Chris Mooney - The Killing House

Alexander’s response was always the same: I have to try. Alexander could shoot the doctors and nurses rotting in their cages, he could march Jimmy Weeks into the operating room and torture the teenager in front of Malcolm Fletcher and nothing would come of it because Malcolm Fletcher was a psychopath — a devious and cunning psychopath who would rather die a horrible death than share his secrets. The man was without a conscience.

Alexander refused to let the matter go, and, finally, she threw up her hands in surrender. Do whatever you want, she’d told him. Just get me the hair. The company who crafted the beautiful diamonds on her necklace could, if cremated remains weren’t available, create any size jewel using human hair. Alexander promised to grab a sample from Jimmy Weeks — and Malcolm Fletcher.

Marie slipped out of her trousers. She was going to change into the only piece of clothing she’d taken from the funeral home — a coveted black Chanel suit. Brandon had bought it for her, and, as much as she loved it (and she truly did), she had put the ensemble aside, wanting to preserve the delicate fabric for the day of her own funeral. No one would come, of course, except Brandon — provided he survived her.

Brandon was hunched over his laptop. Its screen held multiple windows, each one offering a different camera view of the basement. He was busy downloading the final set of videos. Years ago, as a surprise, he had purchased a commercial security-camera kit, complete with night vision and microphones. Every night before bed he’d hooked up the computer to the television, and together they would watch the wonderful movies. Sometimes she closed her eyes and listened only to the moaning, the pleas and cries for help. The unanswered prayers to God.

The movies were wonderful: the video quality was superb. When they had first started, Brandon recorded everything on videotapes and audiocassettes. During the day, she would listen to the audiocassettes on her Walkman while she was out and about, doing errands, while at work. At home, she would play them on the portable radio/cassette player. At night, she would fall asleep to the lovely voices. Sometimes she played the cassettes or videotapes while they made love.

Marie felt a sense of finality grip her. It was over — at least here in Baltimore. There were still other doctors and nurses living out their lives under new identities. Alexander wouldn’t be able to find them, however. He would disappear with her and Brandon, and Alexander Borgia would become just another one of Malcolm Fletcher’s many victims.

‘What the hell is he doing?’ Brandon nearly whispered the words.

Before she could ask, he had grabbed the wireless mouse. A click and he enlarged one of the camera windows. On the screen she saw Malcolm Fletcher pressed up against his cage door, his fingers threaded past the chain link and gripping the padlock.

Marie didn’t have to tell Brandon what to do. He had already turned back to the keyboard.

Fletcher felt the padlock spring free. He threaded it out of its clasp and it dropped against the floor. He took the knife out of his mouth.

‘Help me.’

The dry croak came from the sickly woman dressed in dirty jeans and a dark cotton T-shirt. The remaining fingers of her right hand gripped the chain link.

‘Help me,’ she croaked again. ‘Please.’

‘I’ll have you out of there momentarily,’ Fletcher whispered. He was standing outside his cage. ‘I need to secure the area — ’

The sprinklers turned on, water raining down on him, on everything.

Not water.

Gasoline.

Fletcher’s eyes clamped shut. His mouth clamped shut and he heard the woman’s low scream as he turned and ran blindly through the spraying downpour of gasoline, heading towards the open door leading into the concrete hall.

The gasoline was no longer raining down on him. He stopped, gagging and gasping for air. Gasoline slid down his face and hair. He whisked it away. Some sort of gritty substance covered his fingers. He opened his eyes. They burned and everything in his field of vision was blurry — the bare bulbs hanging from the corridor’s ceiling, the doorway leading back into the operating theatre. Some of the people trapped in there were screaming, some were rattling the chain links.

Pop and hiss as a bright blue flame ignited on one of the pipes and clouds of flame exploded through the room in a series of white flashes and sparks. A loud rumble followed, and then a thick sheet of steel dropped from the top of the doorway and crashed against the floor, sealing off the room.

Screams erupted from behind the door and another scream erupted behind him. Fletcher turned, coughing on the gasoline fumes rising from his skin and clothing, the piercing, agonizing howls of the trapped victims trailing him as he staggered down the hall. He wiped at his face again. His vision had cleared slightly but his eyes continued to burn and tear. He brought the hand closer to his face and saw tiny rough particles the colour of dark chocolate covering his skin. Not sand. Sand wouldn’t be added to gasoline.

Fletcher heard the electric crackle of the cattle prod followed by another scream.

‘Stop fighting me, you little shit,’ Borgia hissed.

Marie had turned away from the computer screen, about to run, when Brandon clutched the meat of her arm and pulled her back.

‘ Let me go, ’ she screamed. ‘ I’ve got to warn Alexander. ’

Brandon was on his feet. ‘You’re not even dressed.’ He held on to her as he reached inside her handbag and came back with the 9-mm. ‘I’ll get Alexander. Go to the car.’

The hallway ended, turned to Fletcher’s left. Through his watery vision he could make out another doorway and, past it, another room containing the same dog kennels. Borgia was dragging a blond-haired man out of an open cage. Borgia clutched the back of the man’s hair and the man — a teenager — was fighting back.

Borgia hit the teenager with the cattle prod, tucking his Glock inside his pocket to keep his hands free.

Fletcher moved inside the room. Borgia, too focused on the teenager, didn’t see him until it was too late.

Fletcher didn’t use the knife; he landed a solid blow against the small man’s ear. Borgia dropped the cattle prod as he staggered. A kick and Fletcher sent him flying across the floor.

Borgia turned on to his side and reached inside his pocket for the Glock. Fletcher kicked the man in the face. The blow knocked him to the floor. Fletcher raised his foot and brought all of his weight down on Borgia’s neck and snapped it and Borgia lay still.

Fletcher grabbed the Glock and ejected the magazine clip. It contained eight hollow-tipped rounds. The teenager was curled up against the floor, whimpering, his shaking arms covering his head. Like Borgia, he wore mismatched clothing. No shoes, just woollen socks. There were no pipes hanging from the ceiling.

Fletcher moved to the teenager. ‘I’m going to bring you out of here,’ he whispered. ‘Take my hand. Stay behind me and stay quiet.’

Marie didn’t get dressed and she didn’t head to the car. She was sitting in Brandon’s chair, staring in disbelief at the computer screen. Malcolm Fletcher had escaped from his cage and now Alexander lay dead and the monster was talking to Jimmy Weeks.

Brandon. Marie jumped to her feet and reached for her handbag, almost knocking the laptop off the table. Brandon was heading down there to help Alexander and she had to warn him. She grabbed her cell and dialled his number, hoping to God he had it with him.

The phone rang. She looked back at the laptop and saw the monster hunched near the doorway leading into the hall. The phone rang a second time and she looked at another computer window, this one showing the hall. Brandon was creeping across the floor, heading towards Fletcher. She realized her mistake and hung up.