Orson pointed at the driver on the ground and said, “When I tell you, unlock the trunk and throw him in there. Can you do it?” I nodded.

“Gentlemen!” Orson yelled: “The trunk is being opened, and I’ll be pointing a three-fifty-seven at you. Breathe and I start squeezing.”

Orson looked at me and nodded. I opened the trunk without looking inside at the men or the body I had to lift. Heaving the driver from the ground, I shoved his limp, heavy frame on top of the two men. Then I slammed the trunk, and we got back into the car.

Orson started the Buick after the oncoming car passed us. The interior lights came on, and I gasped when I looked down at my brown suit, doused in blood, which had pooled and run down the coarse cloth into my boots. I screamed at Orson to stop the car. Stumbling outside, I fell to my knees and rolled around, scrubbing my hands with dirt until the blood turned granular.

From inside the car, Orson’s voice reached me. He was slapping the steering wheel, his great bellows of laughter erupting into the night air.

12

HEADING back to the cabin, the men continued to pound against the inside of the trunk. Orson relished their noisy fear. Whenever they screamed, he mocked and mimicked their voices, often surpassing their pleas.

Watching the dirt road illuminated by the headlights, I asked Orson what he’d done to the truck. He grinned. “I secured the steering wheel with that rope so the truck would stay straight, and I shoved that two-by-four between the front seat and the gas pedal.” Orson glanced at his luminescent watch. “For the next half hour, it’ll roll through twenty-five miles of empty desert. Then it’ll run into the mountains, and that’s where it’ll stop, unless it hits a mule deer along the way. But it’d have to be a big buck to stop that monster truck.

“Eventually, someone will find it. Maybe in a few days, maybe in several weeks. But by then it won’t matter, ’cause these boys’ll be pushing up sagebrush. Local law enforcement will probably find out where they were coming from and where they were headed. They’ll realize something happened on that road back there, but so what? It’s gonna rain tomorrow for the first time in weeks and rinse all the blood from the ground. Only two cars saw us, and they both had out-of-state tags, so they were just passing through. This’ll be an unsolved disappearance, and judging from the rude dispositions of these young men, I have a hard time believing anyone will give much of a shit.”

Upon reaching the cabin, Orson pulled up to the shed. When we got out, he called to me from the front of the Buick, popped the hood, and motioned for me to look inside. Floodlights mounted to the shed illuminated the metallic cavity as I peered in.

“What?” I asked, staring at the corroded engine.

“You’d have fallen for it, too. Look.” A few inches in, a piece of metal three feet long had been welded to the underside of the hood. “It’s an old lawn mower blade,” Orson said. “Razor-sharp. Especially in the middle. If his head had been a little farther to the right, it would’ve come clean off the first slam.” Gingerly, I touched the blade with my index finger. It was scratchy sharp, and there was blood on it, sprayed all over the engine, too.

“Have you done this hood trick before?” I asked.

“On occasion.”

One of the men yelled from inside the trunk, “Let me out, motherfucker!”

Orson laughed. “Since he asked politely. Come open it up.” He tossed me the keys. “You hear that, boys?” he yelled, moving toward the trunk. “I’m opening it up. No movement.”

I raised the trunk while Orson stood with the gun pointed at the men. As I backed away, he whispered, “Go get the handcuffs.”

I glanced into the plastic-lined trunk, a gruesome spectacle. The driver had been shoved to the back of the roomy compartment, but not before his blood had soaked his friends. They looked at me as I walked by, their eyes pleading for mercy that wasn’t mine to give. I grabbed the handcuffs from the floorboard on the passenger’s side and returned to Orson.

“Throw them the handcuffs,” he said. “Boys, lock yourselves together.”

“Go fuck yourself,” said the heavy man. Orson cocked the hammer and shot a hole in his leg. As the man howled and screamed obscenities, Orson turned the gun on the other man.

“Your name, please,” he said.

“Jeff.” The man trembled, his hands in front of his face, as if they could stop bullets. His friend grunted and squealed through his teeth as he grasped his thigh.

“Jeff,” Orson said. “I suggest you take the initiative and handcuff yourself to your pal.”

“Yes sir,” Jeff said, and as he cuffed his own hand, Orson spoke to the wounded man, who was now grinding his teeth together, trying not to scream.

“What’s your name?” Orson said.

Through clenched teeth, the man responded, “Wilbur.”

“Wilbur, I know you’re in agonizing pain, and I wish I could tell you it’s all gonna be over soon. But it’s not.” Orson patted him tenderly on the shoulder. “I just wanted to assure you that this night has only begun, and the more you buck me, the worse it’s gonna be for you.”

When Jeff and Wilbur were cuffed together, Orson ordered them to get out. Wilbur had difficulty moving his leg, so Orson directed me to drag him out of the trunk. As he screamed, I pulled him onto the ground, and Jeff fell on him, crushing the injured thigh.

Leaving their cowboy hats in the trunk, the two men came slowly to their feet, and Orson led them toward the back of the shed. As he unlocked the door, he told me to go wrap the driver up in the plastic lining and remove him from the trunk.

“I can’t lift him by myself,” I said. “The blood’ll spill everywhere.”

“Just go shut it, then. But we gotta get him out before he starts stinking.”

I returned to the car and closed the trunk. Walking back toward the shed, I felt the keys jingle in my pocket. Staring at the brown car, dull beneath the floodlights, I thought, I could go. Right now. Get in the car, turn the ignition, and drive back to the highway. There’s probably a town, maybe thirty or forty miles away. You find a police station, you bring someone here. Maybe you save them. Sliding my hand into my pocket, I poked a finger through the key ring. Orson’s voice passed through the pine structure, taunting the groaning man inside.

Go. I started for the driver’s seat. Shit. The hood was still raised, and I quietly lowered it so that it closed with a soft metallic click, which Orson could not have heard from inside the shed. With the key held firmly between my thumb and forefinger, I opened the car door, my hands shaking now, and sat down in the driver’s seat. Key into the ignition. Check the parking brake. Don’t shut the door until you’re moving. Turn the key. Turn the key.

Something tapped on the window, and, flinching, I looked over at Orson, who was standing by the passenger door, pointing the revolver at my head through the glass.

“What in the world are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m coming,” I said. “I was coming.” I pulled the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car. “Here.” I tossed him the keys and walked toward the shed. Don’t shoot me. Please. Pretend this didn’t happen. At the back door he stopped me.

“I’m considering killing you,” he said. “But you’ve got an opportunity in here to dissuade me. After you.”

He followed me into the shed and locked the door behind us, having already collared the men individually and chained them to the pole. You’ve seen this before. It won’t be as bad as Shirley. Can’t be. We let the family go. We let the family go. Those kids will see Old Faithful tomorrow. Hold on to that.