Chris Mooney - The Killing House

He gave her Weeks’s name and phone number, told her where the teenager was from and followed it up with a concise summary of what had happened. M told Fletcher where to bring Jimmy Weeks. She gave him an address and directions, and they spent the remaining minutes discussing strategy and tactics.

When Fletcher hung up, he tossed the phone out of his window. The teenager watched from the backseat. Fletcher told him the truth.

‘I don’t want the police to trace it. My reasons have to do with the man who attacked you. That man was a federal agent. The police and the FBI are looking for him. I need to make sure you arrive safely.

‘The person I just spoke with works for a security company — one that specializes in finding missing people,’ Fletcher said. ‘Her company is going to contact your parents and let them know you’re safe. When you meet her, she’s going to give you a phone so you can call your parents. The important thing to remember is that you’re safe.’

Jimmy Weeks gave a small nod and then retreated behind his blank gaze.

‘If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If you have any questions, I’ll answer them. If you prefer to be left alone, I understand. Again, the important thing to remember is that you’re safe.’

Weeks was no longer listening. He had buried his face in his hands, sobbing.

Fletcher reached Cherry Hill, New Jersey, in two hours. It took him another twenty minutes to locate the name of the street M had given him.

The road, long and wide, snaked its way through a quiet suburban neighbourhood of pleasant and well-kept middle-class homes. He took a right and saw, far ahead and parked against the kerb, the same Jeep he’d driven to meet M earlier in the day.

Fletcher parked a good distance away. He killed the lights and engine. M stepped out of the Jeep and headed towards him, a phone pressed up against her ear.

Fletcher turned around in his seat to speak to Jimmy Weeks. ‘This is the woman I told you about, the one who works for the security company. Her name is M, like the letter. She’s going to take you to a house, the white Colonial at the end of the cul-de-sac. The house belongs to a friend of hers — a friend who also works at the same security company.

‘I need to speak to this woman in private for a moment. Please stay inside the car. When I’m finished, she’ll take you to the house to call your parents.’

‘Before you go,’ Weeks said. ‘I just… you know.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Fletcher lingered near the front bumper as M finished her conversation.

She hung up and said, ‘People from our Philadelphia office are at the Weeks home right now. The police are there, and the FBI. They’ve been handling the phone traces in case James Weeks calls.’

‘Have you spoken with Karim’s lawyers?’

‘Several times. They’re in heated negotiations with federal prosecutors.’

‘What kind of negotiations?’

‘The FBI is willing to drop the charges against Karim in exchange for the surveillance videos from the New Jersey house, and all information he has regarding you. Karim told them to go to hell.’

I’m sure he did, Fletcher thought. ‘And what have Karim’s lawyers advised you to do?’

‘To keep my head low for the time being.’

Fletcher unbuckled his leather belt.

M eyed him curiously.

‘There’s a micro-camera installed inside the buckle,’ he said. ‘Open it and you’ll find a micro-SD card. I started recording the moment I woke up in my cage.’

‘What’s on it?’

‘Borgia’s confession, Marie Clouzot, all of it. The video will show me killing Borgia. You can tell your lawyers that I coerced you into helping me. They’ll help you concoct a proper story. It doesn’t matter what you say, really, because once federal prosecutors see the video stored on that micro-SD card, they’ll do anything to prevent the truth from coming to light.’

‘Karim won’t stand for that,’ she said. ‘Neither will I.’

‘Marie Clouzot was carrying a laptop. It’s in the Mercedes, on the front seat.’

‘What’s on it?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll find out.’ Fletcher handed over his belt. ‘We’ve spoken long enough. Get Mr Weeks to the house so he can speak to his parents.’

‘You’re leaving, aren’t you?’

‘I have to.’

‘Why? You just told me this video contains Borgia’s confession.’

‘The government will never stop hunting me,’ Fletcher said. ‘They’ll never admit to framing me for a crime I never committed.’

‘Which is all the more reason why you need to fight this.’

‘If I want to stay alive, I need to keep moving.’

M said nothing.

‘Did you manage to find me a coat?’ he asked.

‘In the backseat of the Jeep. There’s money in the pockets.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I will… I hope to see you again.’

M darted behind the wheel of the Mercedes and shut the door before he could reply.

Fletcher approached the Jeep. M had brought him a black winter parka. It was stuffed with down. The size was perfect: an XXL. She had also purchased a hat and gloves for him.

The Mercedes whisked past him as he slid inside the jacket. He settled himself in the front seat and watched M help the teenager out of the backseat.

There was no reason to linger. James Weeks was now in safe and reliable hands.

Fletcher started the Jeep. He needed to go to New York to retrieve his Jaguar. Then he needed to find a place to hide. He mulled over several possible destinations as he drove away.

Celine Strauss had celebrated the arrival of spring in Boston with a weekly ritual. Every Friday after work she stopped by the Oak Bar and ordered the same drink: a pomegranate and cucumber mojito. At nearly twenty bucks a pop, she drank no more than two. Money wasn’t the issue. At thirty-three, she was about to become a partner at Banks amp; King, one of Boston’s hottest public-relations firms. Any more than two mojitos, and someone would have to carry her to a cab. She was well past the age where she went out on Friday and Saturday evenings and got sloppy drunk — especially at an establishment like the Oak Bar.

The Oak Bar was part of the Oak Room, the city’s premier steakhouse. Located inside the Tony Fairmont Hotel at Copley Plaza, the restaurant and bar resembled an old-fashioned cigar room decorated with Victorian flair — a small, intimate space crammed with tables and furniture, surrounded by rich, dark wood, chandeliers and heavy maroon brocade curtains with gold stitching. The place was a magnet for professional men. While she had never been in the market for a husband — she had no desire to have children or to settle down just because all her friends had — she did enjoy men, and the Oak Room offered an abundance of intelligent and successful candidates.

Celine went in looking sharp. She wore a dark charcoal pencil skirt and a matching jacket cut so it seemed stylish without being flamboyant. The shoes were tasteful open-toe pumps, and her jewellery was plain but elegant: diamond stud earrings and a Cartier watch. As she walked across the small dining room to the bar, she caught the stares of several men, most of them old enough to be her grandfather.

It was half past seven and there were no available chairs at the bar. She moved to the far-left corner, sidled up to the edge of the polished wood and waited for the bartender. The man to her right was nursing a scotch while he scrolled through his BlackBerry. The man to her left was reading a newspaper — that morning’s edition of the Boston Globe.

He stood, and Celine was taken aback by how incredibly tall he was. His black suit jacket had been tailored to accommodate his broad shoulders and long arms. He motioned to his chair.