Blood in the Water by Jack Flynn Read Online (FREE)
Blood in the Water by Jack Flynn
Originally published: August 10, 2017
Author: Jack Flynn
Genre: Thriller, Mystery
Tuesday 1 January
He hummed as he worked.
An old folk tune he’d learned in El Calabozo as a child.
He couldn’t remember the words, which was odd; as a rule, he remembered everything. Memories tortured Vincente Carpio, and his tortured mind gave him a special kind of madness. The leadership recognized it early on. That was why they’d sent him to America – because he was willing to do the things that others weren’t. It was a decision many in the leadership now questioned. Now the madness seemed to have taken over.
He was sweating, and his bald, tattooed head was slick. This one was the eighth he’d done this way, and by far the hardest. He wouldn’t have thought it to look at her. She was young and thin, shorter than him, with a punk haircut; shaved on one side and dyed multiple colors on the other. At first he’d thought she was probably a junkie; Cambridge had its fair share, a consequence of the ultra-liberal orthodoxy of the city that viewed tolerance of everything as an imperative.
He’d realized quickly that she wasn’t. Junkies put up little resistance. They were so unhappy with their lives that they simply couldn’t find a reason to fight. This girl, though, had been full of fight. She fought so hard he considered aborting the attack and moving on, but that wasn’t a realistic option. If she’d escaped, the police would have combed through the area immediately, and there was little doubt that he would be found. He couldn’t let that happen.
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.