Chris Mooney - The Killing House

Borgia didn’t reply, possibly mulling over the question.

With much effort and concentration, Fletcher had managed to hoist himself back inside the compartment. He couldn’t move any further without making noise. He hovered over the opening, muscles straining, sweat pouring freely down his face and splashing against the floor.

A cell trilled inside the garage and then stopped as Borgia said, ‘Go ahead.’

Fletcher needed to create a diversion. He grabbed the phone from his mouth.

Borgia said, ‘Good news, Miss White. The list of Karim’s medications has been faxed to the hospital.’

‘Thank you,’ M replied. ‘I still want a copy. I was told to personally hand-deliver it to the hospital.’

‘I had a copy emailed to my phone. We can print it out at the hospital. I’ll drive you.’

‘I think I can manage, Mr Borgia.’

‘I want to speak to Mr Karim’s physician, so we might as well go together. We can speak along the way, privately, like you asked.’

No, Fletcher thought. Don’t go with him.

M’s voice inside the garage: ‘Where are you parked, Mr Borgia?’

‘I’ll have a car meet us — where are you going?’

Fletcher didn’t hear M’s reply; the garage door was rising, the sound loud enough for him to mask his movements.

Clever girl, he thought, and grabbed the door, gently slid it forward and quietly locked it into place. Now he was safely hidden inside the cramped, dark chamber.

His thoughts turned to M. Her safety.

She’s quite capable of handling herself, Karim had said.

Phone in hand, Fletcher counted off time in his head. He would wait twenty minutes — that should give M enough distance from the house. Then he would use the phone and turn up the EMP unit’s frequency to its maximum setting and escape.

Borgia escorted M back into the house. He stopped inside the foyer.

‘Please turn and face the wall,’ Borgia said. ‘Spread your arms and your legs.’

‘Am I under arrest?’

‘I need to check you for weapons.’

M recalled Fletcher’s warning: Someone may frisk you. I know you detest being touched, but if you don’t cage your anger, you’ll fail Karim.

Failing Karim was unacceptable; she wouldn’t allow it. She turned and faced the wall.

His hands were rough. She felt as though they were made of fire, leaving burns in the places he touched.

Borgia had arranged for a car to be brought around the back of the house, where there were fewer reporters. Her skin was throbbing as she slid into the passenger’s seat of a black Mercury Grand Marquis. The grey interior smelled of fast-food and cigarettes. M cracked open her window to let in some fresh air.

Manhattan, even at this hour, was still a hive of activity. The noise and bright lights did not bother her, as she had acclimatized herself to this environment over the course of many, many years of living here.

‘We’re all alone now,’ Borgia said. He was leaning back in his seat, one hand draped over the steering wheel. ‘What did you want to tell me?’

She didn’t want to do it here, in the city, with witnesses. She needed to wait until she reached the highway. She needed to draw it out. She needed to act troubled. Concerned and upset.

M had never cried (at least she couldn’t remember having ever done so), and when she’d learned what had happened to Boyd Paulson, a hollow space had formed inside her chest. But she hadn’t cried. With the exception of anger, she was denied most emotions.

Neurotypicals had a range of facial expressions and gestures to show when they were troubled. She had her mental flashcards ready and consulted them now.

M sighed heavily. Her shoulders slumped and she swallowed.

Borgia concentrated on driving. He kept watching her from the corner of his eye.

Minutes passed.

‘Whatever you tell me, I’ll keep in confidence,’ he said.

M didn’t speak. Drew out the silence.

‘It has to do with Mr Karim,’ she said.

Borgia nodded, waited.

Again she didn’t speak. Borgia kept driving, kept shifting in his seat.

‘This is… difficult,’ M said. She ran her fingers through her hair. Then she leaned forward, arms wrapped around her midsection as though experiencing stomach pain, and said, ‘Mr Karim has been very good to me.’

‘That seems to be the general consensus from the employees I’ve spoken to so far. Your boss seems to engender a great deal of loyalty.’

‘He’s been very kind to me. Very generous.’

‘I’m sure he is. But, the fact of the matter is, your boss has been aiding and abetting a known fugitive. You know the man I’m referring to.’

M nodded, eyes wide as she stared down at the dirty car mat littered with an empty Dunkin Donuts coffee cup. Borgia was watching her closely.

‘Malcolm Fletcher,’ she said. ‘I thought he was an honest man.’

‘Fletcher?’

She looked up sharply. ‘No, not Fletcher. Karim. I thought he was a man of integrity.’ Her hatred for Borgia made the lying much easier.

‘How many times have you seen Fletcher with Karim?’

‘Just the one time, aboard Mr Karim’s plane. I recently accompanied Mr Karim to Chicago.’

Borgia nodded, urging her along. M leaned back in her seat and stared out of her window, reminding herself to draw out her words, as if speaking them were the cause of her great discomfort.

‘Mr Karim left after we touched down,’ she said. ‘I stayed on board to catch up on some paperwork. When he returned, he’d brought along a passenger — a man he introduced as Robert Pepin.’

‘And then you knew.’

‘No, not then. Robert Pepin had short grey hair, and he was wearing sunglasses. I didn’t realize he was Malcolm Fletcher until this afternoon. I saw Fletcher’s picture on the front pages of all the newspapers. On the telly. And then I thought back to Robert Pepin because his face… his face was very, very similar to Fletcher’s.’

‘Why didn’t you call the hotline?’

M had anticipated the question. ‘I’ve worked as Mr Karim’s personal assistant for the better part of my adult life,’ she said. ‘I believed he was a man of impeccable integrity. My home phone and my cell haven’t stopped ringing over the past forty-eight hours, different people calling to tell me that Karim was stabbed. That he was rushed to a New Jersey hospital and clinging to life. That he’s in a coma and is most likely going to die.’

‘Is that what the doctors told you?’

‘And the nurses. I was in a state of shock — I still am, I think.’

‘Understandable,’ Borgia said.

‘Then I wake today only to find out that Malcolm Fletcher, a man who suspiciously looks like the man who boarded Karim’s plane — the papers and the news are saying that this man attacked Karim, and I’ve been trying to figure out why.’

She waited for Borgia to speak.

When he didn’t, she said, ‘Is it true? That Fletcher tried to kill Karim?’

‘It is, but I’m afraid I can’t get into specifics,’ Borgia said. ‘You also saw Pepin — Fletcher — inside Karim’s house.’

M found the flashcard for confusion. She tilted her head to the side, her gaze narrowing when she said: ‘No. I’ve never once seen him inside the house.’

‘You were there when Fletcher arrived in the Jaguar.’

‘The one parked in the garage?’

Borgia nodded. ‘Fletcher was inside the house for over an hour.’

‘I didn’t see him.’

‘You went to his house that morning. At 6.43 a.m.’

‘Mr Karim had some paperwork to give me.’

‘And you didn’t see Fletcher.’

‘No. I took the paperwork and left.’

‘Where did you go?’