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

Orson noticed the bloody clothes beneath his feet.

"Andy," he said, "is that Luther’s blood?" I nodded. "Wow. Where’d you do it? Ricki’s?"

"We were supposed to meet at nine. I went at six to leave a note with the barkeep that you couldn’t make it. Luther walked in as I was getting ready to leave. If he hadn’t come early —"

"He came early because he knew something wasn’t right."

"How do you know?"

"He’s smart. But you were, too. You had your gun. Otherwise, you’d be dying right now."

"Are you sad he’s gone?"

"No. And that’s nothing against him. We did a lot together."

"Well, I’m delighted he’s dead."

Orson smiled. "He’s wasn’t all that different from you, Andy."

"Sure."

"I happened to him like I happened to you. He just took to it a little faster."

I stared at Orson, astounded.

"You know, you’ve done worse than kill me," I said. "You’ve wrecked me. You’ve taken my mother, my best friend. I can’t go home. I can’t return from this."

"No, I saved you, Andy. Your home was a sham. You no longer flit around like everyone else, blind to that black hole you call a heart. Be grateful. You now know what you’re capable of. Most people never do. But we live honestly, you and I. Truth, Andy. What did Keats say? It’s beauty. Not just pretty truth. We have black hearts, but they’re beautiful."

We devoured the entire box of crackers and most of the cheese. The wine was diluting my chary vigilance, so I slowed my consumption.

When we’d finished eating, I unzipped my fanny pack. There were two vials of Ativan remaining and two vials of Versed, but because it was the safer drug, I took the last of the Ativan.

"Andy," he said as I poked the needle into the first vial and began drawing the solution up through its hollow shaft.

"What?"

"You remember the summer they found that man under the interstate behind our house?"

"Yeah, I remember that."

Orson sat up straight and stared at me, his head cocked to one side, as though he were buried in thought. I drained the second vial and thumped the syringe. It was steadily darkening in the car — beyond twilight now.

"What do you remember?" he asked.

"Come on, man, I’m tired."

"Just tell me what you remember."

"We were twelve. It was June."

"July."

"Okay. July. Oh, yeah. Around the Fourth. In fact, it was on the Fourth when they found him. I remember that night, sitting in the backyard, holding a sparkler and seeing three police cars pull up on the curb. The officers came running through our backyard with two German shepherds. Dad was grilling hamburgers, and we watched the men disappear into the woods. A few minutes later, the dogs started going crazy and Dad said, ‘Sounds like they found whatever it is they’re looking for.’ "

Orson smiled. "Willard Bass."

"Huh?"

"That’s who they found in the tunnel."

"I can’t believe you remember his name."

"I can’t believe you don’t."

"Why would I?"

Orson swallowed, eyes asquint. "He raped me, Andy."

Thunder vibrated the glass. I stared into the half-empty bottle of wine between my legs. My fingers wrapped around the cool neck. I lifted the cabernet to my lips and let it run down my throat.

"That didn’t happen," I said. "I can look at you and —"

"And I can look at your face right now and see that you know it did."

"You’re lying."

"Then why do you have a funny feeling in your guts? Like something you haven’t touched in years is waking up in the lining of your stomach."

I took another jammy sip and set the bottle between my feet.

"Let me tell you a story," he said. "See if —"

"No. I’m giving you this so I can sleep. I’m not gonna sit here and listen to —"

"Do you have a cigarette burn on the end of your dick?"

It felt as though ants were traversing the back of my neck.

"Me, too," he said.

"That didn’t happen. I remember now. It was a story you made up after those kids found him."

"Andy."

I didn’t want to know, but I did. I sensed it had always been there, tucked away in an alley of my memory, where I could walk by and know that something awful lurked there, without ever wandering down the corridor to behold it with clarity.

"It happened late one afternoon during a thunderstorm," he said. "In a drainage tunnel that ran beneath the interstate. The water was only a couple inches deep and the tunnel was high enough for a man to walk upright in. We played there all the time.

"We’d been exploring the woods since lunch, when a line of storms blew in. To escape the squall, we ran down to the creek and followed it up to the tunnel. Thought we’d be safe from lightning under the concrete, but we were standing in running water."

I see you in the dank tunnel darkness.

"I was telling you," he continued, "that Mom was gonna whip our asses for staying out in the storm."

I turned away from Orson and set the syringe on the floorboard. Night was full-blown, and darkness pervaded the car, so Orson was imperceptible beside me. I only saw his words, scarcely audible over the moan of the storm, as they dragged me into that alley.

Our laughter reverberates through the tunnel. Orson splashes me with water, and I splash it back onto his skinny prepubescent legs. We stand at the mouth of the tunnel, where the runoff drops two feet into a waist-deep muddy pool that we think is filled with snakes.

Two hundred feet away, at the opposite end of the tunnel, we hear the noise of careless footsteps in shallow water. Orson and I turn and see that the dot of light at the other end is blocked now by a moving figure.

"Who is it?" Orson whispers.

"I don’t know."

Through the darkness, I detect the microscopic glow of a cigarette.

"Come on," he whines. "Let’s go. We’re gonna get in trouble."

Thunder shakes the concrete, and I step across the dirty current and stand by my brother.

He tells me he’s afraid. I am, too. It begins to hail, chunks of ice the size of Ping-Pong balls pelting the forest floor and flopping fatly into the orange pool. More scared of the storm than the approaching footsteps, we wait, apprehensive. The tobacco cherry waxes, and we soon catch the first waft of smoke.

The man who emerges from the shadow is stocky and bald, older than our father, with an undomesticated gray beard and forearms thick as four-by-fours. He wears filthy army fatigues, and though hardly taller, he outweighs us by a hundred pounds. Staggering right up between us, he looks us up and down in a utilitarian fashion, which does not unnerve me like it should. I still don’t know about some things.

"I been watching you all afternoon," he says. "Never had twins." I’m not sure what he means. He has a northern accent, and a deep voice that rumbles when he speaks, like a growling animal. His breath is rancid, smoky, and sated with alcohol. "Eenie, meanie, minie, moe. Catch a tiger by her toe. If she hollers, let her go. Eenie, meanie, minie, moe." He points a thick grease-stained index finger into Orson’s chest. I’m getting ready to ask what he’s doing, when a fist I never see coming catches me clean across the jaw.

I come to consciousness with the side of my face in the water, my vision blurred, and Orson moaning.

"Keep crying like that, boy," the man says, winded. "That’s nice. Real nice."