The Killing House mf-1

by Chris Mooney

  ‘I have five thousand dollars in my suit pocket,’ Corrigan said, his eyes brightening with purpose. ‘I’ve also got another fifty grand in cash stored inside a safe at my house.’

  Fletcher slid one end of the jack into the iPhone.

  ‘Take me with you and the cash is yours,’ Corrigan said.

  Fletcher slid the other end of the jack into his own phone.

  ‘ Goddamnit, listen to me! ’

  Fletcher pressed the iPhone’s on-screen button for the speakerphone.

  ‘I’m begging you,’ Corrigan sputtered. ‘In the name of God please don’t do this.’

  ‘You have nothing to fear, Doctor. I’ll be standing right behind you to lend moral support.’

  Fletcher slid the chair back up against the table.

  ‘I’m not speaking to him,’ Corrigan said.

  Fletcher pressed the on-screen button to dial the number.

  ‘Please don’t do this.’

  On the first ring Fletcher picked up the cleaver.

  ‘Please,’ Corrigan whimpered. ‘Please, I’ll do anything but this.’

  Another ring and the line on the other end picked up: ‘What’s up, Gary?’ Jenner had a deep and nasal voice. He sounded nervous.

  Corrigan wouldn’t answer. Kept his lips clamped shut.

  Fletcher pressed the cleaver against the doctor’s throat.

  ‘Gary, you there?’ Jenner asked.

  ‘I’m here,’ Corrigan answered, his voice pinched tight.

  ‘Can this wait?’ Jenner asked. ‘I’m just about to stop for some gas. I should be there in twenty minutes or so.’

  ‘No.’ The doctor cleared his throat, started again. ‘No, it can’t wait.’

  ‘Is it Santiago? Is the infection under control?’

  Corrigan couldn’t reply; Fletcher had clamped a hand over the man’s mouth.

  Corrigan trembled, beads of sweat dripping on to the plate. When he failed to answer Jenner’s question, Jenner said, ‘Jesus Christ.’ Heavy breathing, and when Jenner spoke again, his voice kept rising: ‘You said the infection was under control — said we had nothing to worry about. What the hell happened?’

  Fletcher whispered his instructions into Corrigan’s ear.

  Jenner waited for an answer. The silence lingered.

  ‘Don’t tell me Santiago died,’ Jenner said, his tone full of dread. ‘Please don’t tell me that.’

  Fletcher looked at his phone. The software had locked on to Jenner’s signal; the man was eighteen miles from the house.

  Plenty of time, he thought, and released his grip on the cleaver.

  Corrigan said, ‘Our patient is doing fine. Are you coming alone?’

  A grateful sigh of relief echoed over the speakerphone. ‘Jesus, you had me scared there for a moment,’ Jenner said. ‘How’re your hands holding up? You ready for surgery?’

  ‘Are you coming alone?’ Corrigan asked again.

  ‘I’ve got Marcus with me. The others will be arriving around nine or so. Why? What’s going on?’

  Corrigan couldn’t answer the question; Fletcher had terminated the call.

  Fletcher came out from behind the chair. ‘Your patient, Santiago,’ he said, collecting his phone and equipment. ‘I want his full name.’

  ‘Nathan,’ Corrigan replied, trembling. ‘Nathan Santiago.’ He fought back tears. ‘I’m sorry I lied, but you have to understand — ’

  ‘Do you want to save your life, Doctor?’

  ‘God, yes.’

  ‘Rico Herrera. Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know their names.’

  ‘How many others are there?’

  ‘I don’t know. I swear to God I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘You said that last time. Why should I believe you now?’

  ‘Three, I think,’ Corrigan said. ‘There are three others. At least.’

  Are, Fletcher thought. There are three others. Present tense. ‘They’re alive,’ he said.

  Corrigan nodded, then broke down, sobbing.

  ‘Where?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘Let me go and I’ll take you there.’

  ‘Give me an address, and I’ll consider it.’

  ‘No. You have to take me with you.’

  Fletcher felt a spike of anger. He looked at the cleaver.

  ‘I won’t tell you,’ Corrigan said. ‘You have to take me there.’

