Read Online Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy by Blake Crouch, J.A. Konrath, Jack Kilborn - Free Book Online Page B
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the rock, I smiled. So fitting. It was about the size of two fists. I turned the man gently over onto his stomach. Then I pulled off his hat and dashed the back of his head out. He never made a sound. I had an orgasm. Was born again. I left the body under the train car and tossed the rock into a river. Who’d give a shit about a dead homeless man? I walked the streets all night, bursting with limitless energy. Never slept a wink, and that was the beginning.
"The one thing I didn’t expect was for the burning to return so soon. Two days later, it was back, stronger than it had ever been, demanding another fix."
Orson rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. I felt nauseated.
"I’m gonna lock you in your room now, Andy, so I can get some sleep."
"My God. Don’t you have any remorse?" I asked.
Orson turned over and looked at me. "I refuse to apologize for what I am. I learned a long time ago that guilt will never stop me. Not that I wasn’t plagued by it. I mean, I had…I still do have a conscience. I just realize it’s futile to let it torment me. The essential thing you have to understand about a true killer is that killing is their nature, and you can’t change something’s nature. It’s what they are. Their function. I didn’t ask to be me. Certain chemicals, certain events compose me. It’s out of my control, Andy, so I choose not to fight it."
"No. Something is screaming inside you that this is wrong."
He shook his head sadly and muttered Shakespeare: " ‘I am in blood/Stepped in so far, that should I wade no more,/Returning were as tedious as go o’er.’ "
Then he looked at me strangely, as if something had just occurred to him. There was honesty in his voice, which unnerved me more than anything he’d said all morning: "I know that you’ve forgotten. But one day, I’ll tell you something, and this will all make perfect sense."
"What?"
"Today is not that day. You aren’t ready for it. Not ready to use what I tell you."
"Orson…"
He climbed off the bed and motioned for me to rise. "Let’s get some sleep, brother."
10
Day 10
I feel free again. Orson gave me the afternoon, so I’m sitting on top of that bluff I always write about, looking out over a thirsty wasteland. I’m a good four hundred feet above the desert floor, sitting on a flat rock, and I can see panoramically for seventy miles.
A golden eagle has been circling high above. I wonder if it nests in one of the scrawny ridgeline junipers.
If I look behind me, five miles east beyond the cabin, I see what appears to be a road. I’ve seen three silver specks speeding across the thin gray strip, and I assume they’re cars. But that does me no good. It wouldn’t matter if a Highway Patrol station were situated beside the cabin. Orson owns me. He took pictures of me cutting that woman. Left them on my desk this morning.
Dreamed about Shirley again last night. Carried her through the desert, through the night, and delivered her into the arms of her family. Left her smiling with her husband and three children, in her red-and-gray bowling shirt.
I’ve seen a significant change in Orson’s mood over the last day. He’s no longer morose. Like he said, this is his normal time. But the burning will return, and that’s what I fear more than anything.
I’m considering just killing him. He’s beginning to trust me now. What I’d do is take one of those heavy bookends and brain him like he did that poor homeless man. But where would that leave me? I have complete faith that Orson has enough incriminating evidence to send me straight to death row, even if I killed him. Besides, something occurred to me last night that horrifies me: In one of his letters, Orson threatened that someone would deliver a package of evidence to the Charlotte Police Department, unless he stopped them in person — who’s helping Orson?
I tossed the clipboard onto the ground, hopped off the rock, and looked intently down the slope. At the
"The one thing I didn’t expect was for the burning to return so soon. Two days later, it was back, stronger than it had ever been, demanding another fix."
Orson rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. I felt nauseated.
"I’m gonna lock you in your room now, Andy, so I can get some sleep."
"My God. Don’t you have any remorse?" I asked.
Orson turned over and looked at me. "I refuse to apologize for what I am. I learned a long time ago that guilt will never stop me. Not that I wasn’t plagued by it. I mean, I had…I still do have a conscience. I just realize it’s futile to let it torment me. The essential thing you have to understand about a true killer is that killing is their nature, and you can’t change something’s nature. It’s what they are. Their function. I didn’t ask to be me. Certain chemicals, certain events compose me. It’s out of my control, Andy, so I choose not to fight it."
"No. Something is screaming inside you that this is wrong."
He shook his head sadly and muttered Shakespeare: " ‘I am in blood/Stepped in so far, that should I wade no more,/Returning were as tedious as go o’er.’ "
Then he looked at me strangely, as if something had just occurred to him. There was honesty in his voice, which unnerved me more than anything he’d said all morning: "I know that you’ve forgotten. But one day, I’ll tell you something, and this will all make perfect sense."
"What?"
"Today is not that day. You aren’t ready for it. Not ready to use what I tell you."
"Orson…"
He climbed off the bed and motioned for me to rise. "Let’s get some sleep, brother."
10
Day 10
I feel free again. Orson gave me the afternoon, so I’m sitting on top of that bluff I always write about, looking out over a thirsty wasteland. I’m a good four hundred feet above the desert floor, sitting on a flat rock, and I can see panoramically for seventy miles.
A golden eagle has been circling high above. I wonder if it nests in one of the scrawny ridgeline junipers.
If I look behind me, five miles east beyond the cabin, I see what appears to be a road. I’ve seen three silver specks speeding across the thin gray strip, and I assume they’re cars. But that does me no good. It wouldn’t matter if a Highway Patrol station were situated beside the cabin. Orson owns me. He took pictures of me cutting that woman. Left them on my desk this morning.
Dreamed about Shirley again last night. Carried her through the desert, through the night, and delivered her into the arms of her family. Left her smiling with her husband and three children, in her red-and-gray bowling shirt.
I’ve seen a significant change in Orson’s mood over the last day. He’s no longer morose. Like he said, this is his normal time. But the burning will return, and that’s what I fear more than anything.
I’m considering just killing him. He’s beginning to trust me now. What I’d do is take one of those heavy bookends and brain him like he did that poor homeless man. But where would that leave me? I have complete faith that Orson has enough incriminating evidence to send me straight to death row, even if I killed him. Besides, something occurred to me last night that horrifies me: In one of his letters, Orson threatened that someone would deliver a package of evidence to the Charlotte Police Department, unless he stopped them in person — who’s helping Orson?
I tossed the clipboard onto the ground, hopped off the rock, and looked intently down the slope. At the
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