In the Deathroom (33)
“Listen to me,” Fletcher said. “Are you listening?” What she was undoubtedly listening for were the sounds of approaching rescue. In your dreams, Fletcher thought.
“The weatherman there said that El Cóndor uses cocaine, that he’s a Communist butt-boy, a whore for United Fruit, who knows what else. Maybe he’s some of those things, maybe none. I don’t know or care. What I know about, what I care about, was he was never in charge of the ordinaries patrolling the Caya River in the summer of 1994. Núñez was in New York then. At NYU. So he wasn’t part of the bunch that found the nuns on retreat from La Caya. They put three of the nuns’ heads up on sticks, there by the water’s edge. The one in the middle was my sister.”
Fletcher shot her twice and then Ramón’s gun clicked empty. Two was enough. The woman went sliding down the door, her bright eyes never leaving Fletcher’s. You were the one who was supposed to die, those eyes said. I don’t understand this, you were the one who was supposed to die. Her hand clawed at her throat once, twice, then was still. Hereyes remained on his a moment longer, the bright eyes of an ancient mariner with a whale of a tale to tell, and then her head fell forward.
Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual
