spoke louder.'I want to apologize to you. As for what ... happened, I didn't -'
'You have one minute to make your decision.'
Theresa blinked, confused. 'Decision?'
'I want you to pick up that kitchen knife and cut your husband's throat.'
4
Theresa said nothing. She had nothing to say. That pragmatic voice had nothing to say. Her mind felt as vacant as an abandoned house.
Marie Clouzot had to raise her voice over Barry's muffled screams. 'Kill your husband, and I'll bring you to your son. If you don't kill your husband, I'll kill you, and then I'll leave and kill your son. Are you familiar with slow slicing?'
Theresa didn't hear the question, still in shock by what the woman had said: Cut your husband's throat.
'Slow slicing is a form of execution developed by the Chinese,' the Clouzot woman said, reaching into her pocket. 'You use a knife to cut away portions of the body over a long period of time. It's death by a thousand cuts.'
'I ... I can't ...'
'Can't what, Mrs Herrera?'
'I can't go through with this.'
The Clouzot woman placed the wrinkled snapshot of Rico on Barry's stomach.
'You have fifty-three seconds left to make your decision, Mrs Herrera.'
'I want to help you,' Theresa said. 'Please, let me help you.'
'Forty-nine seconds.'
Barry was screaming, thrashing.
'We can come to some sort of ... accommodation,' Theresa said. 'Let's talk about this. Let's talk about how I can help -'
'Forty-three seconds.'
Theresa saw her son's frightened gaze staring up from the photograph lying on Barry's stomach, and she saw her son staring at her from the photographs on the walls and bureau - Rico as a baby and as a toddler, each picture showing a boy with a round, brown face and a mop of unruly black hair; a gap-toothed smile and, along the right temple, a strawberry-coloured birthmark the size of a dime.
'Thirty-nine seconds, Mrs Herrera.'
She stared at the photograph on Barry's stomach. Rico was alive. Her son's life depended on her next decision - a horribly cruel, life-altering decision.
Was her husband's life worth it?
Don't let them take me back there , Rico had said.
'Thirty-seven seconds.'
I can't take it any more. Please, Mom. Please help me.
Theresa grabbed the heavy cook's knife.
Barry screamed from behind the tape. He screamed and thrashed, the rope cutting deeper into his skin. Blood trickled down his wrists.
'You have twenty-two seconds left.'
God forgive me , Theresa thought, turning the knife in her hands, just as a pair of car headlights flashed across the drawn blinds.
5
Malcolm Fletcher parked the Audi at the bottom of the long driveway leading up to an impressive brick-faced Colonial, the home of Dr Bernard Herrera and his wife, Theresa. It was a few minutes past seven, and a light snow had started to fall.
The lights in one of the upstairs rooms winked off. The other windows blazed with light, but he couldn't see inside. The blinds on the windows facing the street had been drawn.
He wondered why. There was no house across the road. Each home in this upscale neighbourhood here in Applewood, Colorado, had been set up on a good amount of acreage, far apart from one another to give the owners a great deal of privacy. Fletcher killed the engine and picked up the leather Dopp kit from the passenger seat.
While he felt reasonably confident that neither Dr Herrera nor his wife would recognize him, Fletcher still needed to exercise caution. With Bin Laden dead, Fletcher had shot to the top slot as the nation's Most Wanted Fugitive - and the most expensive. The reward for his capture was three million dollars.
Fletcher had not undergone any cosmetic surgery toalter his appearance. Instead, he relied on the tradecraft he'd learned while employed as a federal agent. From the Dopp kit he removed a plastic case holding a pair of blue-tinted contact lenses. Because he was allergic to the materials used to manufacture lenses, he always put them in at the last minute. Then he put on a pair of
'You have one minute to make your decision.'
Theresa blinked, confused. 'Decision?'
'I want you to pick up that kitchen knife and cut your husband's throat.'
4
Theresa said nothing. She had nothing to say. That pragmatic voice had nothing to say. Her mind felt as vacant as an abandoned house.
Marie Clouzot had to raise her voice over Barry's muffled screams. 'Kill your husband, and I'll bring you to your son. If you don't kill your husband, I'll kill you, and then I'll leave and kill your son. Are you familiar with slow slicing?'
Theresa didn't hear the question, still in shock by what the woman had said: Cut your husband's throat.
'Slow slicing is a form of execution developed by the Chinese,' the Clouzot woman said, reaching into her pocket. 'You use a knife to cut away portions of the body over a long period of time. It's death by a thousand cuts.'
'I ... I can't ...'
'Can't what, Mrs Herrera?'
'I can't go through with this.'
The Clouzot woman placed the wrinkled snapshot of Rico on Barry's stomach.
'You have fifty-three seconds left to make your decision, Mrs Herrera.'
'I want to help you,' Theresa said. 'Please, let me help you.'
'Forty-nine seconds.'
Barry was screaming, thrashing.
'We can come to some sort of ... accommodation,' Theresa said. 'Let's talk about this. Let's talk about how I can help -'
'Forty-three seconds.'
Theresa saw her son's frightened gaze staring up from the photograph lying on Barry's stomach, and she saw her son staring at her from the photographs on the walls and bureau - Rico as a baby and as a toddler, each picture showing a boy with a round, brown face and a mop of unruly black hair; a gap-toothed smile and, along the right temple, a strawberry-coloured birthmark the size of a dime.
'Thirty-nine seconds, Mrs Herrera.'
She stared at the photograph on Barry's stomach. Rico was alive. Her son's life depended on her next decision - a horribly cruel, life-altering decision.
Was her husband's life worth it?
Don't let them take me back there , Rico had said.
'Thirty-seven seconds.'
I can't take it any more. Please, Mom. Please help me.
Theresa grabbed the heavy cook's knife.
Barry screamed from behind the tape. He screamed and thrashed, the rope cutting deeper into his skin. Blood trickled down his wrists.
'You have twenty-two seconds left.'
God forgive me , Theresa thought, turning the knife in her hands, just as a pair of car headlights flashed across the drawn blinds.
5
Malcolm Fletcher parked the Audi at the bottom of the long driveway leading up to an impressive brick-faced Colonial, the home of Dr Bernard Herrera and his wife, Theresa. It was a few minutes past seven, and a light snow had started to fall.
The lights in one of the upstairs rooms winked off. The other windows blazed with light, but he couldn't see inside. The blinds on the windows facing the street had been drawn.
He wondered why. There was no house across the road. Each home in this upscale neighbourhood here in Applewood, Colorado, had been set up on a good amount of acreage, far apart from one another to give the owners a great deal of privacy. Fletcher killed the engine and picked up the leather Dopp kit from the passenger seat.
While he felt reasonably confident that neither Dr Herrera nor his wife would recognize him, Fletcher still needed to exercise caution. With Bin Laden dead, Fletcher had shot to the top slot as the nation's Most Wanted Fugitive - and the most expensive. The reward for his capture was three million dollars.
Fletcher had not undergone any cosmetic surgery toalter his appearance. Instead, he relied on the tradecraft he'd learned while employed as a federal agent. From the Dopp kit he removed a plastic case holding a pair of blue-tinted contact lenses. Because he was allergic to the materials used to manufacture lenses, he always put them in at the last minute. Then he put on a pair of
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