Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy

by Blake Crouch

  We were walking through a particularly narrow passageway when Vi stopped and pointed ahead.

  "Light," she whispered.

  The passageway ended, and we emerged from the labyrinth on the opposite side of the staircase from which we’d all entered just an hour ago. The screening room and those stone rooms where we’d agonized in pitch-black isolation loomed just ahead.

  An ax leaned against the wall.

  We swung around the staircase and there, perfectly still, stood the Kite family—Luther, Rufus, Maxine. The old woman held baby Max in her arms, his tiny head resting on her shoulder, snoozing.

  "Thought we might have to come find you," Rufus said.

  "Yeah, we got turned around in there," I said.

  I glanced at Vi. She eyed her baby.

  "How’d you kids like the trophy case?" Maxine asked.

  None of them had moved.

  "Charming little room," I answered, mustering a sarcastic smile.

  "Heard y’all hollering," Maxine said. "Funny stuff."

  As Luther stared a hole through me, Vi stepped forward. I pulled her back.

  "What is it, young lady?" Rufus asked.

  "Give him back to me."

  Rufus sighed. "Violet, I’m afraid I’ve got a piece of bad news."

  "What?"

  "Have a seat against the wall. Max, give her the baby."

  Maxine walked over and presented the baby to its mother. Vi sat down with him, crying now, and it was a full minute before she tore her eyes away from her sleeping son.

  The old man and his wife towered over Vi. She gazed up at them, tears plowing through the dirt on her cheeks.

  "Here’s the thing," Rufus said. "We think you were terrific today. Really. Hell, you drew first blood. Unflinching. Brutal. Lovely. But I think Andy has a lot more in the way of potential. He was icy out there. Calm. And he’s a thinker. More than I can say for my own son."

  "I don’t understand," Vi said, stroking the nape of her son’s neck. "I don’t—"

  "Andy needs our full attention, Violet. It’s just not fair to him to keep you around."

  "But I did what you wanted."

  "Kiss your son goodbye and hand him back to Maxine."

  "You lied."

  "Rufus, just a—"

  "Andy, don’t make this worse."

  Maxine reached down and grabbed little Max under his arms.

  "No!" Vi screamed. "Get away from him!"

  The baby awoke, emitting a tender cry.

  "There, there," Maxine cooed. "Let’s not—"

  Vi cocked her right arm and cracked the old woman’s jaw with the back of her fist.

  Maxine roared and wrangled the baby away from its mother.

  Vi started to rise, but Rufus stamped his boot into her chest and pinned her back against the wall.

  "Now you’ve pissed her off," he said.

  Maxine wiped blood from the corner of her mouth. Then she took hold of the baby’s ankles and held it upside down, little Max now screaming and flailing.

  Vi wailed, too, as Maxine began to spin around, swinging the baby faster and faster.

  "Now we start inching toward the wall!" she called out, her faded house dress twirling, her snowy hair whipping around like a shock of white cotton candy. "And after this, we’ll all play hide and seek! See, the fun never ends!"

  I lunged for Maxine, but Rufus caught me on the chin with an elbow and my knees buckled.

  I hit the ground, Vi screaming, the room spinning, expecting at any moment to hear the fracture of the tiny skull meeting the stone.

  Luther caught the baby in his hands and snatched it away from his mother.

  In shock, Maxine steadied herself, leveling her gaze on her son.

  "Boy, are you loony?"

  She grabbed Luther’s earlobe, so short she could only yank down.

  "I dare you to hold onto that baby two more seconds," she seethed.

  Rufus was in stitches.

  As I struggled to my feet, Luther set the infant in the dirt.

  When Maxine stooped for the baby, Luther lifted his mother off the ground and slammed her flush into the rock wall. There was a hollow pop when her head snapped back. Luther set her down on her feet, but her eyes rolled up in her head and she dropped.

  Rufus charged his son, scooping him under the knees and driving him into the dirt floor. Vi sprang up, rushed over to Max, grabbed him, and scrambled up the staircase.