  Fletcher couldn’t take both Corrigan and the man lying upstairs, Nathan Santiago. There wasn’t enough time.

  ‘If you don’t take me with you,’ Corrigan said, ‘you’ll never find them.’

  ‘And the surgery you’re due to perform?’

  ‘I’ll explain everything once we arrive at our destination. Then I’ll disappear, you have my word. Now hurry up and untie me before — ’

  Fletcher hit Corrigan in the throat.

  The doctor’s head whipped back, his face turning a dark crimson as he sucked in air in painful, broken gasps.

  The second blow crushed the man’s larynx.

  Fletcher balled up the dishcloth and stuffed it in the man’s mouth. Corrigan bucked and thrashed against his restraints, the cutlery and plates rattling against the table. The FlexiCuffs tying him to the chair had cut through his skin, and he was bleeding. Fletcher picked up the wine bottle, shoved the man’s head back and poured the wine into the dishcloth. Corrigan started to choke. Fletcher turned the empty, heavy bottle in his hands and swung it across the man’s face, shattering his nose. He swung the bottle again and smashed it against Corrigan’s temple.

  35

  As the doctor started to die, his brain bleeding out from the two blows and his muscles convulsing in protest, Fletcher removed a small, battery-powered audio bug from a tactical pouch. He peeled off the self-adhesive strip and stuck the bug underneath the table. Then he pulled the dishcloth from the man’s mouth.

  Wine and blood and shattered teeth splashed down across Corrigan’s chest, splattering the dinner plate and staining the tablecloth. Fletcher quickly wiped his gloved hands on his black trousers and then opened another pouch and retrieved a small, circular object the size of a pencil eraser. He jerked the doctor’s head back and shoved the GPS transmitter past the slick tongue and down the man’s throat. To make sure it stayed in the man’s stomach, Fletcher stuffed the dishcloth back into Corrigan’s mouth.

  He left the doctor’s iPhone on the table. He made two quick stops, in the living room and kitchen, before heading back upstairs.

  Gary Corrigan’s patient was no longer on the bed. The nightstand near the window had been overturned, the drawers pulled open; Nathan Santiago, semi-conscious, clawed at them as he lay sprawled against the floor, moaning, his drowsy eyes blinking, trying to focus on the objects blurred by his Demerol haze.

  Fletcher darted inside the master bedroom, stepped back inside the walk-in closet and found a hiding spot for a second audio bug. He picked up the evidence bag holding the highball glass on his way out.

  Nathan Santiago saw Fletcher approaching and held up a shaky arm to shield his face.

  ‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ Fletcher said, kneeling. Corrigan’s long camelhair overcoat was draped over his arm. He placed it on the floor. ‘I’m going to bring you someplace safe. Lie still while I take this out.’ Fletcher removed the IV needle and covered the puncture wound with one of the fresh bandages scattered along the carpet. Then he helped the man sit up.

  Santiago didn’t fight him. Corrigan’s roomy overcoat swam over the thin, frail body.

  The man clearly couldn’t stand on his own, even with assistance. He needed to be carried. Fletcher scooped him into his arms, his broken ribs exploding in pain. He fought his way through it and carried the shivering body out of the bedroom.

  During his previous trip to the kitchen, Fletcher had opened the sliding glass door. He moved outside and down the porch steps, then across the dark garden, Santiago was as light and frail as a bird in his arms. He opened the gate and, cradling Santiago agai
nst his chest, moved down the leafy slope. He had reached the main trail when he heard the roar of a car engine followed by a peel of tyres.

  The trip to the parking lot was prolonged by his injury. Fletcher reached his car, winded, sweating despite the cold air. With a press of a button the Jaguar’s lights flashed as the doors unlocked. He laid Santiago across the backseat, folding the man’s limp arms across his chest, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.

  Fletcher staggered to the trunk. He opened it, placed the evidence bag inside and removed the small leather briefcase holding his netbook. He drove out of the lot and headed back to the house.

  36

  Having become well acquainted with the neighbourhood during his surveillance, Fletcher knew a location where he could watch the house without arousing any suspicion.

