Statesville, a small town in the piedmont of North Carolina. He graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in 2000, where he studied literature and creative writing. He currently resides in the San Juan Mountains of southwestern Colorado. Crouch’s first book, Desert Places, was published in 2003. Pat Conroy called it “Harrowing, terrific, a whacked-out combination of Stephen King and Cormac McCarthy.” Val McDermid described it as “An ingenious, diabolical debut that calls into question all our easy moral assumptions. Desert Places is a genuine thriller that pulses with adrenaline from start to finish.” His second novel, Locked Doors, was published in July 2005. A sequel to Desert Places, it created a similar buzz. His third novel, Abandon, was published on July 7, 2009.
HANK WAGNER: Your writing career began in college?
BLAKE CROUCH: I started writing seriously in college. I had tinkered before, but the summer after my freshman year, I decided that I wanted to try to make a living at being a writer. Spring semester of 1999, I was in an intro creative writing class and I wrote the short story (called “Ginsu Tony”) that would grow into Desert Places. Once I started my first novel, it became an obsession.
HW: Where did the original premise for Desert Places come from?
BC: The idea for Desert Places arose when two ideas crossed. I had the opening chapter already in my head... suspense writer receives an anonymous letter telling him there’s a body buried on his property, covered in his blood. I didn’t know where my protagonist was going to be taken though. Around the same time, I happened to be glancing through a scrapbook that had photographs of this backpacking trip I took in Wyoming in the mid 90’s. One of those photographs was of a road running off into the horizon in the midst of a vast desert. My brain starting working. What if my protagonist is taken to a cabin out in the middle of nowhere, by a psychopath? What if this cabin is in this vast desert, and he has no hope of escape? That photograph broke the whole story open for me.