knees and dropped clumsily to the floor, his bulk falling heavily against Farland’s shoulder. The two of them almost ended up sprawled on the floor.
‘Who are you?’
‘Names come and go, sheriff. All that’s left is memories.’
He disappeared for a moment behind the wall that hid the stairs. When he came back he was holding in his hand a jerrycan full of gasoline. During his inspection of the house he had found it in the garage, next to a lawnmower. This trivial discovery had given him an idea, one that made him very happy.
He slipped his gun in his belt and approached the two men. Calmly, he started pouring the contents of the jerrycan over them. Their clothes were soon covered in dark stains. The oily, acrid smell of the gasoline spread through the room.
Will Farland moved aside instinctively to avoid getting the liquid on his face and accidentally headbutted the sheriff in the temple. Westlake did not even react. The pain had been anaesthetized by the panic that was starting to appear in his eyes.
‘What do you want? Money? I don’t have a lot in the house, but in the bank—’
‘I have money, too,’ the deputy interrupted his chief, his voice shrill with fear. ‘Almost twenty thousand dollars. You can have it all.’
What are two nice American boys doing here in the middle of all these paddy fields?
As he continued pouring the liquid from the jerrycan over the two men, it pleased him to think that it wasn’t only the gasoline fumes that were bringing the tears to their eyes. He spoke in the reassuring tone he’d once been taught.
Don’t worry, corporal. We’re going to take care of you …
‘Yes. Maybe we can come to an arrangement.’
A flash of hope appeared on the sheriff’s face, and in his words. ‘Sure we can. Come with us to the bank tomorrow morning and take whatever you want.’
‘Yes, we could do that …’ His voice changed abruptly. ‘But we won’t.’
With what was left of the gasoline in the jerrycan, he marked a line on the floor as far as the door. Then he put his hand in his pocket and took out a Zippo. A nauseating odour joined the pungent smell that already filled the room. Farland had relieved himself in his pants.
‘No, I beg you, don’t do it, don’t do it, for—’
‘Shut your fucking mouth!’
It was Westlake who had interrupted his deputy’s pointless snivelling. The strength of his hate and curiosity had given him back a little pride.
‘Who are you, scumbag?’
The young man who had been a soldier looked at him for a moment in silence.
The planes will come from that direction …
Then he said his name.
The sheriff opened his eyes wide.
‘That isn’t possible. You’re dead.’
He clicked the Zippo. The two men stared at the flame in terror.
He smiled, and for once was pleased that his smile was a grimace. ‘No, you sons of bitches. You’re dead.’
He opened his hand more than necessary and let the Zippo fall to the floor. He didn’t know how long the fall of the lighter would last for the two men. But he knew from experience how long such a short journey could be.
No thunder, for them.
Only the metallic noise of the Zippo hitting the floor. Then a hot bright whoosh, followed by a tongue of flame that advanced on them.
He stood listening to them scream and watching them squirm and burn until the smell of roasting flesh spread through the room. He breathed it in, savouring the fact that this time the flesh wasn’t his.
Then he opened the door and went out on the street. He started walking, leaving the house behind him, the screams accompanying him like a blessing as he moved away.
Soon afterwards, when the screams stopped, he knew that the captivity of Sheriff Duane Westlake and his deputy Will Farland was over.
CHAPTER 7
Jeremy Cortese watched the dark-coloured BMW move away, and wished it would blow up. He was sure that, apart from the driver, none of the people inside would be much of a loss to the world.
‘Go fuck
‘Who are you?’
‘Names come and go, sheriff. All that’s left is memories.’
He disappeared for a moment behind the wall that hid the stairs. When he came back he was holding in his hand a jerrycan full of gasoline. During his inspection of the house he had found it in the garage, next to a lawnmower. This trivial discovery had given him an idea, one that made him very happy.
He slipped his gun in his belt and approached the two men. Calmly, he started pouring the contents of the jerrycan over them. Their clothes were soon covered in dark stains. The oily, acrid smell of the gasoline spread through the room.
Will Farland moved aside instinctively to avoid getting the liquid on his face and accidentally headbutted the sheriff in the temple. Westlake did not even react. The pain had been anaesthetized by the panic that was starting to appear in his eyes.
‘What do you want? Money? I don’t have a lot in the house, but in the bank—’
‘I have money, too,’ the deputy interrupted his chief, his voice shrill with fear. ‘Almost twenty thousand dollars. You can have it all.’
What are two nice American boys doing here in the middle of all these paddy fields?
As he continued pouring the liquid from the jerrycan over the two men, it pleased him to think that it wasn’t only the gasoline fumes that were bringing the tears to their eyes. He spoke in the reassuring tone he’d once been taught.
Don’t worry, corporal. We’re going to take care of you …
‘Yes. Maybe we can come to an arrangement.’
A flash of hope appeared on the sheriff’s face, and in his words. ‘Sure we can. Come with us to the bank tomorrow morning and take whatever you want.’
‘Yes, we could do that …’ His voice changed abruptly. ‘But we won’t.’
With what was left of the gasoline in the jerrycan, he marked a line on the floor as far as the door. Then he put his hand in his pocket and took out a Zippo. A nauseating odour joined the pungent smell that already filled the room. Farland had relieved himself in his pants.
‘No, I beg you, don’t do it, don’t do it, for—’
‘Shut your fucking mouth!’
It was Westlake who had interrupted his deputy’s pointless snivelling. The strength of his hate and curiosity had given him back a little pride.
‘Who are you, scumbag?’
The young man who had been a soldier looked at him for a moment in silence.
The planes will come from that direction …
Then he said his name.
The sheriff opened his eyes wide.
‘That isn’t possible. You’re dead.’
He clicked the Zippo. The two men stared at the flame in terror.
He smiled, and for once was pleased that his smile was a grimace. ‘No, you sons of bitches. You’re dead.’
He opened his hand more than necessary and let the Zippo fall to the floor. He didn’t know how long the fall of the lighter would last for the two men. But he knew from experience how long such a short journey could be.
No thunder, for them.
Only the metallic noise of the Zippo hitting the floor. Then a hot bright whoosh, followed by a tongue of flame that advanced on them.
He stood listening to them scream and watching them squirm and burn until the smell of roasting flesh spread through the room. He breathed it in, savouring the fact that this time the flesh wasn’t his.
Then he opened the door and went out on the street. He started walking, leaving the house behind him, the screams accompanying him like a blessing as he moved away.
Soon afterwards, when the screams stopped, he knew that the captivity of Sheriff Duane Westlake and his deputy Will Farland was over.
CHAPTER 7
Jeremy Cortese watched the dark-coloured BMW move away, and wished it would blow up. He was sure that, apart from the driver, none of the people inside would be much of a loss to the world.
‘Go fuck
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