FOUR LIVE ROUNDS
by Blake Crouch
Copyright © 2010 by Blake Crouch
Introduction copyright © by J.A. Konrath
Cover art copyright © 2010 by Jeroen ten Berge
All rights reserved.
The stories in this book are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information about the author, please visit www.blakecrouch.com.
For more information about the artist, please visit www.jeroentenberge.com.
All of the stories contained in this volume appeared previously in the following magazines and anthologies:
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Foreword
*69
Remaking
On the Good, Red Road
Shining Rock
Bonus Material
As a horror writer, I often get asked what scares me.
My answer is always the same: Blake Crouch.
More than any other author working today, Crouch knows how to make the reader squirm. Part of it is because he dreams up scenarios so horrible that I fear for his sanity. But I think the main reason he’s so effective is because Crouch writes about characters you really feel for. Then, when he puts them through hell, you experience every cut, every bite, every atrocity.
This short story collection is a perfect introduction to Crouch’s skewed world. But before you dive in, please heed my warning. I don’t care how tough you think you are. You still need to brace yourself.
Because this is going to hurt…
-J.A. Konrath (aka Jack Kilborn), March 2010
Have you ever received an accidental phone call from someone who kept your number in their address book? I blame my old high-school buddy, Ryan McDaniels, for this story. A few years ago, over the course of several weeks, he inadvertently joggled his cell phone and called me several times. He didn’t know he had done it, and I received a handful of strange, muffled messages. Later, it occurred to me—what if my friend had accidentally called me when he was doing something terrible, and only realized after the fact that he’d unintentionally made me a witness to his brutal crime? From these questions emerged “*69.”
*69
At nine-thirty on a Thursday evening, as he lounged in bed grading the pop quizzes he’d sprung on his 11th grade honors English class, Tim West heard footsteps ascend the staircase and pad down the hallway toward the bedroom.
His wife, Laura, appeared in the open doorway.
“Tim, come here.”
He set the papers aside and climbed out of bed.
Following her down the squeaky stairs into the living room, he found immense pleasure in the architecture of her long legs and the grace with which she carried herself. Coupled with that yellow satin teddy he loved and the floral tang of skin lotion, Tim foresaw a night of marital bliss. Historically, Thursdays were their night.
Laura sat him down in the oversize leather chair across from the fireplace, and as she took a seat on its matching ottoman, it struck him—this fleeting premonition that she was on the verge of revealing she was pregnant with their first child, a project they’d been working on since last Christmas. Instead, she reached over to the end table beside the chair and pressed the blinking play button on the answering machine:
