The Terror of Living Read Online Free PDF Page B

below, the auburn haze of the light rising in the east and all of it starting anew once again. He'd accepted a kind of guilt for what his father had done; he knew that, knew he had to earn the name back, earn it back for himself and for his father.
        He ran the scope along the river but saw nothing. Just the pale blue sheen of the river and the sun playing along as the water bumped on past. He thought about how something like this might change his life. How it already had, his father put away in prison, Drake pulled out of school to come home and tend to things. He'd thought he'd known who he was then, back in college, away from this place, away from his father. But he didn't really know, not really. This would change a few things, he thought, it would surely do that.
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BY SEA
        
        GRADY SLIPPED OFF ONE GLOVE, THEN THE OTHER. The gloves, each one of them a clear latex, were covered in a pink sheen. Using a white dish towel to wipe his pale hands, he turned to find the noise. His phone sat vibrating on the stainless steel prep table. He picked it up and checked the display. Five a.m. He'd been working with knives, and in front of him sat the half- dissected carcass of a pig, its intestines ripped out, the heart and liver saved, the kidneys sitting in a loose container to his right. The whole thing open to him, the ribs gaping, and the cold smell of a table cleaned with bleach and water. With the gloves off, he ran a hand through his hair and pulled it back away from his face. He was younger than he looked, his hair almost blond and his sleep- starved eyes red as hazard signs. It was still early in the morning, earlier than most expected to be out of bed, and he'd picked the pig up at the market while the trucks were still rolling in with cartons of milk, eggs, fresh-baked breads, and produce. In the next hour, he'd break the body down piece by piece, using a hacksaw he'd bought at the local hardware store.
        He answered, saying his full name: "Grady Fisher." Around his neck he wore a white apron, soiled with his own bloody handprints. "Yes, sir, I know Phil Hunt," he said. "He was getting out of Monroe as I was going in. We passed ways." Grady picked up one of the knives and checked the tip. "Yes, I don't think that would be a problem. I think that would suit me fine. I can pick the package up at the airport, then have it delivered before I go to see Hunt. It shouldn't be a problem. Yes, sir, it would be my usual rate, plus expenses. Yes, I understand." The whole conversation had taken less than a minute.
        Wherever Grady went, he carried with him his case of knives. Over the years he'd added to it as new situations presented themselves. If the job allowed, he preferred using knives, just as he preferred to see the face of the animal he was butchering. He worked a few odd jobs as a prep cook when he found the time, sectioning out meat, practicing his work, seeing what he could do. This bloodlust seemed to make sense to him. He felt a certain intimacy for the thing. A wonder that he thought had disappeared with his childhood. Disappeared with his time in Monroe, prison shrinks, and medication. But in recent years he had started to feel that wonder again, explore it, and enjoy it.
        He believed truly and gave himself completely to the expression "The eyes are the windows to the soul." He wanted to see those eyes, he wanted to step close and feel the life of that other. And he hoped that one day it would come down to that, face to face with his eyes open. He'd cut the head of the pig off using the hacksaw, and it sat looking back at him on the table, the eyes cold and dark as open jelly jars.
        When he was finished he washed the knives one at a time. Those that saw him work might have used the word "meticulous"; others may not have had the chance to say anything at all. He'd been using a curving knife for the skin, a small three-and-a-half-inch boning knife, and a