by Blake Crouch
"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 pool.
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!"
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."
"Yeah, that's because you're normal."
"So are you."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are, you're my brother."
"That doesn't make me normal, Andy."
"I know you and there's nothing wrong—"
"But you only know my outside. You don't know what's inside. The thoughts I have."
"What thoughts?"
"Just thoughts."
"Normal ones?"
"I don't think so."
"Like what?" Andy asked.
"I don't want to tell. They're mine."
"Tell me."
Orson looked over at Andy. Now there were tears in his eyes. Glassy in the moonlight.
"You'll tell Mom and Dad."
"No, I won't."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
Orson looked back into the sky.
"Everyone's real excited about what's happening."
"I know."
"But you know what I'm thinking?"
"How could I?"
Orson hesitated. Then: "No, I don't want to say."
"Orson." Andy reached over and took hold of his brother's hand. "You can trust me. Always."
Orson blinked twice, and then said, "I wish Neil Armstrong would die up there."
"Why?"
Orson shrugged. "I don't know. But I wish his friend would leave him on the moon or the Eagle would blow up or a space monster that no one had ever heard of before would crawl out of a hole and eat him. Everyone would be sad, and I'd be....so happy."
Andy stared at his brother, an airy fluttering in his stomach now, and it wasn't his mother's meatloaf.
"You can let go of my hand if you want," Orson said, and that look on his face would never leave Andy—fear and defiance and rage and a deep, deep sadness.
The screen door banged open.
Their mother's voice echoing through the woods across the street, calling for them to come inside and get ready for bed.
Andy squeezed his brother's hand tighter.
PART TWO – A Day at the Beach
North Carolina Outer Banks, 1977
They were a happy, black-eyed family, and the day was perfect.
Late August.
The heat broken by the breeze coming off the ocean.
A few stray clouds way out over the Atlantic, but otherwise, the sky pitch-blue and already beginning to deepen toward evening.
Rufus Kite and his five-year-old son had started after lunch, and now, six hours into the project, it loomed over the beach like the ruins of a Scottish castle. They'd constructed a moat all the way around—two feet wide and a foot down to the water table. Luther had even put a crab inside as a stand-in for a real monster. The tide would be upon them anytime now, and already the noise of the surf was getting louder as it inched closer. Luther sat in the middle of the castle, surrounded by two-foot walls, digging trenches and passageways while his father dripped wet sand along the top wall. It looked like disintegrating masonry.
Ten yards behind the castle, Luther's mother and sister reclined in beach chairs under the shade of an umbrella, Maxine tearing through the last fifty pages of a Ludlum novel, Katie curled up sleeping in her chair, the eight-year-old a deep bronze—the only member of the Kite clan who could catch a tan.