Chris Mooney - The Killing House

Fletcher had exchanged the Camry for a white BMW parked inside an Atlantic City hotel garage free of security cameras. He had also changed his appearance.

After ditching the blood-stained tactical trousers, he entered a hotel and washed up in the lobby’s private bathroom. The small lobby shop offered a garish assortment of clothing. He purchased a roomy windbreaker with ATLANTIC CITY embossed on the back to hide his tactical belt and then ditched the jacket after purchasing several new items from a store that specialized in outdoor clothing and gear.

From a drugstore he purchased blond hair dye and a self-tanning lotion. He dyed his hair and eyebrows inside a gas-station bathroom, cleaned up, and was now back on the road, heading for Baltimore.

He dialled M’s cell. When she didn’t answer, he removed the battery.

Fletcher had tried to call her twice over the past hour and she hadn’t answered.

He phoned again just as he was nearing Newark, and she picked up.

‘The FBI has locked down Karim’s home.’ M’s voice was cool, almost robotic. ‘I couldn’t get anywhere near it.’

The Jaguar had his prints all over it, hair and fibres. The contact lenses stored in the console would contain his DNA. Locked in the trunk were his cases full of tools and equipment; more damning evidence against Karim — if they could get inside the car. Unless they found the hidden key, there was no way they could open the car. The windows were shatterproof.

M said, ‘Karim’s personal bodyguard, a man named Bar Lev, is at the hospital along with some other trusted people. I don’t have an update for you — Karim is still in surgery. Karim’s lawyer is there. He insisted on meeting me before he drove down to New Jersey. Karim had given him explicit instructions to hand-deliver a package to me in the event he died or was incapacitated in any way. I have two envelopes here with me, one of which belongs to you.

‘Federal investigators are at our main office right now, armed with warrants. They’re pulling security tapes, raiding the computer network, everything.’

‘Did Karim give the evidence bag holding the drinking glass to the lab?’

‘I have it here with me,’ she said. ‘I can’t drop it off. I spotted three men trying to follow me. I think they’re federal agents.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘I ditched their tail. They don’t know where I am.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Someplace where they can’t find me,’ she said. ‘Karim gave me explicit instructions to help you, and that’s what I’m doing. He said to trust you implicitly, and that’s what I’m doing. I know you removed your phone battery so I couldn’t trace you, but I should tell you I’ve been assisting Karim in researching this… project, and I — ’

‘What about Dr Sin’s cell signal?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Keep searching.’ Fletcher hung up and removed the battery.

Marie Clouzot’s heels echoed loudly as she walked across the wide, cavernous space of cold concrete inside the old printing press. Fractured sunlight filtered through the building’s grated windows, the dank, frigid air smelling of rust and ancient machinery.

The light faded as she moved down a corridor of closed doors. She opened the last one.

The Asian doctor she’d found treating Santiago in New Jersey was sitting in the corner. Brandon had bound the tiny woman’s wrists and ankles.

Marie, bending stiffly, removed the strip of duct tape covering the woman’s mouth. ‘Your driver’s licence says your name is Dr Dara Sin.’

The woman didn’t answer. She swallowed, shivering in the cold.

‘I need you to perform some surgery for me, Dr Sin.’

‘I can’t help you.’

‘Of course you can. You’re a doctor. You’ve performed surgery before.’

‘I can’t. Look.’ The woman turned to one side, and Marie saw the broken fingers.

Brandon hadn’t done that. He had been careful handling her — had made her comfortable before locking her inside the trunk next to Santiago.

‘You broke your fingers,’ Marie said, more to herself. She blinked at the sight, as though she could wash it away, and then snapped her head to the woman. ‘You broke your fingers.’

‘I can’t help you,’ Dr Sin said again, and Marie swore she saw the woman grin.

Marie gripped the woman’s throat as a high-pitched keening roared past her gritted teeth. The doctor fought back, her bound limbs and wrists kicking and thrashing, but she had no place to go, and she was too small and too old to mount a fight. Marie, considerably taller and heavier, straddled the woman, choking her, slamming her small head against the floor. Marie felt the small crucifix on the thin gold chain bouncing against her chest. She didn’t ask God for forgiveness. She had given up on that business a long time ago.

The cheap gold chain and crucifix, a gift from her mother, was a relic from a former life. A reminder of long months locked inside a caged room. Tears burning her eyes, she had prayed to God for help until her knees were callused. He had rejected her because He had decided she was not worthy of His love.

With the rejection had come a revelation: at age fifteen, she had discovered God did not care. The world, made in His divine image, contained no feeling or mercy. Men could rape and pillage and murder without consequence. God and His world didn’t pause to grieve for the dead; they continued their deaf forward march.

But you had a choice. You could suffer in silence or you could find a way to cope.

The doctor finally relaxed. Marie kept her grip firm through the death spasms and then it was done.

Marie slumped back against the floor, sitting, her face flushed from the exertion.

Brandon was watching her from the doorway. The dim light coming from the hall behind him highlighted the worry etched on his face.

‘Our assistant funeral director has left several messages on my phone,’ he said. ‘The Baltimore police are at the funeral home, asking questions. It’s time to leave.’

‘They can’t find us here.’

Brandon, she could tell, wanted to fight her on this. But he had no fight left in him.

‘You can go if you want,’ she said, wrapping her arms around herself. ‘I’m staying here.’

Brandon shoved his hands in his pockets, jingling his change and keys as he stared down at her from the doorway. Marie didn’t stare back — she didn’t want another argument, and she had made up her mind. It wasn’t a foolish decision, deciding to stay here. She was safe. She could stay here as long as she wanted, tucked in this womb of concrete half buried beneath the earth. There was no reason to leave, not yet.

Brandon cleared his throat. ‘How much longer?’ he asked, his question barely above a whisper.

‘Until I’m satisfied,’ Marie said, wondering if such a thing was possible.

Fletcher was closing in on Baltimore, the winter sky beginning its rapid shift into darkness, when he replaced the BlackBerry’s battery and called M.

She didn’t give him a chance to speak. ‘The Feds have accessed Karim’s computer network. I need to shut down, and we need to meet so I can show you the videos.’

‘What videos?’

‘The ones taken inside Karim’s New Jersey beach home,’ M said. ‘I saw what happened to Karim, to Boyd Paulson and Nathan Santiago, all of it.’

Fletcher sat up in his seat. ‘The security software on the laptop in the panic room wasn’t set to record video,’ he said.

‘Correct. You set that software to record, and the hard drive fills up quickly.’

‘Then how did you come by these videos?’

‘I disabled the security software and replaced it with my own — a program that runs in the background. Any time a camera’s motion tracker detects movement, the recording starts, and the video images are temporarily stored on the computer’s hard drive before this program that I wrote compresses the files and uploads them to an FTP server, where they can be downloaded and viewed. That way we have copies in case a laptop is removed from a panic room, or damaged.’