Thicker Than Blood - Crouch Blake - Страница 12
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The door opened, and Orson cruised back in. "Well, you’re in the wrong place," he said, " ’cause it’s that time." He held the knife by his side and moved deliberately toward her. She crawled away from him, using only her knees because her hands were still cuffed behind her back. The chain always stopped her. Orson giggled.
"No!" she screamed. "You can’t do this!"
"Watch me," he said, bending down toward her, the knife cocked back.
"Stop it, Orson!" I yelled, my heart beating in my throat. With the woman cowering at his feet, a puddle spreading beneath her, Orson looked back at me.
Think, think, think, think. "You just…you can’t kill her."
"Would you rather do it? We can’t let her go. She knows our names. Seen our faces."
"Don’t cut her," I said. The lumpiness of tears ached in my throat.
"I do it to all of them, and I don’t make exceptions."
"While they’re alive?"
"That’s the fun of it."
"You’re out of your mind!" Shirley screamed at Orson, but he ignored her.
"Not this time, Orson," I implored, rising to my feet. "Please."
Shirley screamed, "Let me go!"
"Bitch!" Orson screamed back, and he kicked her in the side of the head with the steel tip of his boot. She slumped down on the floor. "Open your mouth again, good-bye tongue."
He looked back at me, eyes blazing. "It’s perfect with you here," he said. "I want to share this with you."
"No," I begged. "Don’t touch her."
Orson glanced down at his victim and then back at me.
"I’ll give you a choice," he said. Walking to the stool, he set down the knife and pulled out my .357. "You can shoot her right now. Save her the pain." He approached and handed me the gun. "Here. Seeing you kill her painlessly would be as good to me as killing her the way I like to." When he looked at Shirley, I glanced at the back of the cylinder. The gun was loaded.
"Shirley, get up. I told you it was a lucky coincidence for you that my brother was here."
She didn’t move.
"Shirley," he said again, walking toward her, "get up." He nudged her with his boot, and when she didn’t move, Orson rolled her onto her back. Her temple smashed in, blood drained out of one ear. Orson dug two fingers into the side of her neck and waited. "She’s dead," he said, looking incredulously at me. "No, wait, it’s there. It’s weak, but it’s there. I just knocked her out. Andy, now’s your chance," he urged, taking several steps back from the woman. "Squeeze off a few rounds before she comes to. Aim at the head."
I pointed the gun at Orson. "Slide me the keys," I said, but he didn’t move. He just stared at me, sadly shaking his head.
"This is gonna set us way back in the trust department."
I pulled the trigger, and the gun fired. I squeezed it again and again, the plangent crack of gunshots filling up the shed, the gray smoke of gunpowder ascending into the rafters, until only the clicking of the hammer remained, thumping the empty shells.
Orson hadn’t flinched.
I looked down at the gun, eyes bulging.
"Blanks, Andy," he said. "I thought you might just threaten me, but you pulled that trigger without hesitation. Wow." He took the knife from the stool and walked toward me. I threw the gun at him, but it missed his head and struck the back door.
"She’s dead, Andy," he said. "I wasn’t going to make you watch her suffer. Not the first time. And this is how you repay me? He was close now, gripping the knife. "Part of me wants to shove this into your stomach," Orson said. "It’s almost irresistible." He pushed me back down into the lawn chair. "But I’m not gonna do that," he said. "I won’t do that." He went to the stool, set down the knife, and walked to the .357, which was lying against the back door. Picking it up, he took two bullets from his pocket. "I’d say your little stunt constitutes fuckup number two." He loaded the bullets and spun the cylinder. When it stopped, he aimed the gun at my chest. "These aren’t blanks," he said.
Click.
I saw the relief on Orson’s face. "Don’t make me do this again," he said. "It’d be a real shame if I had to kill you." He returned the gun to his pocket, pulled out the key for the leg iron, and slid it across the floor to me. "You can use my knife," he said. "I’ll be back for the heart. Don’t botch it up. Put her on one of those plastic sheets in the corner over there. Otherwise, you’ll be scrubbing this floor till Christmas."
I’d regained my voice, and I said, "Orson, I can’t —"
"You have four hours. If the job isn’t done when I return, we’ll play our little game again with three bullets."
He opened the back door, and I saw the sky coming into purple. It didn’t seem like dawn should be here yet. It didn’t seem like it should ever come.
Orson closed the door and locked it. I felt the key in my hand, but I wanted to remain in chains. How could I touch Shirley? She stared at me, those kind eyes open but empty as she lay on the cold, hard floor. I was glad she was gone. Glad for her.
9
THAT is a human being. She was bowling with her family a few hours ago. I leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I am so sorry," I whispered. "You did not…" Don’t lose it. This won’t help you now. There’s nothing you could’ve done to save her; there’s nothing you can do to bring her back. I’d witnessed unadulterated evil — the mental torture of a woman, and I wept savagely. When my tear ducts were dry, I steeled myself, wiped my eyes, and got to the task at hand.
Years ago, when I had time to hunt in the North Carolina mountains, I’d gut the deer I shot in the woods near my hillside cabin. This is no different. No different from an animal now. She feels nothing. Dead is dead, regardless of where it resides.
The work was difficult. But if you’ve taken an organ from one large animal, you can take one from another. What made this so difficult was her face. I couldn’t look at it, so I pulled her bowling shirt over her head.
The ascension of the sun quickly warmed the shed, and soon it became so unbearably hot that I could think of nothing but a cold drink from the well. My thirst hastened my work, and when I heard the door unlocking, long before the four hours had expired, I’d nearly finished my chore. Orson walked in, still sporting the mechanic’s suit. Through the open door, I saw the morning sun, already blinding. It would be another glorious blue day. A breeze slipped in before Orson shut the door, and it felt spectacular.
"Smile, Andy." He snapped a Polaroid. It was strange to think that the worst moment of my life had just been captured in a photograph.
My brother looked tired — a melancholic darkness in his eyes. I stopped working and put the knife down. Because I’d done most of the work on my knees, they were terribly sore, so I sat on the red plastic. Orson circled the body, inspecting my work.
"I thought you might be getting thirsty," he said, his voice now frail, depleted. "I’ll finish this up, unless you want to."
I shook my head as he peered down into the evisceration. "That’s not a bad job," he said. He picked the knife up and wiped it off on his pants. "Go get cleaned up." I stood, but he stopped me from walking off the plastic. "Take your shoes off," he said. I was standing in a pool of blood. "We’re gonna burn these clothes anyway, so just strip here. I’ll take care of it."
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