Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy

by Blake Crouch

  Walter grabbed Orson's feet up angrily and glared murderously into my eyes.

  "I'll fucking kill you if this isn't Orson," he said as I lifted my brother again off the floor. "You had to lie to me?" he asked as we edged towards the doorway.

  "I didn't lie to you…"

  "Don't insult my intelligence by telling me this is your brother. He doesn't look a thing like you. I ought to fucking leave you here. Make me drive with a woman yelling in my trunk."

  "She woke up?" I asked, turning the doorknob.

  "That's why I didn't open the trunk. She's been screaming for the last hour."

  "Shit."

  "Yeah, shit's right, you prick…"

  I kicked the door shut and dropped Orson. His head smacked onto the floor. I grabbed Walter by his shirt and flung him against the door, my right forearm digging into his soft neck.

  "I'm not lying to you." I said. "That's my fucking brother whether he looks like it or not. How the hell do you think he's been able to kill for so long? And you want to walk out and leave him here. Suppose he lives? You just killed twenty or thirty more innocent people, because he won't ever stop. You've been tepid this whole trip, and even if you don't believe me, guess what? Too late. He's probably dead now, and you think that lady would forgive you if you opened the trunk and said you're sorry? Her husband's nearly dead. Her head's got a big fucking knot on it. You quit now, you go to jail, so do what you have to to finish this." I released him and he gasped for breath, clutching at his throat. Rage sizzled in his eyes but fear along with it.

  We lifted Orson for the third time and walked back out into the night. I closed the door behind us, and we carried him carefully down the steps and across the grass. My eyes kept cutting back and forth from the icy blades beneath my feet to the surrounding houses with their warm, yellow lights and open curtains, the inhabitants moving carelessly about inside. It'd take one person glancing outside and seeing two strange men carrying something across the Parker's front lawn, to turn a mysterious disappearance into a murder investigation.

  We set Orson down on the cold concrete, and Walter went to unlock the trunk. I could hear Mary crying inside, and her despair touched me in a very distant place.

  "Don't open it yet," I whispered. "She's gonna scream bloody murder."

  "No blood in my trunk," Walter whispered, as I took the Glock from my fanny pack.

  "She's gonna wake the neighborhood when we throw Orson on top of her."

  "I'll risk it," he said. "Nobody's blood is gonna stain that trunk."

  "Then you lift that heavy bastard off the ground," I said, putting the Glock back into the fanny pack. I took the keys from Walter, and when he'd hoisted Orson up against the rear bumper, I turned the key and the trunk popped open. Mary didn't scream. Curled up in a corner with wild eyes like a caged animal, she looked at me and then Walter. She started to speak when her husband rolled on top of her and the trunk slammed shut, leaving her again in darkness.

  # # #

  "I wish it was misty again," Walter said as we sped along the highway. "Last night was perfect. That moon's worse than a fucking spotlight."

  "You watching the mileage?" I asked, annoyed at Walter's apparent lack of attention to the most important detail of the night.

  "3.7."

  "The second it turns over to 4.8, you stop."

  "Quit telling me the same…"

  "I'll tell you as many times as I think it's necessary. You feel like digging another hole? It's a different ballgame when the dead people are with you."

  4.8 miles north of the coffee shop in downtown Middlebury, Walter eased across the road, onto the wide shoulder of 116. He parked the car as close to the forest's edge as he could get, using the pine shadows to obscure the white Cadillac from moonlight. We stepped out and slammed the car doors, their echoes racing down the empty highway.

  I buried my hands in the pockets of my suit before they could go numb. The air stung my cheeks, and I could only be thankful that the night was without wind or snow. The moon, rising now above the Green Mountains in the east, was as bright and full as I'd ever seen it. It turned the sky navy instead of black and kept the most luminous stars from showing.

  "I see it!" Walter yelled, running through the stiff grass. He pointed to the large, flaking trunk of a pine, ten yards ahead, and I saw the shovel, too, it's head stabbed in the frozen earth.

  "Get the flashlight," I said, running ahead of him.

