Chapter 4

When the helicopter set down at the desolate camp, the swirling dust nearly blotted out everything in sight.

Francis was the first one out, indifferent to the sand and wind, straight for that underground cell.

Brenda struggled after him on her high heels, her face a picture of misery.

“Mr. Henson, slow down, it's too dangerous here.”

Francis paid her no attention.

He kicked the rusted iron door open.

The cell was empty, nothing but moldy straw and the sharp reek of rot.

Francis circled the cell once and finally stopped in a corner.

On the ground sat a battered red suitcase.

He crouched down and opened it with trembling hands.

No clothes inside. Only a half-knitted gray scarf and a divorce agreement stained with blood.

That scarf was the birthday present I'd meant to give him three years ago.

Francis looked at it, and his eyes went red in an instant.

“Carly……where are you?”

He got to his feet and searched the camp like a man gone mad.

“Carly! Come out here!”

“Stop playing around, I'm taking you home!”

His voice echoed through the empty camp, but nothing answered.

Then a man with a bad leg came out from behind the ruins.

He was the mercenary lieutenant who hadn't gotten out in time.

He looked at Francis and let out a cold laugh.

“Save your breath. That woman died a long time ago.”

The words hit Francis like a bolt of lightning, and his whole body went rigid.

He lunged over, seized the man by the collar, and hauled him up.

“What the hell are you talking about!”

“I was here just three days ago! She'd only passed out!”

The man spat and pointed toward the cold storage.

“Three years ago. The very first day you people sent her here, she fought back, so they tore out all her fingernails.”

“After that, all she got to drink was spoiled slop. There was no way she'd last.”

“What you saw was nothing but a corpse.”

“It was this Miss Summers who paid our boss a fat sum to hide the body.”

“And to play along with her act, sending you fake treatment reports at regular intervals.”

Francis's pupils shrank hard, his mind gone blank.

He turned his head and stared at Brenda, unblinking.

Brenda went ashen and dropped to her knees with a thud.

“Mr. Henson, it's not like that, he's lying!”

“They forced me into it, they wanted more money!”

Francis let go of the mercenary and walked toward Brenda, step by step.

“Brenda, you lied to me.”

“You told me she was still in treatment. You made me believe she was alive!”

Brenda sobbed until it tore at her chest, clutching at the leg of his trousers.

“Mr. Henson, I did it for your sake.”

“If you'd found out she was dead, you'd have fallen apart.”

“And it was you who said to punish her, you who said just keep her breathing……”

Francis kicked her away.

“Shut up!”

He ran behind the cold storage like a madman.

He knelt on the ground and clawed at the dirt with both hands, wild with it.

The gravel cut his fingers open, blood everywhere, but he didn't seem to feel the pain.

At last his fingertips touched something hard.

A black plastic bag.

He opened it, and inside was a small pouch of grayish-white ashes.

“Carly……no……”

With shaking hands he reached for the ashes, tears falling in great heavy drops onto the sand.

Brenda crawled to his side, crying, and grabbed hold of him.

Francis whirled around and clamped his hands around her throat.

“You lunatic! You killed her!”

She couldn't breathe under his grip, her face flushing red, and still she broke into a ragged, stuttering laugh.

“Ha ha……Francis, spare me the devoted act.”

“If you hadn't signed, if you hadn't sent her here, how could I ever have touched her?”

“The one who really killed her is you!”