Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy

by Blake Crouch

  When she finished her spiel, I decided to splurge—ordered the chicken-fried steak and a glass of Woodbridge from an unspecified vintage. I winked at Marge as she took my menu.

  Applause issued from the banquet room, signifying what could only mean the end of one fleet admiral’s career. I leaned back and savored this transitory moment of contentment, old enough at last to know better than to analyze it, or embrace it longer than it meant to stay.

  # # #

  I limped back to the motel, a little drunk, a little tired, my bum leg aching from a day on the road. My room was on the second level, and it faced the prairie. I’d expected to see some sort of residential glow out there, but not a solitary porchlight disrupted the gaping darkness.

  The Jacuzzi beckoned. A family of six had just vacated the pool area, and in the absence of screaming children, I could hear the humming jets and the turbulent churning of the lighted water. I hadn’t packed swimming trunks, so I donned my baggiest boxer shorts, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and headed down to the pool.

  The night was dry and cool. I laid my towel on a chair and walked to the shallow end, the water dark and calm. I held onto the railing and waded in up to my waist, nipples hardening, skin turning to gooseflesh. I took a breath, went under, and came up gasping, like someone had punched me in the stomach, ready for the Jacuzzi now.

  Scrambling out of the pool, wet feet slapping concrete, I limped quickly to the steaming spa. I nestled down into the luxurious warmth, a jet pounding the stiffness out of my neck, closed my eyes, let my legs float up toward the surface, and moaned with pleasure as those miles of driving melted out of my shoulders.

  The bliss lasted thirty seconds.

  Then came the patter of flip-flopped feet and small voices.

  Three black-haired children surrounded the spa, gazing ravenously at the roiling blue water.

  "I want in cuzzi," said the little girl, who couldn’t have been older than three.

  One of the twin boys hoisted her up.

  "No, Jason," boomed a voice from the second level of the motel. "You kids stay out of the water till we come down."

  "Dad, I just wanna—"

  "All of you. Go wait over there. Now."

  The children obeyed. I watched them waddle away and sit poolside on the cooling concrete. One of the boys advised his little sister to be careful because she couldn’t swim, which in turn ignited a heated debate concerning who was and was not the boss of whom.

  The parents came down shortly thereafter.

  Roughhousing ensued.

  The father tossed his sons screaming into the brisk water and dove in after them as the mother lifted her little girl and waded into the shallow end.

  I closed my eyes and tried to block out everything but the hot, soothing fracas that massaged me. In prison, during the bad times, when Orson tormented me, there was a place I would run to—a field of soft grass that waved endlessly into the horizon like a green sea.

  I was just managing to slip away when the sound of footsteps obliterated my mental oasis. My eyes opened. One of the boys was swinging his leg over the side of the spa.

  "Jason!" his father yelled, treading water in the deep end of the pool, "Told you not to bother that gentleman."

  Jason dipped his toes into the water and hollered.

  "Boy!"

  His father climbed out of the pool and marched over.

  The boy bolted past him and cannonballed into the shallow end, drenching his mother and sister. The little girl screamed that she’d been blinded and began to cry. As Jason’s mother commenced to thoroughly dress him down, the boy’s father approached the Jacuzzi.

  He had pure white hair, and the closer he came, the younger he looked, his face pale and without wrinkle, a hard and slender build.

  He said, "Sir, I apologize for the disrupt—" The family man smiled, muttered, "Oh, my," and climbed in.

  I didn’t understand until I looked him in the eyes. It was their black intensities that convinced me I was sharing this Jacuzzi with Luther Kite, his hair as white and cropped as it once was long and black, glistening with chlorinated water.

  "Boy, it feels good in here," he said.

  The woman in the shallow end called out, "Where’d Daddy go?"

  Luther cocked his head back and said, "I’m in the Jacuzzi, Christie! Entertain the children please!"

  Luther looked back at me, said, "So, old man, do you feel redeemed?"

  I started to rise, felt Luther’s smooth legs wrap around my ankles.

