Chapters (82)
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“It’s hard to recognize. The skin sags and the features become muddled. Our coroners are good, but there were still a couple we had to use DNA with to make sure we weren’t putting the heads with the wrong bodies.” Steele walked over to the window and gazed out on the rolling grass in what would have seemed a suburban paradise, had she not had a complete understanding of the evil that was in the immediate vicinity. “You understand why I’m showing these pictures to you, don’t you, Warden?”
Stevens still didn’t pick up his head to look at her. “No,” he whispered.
“Because you need to understand who we are dealing with. You have to understand what we are dealing with. We are dealing with pure evil. He’s a psychopath. I’ve caught him twice, but he’s escaped once. I’m not going to let that happen again. Do you understand?”
He finally looked up at her, and to her relief the confidence and reassurance was gone from his eyes. Their place had been taken by fear and revulsion. That made her feel better, and gave her some hope that he might have a grasp of the seriousness of his task. He nodded. “I understand.”
“Good. Now, I’d like to go over your security procedures.”
SIX
Thursday, January 31
Two weeks after the recapture of Vincente Carpio, the historic freeze still gripped Boston. The morning sun crawled into view over the waterfront. At six thirty, the thin light promised no respite from the New England winter. A slate sky met the ashen sea on the horizon as though in conspiracy to chill the bones of those who dared to make their living on the water. It was still dark enough that the inside light shone through the crack in the door from the small, run-down warehouse at the water’s edge in East Boston where six men had gathered.
T’phong Soh studied the man across the table from him. The last few days’ travel showed on the man’s face; the lines were etched deep, the weariness apparent. The eyes were still sharp, though—sharp enough that Soh knew not to test him.
Physically, the two had nothing in common. Soh was small and thin, with a broad, shallow nose and pale Southeast Asian skin. His hair was cropped close, his scalp visible. His twenty-four-year-old face was hairless, the smooth skin marred only by the neck tattoos that strayed unevenly above the jawline.
Javier Carpio was well over six feet tall, heavyset, with hands the size of bear claws. His forehead fought a losing battle with the massive tangles of his long black hair, tinged with gray, that fell around an aquiline face that hinted at his Amerindian ancestry. His eyebrows were so thick they reminded Soh of the underbrush of some great jungle.
“Drink?” Soh offered.
“Yes,” his guest said. “Tequila.”
Soh nodded to one of his men.