Anatomy of Evil Read Online Free PDF Page A

window. It’s gorgeous out there. Your job is to enjoy this vacation.”
    Carol turned toward the rounded window. She looked down at the long stretch of coral atolls embraced in white sand and a maze-like network of lagoons that broke the landscape into pieces. There was no whole.
    She moved her eyes to the long coastline and crashing of ocean waves against the reef. As the plane descended, she witnessed a sudden, isolated red flash, like a burst of colored lightning along a small section of shoreline.
    The strange sight happened so quickly and out of context that her head jerked back from the window.
    â€œDid you see that?” Carol asked her husband.
    Jake was focused on his camera, checking out some of the images he had just captured. “See what?” he asked, without looking up. Then he laughed at one of the pictures. “Hah. Look at Gary.”
    Carol looked across the seats at her travel companions and started to ask “Did anyone see…?” But her voice was not strong enough to draw attention and no one appeared caught up in any unusual sightings.
    Carol turned back to the window. She waited for a return of the red flash. When it didn’t happen again, she said, “The sun and water create some strange illusions.”
    â€œIt’s the equator,” said Jake, still preoccupied with his camera.
    â€œI’m so tired I’m hallucinating,” said Carol.
    â€œWhat?” asked Jake.
    â€œNothing.” She sighed.
    The plane continued its descent, aimed for Kiritimati’s one runway, a small strip of cement cutting through low shrubs. After landing, the group disembarked and collected their baggage planeside within minutes.
    â€œI wish O’Hare was this fast,” remarked Gary.
    They walked a short distance to line up for customs and immigration with a handful of other tourists inside Cassidy International Airport, a modest cinderblock building with a tin roof. An official in shorts with a rubber stamp recited a few basic questions without expressing interest in the answers.
    Returning outside, the Chicago travelers donned sunglasses and gathered around Gary, who knew the most about Kiritimati, having studied up and led the trip planning.
    â€œOur guide is going to meet us,” said Gary. “He’ll take us to the hotel.” Within minutes a rugged, tanned man with bright blue eyes and a broad smile stepped forward with a clipboard to greet them. He introduced himself as Simon, an Australian angler. He vigorously shook everyone’s hand.
    â€œWhen does the bus arrive?” asked Rodney.
    â€œIt’s here.” Simon laughed. He gestured to an open-air flatbed truck with benches. A driver in a straw hat sat in the front. “We’re not going far.”
    Simon joined the seven vacationers in the back of the truck for the bumpy, 15-minute trip to the hotel. They traveled a patchwork of paved and dirt roads on the dry terrain, encountering only a few other vehicles —most of them crowded with villagers, sometimes hanging precariously to the sides. Scooters made occasional appearances, zipping by with young riders in bare feet who stared at the arriving visitors. A constant breeze coated everything with dust. Emma wiped her sunglasses several times, muttering asides to her husband.
    â€œWe rarely get rain here,” said Simon. “Droughts are common. Because of this, the crops are limited. The island’s largest crop is coconut, some papayas and breadfruit. The soil is not good. We fly in meats and vegetables from Hawaii once a week.”
    Simon pointed out sights along their route. As they drove through a coconut plantation, he drew their attention to the plastic bottles hanging high in the trees. “They collect the coconut sap. It’s very tasty, like syrup,” he said.
    â€œThat’s our police station,” he announced, as the truck rolled past a very small, unmarked cinderblock structure with a door