Thicker Than Blood - the Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy - Blake Crouch [275]
When Luther got up and walked toward the rotten dock, I glanced over at Vi who was nursing her baby.
"When did you have him?" I asked.
"Couple weeks ago."
"Jesus. Where’d you get baby clothes?"
"Hand-me-downs. Used to be Luther’s. Isn’t he beautiful? I named him Max, after my husband."
"You gave birth in that basement? On that dirt floor?"
"Yeah."
"And he’s okay? You’re both okay?"
"I think so."
"I’m sorry you had to—"
"I left you stuck in that trap on Portsmouth. My fault."
Rufus had been roasting a marshmallow over the remnants of the glowing charcoal. He glanced back at us and said, "Who’s up for some s’mores?"
"None for me," Vi said.
"Andy?"
"I’m full."
"Alrighty then. More for me."
He lifted the flaming marshmallow out of the grill and joined it with the graham cracker and Hershey square. When the s’more was assembled, Rufus strolled over with his dessert and plopped down beside me in Luther’s lawn chair. He took a large bite and groaned with pleasure.
"Tell you what, Andy," he said, a string of marshmallow dangling from his bottom lip, "tomorrow’s either going to be the very best or very worst day of your life. Goes for you, too, little lady."
"Rufus, you’ve got some marshmallow on your face," I said.
As he wiped his mouth, I gazed down at Luther, sitting at the end of the dock, staring off into the cooling darkness.
"Tell me about Orson," I said.
Rufus beamed proudly, as if I’d inquired after one of his children.
"You think you made him into that monster, don’t you? Well, I hate to piss in your coffee, but my brother was fucked-up long before he ever met you."
Rufus laughed and laughed.
"What’s funny?"
"I think I know where you’re going with this, Andy. You’re on the verge of telling me how Orson was raped when he was twelve. And you, too, perhaps. Did he include you in that fantasy?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You can imagine how guilty your brother felt at first, in light of the things I asked him to do. I was afraid he’d kill himself. So I sat him down one day, said, ‘you were raped when you were a child.’
"He looked at me like I had four heads. I told him, I said, ‘Imagine how good it would feel if you could hurt people the way you like to, and it wasn’t your fault. If you only did these terrible things because someone hurt you a long time ago.’ I didn’t think he’d go for it, but he got this sly little grin—I’m sure you know the expression—and he told me the story of, ah, what was his name? Oh, yes. Willard Bass."
"You’re a liar."
"Andy, Mr. Bass did exist. And he was found dead in a tunnel under the interstate behind your house when you were twelve years old. But he didn’t rape you. He was just a homeless drunk. You and Orson, you never even saw him. You only glimpsed the policemen running through your backyard on the Fourth of July, the day they found his body. I have the newspaper article somewhere in the library if you’d like to read it."
I reached into my shorts, whipped out my dick.
The old man’s eyes widened.
I pointed at the head.
"That scar is from a cigarette. I branded myself after that fucker burned Orson."
"No, that’s a birthmark. Orson had one, too. It was his idea that the man burned his penis with a cigarette afterward. How imaginative, him including you in all this. You really bought it, didn’t you?"
I pulled my shorts back up, head swimming.
"What interests me most of all," Rufus continued, "is that you’re upset your brother wasn’t raped. That you need the comfort of knowing something awful made Orson what he was, you what you are. It’d be the end of the fucking world if someone were evil, purely from their own stock, own volition, and no external influence was to blame. I think that would truly frighten you."
"If Willard didn’t, then you happened to Orson. I know you made him do terrible things."
"But I didn’t make him love it."
Rufus took another bite of the s’more