  "Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself," he said, extending his hand. "Bob Crider."

  I just stared at him, and he withdrew his hand, unshaken.

  "Please. I’m curious," he said. "You turned yourself in. Spilled your guts. Spent sixteen years in prison. Paying for your sins. I kept up. Read the articles. Your slobbering confession. Justice is served. Penance performed. Do you feel redeemed?"

  "I don’t know. Look, I’m really tired. I should—"

  "Whatever happened to that sweet little detective and her son?"

  My throat tightened, as it always does when I think of Violet.

  "She killed herself."

  "How?"

  "Shotgun under the chin."

  "Hmm. Always thought that’s how you’d end up."

  "Yeah, well, there’s still time."

  "What? Being out, free again not what you thought it’d be?"

  "When you’re on the inside, there’s always the outside to look forward to. But when you’re on the outside, and freedom and blue sky don’t do it for you, all you have to dream about is death."

  "Why do you suppose that detective killed herself?"

  "Guilt."

  "Try loneliness."

  "No, Violet had a husband. Lived near her family. She—"

  "Not that kind. She was lonely like you’re lonely. Like I’m lonely. Like the few who understand that all this is an illusion, savagery’s mask. I mean, different as we are, Andrew, I feel a kinship sitting in this hot tub with you that I haven’t felt in years. The same truths have been revealed to us, no?"

  "I guess."

  "It’s devastating when you feel you’re the only one who knows this terrible secret. That’s the brand of loneliness that killed Violet."

  I looked beyond Luther, at his family playing in the swimming pool.

  "See you went and got yourself a family."

  Luther grinned, glanced back at the pool.

  "Beautiful, aren’t they?"

  "They know what a psychopathic fuck Daddy is?"

  "I’m not that way anymore."

  "Really."

  My boxer shorts ballooned. I lifted the waistband. Bubbles rushed to the surface.

  "I’m a pastor now, Andrew."

  I smiled, said, "Guess you’ve been redeemed."

  "By the blood of Christ I have."

  "You believe that."

  "We all sin and fall short. Some more than others."

  "Sure. Some cheat on their taxes. Some break children’s necks and hang women off of lighthouses."

  "Sin is sin. I’ve repented."

  "Paid for them how?"

  "Christ paid for them."

  "That’s convenient."

  "That’s grace."

  "What would your father think?"

  "He’d be amused. Then he’d kill me."

  We laughed. Luther’s dentures shone. Perfectly straight and creamy. His real teeth had gone the way of Rufus’s.

  "You’re not a believer are you, Andrew?"

  I slid under and came up again, brushed my gray hair out of my face.

  "No."

  "I could help you. I’d like to help you."

  "I’ll pass."

  One of the twins ran up and leaned over the edge beside his father.

  "When are you coming, Dad? You promised."

  Luther kissed Jason’s cheek.

  "Give me a minute, son."

  Jason sprinted back and yelled as he canonballed again into the po
ol.

  I rose up out of the water, my skin steaming.

  "What if it runs in the family, Luther?"

  "Runs in everybody’s family."

  I climbed out of the Jacuzzi and wrapped myself in a towel.

  "Grace, Andrew. It’s free, and it’s the only shot at a happy ending you’ve got."

  "Goodbye, Reverend Kite."

  I unlatched the gate and started toward the stairwell. By the time I’d reached my door on the second level, Luther was back in the pool, chasing his boys and terrorizing them with the soundtrack to Jaws.

  I leaned against the railing, shivering now, observing the family at play. After awhile, my eyes moved beyond them to the black sweep of grassland all around. Felt that tightness in my throat again, but it wasn’t Vi this time. Amid all that darkness and the stars falling through it on their absurd and fleeting vectors, the lighted pool area below and the ruckus of Luther’s family seemed all that was left of the world.

  # # #

  I took a shower to wash the chlorine out of my hair. As the water beat down on my face, I sensed a sleepy headache coming from the wine. Didn’t matter. My suitcase was packed. I would push on to Denver tonight.