  Rufus’s physical strength was staggering. In a matter of seconds, he’d straddled Luther, one hand on his neck, the other raining blows upon his pale face, laughing while he beat his son, laughing while I lifted the ax and limped toward them.

  Luther’s loss of consciousness did nothing to detour his father’s hysterical rage.

  Standing behind them now, I hoisted the ax.

  It fell, the weight of the head propelling it earthward.

  Rufus thought to glance back at me just as the blade clove his spine.

  I jerked it back out as he convulsed, toppling backward into the dirt. When he stopped shivering, I thought he was dead, but his eyes blinked calmly, and he grinned at me, arms twitching, legs now and forever inert.

  He said, "I can’t move my legs."

  "Yeah, I got your spine."

  "Beautiful?" he called out. He turned his head, saw Maxine sprawled motionless against the stone. I thought he might call out to her again, but instead he looked back at me, reached out, and grasped my hand.

  "I still believe in you," he said. "I know you see past the illusions."

  "Had a little regression of our own, didn’t we?"

  He grinned and winced, the pain flooding in now.

  "Rufus, I just want you to know…" I leaned in close to insure he heard every word. "I think you’re full of shit."

  Rufus grunted, shook his head.

  "No you don’t," he whispered, then smiled and closed his eyes, full of peace and joy, as though he were ascending into some invisible glory.

  His fingers opened, he let go of my hand, and died.

  # # #

  I took the ax with me and limped up the rickety staircase. Vi was crouched on the top step with baby Max, shivering.

  "It’s locked," she whispered as I neared them. "I can’t get it open."

  "Scoot down a few steps."

  With Vi safely beneath me, I buried the ax blade in the small door, heard it splinter, hinges creaking. On the fifth blow, it burst open. I stepped across the threshold into the foyer, glimpsed late afternoon sunlight streaming through the living room windows, gilding clouds of dust.

  I turned and looked down at Vi.

  "Come on up here and wait for me," I said, starting back down into the basement.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Luther."

  She grabbed onto my leg, said, "He saved my son."

  "He’s a psychopath, Vi. I let him off once. You saw how many people died. I’m not making that mistake again."

  I tore my leg away and continued my descent.

  As I approached the bottom, Luther stirred and sat up. Rufus had obliterated his face.

  I raised the ax.

  "Andrew, what are you doing?"

  Two steps, and I was upon him.

  I swung the ax at his neck, but he caught the helve an inch below the blade. Before I could jerk it away, he swept my feet out from under me. I hit the ground, and when I looked up, he was circling me with the ax.

  "Roll over on your stomach."

  "Why?"

  He turned the blade on its blunt edge.

  "I’m going to try not to smash your skull in. But no promises."

  # # #

  Vi stands in the foyer as Luther emerges from the basement, his black hair matted to the blood on his face.

  "Did you kill him?"

  "No."

  Luther walks into the kitchen and takes the keys to the ancient pickup truck from a lopsided ceramic bowl on the breakfast table. The stench of raw flounder is overpowering, an associatio
n he will never be rid of.

  He returns to the foyer.

  The little blonde stares at him.

  Luther stops to look at the infant, wanting to touch it.

  Resisting.

  Its mother says, "Thank you for what you did. But I don’t under—"

  "I don’t understand it either."

  Luther opens the massive front door.

  The sun is gone.

  Still a few miles offshore, storms race in from the sea, their oncoming thunder rattling the windows, the sky gone green, the air heavy, reeking of rain and ozone.

  # # #

  Vi prodded me back into consciousness, squeezing my hands, whispering my name. Before I even opened my eyes, I could feel the ache in my skull.

  I sat up, foggy-brained, fingering the tender knot on the back of my head.

  "Let’s go," Vi begged, her voice seeming to echo. "It’s getting dark out, and I despise this place."

  My gaze fell on Maxine, slumped against the wall, then Rufus, lying in a calm black puddle. Painfully, I turned my head and stared into the dark tunnels leading into the innards of the basement, to the trophy case, and its standing dead.

  "Where’s Luther?" I asked.