  He plugged his netbook into the cigarette lighter as he drove. The computer, resting on the passenger’s seat, booted up quickly. Ten minutes later, as he climbed up the steep hill, the program he needed had been loaded. He pulled over and set the audio bugs to record the conversations they overheard to the hard drive.

  Fletcher cut the car lights and slid against the kerb, stopping when he saw the Colonial at the far end of the hill. He had an excellent view of the garage. Its exterior sensor lights had turned on, and he could see the car parked in the driveway.

  The monocular aided his view.

  The car was a silver Lexus sedan. He couldn’t see the plates, not yet. Turning to the passenger’s seat, he pressed the computer key for the audio bug tucked underneath the dining-room table. Footsteps clicking across the hardwood floors echoed over the netbook’s small speakers.

  Faint voices spoke and Fletcher turned up the volume.

  ‘… not upstairs,’ said a phlegmy male voice. Not Jenner’s voice. Jenner had told Corrigan he had a passenger with him, a man named Marcus.

  ‘The sliding glass door in the kitchen is open,’ Jenner said. ‘He’s probably loose somewhere on the trails.’

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘That big parking lot at Gwynns Falls, maybe — no, stay here. We wouldn’t make it in time.’

  Shoes crunched across broken glass. They had entered the dining room.

  ‘Jesus,’ Marcus said.

  Jenner said nothing.

  ‘No cop would’ve done something like this,’ Marcus said.

  Jenner did not comment.

  ‘The doc say anything about who did this to him?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘No.’

  The trill of a ringing phone played over the netbook’s speakers. Fletcher heard Jenner speaking to the caller. ‘I’m here… I’m standing in the dining room right now… He’s dead… No. I don’t know where he is. This guy must’ve taken him… No, it was open… No, just me. Marcus didn’t go upstairs, that’s your… Okay.’

  Jenner lapsed into silence. Fletcher checked his rearview mirror. Nathan Santiago was still unconscious.

  ‘Load the doc into the car,’ Jenner said. A new tone in his voice: fear. ‘Use a body bag.’

  ‘And take him where?’

  ‘Your place, for now. I’ll meet you there later.’

  ‘You’re not coming?’

  ‘I’ve got a few things to do here first. Call Rick on your way, tell him to keep everyone at the hotel.’

  ‘They might as well hop back on their jets and go on home,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Get moving — and make sure no one follows you.’

  ‘You think this guy’s lurking around?’

  ‘I just don’t want to take any chances.’

  Over the computer speakers, the footsteps walked away and then faded.

  Fletcher called up another program. He switched to the audio bug placed inside the closet, then called up another program and keyed in the alphanumeric serial number for the transmitter he’d placed inside Corrigan’s stomach. The transmitter was broadcasting perfectly.

  He watched the garage through the monocular, listening to Jenner’s heavy breathing inside the closet, the crinkle of plastic as the man touched the garment bags.

  ‘Oh my God, Jesus Christ,’ Jenner mumbled to himself.

  The garage door opened. Fletcher watched a heavy-set man dart outside — Jenner’s companion, the man named Marcus. He got behind the wheel of the Lexus, pulled into the street and then backed into the garage. Fletcher caught the licence plate and committed it to memory.

  He turned down the volume on the netbook and called Karim.

  ‘I need a private doctor,’ Fletcher said after Karim answered. ‘Preferably one in Baltimore.’

  ‘How badly were you injured?’

  ‘Not me. Someone else. His name is Nathan Santiago. I sent his fingerprints to your computer, along with prints for a Baltimore resident and former surgeon named Gary Corrigan.’ Fletcher briefed Karim on what had transpired, stopping short when the Lexus pulled out of the garage and drove away in the opposite direction.

  He stole a glance at the netbook’s screen. The GPS unit inside Corrigan’s stomach was still transmitting.

  Fletcher had resumed his conversation, nearly finishing it when a black Lincoln town car with tinted windows pulled up alongside the driveway. Another Baltimore plate.

  ‘I need you to run two plate numbers for me,’ Fletcher said.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Fletcher read off both numbers.

  ‘Let me get to work on finding you a doctor,’ Karim said. ‘I’ll call you back.’