  The brilliance of the sky did not extend down into the trees. The stand of pines remained black and gloomy, and it was harder than hell finding our way back to the gravesite. I counted twenty-nine steps, walking straight back into the woods, before we began walking parallel to the highway again, in search of the hole.

  Twenty yards beyond the car, we stumbled upon it. I smelled the organic, smoky scent of freshly turned dirt, and on my knees, I reached into the hole, unsure if it could hold two. I looked back over my shoulder at Walter and shook my head.

  "I don't know if it's deep enough for both of them," I said. "In a few days, the animals will smell them if there isn't a foot of dirt between the surface and the bodies." I rose to my feet. "Make it deeper while I bring the woman," I said, motioning to the shovel in Walter's hand.

  I took the flashlight and scrambled back through the woods towards the car. There wasn't much undergrowth to make foot travel especially difficult, so in no time, I'd emerged from the trees and was standing under the blinding light of the moon.

  A car screamed by, heading towards Middlebury, and a sharp current of fear coursed through me. But the car continued on, becoming nothing more than a pair of red taillights as it faded from sight and sound.

  When I was certain there were no cars in the distance, I took out the Glock and approached the trunk. I inserted the key, opened it, and stepped back, pointing the gun at Mary. She let out a short gasp and then a high, piercing scream that ended when I indicated the gun and stepped towards her. Slowly, she sat up, pushing an unconscious Orson off her body.

  "Get out," I said aloud, not masking my voice in a whisper. "You scream, I shoot."

  "What did you do to him?" She motioned to Orson.

  "He's just unconscious," I lied. "Come on." She shoved her feet out first and slid over the bumper, her high heels touching the grass. Then she was standing, wobbling a little from the large knot on her head and the hours spent cramped in the small confines of the trunk. The moon shined on her face, swollen and teary. I hoped she was too emotionally spent now to fight me.

  "Close the trunk," I said, and she slammed it. I pointed to the trees. "Start walking."

  She looked nervously at the woods and then back at me. "Why?" she asked.

  I aimed the gun at the ground near her feet and squeezed the trigger. The muffled blast tore through the dirt, and Mary jumped back, fear and respect aroused again in her eyes.

  "Because I'll just shoot you and drag you back there if you don't," I said, and she began walking. A sob burst into the night air, but she fought it down into her throat.

  As we walked towards her grave, surrounded by the pines, I heard a car approaching. Mary slowed and turned her head back towards the highway, a look of longing in her eyes.

  "Don't even think about it," I said.

  "Are you going to kill me?" she asked, her voice remarkably strong.

  "Walk faster." We soon found the space between the trees. Walter was standing in the hole, throwing dirt onto the slowly growing pile that we'd use to fill the grave again.

  "Go now, Walter, if you don't want to see this," I said.

  Walter tossed the shovel onto the mound of dirt and scampered out of the hole and back into the forest. Mary stopped suddenly at the edge and turned around, tears rolling down her cheeks, lips trembling. She shook her head.

  The gun touched her forehead, and I pulled the trigger. I didn't hear the shot. I only saw its fatal and instantaneous effect. The strength in her legs evaporated, and she collapsed, headfirst, into the hole. I dropped th
e gun to my side and stared down at her, remorse pulsing somewhere inside of me that I refused to acknowledge.

  From her head to her waist, Mary was slumped over into the hole, but her legs still stretched out, flat against the ground. I pushed her all the way in with my boot as Walter came running up from the woods and stopped beside me. We looked down at her, and I felt relieved that dirt covered her face. Only her hair, her high heels, and her navy trench coat were visible, spread out across the black earth.

  "You wanna throw some dirt in there?" I said.

  "Shit, Andy."

  "I know."

  He reached down and felt her face with the back of his hand. "She's still warm," he said.

  "Quit fucking around, Walter. She won't be warm long. Just throw some dirt on her."

  He got up and walked over to the shovel.

  "I'm gonna need your help with Orson," I said.

  Walter threw several scoops of dirt on top of Mary. Then he tossed the shovel onto the pine straw forest floor, and we walked back towards the highway. As we neared the trunk, I dug for the cold keys in my pockets, wishing the latex gloves were warm in addition to their flexibility. I unlocked the trunk and opened it once more. Orson lay motionless in the same position his late wife had left him. We laid him out in the grass. As Walter closed the trunk, I knelt down and dug two fingers into Orson's neck and waited.

