 Blood in the Water by Jack Flynn, narrated by Dion Graham, Tuesday, January 1st. 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 collars 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 hometown, fields of crosses covered in blood. He was surprised that he could sweat in the cold. Coming 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 ice box. And yet, still, he was sweating. Finally, he finished with a 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. Along 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, too. Wednesday, January 16th, 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 Nantesquid 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. A foghorn blared in the background. She called him again, pleading with him to say something, anything, to her. His lips were moving, but the foghorn grew louder, drowning him out. He was slipping away, and she could feel her panic growing. Sample complete. Ready to continue?