I consider answering harshly: Don’t ever talk to me like that again.
In the end, I don’t answer at all.
*
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in front of a roughshod wooden door. Two of my men stand guard outside.
“Open it,” I instruct. One of them twists the handle and lets me in.
Father Josiah has been chained to a chair in the center of the room. The windows are drawn tight, casting the space in darkness. His head dips low and the loose burlap bag hanging over his head obscures his face. The blood on his stomach is dried into a dark red splatter.
I move forward and rip the hood off. He blinks in pained confusion before raising his eyes to mine. They go wide for a second and I see the fear again.
It’s an extremely satisfying reaction.
I drag forward the only other chair in the room and tw
