decades of wear and tear from the countenance.

 

Eventually, a man he recognized as Chris Ballard rose to the surface. A cheery,

relaxed face that hid a personality filled with cruelty, a heart lacking the

least bit of compassion.

 

He moved over to the bed and gazed down at the shrunken mass.

 

He thought about how best to do this. It was an issue of noise. He needed to

have a conversation. And in order to do that he had to allow Ballard to talk.

 

He put a hand over the sleeping man’s mouth. This had the effect he desired.

 

The man was jarred awake. He looked up into Rogers’s face. His features went

from fearful to curious.

 

And then the fear returned.

 

Rogers bent down and said in a low voice, “Where is she?” He removed his hand

from Ballard’s mouth, but his fingers encircled the old man’s throat and

squeezed lightly.

 

Rogers’s intent was clear. If Ballard tried to cry out, Rogers would crush his

throat. “Where is she?” Rogers said again. “Who?” croaked the old man.