Charlie drew a deep breath of recycled air. It was stale. Dead.
He felt cold — he was barefoot and wearing a Warrel prison coverall — but he also felt strong. For a moment he forgot the plan. He looked in wonder at his arms, which, while they were thinner than during his days as a farmer, were stronger than his last remembrance of them.
“How are you, Mr. Parkson?” asked Father Reece. He looked smug, self-righteous — fully in control and enjoying the moment.
Charlie hardly recognized him or the other two seated at the table. In fact, he could not remember the human man’s name. Henry? Heinrich? And had he ever known the female Warrel’s name?
None of them looked particularly impressive to Charlie. Had he feared this tired-looking old man whose hands shook slightly as he lifted his paper-thin computer to peer at the screen? What was he compared to the loss of a child or the enmity of a friend?
“Something is wrong,” said the Auzor of New York, his smug expression transforming rapidly into one of. . . fear?
The woman peered down at Reece’s data screen. Her brow furrowed.