Chris Mooney - The Killing House

As the doctor started to die, his brain bleeding out from the two blows and his muscles convulsing in protest, Fletcher removed a small, battery-powered audio bug from a tactical pouch. He peeled off the self-adhesive strip and stuck the bug underneath the table. Then he pulled the dishcloth from the man’s mouth.

Wine and blood and shattered teeth splashed down across Corrigan’s chest, splattering the dinner plate and staining the tablecloth. Fletcher quickly wiped his gloved hands on his black trousers and then opened another pouch and retrieved a small, circular object the size of a pencil eraser. He jerked the doctor’s head back and shoved the GPS transmitter past the slick tongue and down the man’s throat. To make sure it stayed in the man’s stomach, Fletcher stuffed the dishcloth back into Corrigan’s mouth.

He left the doctor’s iPhone on the table. He made two quick stops, in the living room and kitchen, before heading back upstairs.

Gary Corrigan’s patient was no longer on the bed. The nightstand near the window had been overturned, the drawers pulled open; Nathan Santiago, semi-conscious, clawed at them as he lay sprawled against the floor, moaning, his drowsy eyes blinking, trying to focus on the objects blurred by his Demerol haze.

Fletcher darted inside the master bedroom, stepped back inside the walk-in closet and found a hiding spot for a second audio bug. He picked up the evidence bag holding the highball glass on his way out.

Nathan Santiago saw Fletcher approaching and held up a shaky arm to shield his face.

‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ Fletcher said, kneeling. Corrigan’s long camelhair overcoat was draped over his arm. He placed it on the floor. ‘I’m going to bring you someplace safe. Lie still while I take this out.’ Fletcher removed the IV needle and covered the puncture wound with one of the fresh bandages scattered along the carpet. Then he helped the man sit up.

Santiago didn’t fight him. Corrigan’s roomy overcoat swam over the thin, frail body.

The man clearly couldn’t stand on his own, even with assistance. He needed to be carried. Fletcher scooped him into his arms, his broken ribs exploding in pain. He fought his way through it and carried the shivering body out of the bedroom.

During his previous trip to the kitchen, Fletcher had opened the sliding glass door. He moved outside and down the porch steps, then across the dark garden, Santiago was as light and frail as a bird in his arms. He opened the gate and, cradling Santiago against his chest, moved down the leafy slope. He had reached the main trail when he heard the roar of a car engine followed by a peel of tyres.

The trip to the parking lot was prolonged by his injury. Fletcher reached his car, winded, sweating despite the cold air. With a press of a button the Jaguar’s lights flashed as the doors unlocked. He laid Santiago across the backseat, folding the man’s limp arms across his chest, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.

Fletcher staggered to the trunk. He opened it, placed the evidence bag inside and removed the small leather briefcase holding his netbook. He drove out of the lot and headed back to the house.

Having become well acquainted with the neighbourhood during his surveillance, Fletcher knew a location where he could watch the house without arousing any suspicion.

He plugged his netbook into the cigarette lighter as he drove. The computer, resting on the passenger’s seat, booted up quickly. Ten minutes later, as he climbed up the steep hill, the program he needed had been loaded. He pulled over and set the audio bugs to record the conversations they overheard to the hard drive.

Fletcher cut the car lights and slid against the kerb, stopping when he saw the Colonial at the far end of the hill. He had an excellent view of the garage. Its exterior sensor lights had turned on, and he could see the car parked in the driveway.

The monocular aided his view.

The car was a silver Lexus sedan. He couldn’t see the plates, not yet. Turning to the passenger’s seat, he pressed the computer key for the audio bug tucked underneath the dining-room table. Footsteps clicking across the hardwood floors echoed over the netbook’s small speakers.

Faint voices spoke and Fletcher turned up the volume.

‘… not upstairs,’ said a phlegmy male voice. Not Jenner’s voice. Jenner had told Corrigan he had a passenger with him, a man named Marcus.

‘The sliding glass door in the kitchen is open,’ Jenner said. ‘He’s probably loose somewhere on the trails.’

‘Going where?’

‘That big parking lot at Gwynns Falls, maybe — no, stay here. We wouldn’t make it in time.’

Shoes crunched across broken glass. They had entered the dining room.

‘Jesus,’ Marcus said.

Jenner said nothing.

‘No cop would’ve done something like this,’ Marcus said.

Jenner did not comment.

‘The doc say anything about who did this to him?’ Marcus asked.

‘No.’

The trill of a ringing phone played over the netbook’s speakers. Fletcher heard Jenner speaking to the caller. ‘I’m here… I’m standing in the dining room right now… He’s dead… No. I don’t know where he is. This guy must’ve taken him… No, it was open… No, just me. Marcus didn’t go upstairs, that’s your… Okay.’

Jenner lapsed into silence. Fletcher checked his rearview mirror. Nathan Santiago was still unconscious.

‘Load the doc into the car,’ Jenner said. A new tone in his voice: fear. ‘Use a body bag.’

‘And take him where?’

‘Your place, for now. I’ll meet you there later.’

‘You’re not coming?’

‘I’ve got a few things to do here first. Call Rick on your way, tell him to keep everyone at the hotel.’

‘They might as well hop back on their jets and go on home,’ Marcus said.

‘Get moving — and make sure no one follows you.’

‘You think this guy’s lurking around?’

‘I just don’t want to take any chances.’

Over the computer speakers, the footsteps walked away and then faded.

Fletcher called up another program. He switched to the audio bug placed inside the closet, then called up another program and keyed in the alphanumeric serial number for the transmitter he’d placed inside Corrigan’s stomach. The transmitter was broadcasting perfectly.

He watched the garage through the monocular, listening to Jenner’s heavy breathing inside the closet, the crinkle of plastic as the man touched the garment bags.

‘Oh my God, Jesus Christ,’ Jenner mumbled to himself.

The garage door opened. Fletcher watched a heavy-set man dart outside — Jenner’s companion, the man named Marcus. He got behind the wheel of the Lexus, pulled into the street and then backed into the garage. Fletcher caught the licence plate and committed it to memory.

He turned down the volume on the netbook and called Karim.

‘I need a private doctor,’ Fletcher said after Karim answered. ‘Preferably one in Baltimore.’

‘How badly were you injured?’

‘Not me. Someone else. His name is Nathan Santiago. I sent his fingerprints to your computer, along with prints for a Baltimore resident and former surgeon named Gary Corrigan.’ Fletcher briefed Karim on what had transpired, stopping short when the Lexus pulled out of the garage and drove away in the opposite direction.

He stole a glance at the netbook’s screen. The GPS unit inside Corrigan’s stomach was still transmitting.

Fletcher had resumed his conversation, nearly finishing it when a black Lincoln town car with tinted windows pulled up alongside the driveway. Another Baltimore plate.

‘I need you to run two plate numbers for me,’ Fletcher said.