Thicker Than Blood - the Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy - Blake Crouch [33]
He went limp and rolled onto his left side. I hadn’t heard the gunshot or felt my finger move, but a stream of dark blood flowed fast onto the plastic. In five seconds, it had surrounded Jeff above the shoulders, a crimson halo that reflected the lightbulb redly. I could see into his right eye, open but blank, without soul or will. As the pool expanded across the plastic, Wilbur jerked back, dragging Jeff’s body with him, and shrieking his name. Do not analyze this moment. You couldn’t bear it.
The back door opened, and Orson entered, an expression of awe upon his face as he stared at the plastic. He pulled the Polaroid camera from his pocket, and captured me looking down at Jeff.
"This moment…" he began, but did not finish the thought. His eyes glistened, joyful. "My God, Andy." He came and took the gun from my hands. Embracing me with tears in his eyes, he rubbed my back. "This is love, Wilbur," he said. "Real as it gets." Orson let go and wiped his eyes. "You can go now if you want, Andy," he said. "You’re welcome to stay, but I know you probably don’t wanna see this. I won’t force you."
As Orson looked at Wilbur, I could see his mind drift from what I’d done. His preoccupation with his next victim took precedence, and his eyes glazed over with predatory concentration. He walked across the room and returned with the sharpening stone. Then he sat down on the concrete and began sliding the knife blade against the stone, returning it to the razor edge it had held before Shirley Tanner. You killed a human being. No, stop that. Stop thinking.
"Staying or going?" he asked, looking up at me.
"I’m going," I said, watching Wilbur watch the knife as it scraped across the stone for him. I wondered if Orson would make the knife speech after I left. Orson set the knife on the floor and walked me to the door. When he opened it, I gladly stepped outside. Wilbur strained his neck to see the desert, and Orson noticed.
"You interested in something out here, Wilbur?" he asked, turning around as I stood in the threshold. "Well, take a look," he said. "Take a long, long look at that night sky, and the stars, and the moon, ’cause you’ll never see them again. Not ever."
Orson’s icy stare returned to me. "I’ll see you in the morning, brother."
He slammed the door in my face and locked it. I trudged toward the cabin, the sound of the knife blade on the sharpening stone reaching faintly through the walls.
Ahead the black mass of the cabin pressed against the navy sky. The desert had turned blue again in the moonlight. I thought of my quiet room inside. I would sleep tonight. This staggering numbness was my lifeboat.
As I stepped onto the front porch and reached for the door, the first scream rushed out of the shed and splintered the gentle night. I could not fathom the pain that had inspired it, and as I walked inside and closed the door behind me, I prayed the cabin walls would impede the sound of Orson’s handiwork from reaching my ears.
13
ON the eleventh day, I didn’t leave my room. Orson slipped in during the afternoon. I wasn’t sleeping, though. Since first light, I’d been awake. He brought me a ham sandwich and a glass of port and set them on the bedside table. I lay on my side, facing him, staring into nothing. The despondence that always struck him afterward was evident in his cumbrous eyes and hushed voice.
"Andy," he said, but I didn’t acknowledge him. "This is part of it. The depression. But you’re prepared for it." He squatted down and looked into my eyes. "I can help you through it."
Raindrops ticked on the tin roof. I had yet to get out of bed to look outside, but the light that struggled shyly between the window bars was far from the brilliance of a desert afternoon. Soft and gray, it sulked in the corners. The