Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy

by Blake Crouch

  "Yes."

  "This is just a hunch, but when I look at you, I don’t see someone who spends much time in the books. Am I right?" She shrugged. "What’s the last thing you read?"

  "Um…Heaven’s Kiss."

  "Is that a romance?" he asked, and she nodded. "Oh, I’m sorry, that doesn’t count. You see, romance novels are shit. You could probably write one. Go to college by chance?"

  "No."

  "Finish high school?"

  "Yes."

  "Whew. Scared me there for a minute, Shirley."

  "Take me back," she begged. "I want my husband."

  "Stop whining," he said, and tears trickled down her face again, but Orson let them go. "My brother’s here tonight," he said, "and that’s a lucky coincidence for you. He’s gonna ask you five questions on anything — philosophy, history, literature, geography, whatever. You have to answer at least three correctly. Do that and I’ll take you back to the bowling alley. That’s why you’re blindfolded. Can’t see my face if I’m gonna let you go, now can you?" Timidly, she shook her head. Orson’s voice dropped to a whisper, and leaning in, he spoke into her ear just loudly enough for me to hear also: "But if you answer less than three questions correctly, I’m gonna cut your heart out."

  Shirley moaned. Clumsily dismounting the stool, she tried to run, but the chain jerked her to the floor.

  "Get up!" Orson screamed, stepping down from his stool. "If you aren’t sitting on that stool in five seconds, I’ll consider it a forfeiture of the test." Shirley stood up immediately, and Orson helped her back onto the stool. "Calm down, sweetheart," he said, his voice recovering its sweetness. "Take a breath, answer the questions, and you’ll be back with your husband and — do you have kids?"

  "Three," she said, weeping.

  "With your husband and your three beautiful children before morning."

  "I can’t do it," she whined.

  "Then you’ll experience an agonizing death. It’s all up to you, Shirley."

  The single bare lightbulb that illuminated the room flickered, throwing the shed into bursts of darkness. Orson sighed and stood up on his stool. He tightened the bulb, climbed down, and walked to my chair. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he said, "Fire away, Andy."

  "But…" I swallowed. "Please, Orson. Don’t do —"

  Leaning down, he whispered into my ear so the woman couldn’t hear: "Ask the questions or I’ll do her in front of you. It won’t be pleasant. You might close your eyes, but you’ll hear her. The whole desert’ll hear her. But if she gets them right, I will let her go. I won’t rescind that promise. It’s all in her hands. That’s what makes this so much fun."

  I looked at the woman, still quivering on the stool, felt my brother’s hand gripping my shoulder. Orson was in control, so I asked the first question.

  "Name three plays by William Shakespeare," I said woodenly.

  "That’s good," Orson said. "That’s a fair question. Shirley?"

  "Romeo and Juliet," she blurted. "Um…Hamlet."

  "Excellent," Orson mocked. "One more, please."

  She was silent for a moment and then exclaimed, "Othello! Othello!"

  "Yes!" Orson clapped his hands. "One for one. Next question."

  "Who’s the president of the United States?"

  Orson slapped the back of my head. "Too easy, so now I’m gonna ask one. Shirley, which philosopher’s theory is encapsulated in this quote: ‘Act only on that maxim through which you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law’?"

  "I don’t know! How the hell should I know that?"

  "If you knew anything about philosophy, you’d know it was Kant. One for two. Andy?" Hesitating, I glanced up at Orson. "Ask the question, Andy!"

  I deliberated. "On what hill was Jesus Christ crucified?" I looked up at Orson, and he nodded approvingly.

  "Golgotha," she said weakly.

  "Two for three," Orson said, but he didn’t sound as happy this time.

  "Fourth question. When —"

  "I’ve got one," said Orson, interrupting. "You can ask the last one, Andy. Shirley, on what continent is the country of Gabon?"

  She answered quickly, as if she knew. "Europe."

  "Oh, no, I’m sorry. Africa. Western coast."

  "Don’t do this anymore," she begged. "I’ll give you money. I have credit cards. I have —"

  "Shut up," Orson said. "Play fair. I am." His face reddening, he gritted his teeth. When it passed, he said, "It all comes down to this. Andy, hope you’ve got a good one, ’cause if it isn’t, I have a perfect question in mind."

