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

"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 association 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."