  I turned off the water and threw back the curtain.

  Luther stood dripping in his swimming trunks, skin glistening with beads of water.

  "It was Orson’s," he said, turning the ivory-hilted knife in his right hand, the blade shimmering as if newly-forged.

  "Haven’t lost the taste, I see."

  A tremor in my voice. Sound of fear. I tasted it, too—rust in the back of my throat.

  "Never, Andrew. But afterwards, I’ll ask forgiveness, and I’ll mean it, and come tomorrow I’ll bathe in the light of grace."

  His swiped at me.

  Sheets of blood flooded warmly and fast down by chest. Luther set the knife on the sink. He put his hands on my shoulders, made me sit down in the tub.

  "I’ll pray for your soul tonight," he said, then took a seat on the toilet to watch me flop.

  # # #

  Reverend Crider’s church stands beside a cemetery on the edge of a small Midwestern town. Though a predominately black church, the congregation is wild about its white preacher. Reverend Crider is charismatic. He insists on a lively band and choir. Sometimes he shouts. He has been known to cry and sweat profusely, which is to say that he is full of passion and love in the eyes of his flock.

  The white chapel is packed this Sunday despite the belligerent rain that has ruined the weekend, the potpourri of perfume not quite as strong this morning, muted by the odor of must and wet wool.

  Now the children are sent downstairs for Kiddy Church. The collection plates are passed forward, overflowing with dirty crumpled bills. The announcements have concluded, and as the praise band abandons their instruments, the reverend rises from the front pew and walks deliberately onto the stage, where he stands at last behind his pulpit.

  He glances at the sermon notes he scrawled yesterday in the minivan while passing through east Kansas. The silence is total save for creaking pews and the tinkling of rain on stained glass windows.

  Reverend Crider gazes out upon his congregation for a full minute.

  Brethren.

  His voice emerges low, brimming with gravitas and sadness.

  He tells them he has returned from summer vacation with a burdened heart and that he stands before them today cloaked in great sorrow and shame. He alludes to things he has seen, transgressions committed that will render him quaking before the Almighty come Judgment Day. He says he’s a great sinner, unworthy to touch this pulpit.

  A solitary tear wanders down the reverend’s cheek.

  Are there any sinners in the house? His whisper fills the nave.

  Yes, Brotha Crida.

  Will the sinners join me on their knees?

  Pews squeak as the congregation kneels.

  There passes a moment of awesome silence.

  The reverend makes a prayer. He admits to being a man of great selfishness and evil. He begs forgiveness for his sins. He asks the Lord to abolish his shame.

  Then Reverend Crider stands. He accuses his flock of being creatures of vanity, lust, and murder. He assures them they’re capable of every kind of wickedness. He says they deserve hell, every last miserable one of them.

  They are still kneeling when the musicians retake the stage.

  A pipe organ warms the sanctuary and the choir begins to sway.

  The reverend says he has one question. Have you been redeemed?

  Yes, Brotha Crida.

  Then get on your feet and praise your God.

  And the choir sings. Hands clapping. Hands lifting. Here come the drums, the congregation on their feet now, electric, sweat trilling out of Reverend Crider’s thinning white hair, down the length of his bloodless face.

  Saved a wretch like me.

  As they sing, he paces the stage screaming blood and redemption.

  He’s been saved, he says. He says he basks in grace.

  Once was lost now am found.

  And the church windows rattle and the crack of high heels on floorboards and the orgasms of the spiritfilled can be heard from four blocks away.

  Was blind but now I see.

  The instruments drop out, the choir now in full voice, a cappella, the reverend’s face wet with sweat and tears.

  And they are still singing and he is still shouting.

  When we’ve been there ten thousand years.

  Screaming blood and grace.

  Bright shining as the sun.

  His black-haired children dancing maniacally on the pew.

  We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise.

  Luther says he’s been redeemed, says he’ll live forever.

