Chris Mooney - The Killing House

Theresa set the tray on the kitchen island, startled when she saw someone sitting in one of the living-room chairs — an older woman bundled in a rich mahogany-coloured mink. Has to be one of Barry’s hospital or charity friends, Theresa thought, slipping out of her wool coat. Since Rico’s abduction, when her husband wasn’t burying himself in patient work at his practice, he was devoting the remainder of his free time to all sorts of charity cases. Barry wanted to be anywhere but home. He barely spoke about Rico any more, and she knew he carried a burning resentment at her refusal to get on with her life. He never said anything to this effect, of course. Barry had never been good at confrontation, and he was simply awful at hiding his feelings — he wore them on his face. But he had voiced his displeasure when he found out she had enlisted the services of what he considered to be nothing more than a glorified private investigator to look into Rico’s case.

As Theresa approached the living room, her first thought was that Barbara Bush had come to pay the Herrera family a personal visit. The woman had the same mannish look — George Washington in drag. But the woman in the fur coat wasn’t as stout as the former first lady, and she had jet-black hair that was stretched back across her scalp and worn in a bun. A black crocodile Hermes Birkin bag rested on her lap.

One thing was immediately clear: the woman’s plastic surgeon had screwed her. Her face had been pulled way too tight, giving her that pale, bug-eyed look Theresa had seen on a lot of older women trying to fight off Father Time with a scalpel. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, the woman had a smile that seemed to run from ear to ear. Either God almighty Himself had cursed her with it, or she had specifically asked her surgeon to make her look like the Joker.

The woman stood clutching her handbag. She was tall, almost six feet. Her coat was unbuttoned, revealing a sharp charcoal business suit. Lying against the black blouse was a colourful, ornate jewel necklace that was missing several stones.

Why would she wear a broken necklace? Theresa thought, as she introduced herself. The woman wore diamond earrings and a pair of gloves made of thin black leather. Is she leaving? And where’s Barry?

The woman didn’t introduce herself. Theresa said, ‘I’m sorry, have we met?’

The woman smiled brightly. ‘You don’t remember?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ I definitely would have remembered your face, Theresa thought.

The woman’s smile collapsed. ‘Marie Clouzot,’ she said, but didn’t offer a hand. Instead, she reached into her handbag and came back with a photograph, a close-up of Rico. His head had been shaved and his face was incredibly gaunt, like he’d been starved, and he looked so incredibly scared. Theresa felt the blood drain from her face and limbs as the woman began to speak in a warm and loving voice about Rico — how he was still alive and how she had made arrangements for Theresa to speak to him tonight. Then the Clouzot woman started in on the rules. Don’t scream. Don’t run or fight. Don’t try to call the police. Do anything stupid and Rico would vanish for ever.

Theresa opened her mouth, the questions forming on her lips. She couldn’t get the words out, overcome with the same overwhelming dread that had filled her the night she’d discovered Rico missing from his bed, the slit x in the window screen; with the same awful sense of her existence having been split in two — her former, normal life with her son and now her new life, this purgatory filled with the constant moment-to-moment terror of wondering where her son was, what had happened to him. And now here was this woman saying that Rico was alive, that arrangements had been made for her to talk to him. Tonight. When Theresa managed to speak, all she could produce was a low, guttural cry.

The Clouzot woman tucked the photograph in her jacket pocket and in that same calm and soothing voice told Theresa to relax. Everything would be fine. There was no reason to be afraid. Dr Herrera was waiting for them upstairs, in the master bedroom. The three of them would talk this out.

Theresa had a vague recollection of moving up the stairs, holding on to the banister for support in case her legs gave out. When she entered her bedroom and saw what had happened to her husband, she remembered the rules and managed to choke her scream back. She stumbled out of the bedroom, as Marie Clouzot said a phone had been placed on Rico’s bed. He would be calling at any moment.

And he did. Four long and nightmarish years had passed, and Theresa’s unwavering faith that Rico was still alive had just been confirmed with a single phone call. Her son was alive, he was being held somewhere, maybe even close by. He was scared and possibly in pain but he was alive.

Theresa gripped the edge of Rico’s lopsided desk to keep from falling. The room swam in her vision until her gaze settled on the disposable cell phone lying on the floor.

Don’t let them take me back there, Rico had said. I can’t take it any more.

Marie Clouzot slid her gloved hands inside her jacket pockets. ‘I know all of this is an incredible shock for you. Just keeping breathing, nice and slow deep breaths, or you’ll pass out. Yes, like that… Good.’ Her voice was patient and calm and so terribly quiet.

‘We’re going to go back to the bedroom now, Mrs Herrera. Just remember the rules. No screaming. Don’t run or, say, try to hurt me so you can call the police. If you do, I’ll have to use this.’ The woman held up a Taser. A click of a button and an electric arch of light crackled and jumped between two prongs. ‘While you’re lying disabled on the floor, I’ll take my leave, and Rico will disappear down the rabbit hole again, only this time we’ll have to kill him.’

We’ll kill him. How many people were involved in this? Theresa’s mind was on fire, scrambling to think. But she couldn’t, she couldn’t hold it together any more. She broke down, wailing.

‘I don’t want to kill him, Mrs Herrera. I really don’t. Your son has suffered enough. If you want him to live, we need to go back to your bedroom.’

‘Why? Why are you doing this?’

‘This is a conversation we need to have in front of your husband.’

‘Please,’ Theresa said, wiping at her face. ‘Please, I’m begging you, whatever this is about — if it’s money you want, I can — ’

‘We need to go back to your bedroom. I’ll be right by your side.’ The Clouzot woman offered her a hand.

Theresa didn’t take it. ‘I want to talk to Rico again. I want to — ’

‘Do you want me to bring you to your son?’

‘Yes. Yes, please, I’ll do anything just don’t… hurt him any more.’

The Clouzot woman put a hand on Theresa’s shoulder, the tender, gentle way a woman would — It’s okay, honey, everything’s going to be okay.

‘I won’t hurt him,’ Marie Clouzot said. ‘Now let’s go back to your bedroom and talk to your husband.’

Theresa didn’t move. A dim voice whispered that she was in shock. Maybe she was. She hadn’t so much as flinched when the hand touched her, and she didn’t fight back when the Clouzot woman lifted her to her feet. Theresa felt the woman gently wrap an arm around her. The next thing she knew she was being ushered forward, her legs numb and hollow.

‘That’s it,’ Marie Clouzot said. ‘One step at a time.’

Theresa stared at the brightly lit hall. It seemed as long as a mile, and incredulously she thought: This is what a condemned prisoner must feel like when he’s being escorted to the electric chair.

Her legs gave out as she stepped inside the bedroom. She would have fallen had the Clouzot woman not been clutching her arm.