Chris Mooney - The Killing House

When Theresa saw the man standing on her doorstep, she immediately wanted to scream for help — scream as she threw the door wide open and pointed at the sick bitch Clouzot, who was pressed up against the wall only a few feet away, listening. The owner of the black Audi was at least six foot five and as broad-shouldered as a timber beam — the kind of strong and powerful man she imagined could lift a small car or run through a wall without so much as suffering a single scratch.

‘Mrs Herrera?’ the man asked. He had a foreign accent — British, maybe Australian.

‘I’m Theresa Herrera.’

He eyed her suspiciously, and then she remembered how she looked — face and clothes drenched with sweat, hands and limbs trembling.

‘I’ve got that rotten stomach flu that’s going around,’ she said. ‘I take it that was you who rang the doorbell a moment ago.’

The man nodded. ‘Ali Karim sent me.’

From the corner of her eye Theresa saw Clouzot’s handgun. It was aimed at her, and there was no doubt in Theresa’s mind the woman would use it.

If you don’t hear from me within the next five minutes, Marie Clouzot had told her partner, take Rico away and kill him.

Theresa pressed her face closer to the door’s opening and said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t answer. When I’m not lying in bed I’m lying on the bathroom floor. I’m afraid now isn’t a good time.’

‘May I speak to your husband?’

‘He’s not here.’ She remembered he had looked inside the garage and seen both cars. She said, ‘He’s gone out for the evening with a friend and won’t be back until late, I’m afraid.’

The man took off his glasses, the lenses wet with melting snow. He had bright blue eyes.

‘My husband,’ Theresa said, the words drowning in her throat. She swallowed and started again. ‘My husband and I… we’ve decided not to retain Mr Karim’s services.’

The man showed no reaction. He glanced past her, inside the foyer. For a moment she thought he was going to push the door open and rush in.

Instead, he said, ‘May I ask what changed your mind?’

‘Finances.’

The man snapped his attention back to her.

‘We simply couldn’t afford Mr Karim’s fee,’ she said. ‘The bank denied us a second mortgage — they called only a couple of hours ago. I’m sorry you came all the way out here. Please tell Mr Karim I’ll gladly reimburse him for any expenses he’s incurred.’

‘There’s no need.’ The man dipped a hand inside his coat, staring at her with an unsettling intensity. It had a hypnotic quality, as though he had somehow entered her head and was listening to her true thoughts.

Then, incredibly, as if he knew what was happening inside her house, his hand came back with a 9-mm handgun.

Theresa stared at it with equal measures of fear and relief. Her expression was hidden from Clouzot. There was no way the woman could see her face — or the man’s handgun.

In an act of bravery — Please, God, please let this work — Theresa looked sideways, to the corner where the Clouzot woman was hiding. She held her gaze there for a moment as she said, ‘Again, I’m sorry for the inconvenience.’

‘Have a good night, Mrs Herrera. I hope you feel better.’

The man reached forward, about to grab her or maybe to push the door inward, when the gunshot rang out.

Chris Mooney

The Killing House

Fletcher had caught the palpable relief on Theresa Herrera’s face when he removed his sidearm — a SIG SAUER P226, the same reliable and powerful 9-mm weapon used by the Navy’s SEAL Team Six. She was staring at it as he placed one foot on the threshold, about to throw the door open, grab the Herrera woman and pull her out when the gunshot erupted from inside the house.

Part of Theresa Herrera’s head disappeared, and she slumped to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The front door swung inward. Inside the foyer of dim light and crouching behind the door was an older woman dressed in a fur coat. He caught a glimpse of her face, the odd, horse-like grin looking at him from across a 9-mm handgun.

The first shot, fired from less than a foot away, hit him dead centre in the chest.

Fletcher staggered backwards from the sudden impact. He spun awkwardly, tumbling back against the wrought-iron railing. The woman fired again. The round hit him in the abdomen, and he slipped on the snowcovered landing and tumbled down the short set of brick steps.

Fletcher landed face first against the walkway. He immediately rolled on to his side, hissing back the pain, snow stinging his face.

The woman fired again. The shot kicked up a clump of dirt and dead grass dangerously close to his head. Fletcher moved to his back and brought up his weapon, about to fire when the shooter threw the front door shut.

Theresa Herrera’s limp arm hung over the threshold. The door hit it and bounced back. Fletcher caught a flash of the dark fur coat retreating down the foyer.

Fletcher staggered to his feet. The lightweight ceramic armour plating woven inside the bulletproof vest had prevented the two rounds from piercing his body, but the impact had cracked at least one rib, sending his muscles into spasms.

The bullet had removed most of Theresa Herrera’s head, killing her instantly.

A spent shell caught his attention. Well studied in ballistics, he immediately registered what it was.

A door slammed open from the back of the house. Struggling to breathe, the cold air sharp with the odour of cordite, he stumbled across the front lawn towards the left side of the house — a task made more difficult in his shoes, as they offered no traction in the snow.

One shot. All he needed was one clear shot to take the woman down.

Fletcher stuck close to the side of the house. When it ended, he turned the corner, bringing up his SIG.

The garden, wide and long, was partially lit by the light shining through the back windows. A back door hung open; it led to a deck of pressure-treated wood. Through the falling snow he saw a clear set of footprints near the deck’s bottom step. He followed them across the garden until they vanished inside a black forest of tall pines. In the far distance and glowing like eyes in the night were the windows of a half-dozen homes.

He saw no sign of the woman. Had no idea if she was running or hiding somewhere, waiting for him.

Fletcher might have given pursuit if she didn’t already have a good lead on him. In his current physical condition, there was no way he could bridge the gap.

A more practical and urgent consideration, however, made him immediately turn and move back to the front: the police. One or more nearby neighbours had no doubt heard the multiple

gunshots and called 911.

The front door hung wide open. Fletcher clutched the railing as he moved up the front steps. Snow blew inside the house, coating the foyer and Theresa Herrera’s small, still body in a fine layer of white. She lay face down in a twisted heap on the brown tile. Blood had pooled around her and dripped over the threshold, staining the snow a bright red.

Fletcher dropped to his knees, his ribs screaming in protest, and looked at the entry wound. It was tattooed with black powder. The size of the wound and amount of gunpowder confirmed the gun had been fired from a close distance — a few feet away from the door, to his right. The shooter had stood there, but she couldn’t have seen him — couldn’t have seen him drawing his weapon. There were no windows installed around the door, no nearby windows that looked on to the front landing. So why had she suddenly panicked and shot Theresa?

Wary of destroying potential latent fingerprints, he used a pen to pick up the casing from the floor. Fletcher dropped it inside one of the small evidence bags he kept tucked inside his back pocket, sealing it shut on his way back to the car.