  "Gone. He took the truck, but there’s another car out front. I found some keys in the kitchen. Cash, too. About a hundred and fifty dollars."

  "Have you called anyone?" I asked.

  "Andy, I just want to get off this island."

  Vi helped me up, and then we climbed the steps and walked together out of that stone house into the storm-cooled evening, two exiles, stateless and bewildered.

  # # #

  We reach the north end of Ocracoke at dusk and board the ferry.

  Vi stays in the Impala with Max, asleep in her arms.

  I step out, walk to the bow.

  A father and his six or seven-year-old son lean against the railing, wind disheveling their hair, a satisfied, end-of-day peace emanating from them.

  The man looks over, nods.

  "Fine night, eh?"

  I watch the island diminish until nothing of it remains but the distant steady glow of the Ocracoke Light, twelve miles south. When it slips under the horizon, leaving only the black waters of Hatteras Inlet and the clear August sky, flushed with sunset, I pray I’ve seen the last I will ever see of that island.

  # # #

  I drive us north on Highway 12. The road is empty tonight, wind whisking sand from the dunes across the pavement.

  West, beyond the sound, somewhere over the mainland, the last trace of warmth dies on the horizon.

  Stars burn above the Outer Banks.

  We pass through tiny beach communities, interspersed by stretches of lonely highway. The sea stays mostly hidden behind the wall of dunes that crowds the right side of the road.

  Half a tank of gas remains. I never want to stop. I could drive like this for eons, putting mile after mile between us and that stone house on the sound and the things we did today on Portsmouth. I wonder if Vi feels like I do—like we’re the only two souls on the face of the Earth who’ve been told this awful truth.

  # # #

  Traversing the bridge over Oregon Inlet, the beam from the Bodie Island Lighthouse becomes visible, projecting its luminescence out to sea. My thoughts turn briefly to Karen.

  # # #

  The beach has been practically paved in Nags Head, and the dunes of Jockey’s Ridge, tallest on the East Coast, resemble snow hills in the moonlight.

  I pull into the parking lot of a Motel 8.

  "All right if we stay here tonight?" I ask, first words spoken since Ocracoke.

  "Yeah."

  I walk into the office and request a room with double beds.

  There’s only one vacancy left. It has one king-size bed.

  We’ll take it.

  I park in front of our room and give Vi a keycard.

  Light from a supermarket and a burger joint shines in full bloom across the street.

  "I’ll go get us some dinner. What do you want?"

  "Nothing."

  "You’re a fuckin’ rail, Vi. I’m getting you something. Might as well tell me what."

  # # #

  I cross Highway 12 and walk into Wendy’s.

  "Can I get for you there tonight, sir?" asks the plump and smiling cashier.

  I don’t remember how to talk to these kind of people.

  # # #

  I carry the greasy white bags into Harris Teeter, not that I intend to buy anything. It’s a compulsion. I can’t think of anyplace more ordinary and safe than the mopped, generic brightness of a supermarket. We’re at home among things, items, products, goods for sale. I want elevator music and strangers squeezing produce and price checks over the intercom.

  # # #

  The magazine rack is riddled with important news I haven’t heard in nine months. Smug celebrities watch me browse. None of it means a goddamn thing anymore.

  # # #

  On the wine aisle, I walk by three young women stocking up on Andre’s champagne.

  I eavesdrop.

  There’s a bonfire somewhere on the beach tonight.

  They’re going to get wasted.

  Going to get fucked.

  They smell like cigarettes and energy.

  # # #

  Vi is sitting in bed nursing Max when I walk into the room, a romantic-comedy on the television. I set the bags of food on the table.

  "Can I bring you yours?" I ask.

  "He’s almost done."

  I sit down on the edge of the bed and stare at the TV screen.

  She lays Max, gorged and sleepy, at the foot of the bed on a towel surrounded by pillows. I grab the white bags, and we have a fast-food feast on the bed.

  When Vi finishes, she says, "I want to take a shower. Watch Max for me?"

  "Sure."