  "The subject is history," I said. "In what year did we sign the Declaration of Independence?" Closing my eyes, I prayed Orson would let the question fly.

  "Shirley?" he said after ten seconds. "I’m gonna have to ask for your answer."

  When I opened my eyes, my stomach turned. Tears had begun to glide down her cheeks. "1896?" she asked. "Oh God, 1896?"

  "EEEEEHHHHH! I’m sorry, that is incorrect. The year was 1776." She collapsed onto the concrete. "Two for five doesn’t cut it," he said, walking across the floor to Shirley. He bent down and untied the blindfold. Wadding it up, he threw it at me. Shirley refused to look up.

  "That’s a shame, Shirley," he said, circling her as she remained balled up on the floor. "That last one was a gimme. I didn’t want my brother to have to see what I’m gonna do to you."

  "I’m sorry," she cried, trying to catch her breath as she lifted her bruised face from the floor. Her eyes met Orson’s for the first time, and it struck me that they were exceptionally kind. "Don’t hurt me, sir."

  "You are sorry," he said. He walked to a row of three long metal shelves stacked piggyback against the wall beside the back door. From the middle shelf he took a leather sheath and a gray sharpening stone. Then he strolled back across the room and pulled his stool against the wall, out of my reach and Shirley’s. Sitting down, he unsheathed the knife and winked at me. "Shirley," he coaxed. "Look here, honey. I want to ask you something." Again, she lifted her head to Orson, taking long, asthmatic breaths.

  "Do you appreciate fine craftsmanship?" he asked. "Let me tell you about this knife."

  She disintegrated into hysteria, but Orson paid her sobs and pleadings no attention. For the moment, he’d forgotten me, alone with his victim.

  "I acquired this tool from a custom knife maker in Montana. His work is incredible." Orson slid the blade methodically up and down the sharpening stone. "It’s a five-and-a-half-inch blade, carbon steel, three millimeters thick. Had a helluva time trying to explain to this knife maker the uses to which I’d be putting this thing. ’Cause, you know, you’ve got to tell them exactly what you need it for, so they’ll fashion the appropriate blade. Finally, I ended up saying to the guy, ‘Look, I’ll be cleaning a lot of big game.’ And I think that’s accurate. I mean, I’m gonna clean you, Shirley. Wouldn’t you consider yourself big game?"

  Shirley hunched over on her knees, her face pressed into the floor, praying to God. I prayed with her, and I don’t even believe.

  Orson went on, "Well, I’ve got to say, I’ve been thrilled with its performance. As you can see, the blade is slightly serrated, so it can slice through that tough pectoral muscle, but it’s thick enough to hack through the rib cage, too. Now that’s a rare combination in a blade. It’s why I paid three hundred and seventy-five dollars for it. See the hilt? Black-market ivory." He shook his head. "An utterly exquisite tool.

  "Hey, I want your opinion on something, Shirley. Look up here." She obeyed him. "See the discoloration on the blade? That comes from the acids in the meat when I’m carving, and I was wondering if it’s scarier for you, knowing I’m getting ready to butcher you, to see those stains on the blade and realize that your meat will soon be staining this blade, too? Or, would it be more frightening if this blade was as bright and shiny as the day I first got it? ’Cause if that’s the case, I’ll get a crocus cloth and polish it up right now for you."

  "You don’t h
ave to do this," Shirley said, sitting up suddenly. She gazed into Orson’s eyes, trying to be brave. "I’ll give you whatever you want. Anything. Name it."

  Orson chuckled. "Shirley," he said, perfectly serious, "I’ll say it like this. I want your heart. Now if you get up and walk out that door after I’ve cut it out, I won’t stop you." He stood up. "I’ve gotta piss, Andy. Keep her company." Orson walked to the door, unlocked it, and stepped outside. I could hear him spraying the side of the shed.

  "Ma’am," I whispered, breathless. "I don’t know what to do. I am so sorry. I want —"

  "I don’t want to die," she said, begging me with her stormy eyes. "Don’t let him hurt me."

  "I’m chained to the floor. I want to help you. Just tell me —"

  "Please don’t kill me!" she screamed, oblivious now to my voice. She rocked back and forth on her knees like an autistic child. "I don’t want to die!"

