“Who’s it from?”
“Don’t say, Captain.”
“You scanned it?”
“Jesus, no. Should I?”
“Ah hell. Give it here.”
Coy walked it over, set the box down on Cutler’s desk.
“Gimme a knife there, Coy.”
“You think maybe we should call the fire guys?”
“Why? Do I smolder? Am I in flames?”
“Okay, okay. Ease up. Here you go.”
He handed Cutler an old Ka-Bar, which Cutler used to slice the white plastic wrap off the package. He slid the wrap down, set it aside, and lifted the box up. It was a beer cooler, and it was heavy. He shook it. Something inside it thumped.
Coy backed away from the desk.
Cutler sighed and ran the tip of the blade around the tape sealing the top of the cooler. He put the knife down and lifted the lid off the box. Inside it, covered in melting ice and sealed inside a large Ziploc bag like the ones used to hold cabbages, was a human head. It had been cut off at the collarbones. “Hacked off” was a better description. There was a large star-shaped hole in the forehead, and most of the back of the skull seemed to be missing. The expression on the dark-blue face was one of fear, and the open eyes, though dull and clotted and opaque, still held a look of horror, of mortal dread. Around the severed head was a corona of matted hair, silvery, very long. In the bottom of the box, underneath the head, was a long ivory-handled stiletto. The handle looked as if it had dried blood on it.
“What the hell is this?” said Coy, his face green, his mouth dry.
“This,” said Bo Cutler, lifting the head up, “is a promise kept.”
:REPORT ENDS: PD/GH/OTP/cc NSC
:FILE ARCHIVED AND SEALED.
NOTE: Subject DALTON, Micah, whereabouts currently unknown. All Stations detain subject on sighting. Venice Station covert monitoring VASARI, A., and BRANCATI, A. If subject detained, DO NOT INTERROGATE. Quarantine and hold for immediate transfer to DC. All further inquiries related to DALTON, Micah must be referred to DC/DGI/DNI without exception.