BooksBarbecue
Back Blood in the Water Save as PDF
Chapters (82)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  4. ONE
  5. TWO
  6. THREE
  7. FOUR
  8. FIVE
  9. SIX
  10. SEVEN
  11. EIGHT
  12. NINE
  13. TEN
  14. ELEVEN
  15. TWELVE
  16. THIRTEEN
  17. FOURTEEN
  18. FIFTEEN
  19. SIXTEEN
  20. SEVENTEEN
  21. EIGHTEEN
  22. NINETEEN
  23. TWENTY
  24. TWENTY-ONE
  25. TWENTY-TWO
  26. TWENTY-THREE
  27. TWENTY-FOUR
  28. TWENTY-FIVE
  29. TWENTY-SIX
  30. TWENTY-SEVEN
  31. TWENTY-EIGHT
  32. TWENTY-NINE
  33. THIRTY
  34. THIRTY-ONE
  35. THIRTY-TWO
  36. THIRTY-THREE
  37. THIRTY-FOUR
  38. THIRTY-FIVE
  39. THIRTY-SIX
  40. THIRTY-SEVEN
  41. THIRTY-EIGHT
  42. THIRTY-NINE
  43. FORTY
  44. FORTY-ONE
  45. FORTY-TWO
  46. FORTY-THREE
  47. FORTY-FOUR
  48. FORTY-FIVE
  49. FORTY-SIX
  50. FORTY-SEVEN
  51. FORTY-EIGHT
  52. FORTY-NINE
  53. FIFTY
  54. FIFTY-ONE
  55. FIFTY-TWO
  56. FIFTY-THREE
  57. FIFTY-FOUR
  58. FIFTY-FIVE
  59. FIFTY-SIX
  60. FIFTY-SEVEN
  61. FIFTY-EIGHT
  62. FIFTY-NINE
  63. SIXTY
  64. SIXTY-ONE
  65. SIXTY-TWO
  66. SIXTY-THREE
  67. SIXTY-FOUR
  68. SIXTY-FIVE
  69. SIXTY-SIX
  70. SIXTY-SEVEN
  71. SIXTY-EIGHT
  72. SIXTY-NINE
  73. SEVENTY
  74. SEVENTY-ONE
  75. SEVENTY-TWO
  76. SEVENTY-THREE
  77. SEVENTY-FOUR
  78. SEVENTY-FIVE
  79. SEVENTY-SIX
  80. Praise for Blood in the Water
  81. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  82. Newsletter Sign-up

Eventually she had succumbed, as they all did in the end. Even now, though, she continued to resist in her own way. The sinew around her vertebrae was stringier and less cooperative than he had found with the others, forcing him to work harder, and his perspiration mixed with the blood on his hands, making the task all the more difficult. He found the work invigorating, though, and the blood sliding down the crosses adorning his wrists made him think of the graveyard in his home town—fields of crosses covered in blood.

He was surprised that he could sweat in the cold. Growing up, he’d thought that the winter in El Calabozo was frigid. The temperatures could sometimes dip into the fifties in January and February. He’d never experienced any cold like a New England winter. He’d left the upstairs windows in the little house open, mainly to keep the flesh refrigerated, and with the outside temperatures below zero, the house was an icebox.

And yet, still, he was sweating.

Finally, he finished with the knife and started with the ropes, tying her up the same way he’d done with the others. When he was done with that, he stepped back and examined his work.

He was satisfied.

He wondered how long it would take for his work to be found. Two days, he thought. Maybe three. The police were already looking for two of them. And he was a priority for the FBI and the other federal authorities. Even with the cold, the stench was overpowering in the basement. With the windows left open, it would not take long for one of the neighbors to decide that their civic tolerance ended with the smell of rotting flesh, and they would call the authorities. Then the real madness would begin. America would realize what it had wrought unto itself.

He walked to the basement sink and washed the blood and sweat from his arms and his face. He gave the place one last look. His fingerprints would be everywhere, as would other identifying evidence.

He didn’t care. He wanted them to know it was him.

He needed them to know it was him.

TWO

Wednesday, January 16

The dream returned.

Her little boy had come back to her, with a smile that melted her heart and made her long for the chance to hold him just once more. They were by the shore, near the Nantasket motel south of Boston where they’d spent a week every summer of his life—just the three of them, the perfect young family.

She tried to run to him, but the ground slipped beneath her feet, like a great terrestrial treadmill. She called out to him, begged him to come to her, but he just smiled.