Desert Places: A Novel of Terror by Blake Crouch Read Free Book Online

it?”
    “What would I say to her?” He paused, swallowing. “She ever ask about me?”
    I considered lying but could find no reason to spare his feelings. “No.”
    “You ever talk to her about me?”
    “If I do, it’s just about when we were kids. But I don’t think she even likes those stories anymore.” Down the highway, northbound headlights appeared, so far off, I couldn’t distinguish the separate bulbs.
    “That car won’t pass this spot for ten minutes,” he said. “It’s still miles away. These roads are so long and straight, the distance is deceiving.”
    My right hand throbbed in the grip of the metal cuff. Blood wasn’t reaching my fingers, but I didn’t complain. I massaged them until the tingling went away.
    “What do you really want with me?” I asked, but Orson just eyed those approaching headlights like I hadn’t said a word. “Orson,” I said. “What do you—”
    “I told you the first day. I’m giving you an education.”
    “You think reading boring fucking books all day constitutes an education?”
    He looked me dead in the eyes. “The books have nothing to do with it. Surely you realized that by now.”
    He cranked the engine and we rolled toward the highway. Dark now, the sky completely drained of light, we crossed the pavement and pulled onto the shoulder. I watched the headlights through the windshield, and for the first time, they seemed closer. Confused, I looked at Orson.
    “Sit tight,” he said. Turning off the car, he opened his door and stepped out. He withdrew a white handkerchief from his pocket and tied it to the antenna. Then he shut the door and stuck his head through the open window. “Andy,” he warned, “not a word.”
    He sat with his arms crossed on the edge of the hood. Rolling my window up, I tried to assuage my apprehension, but I just stared ahead, praying the car would pass. After awhile, I heard its engine. Then the headlights closed in, seconds away.
    A minivan rushed by. I watched its brake lights flush in the rearview mirror. The van turned around, glided slowly back toward us, and stopped on the opposite shoulder. The driver’s door opened and the interior lights came on. Children in the backseat. A man our age climbed out, said something to his wife, and walked confidently toward Orson. His kids watched through the tinted glass.
    The man wore khaki shorts, loafers, and a red short-sleeved polo shirt. He looked like a lawyer taking his family on a cross-country vacation.
    “Car trouble?” he asked, crossing the dotted yellow line and stopping at the shoulder’s edge.
    My brother smiled. “Yeah, she’s thirsty for oil.”
    Through the windshield, I noticed another set of northbound headlights.
    “Can I give you a lift or let you use my cell phone?” the man offered.
    “Actually, we’ve got someone on the way,” Orson said. “Wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
    Thank you, God.
    “Well, just wanted to make the offer. Bad spot to break down.”
    “Sure is.” Orson extended his hand. “But thank you anyway.”
    The man smiled and took my brother’s hand. “I guess we’ll be heading on, then. Hoping to make Yellowstone before midnight. The kids are just wild about that damn geyser.”
    “Have a safe trip,” Orson said. The man crossed the road and climbed back into his van. My brother waved to the kids in the backseat, and they giggled and waved back, delighted. As the van drove away, I watched its taillights begin to fade in the rearview mirror.
    The next car was close now. It slowed down before it passed us, then pulled over onto the shoulder on our side of the road, stopping just ten feet from the front bumper of Orson’s Buick. From a black Ford pickup truck, one of the enormous new models with a rack of blinding KC lights mounted above the cab, a large man with a substantial beer gut hopped down from behind the wheel. He left the truck running, and the headlights fried my eyes. A country ballad blared from the speakers, and