Thicker Than Blood - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги онлайн TXT) 📗

"Again."

"What are you doing?"

"Say 'they're recording us,' William!"

"They're recording us," I said, and Orson groaned as a flicker of muffled pleasure spread across his face. He was distracted for a moment, and then he looked at me and smiled.

"Sorry. Small vices die hard, you know. You gonna watch me die tonight?"

"Yeah."

"The old fucks coming?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. You'd have to ask them."

"Unfortunately, solitary confinement doesn't lend itself to interaction. What I was asking was your opinion about why they aren't coming."

"I don't know."

"Well what do you think? That’s what an opinion is."

"They feel like everyone else. You're fucked-up. They'll be glad when you're gone."

"Will you be glad, William?"

"Yes."

Orson clapped his hands mockingly and smiled.

"I appreciate your honesty, brother. Does it scare you to know that you're part of me, and I'm part of you? Don't tell me you haven't felt it. That void, the rage. You're just too much of a fucking coward to embrace it. You think when I'm gone that black place inside of you will die. You hope, you pray that when I'm dead you won't have to think about it at night, lying in the dark, wondering what it might be like to give into that horrible desire. What's your fantasy, William. I like to cut throats. Tell me yours. The longer you put it off the stronger it will become. It won't die with me."

I took a deep, quivering breath and looked at my watch. "I bet people think you're me, don't they?" He said suddenly. "That's why you've got that long hair and nasty beard." He began to laugh hysterically. "Tough to get a date?" He continued to laugh and tears escaped the corners of his eyes. "Maybe after I'm dead, you won't have to look like Grizzly fucking Adams." He stopped laughing suddenly and dried his eyes. A controlled rage came upon him. "You ashamed of me?"

"What?"

"What?" He mocked in a sissy voice. "You ashamed of me?" I thought of all the news clips I had seen and pictures of his victims with their throats laid open.

"What do you care? You just want someone to antagonize before they kill you? Is that why I'm here?"

"Am I antagonizing you?" He mocked. "Did I hurt your feelings? I'm sorry, William. I'm so fucking sorry." I set the phone down and stood up. Orson stood, too and punched the glass awkwardly with his chained hands as he stared in my eyes. The guards ran forward and forced him back into his chair, as he shouted words that ended where the glass began.

I walked back to the chair, and while I stood, picked up the phone. Orson had never let his go. "Orson, do you want me to stay?" I asked. "Do you wanna see a familiar face before they electrocute you?" Sweat was running from the top of his shaved head, through the crevice of his scar, and down the sides of his face. He nodded, and I sat down.

We said nothing for several moments. I stared at the ceiling as he stared at me.

"I met a girl coming out here," I said finally. "In Nebraska." Orson's face lit up.

"She pretty?" He asked.

"Yeah."

"She have big tits?"

I smiled. "Oh yeah."

"So did you get a little pussy?"

"I did."

"God, I'd kill for some pussy right now. I get thinking about it sometimes, and it drives me so crazy I wanna cut my dick off. What was her name?"

"Tina."

"Tina," he said slowly, letting the word ooze out of his mouth. "You fucked the shit out of her didn't you?"

I nodded. "She was incredible, Orson. You should've seen her."

"Did she scream when you fucked her?" He asked.

"Would it help your violent fantasy if I said yes?"

Orson rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. I thought he was going to slip into a rage again, so I asked him something I'd always wondered. "Would you have tried to kill me or Dad?"

"I wouldn't have tried to," he said. "I'd have done it…if I had wanted to. Is that the first thing you thought of when you saw me on the news?"

"Yeah."

"Well you didn't make the cut, William."

"What's the cut?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? Wouldn't everybody? You know how many criminal psychologists want to get inside my head? I get at least three letters every day, begging me to do an interview. But you know what I tell them? If they had half a brain, they'd know. It's all there…in the case file. Maybe if you knew, you could write something that didn't suck. I read your book, William, and I hope you can take a little constructive criticism:  it's shit."

"Why those characteristics, Orson? Male, white, middle-aged, overweight?"

"What's your theory," he asked. "I know you've got one. Hell, everybody does."

"I don't think there's any significance. You just killed those sort of men to make people wonder. White, middle-aged, overweight men are in abundance. In fact, I don't think you had a reason for killing period. You're so fucked-up you didn't need a reason." I stopped for a moment. Orson was hanging on every word. "You just liked the control."

A grin slid across Orson's face. "You're wrong. Just like those other assholes. But I do like control, William." His eyes were on fire again. "You can't imagine what it feels like to talk to someone while you're sliding a blade across their throat." He slid his finger slowly across his as he spoke. "You can smell the fear dripping from them. I especially like it when they beg for their life. Grown men weeping, shaking, trembling. The last one I killed shit all over himself, and do you know why? He knew who I was. I made him say my name. Ginsu Tony. Over and over as I slid the knife across his throat. Told him exactly why he was a victim. I told him the answer! Why I killed men like him!" Orson was in hysterics. "So actually, there are 38 people who know why I kill, but they're all dead. You can't tell me that's not funny." His laughter was foreign and eerie, and I stared at him in disgust.

"You people just don't have a sense of humor." He said

"You're proud of yourself aren't you?" I asked.

Orson couldn't help but smile.

"I'm going now."

"Wait." Orson said.

"See you at 10:30."

"William," he began sternly, but I cut him off.

"You think you'll shit your pants when the electricity comes?" The color left Orson's face as I put the phone down. He stared with an instinctive, emotionless gaze, but I turned away and knocked on the door.

At 10:20, twelve authorized media witnesses and twelve official witnesses including myself were escorted to the witness room. When we were seated, a black curtain was spread, and we peered into the claustrophobic confines of the execution chamber.

Everything looked exactly as the escort staff members had described it. Orson was already strapped into the electric chair. He wore a blue, dress shirt, trousers, and white socks. He smiled when he caught my eyes, and my heart began to pound and my stomach grew sick. There were five men in the room with Orson, and they were all waiting. One man held a phone, one guard stood by a closed door, a physician stood closest to the chair, and the executioner and superintendent stood rigidly beside the control panel. Every face save Orson's was grave, but a sneer tugged at his cruel, thin lips.