  "He's got a pulse," I said. "He's probably in a coma. Take his legs."

  There was an overwhelming sense of relief when we dropped Orson on top of his wife. Even as Walter reached for the shovel, I unloaded the eight remaining rounds into Orson's chest, thinking of the hell he'd created for me. There was no place for sadness as I ended my brother's life. He'd killed our mother; he'd tortured and killed others. How could I not feel a tinge of joy as his body shook at the impact of each hollow point tearing through him?

  We packed the dirt, stomping on it and smacking it with the head of the shovel. When the ground was level again, we gathered handfuls of dry pine needles and covered the bare dirt.

  As we walked away, back through the trees, I marveled at how we'd left no trace of the hole, or the people beginning to freeze just inches beneath the surface. We neared the highway, and I could no longer see that small space between the pines, the gravesite of my brother. It was all smooth, pine needle forest floor now, and even if someday I wanted to see this place again, I doubted if I could ever find it.

  We loaded the shovel and flashlight into the trunk and had climbed back into the Cadillac when I noticed headlights in the distance. I sat in the driver's seat and had put the keys into the ignition when the car rushed by. My head turned, and aided by the enormous moon, I saw that the brown vehicle was a police car. It continued on for several hundred yards, but then brake lights exploded through the darkness, and the car turned around in the empty road.

  "You gotta be kidding me," Walter said, as he looked back. "You don't think he saw us?"

  My heart raced as the police car sped back towards us and then pulled slowly onto the shoulder. Its lights began blinking, and its siren rang out for a split second, then silence.

  "I'll talk," I said. "We're lost--get the map out--trying to find a place to stop for the night." I turned on the interior lights as Walter fumbled around for the map. "Hurry up. He doesn't need to see you looking through the glove compartment." In the rearview mirror, I watched the police car come to a stop several yards behind the Cadillac. The officer remained inside for a moment, and I assumed he was running our license plate through a computer.

  "Your gun," Walter said. "You should've put it in the trunk with mine."

  As the officer stepped casually out of his car, I dug through my fanny pack for the second clip. I found it, released the empty magazine, and popped the new one into the Glock. I chambered the first round and shoved the gun between the seats.

  "What are you doing?" Walter whispered.

  I could hear the officer's footsteps in the grass, and in the mirror I watched him approaching cautiously, his hand on his holstered weapon.

  "I'm not going to prison," I whispered. "Look at the map, he's here."

  There was a soft tapping on the window. I took a deep breath and turned with a smile to face the officer. I pushed the button to lower the window but nothing happened.

  "Just a moment," I said, chagrined. The officer's brow wrinkled as I turned the key back. Then I lowered the window and frigid air slipped into the car. "What can I do for you, officer?" I asked, looking into his chiseled, emotionless face. He couldn't have been over thirty. He wore a tight-fitting jacket over his uniform and a toboggan reached down and covered his ears.

  "You folks having car trouble?" he asked. He lifted his flashlight and inspected the front and then the backseat, awaiting my reply. I was so thankful we'd put the shovel in the trunk.

  "No, sir. Just a little map trouble." Walter made a rustling noise to draw attention to the large map of Vermont spread across his lap.

  "Why you parked so far off the road? Trying to avoid being seen?"

  "No, sir," I said. "Just trying to avoid getting hit."

  The officer nodded but pursed his lips as if he believed otherwise. "I need to see your license and registration," he said.

  "No problem. Walter, get your registration for the man," I said, reaching into a pocket for my wallet. "It's his car," I said with a nervous laugh. "I'm on driving duty now."

  The man's face didn't even register that he'd heard me. I pulled out my wallet, and as I slid my driver's license from the clear, plastic panel, I realized I still wore the latex gloves. I pretended I was having trouble getting my license out and made a weak attempt to pull a glove off. It wouldn't budge. Sweat had cemented my skin to the rubber.

