Chris Mooney - The Killing House

Within a few days’ time, the skin would bruise and then fade. The cracked ribs would take at least six weeks to heal. The pain could be managed with ibuprofen.

Dressed in fresh clothing, he removed a Ziploc bag from his rucksack, went outside and packed it with snow. He wedged the chair back underneath the doorknob, propped up the pillows and sat down on the stiff bed. He took out a pad of paper, and with the cold plastic bag placed over his cracked ribs he sketched the face of the woman who’d shot him.

Time passed. Fortunately, there was no need to return to Key West. Before leaving Florida, he had wiped down the rental home and packed his meagre possessions inside the pair of suitcases resting in the Audi’s trunk. He had called the woman he’d been seeing, an art-gallery dealer, and told her that he had business in France and didn’t believe he would be returning to the States in the foreseeable future. The woman expressed her disappointment. It was a shame, she said; she’d liked the time they had spent together and had hoped their relationship would develop into something more serious.

Fletcher had thought about her during the long drive to Colorado. He wished he could have got to know her better. Stayed a bit longer.

Even if Karim hadn’t called, it was time to move on. Fletcher hadn’t been caught because he had followed a certain set of rules, the first of which was not staying in one spot for too long. He always had to be on the move, ready to run at a moment’s notice. He didn’t get too friendly with the locals, he didn’t make friends, and he avoided emotional entanglements. He had to lead a compartmentalized life and stay forever vigilant; if he grew, he would make mistakes. No rational person would choose to live this way, but this was his life, and there was nothing he could do to change it. It was what it was.

Fletcher stopped sketching and examined the result. Satisfied, he put the pad and pen aside and then lay down. He stared at a cobweb on the ceiling, wishing he had a bottle of Chateau Latour to keep him company.

The wind battered the motel room’s rickety windows. Fletcher wondered if he would die this way — alone in a motel room of beige frieze carpet, seeing, as his last images, bad watercolour landscapes hung in cheap frames on mustard-coloured walls.

He closed his eyes and, as though he had entered a private screening room, again replayed what had happened at the Herrera home. His attention kept drifting back to Theresa Herrera, kept seeing the woman sprawled across the foyer floor, her limp arm hanging over the threshold.

Malcolm Fletcher did not indulge much in regret. Still, he wished he could have saved the woman’s life. Wished he had acted sooner.

Fletcher woke early on Saturday, looked out the window and found the snowstorm was still raging. There was no way he could drive today. He paid for a second night and spent the morning inside his motel room working on his netbook. He wrote several pages of notes, ate the protein bars he kept in his rucksack, and used the room’s coffee-maker and complimentary packs of coffee.

Under normal driving conditions, it would take him sixteen hours to reach Chicago. But he had to factor in the storm. That would add extra time. He was on the road by early Sunday morning.

He reached Chicago on Monday morning, in the hour before dawn.

While he enjoyed most big cities — their large and fluid populations allowed him to wander without arousing suspicion — he was particularly fond of Chicago, drawn to its cosmopolitan history, its noted architecture and varied nightlife. He especially enjoyed watching the Cubs play at Wrigley Field.

Fletcher had purchased the townhouse for a song when the real-estate bubble burst during the financial crisis of 2007, which was, at least according to some prominent economists, still ongoing. Located in the historic Prairie Avenue District and nestled between multimillion-dollar mansions, the spacious, four-level brick home had been upgraded with modern amenities by the previous owner, who had also invested a considerable amount of money into custom lighting, two marble baths and a dual-zone HVAC system. Two large decks offered sweeping views of the area that had formed the city’s cultural and social fabric until the late 1800s.

The gourmet food shops near his townhouse were closed at this hour, as were the chain grocery stores. He would have to make do with the meagre and subpar offerings available at convenience stores. He made two stops and then continued to his destination.

Fletcher turned on to the private, tree-lined parkway. With the Jaguar taking up most of the garage’s small space, he had to edge his way carefully inside. He exited the Audi, retrieved the house and car keys from their hidden location, and left the garage through the side door. It was the middle of February; an unforgiving, bitterly cold Chicago wind greeted him as he made his way across the narrow flagstone walkway crusted with a film of ice and hard snow.

He knew no one had accessed the townhouse while he’d been away. He had installed a sophisticated, hidden security system in each of his homes; an email and text message would alert him of any intrusion. The townhouse had remained vacant and quiet. He was safe.

Fletcher entered through the patio-deck door and stepped into a well-designed and airy kitchen of beige walls and white crown moulding, stainless-steel appliances and rich cherry hardwood floors and units. Several paintings adorned the walls, the only decorations inside the house.

He drew back the curtains and opened the windows to let out the stale air. Stiff and sore from fighting crosswinds during the long drive, he headed upstairs to relax with a long shower.

Now he needed to change his appearance.

Fletcher shaved off his beard and then, using a pair of clippers, cut his hair short to conform to the shape of his head. He opened a cupboard door and surveyed the various salon-quality hair dyes he always kept on hand. He decided to go grey. Half an hour later, the process was complete.

He examined his new appearance in the mirror. He thought he looked like a retired Marine, but one who was still physically capable of battle.

The passports and accompanying documentation he needed were stored in a floor safe inside the master bedroom’s walk-in closet. He found the one for Robert Pepin and noted the man’s green eyes before slipping the passport, driver’s licence and credit cards into the pocket of a pair of pinstriped light grey trousers. He selected a white shirt. Like all of his clothes, it had been custom-made to accommodate his 50-inch chest, large neck and long arms.

Fletcher rolled up the shirt cuffs, put on a dark navy-blue vest and retired to the corner leather armchair to meditate. Twenty minutes later, he blinked awake. Rested, his head clear, he retrieved the notes he had made inside his motel room. He transferred the information to three sheets of paper, tucked them inside a manila folder and headed back downstairs to the kitchen.

The doorbell rang promptly at 6 a.m. Fletcher opened the front door and saw Karim. The man wore a beat-up driving cap that matched the rest of his bargain-basement attire — a threadbare flannel shirt, wrinkled chinos and scuffed burgundy loafers that needed to be resoled.

‘You didn’t have to dress up on my behalf,’ Karim said.

‘It’s called blending in, Ali. If I dressed like you, I’d draw attention from the neighbours.’

Karim chuckled as he stepped inside the wide marble foyer. Gripped in his hands were a bulky plastic case and a brown shopping bag. He dropped the case on the floor and with a grim smile handed the shopping bag to Fletcher.

Inside was a new bulletproof vest.

‘It’s a Modular Tactical Vest — the same one used by the Marines,’ Karim said, taking off his cap. His hair, as thick as porcupine needles, was still black, but his grey sideburns had turned white. ‘Modular PALS webbing, integrated side SAPI pouches and a quick-release system to remove it in case of an emergency. There are also integrated channels for communications wiring.’