Free The Orchid Eater by Marc Laidlaw Page B

gasping for breath.
    Up here, the
other guys were talking in normal voices now, completely relaxed. Mike grabbed
the doorknob, then hesitated, turning to Scott, who was just coming up the
stairs.
    “Go out on
the balcony and look around, make sure no one’s at the door.”
    Scott
hurried to comply. “All clear,” he called from the deck.
    Mike was
praying, trying to remain positive, as Edgar had suggested. He remembered putting
the key in the lock, but he couldn’t remember taking it out. He’d been so
frightened and rushed during the chase that he had forgotten it completely
until now.
    Please let the key still be there. Let the key still be there, God. If
there is a God.
    No, that’s
wrong—think positive:
    The key is
there. The key is there. It’s still in the lock where I left it. There is a God
and the key is there. It has to be there. Visualize it. Use your fucking
imagination!
    He eased the
door open half an inch, an inch. That was all the room he needed to see the
brass knob shining in starlight. Polished brass and nothing more.
    No matter
how hard he tried to imagine it, he couldn’t make out the faintest sign of any
key.
     

7
     
    Hawk could
hardly hear Edgar on the phone. “Hold off a minute, would you?” He was talking
to Edgar, but Maggie mistook him and left off chewing on his other ear. Saying
nothing—but so expressively—she jumped down from the bed and walked the length
of the trailer to where Stoner sat with his knees tucked up on the built-in
couch, pretending to read The Cross
and the Switchblade, an act he’d been faking ever
since Hawk first shoved the book at him half a year ago. Maggie dropped down
next to Stoner, took a swig of beer from his bottle, and let it dangle by the
neck. She wouldn’t even look at Hawk.
    “Hey,
Maggie, what’s this word?” Stoner said, pushing the book under her nose.
    “Fuckface,”
she said, and Hawk didn’t know who she was talking to.
    “Say again,
Edgar,” Hawk said. “I’m getting a lot of interference here.”
    Edgar was
out of breath, his words stumbling all over each other. Just when Hawk thought
he was getting the drift, the whole trailer began to roar. Hawk jumped up and
hammered on the wall, but he could hardly hear himself pounding.
    “Stoner!
Tell Dusty to lay off a minute, would you?”
    “Sure,
Hawk.” Stoner looked relieved at having an excuse to put down the book. He was
wearing his usual big dumb grin, which got bigger and dumber when Maggie said,
“I suppose you want me to move?”
    “Naw.” He
picked her up as if she were a rag doll, got off the couch, and set her back
down in his place. Stoner went outside and shouted at Dusty, his voice louder
than the power tools. Everything turned quiet except the Saturday night traffic
on Old Creek Road.
    “Back up,
Edgar. Where are you now?”
    “My house.”
    “Meet me out
front, then. Ten minutes.”
    Hawk hung up
and got out of bed. Maggie stared at him.
    “You ain’t
going nowhere,” she said. “Not again—not tonight.”
    “Patience,
my sweet Magdalene.” He chucked her chin as he passed, and she made as if to
bite his finger. “My tiny flock’s in peril. Didn’t you hear them bleating on
the phone?”
    “Are you
trying to be an asshole, or does it just come natural?”
    He winced
and put his head out the door. “Stoner!”
    The cars
whizzing past sent crucifix shadows sweeping over the cluttered yard. The smell
of motor oil was still strong after the hot day. Stoner was on his knees
halfway into Dusty’s van, the crack of his ass above his belt as dark as the
gates of Hell. He backed out with a puzzled yet hopeful expression, holding a
caged lightbulb on a clamp. Faithful as a dog, Hawk thought. There was a smudge
of grease on Stoner’s forehead, just below his curly blond locks.
    “Hold it
steady, dude!” Dusty said from inside the van.
    “Turn it off,” Hawk said. “We’re making a
cavalry run.”
    Dusty backed
out of the driver’s side holding a