Chris Mooney - The Killing House

‘Keep your face forward,’ Fletcher said. ‘Do not turn around and do not look at me.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Plumes of breath appeared around Santiago’s face and evaporated, his bony arms quivering as he vomited again. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.’

‘There’s no need to apologize. But we need to get moving.’

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘To a home in New Jersey. A doctor will treat you, and preparations will be made for you to call your parents. Close your eyes and I’ll escort you back to the car.’

Santiago pushed himself back on to his knees. ‘I don’t think I can stand. Can you help me?’

Fletcher helped the young man to his feet. Santiago spun around, and Fletcher caught a wink of metal. Instincts engrained into his muscle memory from years of SEAL training took over; he snatched the man’s wrist and gave it a sharp twist. Santiago yelped in pain and surprise, the sound quickly muted when Fletcher gripped his throat and pinned him against the ground. Fletcher saw the weapon — a knife, the small, folding model with a black handle that had been inside the nightstand drawer back at the house.

‘Don’t hurt me,’ Santiago said, his voice thick with tears. ‘I’ll behave from now on. I’ll be a good boy, I promise.’

Don’t let him see your face.

Too late, Fletcher thought. He patted down the man’s pockets and, finding no other weapons, lifted Santiago to his feet. The young man sucked in air as he rubbed his throat.

‘I apologize for hurting you,’ Fletcher said. ‘Given your experiences with the likes of Mr Jenner and Mr Corrigan, I don’t blame you for not trusting me, Mr Santiago. That is your name? Nathan Santiago?’

The young man nodded.

‘I don’t work for Mr Jenner,’ Fletcher said. ‘You no longer have to worry about him or anyone else. You’re safe, and I’m bringing you someplace safe.’

Fletcher wrapped an arm around Santiago’s back. Santiago didn’t fight him, and they trudged up the slope.

‘How old are you?’

Nathan Santiago had to think about it.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where are you from?’ Fletcher asked.

‘Lynn. Lynn, Massachusetts.’

‘How long have you been… gone?’

Santiago didn’t answer, staring at the car with a mounting dread.

‘The place where I’m taking you is a short drive away, less than an hour,’ Fletcher said. ‘When we arrive, a doctor will examine you, and then we’ll make arrangements to bring you home.’

Santiago looked up at him. ‘Who are you?’

‘Someone who helps people such as yourself.’

They had reached the car. Santiago started to tremble.

‘There’s no reason to be afraid,’ Fletcher said. ‘This doctor will not hurt you. She works with people who — ’

‘Don’t lie to me. Please don’t — ’

‘Listen to me. The doctor is going to examine you, and then we’re going to make arrangements to take you home.’

Santiago wouldn’t get inside the car. Fletcher thought about telling the young man he could call his parents once he got inside, but it sounded too manipulative, and it was too risky. His parents could still have a standing trace on their home phone.

‘Would you feel more comfortable sitting up front?’

Santiago didn’t answer. Fletcher opened the passenger’s door and kept reassuring Santiago that he was safe. It took some coaxing, but he finally managed to get the young man inside.

Fletcher, settled back behind the wheel, pulled on to the highway.

Nathan Santiago was curled up against his door.

‘You’re safe,’ Fletcher said. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

Santiago seemed to crumple into himself. Then he began to sob.

‘You’re safe,’ Fletcher said again, and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘No one will hurt you, I promise.’

The properties Ali Karim used for safe houses were often lavish affairs — elaborately furnished brownstones, condominiums and townhouses in highly crowded downtown cities; exquisite beach-front properties used as rental homes in tourist spots where there was a constant turnover.

The secluded home in Cape May was no exception. It sat on top of a hill, a Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired contemporary settled among sand dunes overlooking the Delaware Beach. Soft lights glowed from behind the drawn Venetian blinds covering the windows.

Fletcher moved up a steep and curving driveway. Nathan Santiago lay curled asleep on his side.

When the awful wailing had stopped, Fletcher had tried to engage the man in conversation. Santiago, reduced to a childlike blubbering, hadn’t answered. He had exhausted himself, and at some point during the drive, aided by the Demerol in his system and, quite possibly, by a sense of overwhelming relief, he had drifted off into a deep sleep. Fletcher had used the time to update Karim.

Motion-sensor lights winked to life when Fletcher reached the top of the driveway, a circular path both wide enough and long enough to accommodate a small fleet of vehicles. The area was empty but not the garage. Its single door was open. Parked in the wide bay was a black BMW with a New York licence plate. The garage was connected to the home by a portico.

The side door for the house’s wraparound porch flew open. The man who stepped outside had a misshapen face, crooked nose and cauliflower ears from years of boxing and street brawls — Karim’s personal bodyguard and childhood friend, Boyd Paulson. Dressed in his customary dark suit and matching shirt, Paulson jogged down the steps with a curious agility and grace for a man his size. He reminded Fletcher of a retired Lancaster bomber he had once seen displayed at London’s Imperial War Museum — a solid and crafty machine that had endured several wars and still possessed the means to carry out one last mission.

Fletcher killed the ignition and exited the car. A harsh ocean wind, coarse with sand, salt and grit, rattled the home’s windows, bent and twisted the brush and reeds in the sand dunes.

‘Where is he?’ Paulson asked.

‘Passenger’s seat.’ Fletcher went to open the car door.

Paulson grabbed his arm. ‘Karim doesn’t want him to see your face.’

‘He already has.’

‘Aw, bloody hell.’

‘He doesn’t know my name, and he’s asleep.’ Fletcher opened the door. The interior light clicked on. Nathan Santiago didn’t stir.

‘I’ll take him up,’ Paulson said.

Santiago moaned as he was lifted, his eyes fluttering open. Blood had soaked through the left side of his coat. Fletcher looked over the car door and saw more blood smeared against the leather seat.

Paulson darted up the porch steps, speaking over his shoulder: ‘Get the door — and you might want to put on your sunglasses.’

Fletcher did and held the door open. Paulson turned sideways and entered a generously sized kitchen of stainless steel, the warm air fragrant with strong coffee — Turkish, most likely, the only kind Karim stocked. A Cafetiere with two mugs stood on the small kitchen island. Fletcher followed Paulson across blond hardwood flooring scuffed by shoes. He had to duck under the archway leading into a large living room with modern lighting and cathedral ceilings fashioned with old timber beams. Wood popped and hissed from a fireplace. Behind the pleasant smoky pine he smelled new leather. A glass coffee table, coated with a film of dust, still had a price sticker attached.

Glowing squares of light caught Fletcher’s eye. He gave a quick glance to his left, down a short hall and through an open door, where he saw monitors housed inside a surveillance station.

Up a set of stairs with a burgundy runner and then Fletcher trailed Paulson down a hall of fresh white paint and brand-new carpet. Three doors hung open to identical bedrooms: twin beds, oak dressers and reading chairs, everything draped in plastic. The bookcases and unbreakable mirrors had been bolted to the walls.