  Seventeen minutes later, the front door opened. A potato-shaped Caucasian man with ruddy jowls stepped out, his leather-gloved hands clutching a white laundry sack. Jenner. The man shut the front door, testing the handle to make sure it was locked, and then waddled to the waiting car, the wind lifting the fine grey and white hairs combed over his balding pate.

  Jenner dropped the sack into the Lincoln’s trunk and shut it. He didn’t get into the passenger’s seat; he climbed into the back.

  Fletcher slid back in his seat as the Lincoln drove up the hill. He heard it whisk past him a moment later. He readjusted his seat, watching the glowing tail-lights in the side mirror growing dimmer. He started the car and, looking back at the Colonial, saw bright flames jumping from behind the windows. Jenner had set fire to the house.

  37

  Will Jenner badly wanted a cigarette but he was afraid lighting one would blow up the car. He had spilled gas on his shoes, trousers and overcoat. His hands reeked of it, and fumes filled the Lincoln. He had cracked open his window to help air out the car.

  Fortunately, he had recently decided (again) to try to stop smoking and had a blister pack of nicotine gum tucked in his jacket pocket. Shit tasted like burnt pepper, but the important thing was the nicotine. He needed it to help soothe his frayed nerves.

  He hadn’t told the buyers what had happened. They were waiting at the hotel, three of them — two who had flown in from Texas, the other from California. They had all arrived on private jets paid for by the clients they represented. Jenner had worked with these three men on a number of occasions over the years. They were expecting to be picked up at their hotel and driven to the house in Dickeyville. There, they would go upstairs and inspect the merchandise. Clients paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for the young organs Marie Clouzot and Brandon Arkoff provided, and the buyers always insisted on inspecting the merchandise. They had been burned before in the past, but not by Jenner. They knew him to be a professional, a man of his word, a man who ran things smoothly and didn’t make excuses.

  Once they had seen the merchandise and had their questions answered, money would be exchanged in cash because wire transfers left a trace that could potentially lead back to him. Then everyone would go downstairs and enjoy a fine meal provided by Clouzot while Arkoff and the surgeon, Corrigan, took the merchandise to a separate facility to harvest the organs. An hour or two would pass before the coolers would arrive at the house. The buyers would be driven to the airport, hop on their private planes and deliver the coolers to their
clients, who were standing by and anxiously awaiting the organs that would prolong, if not save, the life of a spouse or child. This schedule had been followed meticulously for the good part of the last decade, without so much as a single wrinkle. Tonight everything had gone to hell in a handcart, and he didn’t have a clue as to what had happened back at the Clouzot and Arkoff house.

  And Marie Clouzot, who was sitting next to him in the backseat, bundled up in a fur coat and wearing fancy jewels — the only thing she cared about was whether anyone had accessed her bedroom closet. She didn’t want to discuss how to handle the buyers. No, she wanted him to go inside that creepy closet of hers and collect the eleven sets of human ashes. Then she ordered him to set fire to her house. The gas cans were inside the garage.

  Were Arkoff and Clouzot shutting down their operation? It sure seemed that way.

  Would she broach the subject with him? Or would Arkoff do it? He was sitting behind the wheel, a big man who looked like spoiled vanilla pudding poured into a cheap suit. His face had been disfigured from some sort of accident, and whoever had put Humpty Dumpty back together had done a pretty decent job. The raised surgical scars were razor thin and camouflaged by make-up. But there was no amount of make-up in the world that could hide the man’s drooping eyelid, the thick scars that were visible on his scalp.

  Jenner suspected Arkoff wouldn’t say anything. He rarely spoke — at least to him. Jenner dealt exclusively with Clouzot, who also had a frightening appearance from what he suspected was a botched facelift.

  Jenner had waited long enough. Turning in his seat, he saw that she was still crying. Her mascara had run, giving her already bizarre features an even more ghoulish appearance.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To see the children,’ she said.

  Jenner had no idea where she kept them, had never asked. Not at the funeral home they owned, he thought. Arkoff was driving in the opposite direction.

  ‘You have someone to replace Santiago?’ Jenner hoped to God she did. Santiago had had a rare blood type, one that had commanded a substantial cash bonus for all the parties involved.