  The door opened, and Orson cruised back in. "Well, you’re in the wrong place," he said, " ’cause it’s that time." He held the knife by his side and moved deliberately toward her. She crawled away from him, using only her knees because her hands were still cuffed behind her back. The chain always stopped her. Orson giggled.

  "No!" she screamed. "You can’t do this!"

  "Watch me," he said, bending down toward her, the knife cocked back.

  "Stop it, Orson!" I yelled, my heart beating in my throat. With the woman cowering at his feet, a puddle spreading beneath her, Orson looked back at me.

  Think, think, think, think. "You just…you can’t kill her."

  "Would you rather do it? We can’t let her go. She knows our names. Seen our faces."

  "Don’t cut her," I said. The lumpiness of tears ached in my throat.

  "I do it to all of them, and I don’t make exceptions."

  "While they’re alive?"

  "That’s the fun of it."

  "You’re out of your mind!" Shirley screamed at Orson, but he ignored her.

  "Not this time, Orson," I implored, rising to my feet. "Please."

  Shirley screamed, "Let me go!"

  "Bitch!" Orson screamed back, and he kicked her in the side of the head with the steel tip of his boot. She slumped down on the floor. "Open your mouth again, good-bye tongue."

  He looked back at me, eyes blazing. "It’s perfect with you here," he said. "I want to share this with you."

  "No," I begged. "Don’t touch her."

  Orson glanced down at his victim and then back at me.

  "I’ll give you a choice," he said. Walking to the stool, he set down the knife and pulled out my .357. "You can shoot her right now. Save her the pain." He approached and handed me the gun. "Here. Seeing you kill her painlessly would be as good to me as killing her the way I like to." When he looked at Shirley, I glanced at the back of the cylinder. The gun was loaded.

  "Shirley, get up. I told you it was a lucky coincidence for you that my brother was here."

  She didn’t move.

  "Shirley," he said again, walking toward her, "get up." He nudged her with his boot, and when she didn’t move, Orson rolled her onto her back. Her temple smashed in, blood drained out of one ear. Orson dug two fingers into the side of her neck and waited. "She’s dead," he said, looking incredulously at me. "No, wait, it’s there. It’s weak, but it’s there. I just knocked her out. Andy, now’s your chance," he urged, taking several steps back from the woman. "Squeeze off a few rounds before she comes to. Aim at the head."

  I pointed the gun at Orson. "Slide me the keys," I said, but he didn’t move. He just stared at me, sadly shaking his head.

  "This is gonna set us way back in the trust department."

  I pulled the trigger, and the gun fired. I squeezed it again and again, the plangent crack of gunshots filling up the shed, the gray smoke of gunpowder ascending into the rafters, until only the clicking of the hammer remained, thumping the empty shells.

  Orson hadn’t flinched.

  I looked down at the gun, eyes bulging.

  "Blanks, Andy," he said. "I thought you might just threaten me, but you pulled that trigger without hesitation. Wow." He took the knife from the stool and walked toward me. I threw the gun at him, but it missed his head and struck the back door.

  "She’s dead, Andy," he said. "I wasn’t going to make you watch her suffer. Not the first time. And this is how you repay me? He was close now, gripping the knife. "Part of me wants to shove this into your stomach," Orson said. "It’s almost irresistible." He pushed me back down into the lawn chair. "But I’m not gonna do that," he said. "I won’t do that." He went to the stool, set down the knife, and walked to the .357, which was lying against the back door. Picking it up, he took two bullets from his pocket. "I’d say your little stunt constitutes fuckup number two." He loaded the bullets and spun the cylinder. When it stopped, he aimed the gun at my chest. "These aren’t blanks," he said.

  Click.

  I saw the relief on Orson’s face. "Don’t make me do this again," he said. "It’d be a real shame if I had to kill you." He returned the gun to his pocket, pulled out the key for the leg iron, and slid it across the floor to me. "You can use my knife," he said. "I’ll be back for the heart. Don’t botch it up. Put her on one of those plastic sheets in the corner over there. Otherwise, you’ll be scrubbing this floor till Christmas."

  I’d regained my voice, and I said, "Orson, I can’t —"

  "You have four hours. If the job isn’t done when I return, we’ll play our little game again with three bullets."