  Than when we first begun.

  EXCERPT FROM SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT

  Serial Killers Uncut (SKU) is a perfect companion piece, not only to Desert Places and Locked Doors (it contains Break You) but to the amazing work of my frequent writing partners J.A. Konrath and Jack Kilborn. All the main characters from the Thicker Than Blood Trilogy appear in Serial Killers Uncut, including Orson, Andy, Luther, and Violet. SKU is like a glove that fits in between Desert Places and Locked Doors, and presents some crucial scenes in the development of the major characters.

  A product description follows, and then an excerpt...

  PRODUCT DESCRIPTION: For everyone who thinks the bad guys are so much more fun to read than the good guys, we've written a book just for you, and now the definitive volume containing every major villain from the Crouch/Kilborn/Konrath Universe is here.

  First, there was Serial, the collaborative smash-hit that has been downloaded 500,000 times and optioned for film.

  Then came Serial Uncut, which expanded on that story.

  Then Killers, the sequel to Serial.

  Then Birds of Prey and Killers Uncut, which introduced every major villain the writers had ever created into one cohesive novel.

  And now, all that and more has been brought together for the definitive, omnibus monster, which at 120,000 words, is the length of two full novels...

  Serial Killers Uncut

  This epic work, over two years in the making, contains Serial Uncut, Killers Uncut, Birds of Prey, Crouch's Break You, an interview with the authors, and more. If you haven't read anything by Crouch, Kilborn, or Konrath, Serial Killers Uncut is the perfect introduction to the dark side of their universe. And if you enjoy a good bad guy (or bad girl), you're going to love this.

  Because there are TWENTY-ONE of them featured in this book: Lucy and Donaldson from Serial, Orson and Luther from Desert Places, Locked Doors, and Break You, Mr. K from Shaken, Alex and Charles Kork from Whiskey Sour and Rusty Nail, Isaiah from Abandon, Javier from Snowbound, and many, many more...

  PART ONE – A Watch of Nightingales

  Winston-Salem, North Carolina, 1969

  "Get in here, boys!" Jeanette shouted. "It's happening, and you're missing it! Andrew! Orson! Come on!"r />
  The eight-year-old twins raced each other down the hall and into the living room, where they skidded to a stop on the green shag carpet.

  "You have to see this," their mother said, pointing at the television screen.

  "What's wrong with Dad?" Orson asked.

  Andy looked over at their father who sat on the edge of an ottoman, leaning toward the television with his forearms on his knees and tears running down his face.

  "Nothing, son," he said, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. "Just never thought I'd be alive to see something like this."

  "Can we go outside?" Andy said.

  "It's too late," Jeannette said. "Ya'll need to get ready for bed."

  "Aw, come on, Mom. Just for ten minutes," Orson begged.

  "Five minutes," their mother said. "And don't make me come out there looking for you."

  The boys rushed out the front door into the night, the screen door banging shut after them.

  It was July and warm, lightning bugs floating everywhere like airborne embers, sparking and fading, sparking and fading.

  "Look at me!" Andy screamed, running out into the long, cool grass in the front yard. "I'm floating!"

  When the boy stopped, he glanced back toward the driveway, saw his brother lying on his back, staring up at the sky.

  Andy moved back toward him in exaggerated hops, pretending to bounce along through reduced gravity.

  He lay down on the warm concrete beside his brother, their shoulders barely touching, and stared up into the sky.

  The gibbous moon shone with a subdued brilliance through the humid southern night.

  "I can see them up there," Andy said.

  Orson glanced at him, brow furrowed. "Really?"

  Andy smiled. "Of course not, I'm just kidding."

  "I knew that."

  They were quiet for a bit, and then Orson said, "I think there's something wrong with me."

  "I know, my stomach always hurts after Mom's meatloaf, too."

  "No, it's not that."

  "What?"

  "You ever feel different?" Orson said.

  "Different? Like how?"

  "Like from other people, stupid."

  "I don't know. I don't guess so."