The Killing House mf-1

by Chris Mooney

  Fletcher took out Brandon Arkoff’s cell phone as he raced around the side of the brick-faced building. It was three-storeys high, weathered and desolate, all the windows covered with security grilles.

  The alleyway dumped him into a street of similar brick buildings. They were covered in graffiti, and the windows were broken. He turned left, the tyres spinning, and as he tore across the road he saw a weathered sign hanging from the front of the building: DECKLER amp; SONS PRINTING. He also found a street sign.

  He called 911. A police dispatcher for the city of Baltimore picked up. He told the woman on the other end of the line about the bomb and gave her the address and the name of the building. Told her it had been set off by Brandon Arkoff and Marie Clouzot. Told her the bomb was planted most likely somewhere in the basement, told her she should evacuate the area, repeated the address and hung up. There was nothing more he could do. He took solace in the fact that the printing press was located in a desolate area of other vacant buildings. Collateral damage would be minimal, perhaps non-existent. Every street he passed was empty.

  Fletcher glanced at his rearview mirror. The teenager was exhibiting the outward physical signs of shock: sweating, rapid breathing and blank stares.

  ‘I need to contact your parents,’ Fletcher said. ‘What’s your name?’

  The teenager’s face was bloodless. He shook violently in shock and fear at what he’d just endured, at the pair of strange, black eyes staring at him from the rearview mirror.

  ‘Jimmy Weeks. That’s my name. I’m from Petersburg, Pennsylvania.’

  Fletcher asked for the boy’s home number. Weeks gave it to him.

  Fletcher’s next call was to M. She answered her disposable cell. He told her he couldn’t stay on long, then quickly explained that he’d used this phone to call 911. M didn’t ask questions. She knew any 911 call placed to a police dispatcher anywhere in the country was automatically traced. He figured he had no more than five minutes until Baltimore dispatch triangulated his cell signal.

  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.

  85

  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.

  86

  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 thir
ty-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.

  ‘That’s not necessary,’ she said. ‘I can wait for one to open up.’

  ‘Or you could simply take this one.’ The man graciously held out the chair for her. ‘Please.’

  ‘Well, if you insist. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  The bartender came over. Celine ordered her drink and then turned slightly in her seat to the man who had just offered up his chair. She thought he was going to come on to her. She hoped he would. He was classically handsome, with chiselled features and a pair of deep green eyes — and his British accent was lovely.

  Instead, he pushed the bridge of his black-framed glasses up his nose and went back to reading. His hair, thick and black, fell over the back collar of his shirt and nearly covered his ears. Normally she preferred a man with a more conservative haircut, but he carried the style well. He radiated confidence.

  Celine wasn’t the only woman who had noticed the tall, muscular Englishman. She saw several gazes around the bar stealing glances at him.

  She was wondering how old he was when the bartender returned with her mojito.

  The man was still reading the newspaper.

  She had finished half her drink when she turned to him and said, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  She leaned closer and tapped the Globe ’s headline banner: ‘Hospital Grounds Searched for Remains of Former Patients’. The accompanying colour picture showed police and forensic archaeologists searching a dense and heavily wooded area in Harvard, Massachusetts — the site of a former hospital called the Graves Rehabilitation Center. The Gothic brick building, tall and intimidating, had caught fire sometime in the mid-eighties and subsequently closed.

  ‘Do you think it’s true?’ she asked. ‘That the FBI was involved in this clandestine research project that used patients for medical testing and buried their bodies?’

  ‘The federal agent, Borgia, admitted he was a patient in the Behavioral Modification Project, along with his two partners, Marie Clouzot and Brandon Arkoff. The Baltimore police found evidence connecting them to the abductions.’

  ‘The first two hospitals they searched, Texas and the other one.’

  ‘Philadelphia,’ he said. ‘The Spaulding Psychiatric Center.’

  ‘They didn’t find any buried remains on the hospital grounds. And now they’re searching this Graves place. They’ve been at it for nearly a week and haven’t found anything remotely sinister.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

  He looked sad when he said it.

  ‘I take it you’ve seen the video.’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he added.

  Celine knew what he meant. The video had gone viral two months ago. Like everyone else she had watched it. Once. She couldn’t stomach a second viewing. Seeing all those starving and near-dead people locked in dog cages and trapped inside that abandoned printing press in Baltimore, the shootings… it had given her nightmares.

