Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy

wasn’t.

'Mrs. Lancing,' Rufus said. 'Tell me—was our time together successful?'

'I don’t know.'

'Well, there’s a real easy way to find out. Would you take someone’s life if I asked you to? Take it with indifference? Without guilt or remorse? Take it in the face of all those ridiculous values that have been imposed on you your whole life?'

Beth looked at me. It broke me to see her like this. I thought of all those late nights at my house on Lake Norman, drinking, playing cards, laughing with her and Walter. How did we ever reach this moment? Just tell him what he wants to hear, Beth. Come on.

'Andy doesn’t have the answer,' Rufus said. 'Beth, look at me.'

She stared up at the old man, said, 'I um…know I’ll never see my kids again. I know that. I don’t remember much of the last nine months. But I remember enough to know what you tried to turn me into. Who gave you the right?'

'Actually, Beth, I gave—'

'Well, you failed with me, Rufus. I won’t hurt anybody for you. So now it’s time for you to be a big fucking coward and throw me over.'

Rufus smiled.

'Course, I’m extremely disappointed to hear you say that. Luth, give me a hand with her.'

The two men lifted Beth’s chair up onto the gunwale.

She began to cry, and that ignited Vi’s baby.

'If I were you,' Rufus said, still gripping her chair so that it balanced on the side of the boat, 'I’d inhale that saltwater just as soon as I went under. I mean you’re going to inhale it eventually, after a minute or two. It’s just a natural response when your lungs are starving for air. Why spend ninety seconds, holding your breath in sheer terror, when you can begin drowning immediately and get it over with?

'You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever thrown into the sea. So don’t go washing up on the beach a month from now and make me regret not taking care of you in the basement.'

Beth looked at Vi and me.

'Don’t be afraid to follow me in,' she said, crying now. 'I’ll be with Walter soon, won’t I?'

Her chair splashed into the Atlantic. I craned my neck and looked over the edge of the boat. She bobbed in the water, struggling to keep her head above the surface.

'Andy!' she called out.

She was on her back, the chair beginning to sink, water rising above her ears. She swallowed a mouthful and coughed.

'I forgive you,' she said and went under.

Because the sea was calm, I could see her descending, writhing violently, down, down, past five feet, ten. Then the Atlantic swallowed her into its warm navy darkness. Fifteen seconds passed, then a herd of air bubbles ascended to the surface and broke beside the boat and died.

They left Vi and me to roast in the sun, stunned and horrified for Beth, for whatever was coming tomorrow.

Maxine returned to her book.

Rufus and Luther fished off the bow for several more hours, catching three sea bass and a baby shark.

# # #

That evening, Vi and I reclined in lawn chairs in the Kite’s backyard, in the shadow of the great stone house, sunburned from a day at sea. Across the Pamlico Sound, we could see storms ravaging the mainland. It was cool now, going dark, the tree frogs screaming.

We’d been allowed to change into fresh shorts and T-shirts prior to being chained to the lawn chairs. Torches and citronella candles perfumed the air with a pungent smoke that did little to protect us from the plague of mosquitoes. While Rufus dumped charcoal into a grill, Luther finished cleaning the last sea bass. Tonight was for us, they’d said. A celebration, a sendoff for tomorrow.

When the meat was cooked, Maxine (now mercifully clothed in a hot pink sweat suit) brought me a paper plate, steaming with ivory steaks of grilled shark and coleslaw and potato salad. Luther handed me a bottle of Dergy’s beer and sat down beside me with his plate.

The shark was excellent. Night came on before I finished eating. It was very still, the sound as smooth and black as volcanic glass. I did everything I could not to dwell on Beth, sitting in her chair, several hundred feet down on that ocean floor.

When Luther got up and walked toward the rotten dock, I glanced over at Vi who was nursing her baby.

'When did you have him?' I asked.

'Couple weeks ago.'

'Jesus. Where’d you get baby clothes?'

'Hand-me-downs. Used to be Luther’s. Isn’t he beautiful? I named him Max, after my husband.'

'You gave birth in that basement? On that dirt floor?'

'Yeah.'

'And he’s okay? You’re both okay?'

'I think so.'

'I’m sorry you had to—'

'I left you stuck in that trap on Portsmouth. My fault.'

Rufus had been roasting a marshmallow over the remnants of the glowing charcoal. He glanced back at us and said, 'Who’s up for some s’mores?'

'None for me,' Vi said.

'Andy?'

'I’m full.'

'Alrighty then. More for me.'

He lifted the flaming marshmallow out of the grill and joined it with the graham cracker and Hershey square. When the s’more was assembled, Rufus strolled over with his dessert and plopped down beside me in Luther’s lawn chair. He took a large bite and groaned with pleasure.

'Tell you what, Andy,' he said, a string of marshmallow dangling from his bottom lip, 'tomorrow’s either going to be the very best or very worst day of your life. Goes for you, too, little lady.'

'Rufus, you’ve got some marshmallow on your face,' I said.

As he wiped his mouth, I gazed down at Luther, sitting at the end of the dock, staring off into the cooling darkness.

'Tell me about Orson,' I said.

Rufus beamed proudly, as if I’d inquired after one of his children.

'You think you made him into that monster, don’t you? Well, I hate to piss in your coffee, but my brother was fucked-up long before he ever met you.'

Rufus laughed and laughed.

'What’s funny?'

'I think I know where you’re going with this, Andy. You’re on the verge of telling me how Orson was raped when he was twelve. And you, too, perhaps. Did he include you in that fantasy?'

'What are you talking about?'

'You can imagine how guilty your brother felt at first, in light of the things I asked him to do. I was afraid he’d kill himself. So I sat him down one day, said, ‘you were raped when you were a child.’

'He looked at me like I had four heads. I told him, I said, ‘Imagine how good it would feel if you could hurt people the way you like to, and it wasn’t your fault. If you only did these terrible things because someone hurt you a long time ago.’  I didn’t think he’d go for it, but he got this sly little grin—I’m sure you know the expression—and he told me the story of, ah, what was his name? Oh, yes. Willard Bass.'

'You’re a liar.'

'Andy, Mr. Bass did exist. And he was found dead in a tunnel under the interstate behind your house when