Chris Mooney - The Killing House

‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ Fletcher said. ‘Did he speak to you?’

‘No, and I don’t think he’ll be able to for some time. At the moment, he’s stabilized. After I stemmed the bleeding, I flushed the wound with sterile saline and drained off the puss with a surgical drain and a suction bulb, then packed it with sterile gauze and dressed it with a sterile dressing. Now we have to wait and see about the sepsis. I need to bring him to a hospital. I spoke with Mr Karim, and he’s going to make arrangements at Sloan-Kettering in Manhattan. I work there. We’re going to admit him under a false name. The paperwork will be fudged so no one will find him.’

‘When will you move him?’

‘In a few hours. He needs to rest, and Mr Karim needs some time to procure the documentation and work out a cover story.’

‘Thank you for your time and your efforts, Doctor.’

Fletcher had turned to leave when she said, ‘Mr Karim is a good man. I met him while I was living in Brookline — that’s in Massachusetts. Three… men broke into my house. I was married with two children and pregnant with my third. They tied us up, and after they robbed us, one decided to come back.’ She brushed the hair blowing around her face and breathed deeply, holding it for a moment. ‘I still don’t know how I managed to survive.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

‘The Boston police never caught the men responsible.’ She faced the sea, watching the wind bending the sea grass. ‘Mr Karim, however, believed he could find them. He seemed so… absolute in his resolve, that I said yes. When I asked him the cost for his services, he baulked. He said he provided pro bono assistance for victims of violence. Then he told me what had happened to his son, Jason.

‘Months passed, and then one day Mr Karim showed up and told me that justice had been served. That I wouldn’t have to live out the rest of my life wondering if those men would come back for me. To use his words, “The matter had been put to bed.” I wanted to know details but he refused to tell me anything — their names, how they had been found. He said it was for my own protection.’

‘I don’t mean to be rude, Doctor, but I must be leaving.’

‘When Mr Karim called and asked me to provide him with some discreet medical service, I was only too grateful to help. He didn’t tell me your name, just that he trusted you implicitly. Before he hung up, he mentioned you had worked for him on a number of occasions. You helped Mr Karim find the men who killed my family, didn’t you?’

Fletcher did not reply.

‘He didn’t tell me anything, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ she said. ‘When I saw you walk into the room, I had this… sense that you recognized me despite the fact we’ve never met.’ A polite smile, and then she added, ‘I would have remembered meeting you.’

Then her expression changed, her eyes cursed by the same look he had seen in all victims of violence: that damnable need to know what she’d done to invite this horror into her life. Why she had been chosen.

‘Tell me why,’ she said, hot-eyed. ‘Please.’

Fletcher weighed the question on his cold scales. ‘Because they could,’ he said.

‘It has to be more than that.’

‘You lived in a nice home. They envied your possessions. You were available.’

She stared at him, wanting more.

He didn’t have anything else to give her.

‘Tell me they suffered,’ she said. ‘At least give me that.’

All three men had died the same way: wrists and ankles manacled and left alone to rot in the decrepit and soggy earthen belly of an abandoned mineshaft where their screams couldn’t be heard. Would knowing the details help her heal, or curse her?

‘I can assure you, they suffered,’ he said.

A moment passed. When he provided no further explanation, the woman nodded, then kept nodding, her head down at the last nod. She stared at the ground as though she had dropped something.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Please take care of yourself.’

Fletcher got back behind the wheel of his car. The doctor continued to stare out at the water — a shell of a woman condemned to living in a grey-filtered daze, alone with a cemetery of memories and the ghosts of her loved ones whispering words she couldn’t understand.

Marcus De Luca had packed on a considerable amount of weight since the last time Marie had seen him. Short and stocky and cursed with a permanent five o’clock shadow, De Luca now looked like a former prizefighter who’d let himself go to pot. His shirt collar was unbuttoned to accommodate his multiple chins, and fat had crept into the thin, puffy and bruised skin beneath a pair of eyes that looked like raisins pressed into dough. He reeked of menthol cigarettes and dressed with the flair of an Italian mobster, complete with loafers with those god-awful tassels.

Like William Jenner, De Luca was a former Baltimore cop. The two patrolmen had been partners once upon a time. They had served together and, ironically, were about to be buried together.

At the moment, De Luca was sitting comfortably in the passenger’s seat of the Lincoln, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. They had just returned from setting fire to Gary Corrigan’s home. The former surgeon was now resting in the trunk, on top of the body bag holding William Jenner. De Luca had casually enquired about the second body bag. ‘Defective merchandise,’ Marie replied, suppressing a smile.

She hit the garage-door opener and backed into the funeral home’s wide loading bay, parking next to the hearse. Marcus De Luca, ever the gentleman, offered to perform the heavy lifting.

Marie held open the door leading to the funeral home’s basement level. Since the man had never set foot in there, she had to tell him where to go. ‘Take your first left and you’ll see the cremation unit.’

Marie stripped out of her coat as she trailed him down the hall. She ducked into a room, threw her jacket over the back of a chair and grabbed an apron on her way out.

‘Which one?’ De Luca asked, nodding with his chin towards the three separate doors to the ovens.

Marie unlatched the door to the first oven. De Luca swung the body bag off his shoulders and, cradling it in his arms, squatted a little and slid it inside.

‘Push him all the way back,’ she said. ‘That’s it, just a bit further… Good. Thank you. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some help with the last one?’

Marcus waved away the offer. He sucked in air, exhaling with a slight, crackling sound.

‘Put the other one in here,’ Marie said, and opened the door to the second oven. De Luca nodded and huffed his way back to the Lincoln.

She unlatched the door to the third and last oven but didn’t open it.

He came back with the body bag containing William Jenner slung over his shoulder. Since Jenner was considerably fatter, De Luca was grunting and sweating from the exertion.

She grabbed an end of the bag, feeling Jenner’s thick ankles beneath the plastic, and placed them inside the oven’s entrance. Then she stepped aside to give De Luca some room.

‘Same as before,’ she said, moving behind him. ‘Push it all the way back.’

De Luca ducked his head just underneath the oven’s door and gave the bag a good, hard push. Marie removed the concealed. 38 snub-nose revolver from her trouser pocket, pressed it against the back of his head and fired.

She threw herself up against his back, using her weight to pin him against the cremation unit as she dropped the gun on to the oven floor. With both hands she grabbed the man’s shirt collar and held him tight, his limbs jerking in protest and what was left of his head banging inside the oven as he bled out. She wondered if she’d have enough time for a quick shower. The funeral home had its own living quarters on the top floor; she and Brandon slept there during the week. A quick shower to wash away the smell of gunpowder, a change into something more comfortable and she would be on her way.