  She walks into the bathroom, closes the door. I turn off the television and move over to the window. Peeking through the curtains into the parking lot, I check on the car, see the dunes of Jockey’s Ridge State Park glowing more brilliantly than before.

  Vi gasps in the bathroom.

  I rush to the door.

  "Everything okay?" I call out.

  No answer, only sobs.

  "I’m coming in, Vi. I’m coming in."

  I open the door slowly, giving her a chance to cover up in case she’s naked.

  She’s slumped over against the sink, jeans on, T-shirt and bra in a pile on the floor.

  "Vi, what’s wrong?" She shakes her head. "Tell me."

  She straightens up, faces me, forearms hiding her milk-swollen breasts, and taps her right shoulder, taps the purple-yellow bruise the shotgun made when it bucked against her nine hours ago.

  I step into the bathroom, wrap my arms around her bare back.

  "Why don’t you take a bath, huh? I’ll run some water."

  "My clothes smell like that house."

  "We’ll wash them in the bathtub later. Here, sit down."

  As she takes a seat on the toilet, I kneel down, close the drain, and turn the hot water knob.

  "How warm do you want it?"

  "Very."

  I crank the cold water knob, get the mix just right.

  "Check on Max, will you?"

  I crack the door. Corralled by pillows, the infant sleeps, a stuffed dolphin at his side.

  "He’s fine. Call if you need anything."

  "Stay with me, Andy."

  "You sure?"

  "Just close your eyes for a minute."

  I turn my back, listening to her jeans unzip and slide down her thighs. She steps into the bathtub, eases down in the water.

  "Okay, I’m in."

  I take a seat on the toilet.

  Vi sits close to the faucet, her legs drawn up into her chest, arms wrapped around her knees.

  "This feels so good," she says. "I haven’t had a bath in…I don’t know how long."

  She bats the running water into her chest.

  Her legs glisten, uns
haven for months.

  "I’ll pour water on your back if you like."

  "Be great."

  I tear the wrapper off one of the plastic cups on the sink. Kneeling down on the floor beside the tub, I fill the cup and drizzle hot water over her back.

  Her skin turns to gooseflesh.

  I do this for awhile and then she lifts her hair off her back and says, "Would you pour some on my neck?"

  Feels good to please her.

  I ask why she hasn’t called her husband.

  "Andy, I feel like I’ve just come home from war. You know what I mean?"

  "Yeah."

  I drop the cup in the water, run my fingers through her hair.

  "And I’m not sure how to go back. All the drugs, the hypnosis, those terrible movies we watched—what if Rufus fucked me up?" She turns and looks at me. "How do you feel?"

  "I feel nothing."

  "You have somewhere to go?"

  "Yeah. A long, long way from here."

  "Tell me about it."

  I smile at the picture my mind’s eye conjures of my cabin in the Yukon forest. I smell the tall firs. See the meadow at night. Think of lying in its cold, soft grass, beneath the quiet majesty of the northern lights. God, I’d love to see the aurora borealis again.

  "It’s paradise," I say, pouring more water down her spine.

  "You could go back, yeah?"

  "Sure."

  "Is it quiet there?"

  "Very."

  "Middle of nowhere, right?"

  "Yes. And beautiful. So beautiful."

  "No one bothers you."

  "Not there they don’t. You live quietly, simply. It’s lonely, but a good kind of lonely."

  "Part of me would like to go back with you."

  "Just turn your back on everything?"

  "It’s all bullshit anyway. What I did today—if I’m capable, anyone is. Except they don’t know it. They live under the illusion of decency, goodness."

  "You, me, and Max, huh?"

  "I could have a garden. Live off the land, you know. Never see anyone. You could write."

  "Have to come up with a great pseudonym."

  "Yeah, and you’d publish books again, Andy. Maybe even write about this."

  "And one day, after twenty, thirty years, when everyone’s forgotten, we come back."

  I sit down on the tile. Steam curls off the surface of the bathwater, the mirror fogged, walls sweating. Vi leans against the side of the tub and stares at me, not quite as pretty as when I first saw her that raw November afternoon in Howard’s Pub, her beauty now tinged with hardness.