  ‘Those poor children and their parents,’ Celine said, shuddering at the thought. ‘Still, there’s no concrete piece of evidence linking the victims to the FBI and that BMP thing. Even if it’s true, the FBI will squirm their way out of it. They always do.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m in public relations. The Bureau is a PR machine. No one can beat them when it comes to spinning a story.’

  The man smiled. He had nice teeth.

  ‘I think you may be right.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ she added with a smile of her own.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘I don’t place much trust in the government either. But unless solid evidence comes forward concerning this research project, I think the story will die out.’ Celine drank some of her mojito. ‘What about Malcolm Fletcher? Do you think he’s innocent?’

  ‘The video seems to suggest he is.’

  ‘True,’ she conceded. ‘He did rescue that boy, what’s his name.’

  ‘James Weeks.’

  ‘That’s it. But you know the saying, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’

  The man laughed quietly and picked up his glass. He was drinking bourbon. He polished it off and glanced at his watch.

  ‘Can I buy you another drink?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘But I’ll buy you one.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She offered a hand. ‘Celine Strauss.’

  ‘Francis Harvey. A pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise.’ She stood and touched his forearm as she leaned in and said, ‘Would you excuse me for a moment? I’ll be right back.’

  Celine went to the ladies’ room to freshen up. When she returned, she found a fresh mojito waiting for her, but Francis Harvey was gone.

  87

  Malcolm Fletcher drove his new vehicle, a used but sound Volvo, out of Boston. He was heading to the western part of the state, the Berkshires, where he had rented a secluded home under the name Francis Harvey.

  He had grown up during a time when payphones dominated nearly every city corner, restaurant and hospital. Cellular phones had slowly killed off the market, and, while payphones still existed, he had to use the Internet to find one.

  The payphone he used to speak with Karim was located several miles from his rental home, at a gas station, which was conveniently closed for renovations. Fletcher parked his car and walked through the cool evening, the surrounding woods throbbing with crickets.

  It was now mid-April and Karim was still inside Manhattan’s Sloan-Kettering Hospital, undergoing rehabilitation. Three evenings a week, at quarter past nine, his bodyguard would wheel him into a different hospital room to use a different phone. The FBI was still monitoring Karim’s home and business phone lines but had failed to secure a wiretap for the hospital switchboard.

  His lawyers were still in negotiations with federal prosecutors, who were working feverishly to prevent him or one of his people from leaking the surveillance video of Hostage Rescue Team Operator Daniel Jackman’s attempted murder of Ali Karim. Karim was using the video as a bargaining chip to force the FBI to go public with the names of the patients and doctors involved in the Behavioral Modi
fication Project.

  Fletcher used his smartphone to check his email. M had sent him an encrypted message telling him the number of the room where Karim would be this evening. Fletcher fed the quarters into the payphone.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘I don’t have any news for you, I’m afraid. The drinking glass from the closet had fingerprints on it — ’

  ‘And since the FBI owns and operates the fingerprint database, they won’t release Marie Clouzot’s real identity.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Karim said. ‘The Bureau is maintaining its stance that the Behavioral Modification Project, along with its doctors and nurses, never existed. As for the parents of James Weeks, they’re under federal protection. My lawyers can’t get access to them. I don’t know which one was involved with the project, but haven’t given up hope. My people are still working on it. We’re using the video as leverage to get either the mother or the father to come forward and admit their role in this and — ’

  ‘You need to stop this.’

  Karim laughed and started to cough.

  ‘I live for this.’

  ‘The FBI will never stop searching for me, even if you clear my name. You know that.’

  ‘What do you suggest I do?’ Karim asked. ‘Roll over?’

  ‘ “There are truths which are not for all men, nor for all times.” ’

  ‘Voltaire would think differently if he had to deal with the US government.’

  ‘Use the remaining videos to protect yourself — and M. As long as you have those videos, the FBI will leave you alone. You’ll be safe.’

  Karim was silent for a moment.

  ‘Until our next adventure, then.’

  Fletcher softly replaced the phone on the cradle. He was examining the night sky when he heard a woman’s scream.

  The sound came from the dark woods directly in front of him.

  Fisher cats and foxes, he knew, produced shrieks that mimicked a woman’s. The fox was especially prone to do so if it discovered its mate dead.

  He waited, listened for another scream. Seconds passed, and the only sound he heard came from the leaves rustling in the spring breeze.