  He opened the back door, and I saw the sky coming into purple. It didn’t seem like dawn should be here yet. It didn’t seem like it should ever come.

  Orson closed the door and locked it. I felt the key in my hand, but I wanted to remain in chains. How could I touch Shirley? She stared at me, those kind eyes open but empty as she lay on the cold, hard floor. I was glad she was gone. Glad for her.

  9

  THAT is a human being. She was bowling with her family a few hours ago. I leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I am so sorry," I whispered. "You did not…" Don’t lose it. This won’t help you now. There’s nothing you could’ve done to save her; there’s nothing you can do to bring her back. I’d witnessed unadulterated evil — the mental torture of a woman, and I wept savagely. When my tear ducts were dry, I steeled myself, wiped my eyes, and got to the task at hand.

  Years ago, when I had time to hunt in the North Carolina mountains, I’d gut the deer I shot in the woods near my hillside cabin. This is no different. No different from an animal now. She feels nothing. Dead is dead, regardless of where it resides.

  The work was difficult. But if you’ve taken an organ from one large animal, you can take one from another. What made this so difficult was her face. I couldn’t look at it, so I pulled her bowling shirt over her head.

  The ascension of the sun quickly warmed the shed, and soon it became so unbearably hot that I could think of nothing but a cold drink from the well. My thirst hastened my work, and when I heard the door unlocking, long before the four hours had expired, I’d nearly finished my chore. Orson walked in, still sporting the mechanic’s suit. Through the open door, I saw the morning sun, already blinding. It would be another glorious blue day. A breeze slipped in before Orson shut the door, and it felt spectacular.

  "Smile, Andy." He snapped a Polaroid. It was strange to think that the worst moment of my life had just been captured in a photograph.

  My brother looked tired — a melancholic darkness in his eyes. I stopped working and put the knife down. Because I’d done most of the work on my knees, they were terribly sore, so I sat on the red plastic. Orson circled the body, inspecting my work.

  "I thought you might be getting thirsty," he said, his voice now frail, depleted. "I’ll finish this up, unless you want to."

  I shook my head as he peered down into the evisceration. "That’s not a bad job," he said. He picked the knife up and wiped it off on his pants. "Go get cleaned up." I stood, but he stopped me fro
m walking off the plastic. "Take your shoes off," he said. I was standing in a pool of blood. "We’re gonna burn these clothes anyway, so just strip here. I’ll take care of it."

  I removed my clothes and left them in a pile on the plastic. Even my boxers and socks were stained. When I was naked, my arms were red up to my elbows and a smattering of blood dotted my face, though it was nothing a cold shower wouldn’t rinse away.

  I walked to the door and opened it. The sunlight caused me to squint while I gazed across the desert. As I stepped onto the baking dirt, Orson called my name, and I looked back.

  "I don’t want you to hate me," he said.

  "What do you expect? After forcing me to watch this and making me…cut her."

  "I need you to understand what I do," he said. "Can you try?" I looked at Shirley, motionless on the plastic, the bowling shirt still hiding her face. What utter degradation. I felt tears coming to shatter the numbness that had sustained me these last few hours. Without reply, I closed the door, and after several steps, the soles of my feet burned, so I hustled to the well. A showerhead was mounted to the side of the outhouse. I filled the bucket overhead and opened the spigot. When the ice water hit the ground, I dug my feet into the mud. The hair on my arms was matted with dried blood. For ten minutes, I scrubbed my skin raw as the silver showerhead, an oddity in this vast desert, sluiced freezing water upon my head.

  I cut the water off and walked to the cabin, standing for some time on the front porch, naked, letting the parched wind evaporate the water from my skin. Guilt, massive and lethal, loitered on the outskirts of my conscience. Still so dirty.

  I saw a jet cutting a white contrail miles above the desert. Do you see me? I thought, squinting to see the glint of the sun on the distant metallic tube. Is someone looking down at me from their tiny window as I look up at them? Can you see me and what I’ve done? As the jet cruised out of sight, I felt like a child — already in bed at 8:30 on a summer evening, not yet dark, other children playing freeze tag in the street, their laughter reaching me while I cry myself to sleep.