Chris Mooney - The Killing House

‘Go ahead.’

Fletcher read off both numbers.

‘Let me get to work on finding you a doctor,’ Karim said. ‘I’ll call you back.’

Seventeen minutes later, the front door opened. A potato-shaped Caucasian man with ruddy jowls stepped out, his leather-gloved hands clutching a white laundry sack. Jenner. The man shut the front door, testing the handle to make sure it was locked, and then waddled to the waiting car, the wind lifting the fine grey and white hairs combed over his balding pate.

Jenner dropped the sack into the Lincoln’s trunk and shut it. He didn’t get into the passenger’s seat; he climbed into the back.

Fletcher slid back in his seat as the Lincoln drove up the hill. He heard it whisk past him a moment later. He readjusted his seat, watching the glowing tail-lights in the side mirror growing dimmer. He started the car and, looking back at the Colonial, saw bright flames jumping from behind the windows. Jenner had set fire to the house.

Will Jenner badly wanted a cigarette but he was afraid lighting one would blow up the car. He had spilled gas on his shoes, trousers and overcoat. His hands reeked of it, and fumes filled the Lincoln. He had cracked open his window to help air out the car.

Fortunately, he had recently decided (again) to try to stop smoking and had a blister pack of nicotine gum tucked in his jacket pocket. Shit tasted like burnt pepper, but the important thing was the nicotine. He needed it to help soothe his frayed nerves.

He hadn’t told the buyers what had happened. They were waiting at the hotel, three of them — two who had flown in from Texas, the other from California. They had all arrived on private jets paid for by the clients they represented. Jenner had worked with these three men on a number of occasions over the years. They were expecting to be picked up at their hotel and driven to the house in Dickeyville. There, they would go upstairs and inspect the merchandise. Clients paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for the young organs Marie Clouzot and Brandon Arkoff provided, and the buyers always insisted on inspecting the merchandise. They had been burned before in the past, but not by Jenner. They knew him to be a professional, a man of his word, a man who ran things smoothly and didn’t make excuses.

Once they had seen the merchandise and had their questions answered, money would be exchanged in cash because wire transfers left a trace that could potentially lead back to him. Then everyone would go downstairs and enjoy a fine meal provided by Clouzot while Arkoff and the surgeon, Corrigan, took the merchandise to a separate facility to harvest the organs. An hour or two would pass before the coolers would arrive at the house. The buyers would be driven to the airport, hop on their private planes and deliver the coolers to their clients, who were standing by and anxiously awaiting the organs that would prolong, if not save, the life of a spouse or child. This schedule had been followed meticulously for the good part of the last decade, without so much as a single wrinkle. Tonight everything had gone to hell in a handcart, and he didn’t have a clue as to what had happened back at the Clouzot and Arkoff house.

And Marie Clouzot, who was sitting next to him in the backseat, bundled up in a fur coat and wearing fancy jewels — the only thing she cared about was whether anyone had accessed her bedroom closet. She didn’t want to discuss how to handle the buyers. No, she wanted him to go inside that creepy closet of hers and collect the eleven sets of human ashes. Then she ordered him to set fire to her house. The gas cans were inside the garage.

Were Arkoff and Clouzot shutting down their operation? It sure seemed that way.

Would she broach the subject with him? Or would Arkoff do it? He was sitting behind the wheel, a big man who looked like spoiled vanilla pudding poured into a cheap suit. His face had been disfigured from some sort of accident, and whoever had put Humpty Dumpty back together had done a pretty decent job. The raised surgical scars were razor thin and camouflaged by make-up. But there was no amount of make-up in the world that could hide the man’s drooping eyelid, the thick scars that were visible on his scalp.

Jenner suspected Arkoff wouldn’t say anything. He rarely spoke — at least to him. Jenner dealt exclusively with Clouzot, who also had a frightening appearance from what he suspected was a botched facelift.

Jenner had waited long enough. Turning in his seat, he saw that she was still crying. Her mascara had run, giving her already bizarre features an even more ghoulish appearance.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To see the children,’ she said.

Jenner had no idea where she kept them, had never asked. Not at the funeral home they owned, he thought. Arkoff was driving in the opposite direction.

‘You have someone to replace Santiago?’ Jenner hoped to God she did. Santiago had had a rare blood type, one that had commanded a substantial cash bonus for all the parties involved.

Marie cleared her throat. She touched her colourful diamond necklace, her voice shaking with rage when she spoke.

‘Tell me everything Corrigan said. Word for word.’

Fletcher shadowed the Lincoln as it drove north on the Jones Falls Expressway.

He had travelled to Baltimore on a handful of occasions but had never ventured north of the city. Unfamiliar terrain. Not wanting to be surprised, he used the dashboard computer’s GPS-navigation system. The screen held a standard map of glowing blue, red and yellow bands representing streets and highways. Names and points of interest were written in white.

Nathan Santiago kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Fletcher had tried to speak to him, but the man hadn’t responded.

The Lincoln drove at the speed limit and stayed in one lane. Fletcher watched it from a safe distance.

The Lincoln pulled off the highway, taking the ‘Falls Road’ exit. If the driver planned on conducting any counter-surveillance manoeuvres, it would be here, in a suburban setting that offered a variety of choices, especially at night.

Jenner stopped speaking when Marie held up her hand. ‘You haven’t said anything about the man who did this.’ She had turned to give him her full attention. She had stopped crying.

‘That’s because I don’t know anything,’ Jenner said. ‘Corrigan didn’t describe him.’

‘Did you ask?’

‘I didn’t get a chance. The guy who was with Corrigan terminated the call. Corrigan couldn’t have done it; he was bound to the chair. I hightailed it to the house. You know everything I do.’

‘And you’re saying that when you went upstairs, the door to my bedroom closet was open.’

Jenner nodded and, thinking about the rows of soiled clothing, swallowed his disgust.

‘That’s… not possible,’ Marie said. She was having trouble keeping her anger in check. The look in her eyes reminded him of Grandfather, a mean son of a bitch who would beat the shit out of you until he’d exhausted himself. Guy’s kids’d spent more time growing up in hospitals than they had at home.

Jenner shifted in his seat. He’d never felt comfortable around this broad. There was something about her that gave him a queasy feeling he still couldn’t put a finger on. His gut sensed something repulsive lurking beneath her patrician features, her dignified air and speech.

‘I think we can safely rule out that whoever did this is a cop,’ Jenner said. ‘A cop wouldn’t tie up a guy and kill him — there’d be hell to pay for that, lawsuits up the wazoo, you name it. My first thought was a private investigator, but then you have to ask yourself, what’s this guy’s agenda? Why call me instead of the police?’