Thicker Than Blood - the Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy - Blake Crouch [42]
"Hey!" a man shouted from a gray Honda that had stopped in the middle of the street. I stepped back down off the curb and walked toward the car.
"Can I help you with something?" I asked. I placed him at twenty-six or twenty-seven. His hair was very black, and his razor-thin face was baby ass–smooth and white. The interior of his car reeked of Windex. I didn’t like his eyes.
"Are you Andrew Thomas?" he asked.
Here we go.
Since the publication of my first novel, I’d kept a running count — excluding conferences, literary festivals, and other publicized appearances, this was the thirty-third time I’d been recognized.
I nodded. "No way! I’m reading your book right now. Um, The Incinerator — no, ah, I know what it’s called…."
"The Scorcher."
"That’s it. I love it. In fact, I’ve got it with me. Do you think that, um, that…"
"Would you like for me to sign it?"
"Would you?"
"Be happy to." He reached onto the floorboard in the back, grabbed my newest hardcover, and handed it to me. I guess I just look like I have a pen on me. Sometimes it was disappointing meeting the fans. "You got a pen?" I asked.
"Shit, I don’t — oh, wait." He opened the glove compartment and retrieved a short, dull pencil. He’d played miniature golf recently. As I took the pencil, I glanced at the jacket of The Scorcher — an evil smiling face, consumed in flames. I hadn’t been particularly pleased with this jacket design, but no one cares what the author thinks.
"You want me just to sign it?" I asked.
"Could you do it to…sign it to my girlfriend?"
"Sure." Are you gonna tell me her name, or do I have to ask?…I have to ask. "What’s her name?"
"Jenna."
"J-E-N-N-A?"
"Yep." I set my book on the roof of his car and scribbled her name and one of the three dedications I always use: "To Jenna — may your hands tremble and your heart pound. Andrew Z. Thomas." I closed the book and returned it. "She’s gonna love this," he said, shifting the car back into drive. "Thank you so much." I shook his cold, thin hand and stepped back over the curb.
As he drove away, I walked through my mother’s uncut grass toward the front door. A gusty wind passed through the trees and tickled my spine. The morning sky was overcast, filled with bumpy mattresslike clouds, which in the coming months might be filled with snow. In the center of her lawn, against the ashen late-October sky, a silver maple exploded in burnt orange.
As I continued through the grass, the appearance of her house grew dismal. Beginning to pull away from the roof, the gutters overflowed with leaves, and the siding had peeled and buckled. Even the yard had turned into a jungle, and I didn’t doubt Mom had fired the lawn service I’d hired for her. She’d been infuriatingly stubborn in her refusal to accept any degree of financial assistance. I’d tried to buy her a new house after The Killer and His Weapon was sold to Hollywood, but she refused. She wouldn’t let me pay her bills, buy her a car, or even send her on a cruise. Whether it was her pride or just ignorance concerning how much money I made, I wasn’t sure, but it irritated me to no end. She insisted on scraping by with Social Security, her teacher’s pension, and the tiny chunk of Dad’s life insurance, now almost gone.
I stepped up onto the front porch and rang the doorbell. Bob Barker’s voice from The Price Is Right escaped through a cracked window. I heard my mother dragging a stool across the floor so she could reach the peephole.
"It’s me, Mom," I said through the door.
"Andrew, is that you?"
"Yes, ma’am." Three dead bolts turned, and it opened.
"Darling!" Her face brightened — a cloud unveiling the sun. "Come in," she said, smiling. "Give your mom a hug." I stepped inside and we embraced. At sixty-five, she seemed to grow smaller every time I visited. Her hair was turning white, but she wore it long,