"I'm going to get a drink at that bar," I said to Orson as I forced the key into the lock.
"No. I want you to stay here," he said, and I didn't argue.
The room was warm and cozy, in a fake, cheap sort of way. The wood-paneled walls made it seem even smaller and kept it dark like the interior of a cabin. A double bed with a table on each side, rested flush against the left wall, across from which sat a dresser with a television on top of it. A tiny bathroom and a closet were located at the far end of the room, and the walls were adorned with a quilt, a Charles M. Russell print of a cowboy riding a horse into a bar, and a photograph of two bighorn sheep butting heads.
I set my suitcase on the brown-carpeted floor beside the dresser and turned on one of the bedside table lamps. It produced only a weak, orange light, giving the room a jaundice-like glow. My stomach ached with hunger, but I didn't complain. Sitting down on the bed, I kicked off my shoes and tossed my leather jacket onto the dresser.
"I'm taking a shower," Orson said. "Why don't you go to bed."
"I haven't eaten," I said.
Orson sighed heavily. "Can't you wait till morning?"
"What the fuck do you care whether I eat or not?"
"I don't want you to leave this room tonight," he said.
"Got a particular reason?"
"Just drop it, all right?" he said. He slid off the white fleece pullover, tossed it onto the bed, and began unbuttoning his black shirt. With his chest exposed, it amazed me again how cut he was. He laid the shirt carefully on the bed so it wouldn't wrinkle.
"You wanna read something good?" he asked. "Before you go to bed."
"No."
"Come on, Andy, it's a masterpiece. Open that bedside table," he said, pointing to the one nearest the door. I opened it and extracted a black hardback copy of a King James Bible.
"Get out of here," I said. "You said the Bible was soma for the weak-minded."
"One verse," he said. "It'll blow your fuckin' mind." He waited for me to ask.
"Which one?"
"First Corinthians 13:12."
I thumbed through the thin pages.
"Read it out loud," he said.
"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known." I closed the book and returned it to the drawer. "So?"
"Just think about it," Orson said, unbuttoning his jeans and letting them fall to his ankles. Leaving them in a blue pile on the floor, he walked to the dark bathroom and stopped at the threshold. He turned around and stared. It scared me.
"I don't get that verse, Orson," I said. "Are you just fucking with me?"
"You will," he said, turning on a ceiling light in the bathroom. Though the tub was hidden behind the wall, I could see Orson's bare shoulders in the streaked mirror and the sink and toilet to his right. Laughter and moaning came suddenly through the walls.
"Go to sleep, Andy," he said lifelessly as he shut the door.
# # #
"Get your ass out of bed," Orson whispered, and the dusky room came slowly into focus. The lamps on each bedside table shed their orange light upon the walls, and though the curtains were drawn, I had the feeling it was still night. I couldn't remember falling asleep.
"What time is it?" I asked, rubbing my eyes and sitting up against the headboard.
"Four-thirty," Orson said. He stood at the foot of the bed, still wearing his clothes from yesterday, his face flushed, sprinkles of blood on his white fleece.
"What did you do?" I asked.
"Get dressed. We don't have much time. Move!" he shouted.
Climbing out of bed, I dug through my suitcase, lying open on the floor. I put on a pair of blue jeans, a close-fitting long-johns top, and a green sweater. Then I forced my slim, yet bulging suitcase to close and stepped into my hiking boots.
"You got the room key?" I asked, lifting my suitcase.
Orson smiled sickly. "It doesn't matter now," he said, laughing.
Though only an hour from daybreak, the clouded sky was dark as midnight. Snow flurries bumbled in the air, and a brisk wind blew out of the north, so the tiny feathers of ice stung my cheeks and eyes. As we moved towards the car, now lightly dusted with snow, Orson tossed me the keys. I walked to the trunk so I could pack my suitcase away, but he stopped me.
"Put it in the backseat," he said.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I looked across the road to the New Atlas Bar. It was dark now, the drunken crowds gone, the parking lot empty save two pick-up trucks. I looked up the highway towards the gas station, and it still glowed, the snow flurries visible in its artificial light. The motel was enveloped in an eerie, lifeless silence now, and Orson's over-anxiousness to leave this place frightened me.
We headed west on highway 89, and in several moments, the small transit community was only a fading splotch of light on the immense prairie. In the rearview mirror, I saw the eastern horizon, tinged now with the faintest trace of purple. It will be light soon, I thought, but a foreboding sensation flooded me as I thought of the coming day.
We'd been on the road for a half-hour when I asked him, "Whose blood is on your shirt?"
"You'll find out," he said. "I told you you'd know everything by tonight."
I put my foot on the brake and brought the car to an abrupt halt on the grassy shoulder of the highway. Turning the ignition back, the car died.
"I don't trust you," I said, glaring to the passenger seat. I could barely see Orson in the predawn darkness. "I don't have to drive you to Choteau. What'd you do last night? Drug me?"
"No."
"I think you're lying," I said. "I think you're lying about everything. I could be driving myself straight to prison. Even if you do confess, you could finger me, and I know you got the evidence to do it, with all your little fuckin' pictures and videos. You're such a pussy, you know that? I hope they fry your fuckin' ass."
"You done?" he asked.
"Yeah, I think I'm done driving you across the country. I'm done being your chauffeur."
"Then I'll get out," he said, reaching for the door. "But it's gonna look bad when you get arrested alone at the roadblock."
"What roadblock?"
He smiled. "The one the police are gonna set up on every highway in Montana when someone figures out what happened at the Blue Sky Motel."
"What happened?"
He turned and stared calmly into my eyes. "For two hours this morning, a police officer knocked on the doors of the eleven occupied rooms at the Blue Sky Motel. When a guest opened the door, this cop flashed a badge, said he was looking into a reported robbery, and was let into each room with virtually no hesitation. Once inside, he told the guest or guests to have a seat on the bed while he asked them a few questions. When they sat down, this police officer pulled out a silenced 9mm and shot them in the head. Most never made more than a dying groan.
"So tell me, Andy. How long do you think it'll take for someone to find out that motel's a morgue? In actuality, it may be a day or two, cause Billy Joe Bob motel manager is sharing a bed with one of his guests. But if someone stumbles into one of those rooms and calls the police, they'll set up roadblocks in a millisecond, and we'd never get through one with our cargo. You see, I'm planning on surprising the Choteau police department with Officer Barry in case they don't take my confession to heart. Hell, I might even wear the uniform again."
My fist landed square against his jaw. It popped, and Orson grunted, "Fuck." He leaned over on the dashboard, holding his jaw in his hands. My knuckles throbbed pleasantly.
"I'll take you to Choteau, you motherfucker," I said, starting the car. "I'd kill you."
We were doing a hundred before I realized it, and I slowed down. Orson sat up now, still holding his jaw, and I hoped it hurt him. The sky lighter now, it still snowed a little, the clouds a purplish-blue. A crushing sadness pressed down on me. I couldn't even think about what he'd done, so I told myself it wasn't true. It all felt like a dream. I was a dream.