Read Online Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy by Blake Crouch, J.A. Konrath, Jack Kilborn - Free Book Online
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Styrofoam cooler.
"Is it in there?" I asked when he stepped onto the porch. He nodded and walked inside. I followed him in, and he stopped at the door to his room and unlocked it.
"You can’t come in here," he said. He wouldn’t open the door.
"I wanna see what you do with it."
"I’m gonna put it in a freezer."
"Let me see your room," I said. "I’m curious. You want me to understand?"
"Get some clothes on first." I ran to my room and put on a clean pair of jeans and a black tank top. When I returned, Orson’s door was open, and he stood inside before his freezer chest.
"May I come in now?" I asked from the doorway.
"Yeah." Orson’s bedroom was larger than mine. To my immediate right, a single bed sat low to the floor, neatly made with a red fleece blanket pulled taut from end to end. Next to the bed, against the wall, Orson had constructed another bookshelf, much smaller, but crammed with books nonetheless. Against the far wall, beneath an unbarred window, stood the freezer chest. Orson was reaching down into it as I walked up behind him.
"What’s in there?" I asked.
"Hearts," he said, closing the freezer.
"How many?"
"Not nearly enough."
"That a trophy?" I pointed to a newspaper clipping tacked to the wall near the freezer. Skimming the article, I found that the names, dates, and locations had been blacked out with Magic Marker. " ‘Mutilated Body Found at Construction Site,’ " I read aloud. "Mom would be proud."
"When you do a good job, do you like to be acknowledged?"
Orson locked the freezer and walked across the room. Prostrating himself on the bed, he stretched his arms into the air and yawned. Then he lay back on top of the red fleece blanket and stared into the wall.
"I get like this after they’re gone," he said. "An empty place inside of me. Right here." He pointed at his heart. "You couldn’t imagine it. Famous writer. I mean absolutely nothing. I’m a man in a cabin in the middle of a desert, and that’s it. The extent of my existence." He kicked off his boots, and grains of sand spilled onto the stone. "But I’m more than what’s in that freezer," he said. "I own what’s in that freezer. They’re my children now. I remember every birth." I sat down and leaned back against the splintery logs. "After a couple days, this depression will subside, and I’ll feel normal again, like anyone else. But that’ll pass, and I’ll get a burning where the void is now. A burning to do it again. And I do. And the cycle repeats." He looked at me with dying eyes, and I tried not to pity him, but he was my brother.
"Do you hear yourself? You’re sick."
"I used to think so too. A tenet of stoicism advises to live according to your nature. If you try to be something you aren’t, you’ll self-destruct. When I accepted my nature, violent as it is, I made peace with myself. Stopped hating myself and what I do. After a kill, I used to get much worse than this. I’d contemplate suicide. But now I anticipate the depression, and that allows me to take the despair and sense of loss in stride." His spirits improved as he analyzed himself. "I actually feel better having you here, Andy. It’s quite surprising."
"Maybe your depression stems from guilt, which should be expected after murdering an innocent woman."
"Andy," he said, his voice brightening, a sign that he’d changed the subject. "I wanna tell you something that struck me when I read your first novel, which was good, by the way. They don’t deserve the criticism they get. They’re much deeper than slasher stories. Anyway, when I finished The Killer and His Weapon, I realized that we do the same thing."
"No. I write; you kill."
"We both murder people, Andy. Because you do it with words on a page, that doesn’t exonerate what’s in your heart."
"People happen to like the way I tell crime stories," I said. "If I had the chops to write literary fiction, I’d do that."
"No, there’s something about murder, about rage, that intrigues
"Is it in there?" I asked when he stepped onto the porch. He nodded and walked inside. I followed him in, and he stopped at the door to his room and unlocked it.
"You can’t come in here," he said. He wouldn’t open the door.
"I wanna see what you do with it."
"I’m gonna put it in a freezer."
"Let me see your room," I said. "I’m curious. You want me to understand?"
"Get some clothes on first." I ran to my room and put on a clean pair of jeans and a black tank top. When I returned, Orson’s door was open, and he stood inside before his freezer chest.
"May I come in now?" I asked from the doorway.
"Yeah." Orson’s bedroom was larger than mine. To my immediate right, a single bed sat low to the floor, neatly made with a red fleece blanket pulled taut from end to end. Next to the bed, against the wall, Orson had constructed another bookshelf, much smaller, but crammed with books nonetheless. Against the far wall, beneath an unbarred window, stood the freezer chest. Orson was reaching down into it as I walked up behind him.
"What’s in there?" I asked.
"Hearts," he said, closing the freezer.
"How many?"
"Not nearly enough."
"That a trophy?" I pointed to a newspaper clipping tacked to the wall near the freezer. Skimming the article, I found that the names, dates, and locations had been blacked out with Magic Marker. " ‘Mutilated Body Found at Construction Site,’ " I read aloud. "Mom would be proud."
"When you do a good job, do you like to be acknowledged?"
Orson locked the freezer and walked across the room. Prostrating himself on the bed, he stretched his arms into the air and yawned. Then he lay back on top of the red fleece blanket and stared into the wall.
"I get like this after they’re gone," he said. "An empty place inside of me. Right here." He pointed at his heart. "You couldn’t imagine it. Famous writer. I mean absolutely nothing. I’m a man in a cabin in the middle of a desert, and that’s it. The extent of my existence." He kicked off his boots, and grains of sand spilled onto the stone. "But I’m more than what’s in that freezer," he said. "I own what’s in that freezer. They’re my children now. I remember every birth." I sat down and leaned back against the splintery logs. "After a couple days, this depression will subside, and I’ll feel normal again, like anyone else. But that’ll pass, and I’ll get a burning where the void is now. A burning to do it again. And I do. And the cycle repeats." He looked at me with dying eyes, and I tried not to pity him, but he was my brother.
"Do you hear yourself? You’re sick."
"I used to think so too. A tenet of stoicism advises to live according to your nature. If you try to be something you aren’t, you’ll self-destruct. When I accepted my nature, violent as it is, I made peace with myself. Stopped hating myself and what I do. After a kill, I used to get much worse than this. I’d contemplate suicide. But now I anticipate the depression, and that allows me to take the despair and sense of loss in stride." His spirits improved as he analyzed himself. "I actually feel better having you here, Andy. It’s quite surprising."
"Maybe your depression stems from guilt, which should be expected after murdering an innocent woman."
"Andy," he said, his voice brightening, a sign that he’d changed the subject. "I wanna tell you something that struck me when I read your first novel, which was good, by the way. They don’t deserve the criticism they get. They’re much deeper than slasher stories. Anyway, when I finished The Killer and His Weapon, I realized that we do the same thing."
"No. I write; you kill."
"We both murder people, Andy. Because you do it with words on a page, that doesn’t exonerate what’s in your heart."
"People happen to like the way I tell crime stories," I said. "If I had the chops to write literary fiction, I’d do that."
"No, there’s something about murder, about rage, that intrigues
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