  Walter laid the registration in my lap, and I took it and my driver's license and handed it to the officer, quickly withdrawing my hand the moment he had the papers within his grasp.

  "Wait here," he said, and he walked back to his patrol car and climbed inside.

  "He suspects something," Walter said. "He asked why we were parked so far off..."

  "And I told him why we were parked here." I rolled up the window. "There's no way he suspects what we've actually done. No one would."

  "What if he wants to search the car?"

  "A very respectful, Bill of Rights-oriented, no fucking way."

  "We'd get the chair for this," Walter said, after a moment.

  "That really helps." I remembered my gloves again. The officer stepped out of his car and shut the door, so I pulled like hell and squeezed out of them. I put them under my seat and rolled the window back down.

  "Your gloves were on?" Walter was incredulous.

  The officer returned and handed back my license and registration. "Where you folks coming from?" he asked as I returned my license to my wallet.

  "Bristol," I said. "Just up the road."

  "I know where it is."

  "We came up here for the week to see the countryside, and now we're trying to find Middlebury." I'm talking too much, I thought.

  "Oh." The officer smiled. "Well, just get back on the highway and head that way." He pointed down the road. "It'll take you right through downtown. Not more than five miles away."

  "Fantastic," I said. "You've been a great help."

  "You folks have a safe night," he said. Then he turned and walked away.

  We waited as the officer climbed into his patrol car and drove away, back towards Middlebury. It seemed his red taillights were visible for miles as they dwindled away down the lonely highway. The relief was indescribable. I could see it in Walter's face, too. But we said nothing. Tired, hungry, and tense, we were beyond verbal expression, the air between us so thick with reality, we didn't disturb it with words.

  We sat in the dark for several minutes after the police car was gone, staring down the road, into the woods, into nothing. The moon continued to rise above the mountains, and it had just reached into our shadows when I started the car and drove back towards
the inn.

  # # #

  The sun crept up over the Atlantic, its rays gliding gently across the water, into the coast, and over the Green Mountains. They warmed the window near my bed, brightened the room, and turned the morning sky from black into royal blue. I burrowed deeper beneath the quilts, shielding my eyes from the new, morning light. With the blankets over my head, I shut out the sun and slept until I woke from restfulness alone, not the piercing rays which showered in between the curtains.

  I kicked the covers onto the floor and lay on the naked bed in boxer shorts. A cool draft tickled my chest and I shivered. On the bedside table, the clock read 10:29, and it pleased me to be waking at a reasonable hour. As I sat up, I felt the raging hunger in my stomach. In fifteen minutes, Walter and I would be sitting before the fireplace downstairs, drinking coffee, eating hot pastries. Last night would be a fading nightmare, nothing more.

  I planted my feet on the floor and stared across the room at Walter's bed, neatly made. Slowly I came to my feet, glancing around the room, but he wasn't here. As I approached his bed, I saw a piece of white paper, folded in half, standing like a tent on the smoothed, plaid bedspread. I reached down and picked it up, and when I saw the words, my knees gave out.

  You stupid fuck. I watched you sleep for an hour last night. I stood at the end of your bed and thought about cutting your throat so you couldn't scream while I disemboweled you. Why didn't I? Because I have plans for you. This is only the beginning.

  Poor Walter. What are you gonna tell his wife, Andy? That he's rotting on a mountainside in Vermont? That I took all of my rage towards you out on him for several horrible hours? Maybe you shouldn't tell her anything. Maybe you should do her a favor, too.

  Go back to North Carolina, Andy. I'll contact you before Christmas. And save yourself the trouble of wondering how I got out of that hole, how eight bullets at point-blank range couldn't kill me, because I got a little tidbit for you, brother: I was never in that fucking hole.

  # # #

  My mother was discovered eight days after Orson murdered her when a neighbor noticed newspapers collecting on her porch and phoned the police. They found her in bed, under the covers, stiff and cold, tucked in as lifeless and cozy as a Barbie Doll in her blue dress with yellow sunflowers. There was only one bruise on her entire body--a thin, purple ring encircling her neck. The pantyhose which Orson used had been balled up and thrown under the bed.