The Killing House

by Chris Mooney

  Fletcher examined the other stapled sheets. Same three pages, same order forms. The buyers were all from Southern states with little or no gun or ammo restrictions. Since the United States Postal Service prohibited the mailing of ammunition or any other item it considered to be ‘ORM-D’, or ‘Other Regulated Materials for Domestic Transport Only’, shipping services for Sacred Ashes were performed by UPS and FedEx, as the two private transport companies had no restrictions on shipping firearms or ammunition, provided it complied with the state’s particular gun laws.

  Fletcher moved inside the kitchen. It was small and held an industrial-sized rubbish bin overflowing with empty beer cans, pizza boxes and fast-food containers. Five quick steps and he entered a sparsely furnished room containing a flat-screen TV propped up on milk crates and a pair of second-hand sofas covered with pillows and blankets. It appeared that the owners slept here during weekends and, possibly, after working late into the night on weekdays, rather than making the hour-long drive back to Midland City.

  The adjoining hall, short and dim, led to two bedrooms. The one at the far end was empty, but the other was used as an office. There was only a desk, a cheap, pressboard thing sold at office-supply stores. Its top held a telephone, a laptop and an assortment of opened and unopened mail. The desk’s rolling side drawer held hanging file folders.

  He removed a portable hard drive the size of a deck of playing cards. After plugging it into the laptop, he slid a CD into the tray. He turned on the laptop. The software on the CD automatically engaged, collecting every scrap of data stored on the laptop’s hard drive and writing copies to the portable drive.

  Fletcher sat in the chair, about to start rooting through the hanging file folders, when he heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching truck.

  24

  Fletcher got to his feet. Having encountered such scenarios dozens of times over the course of his life, he felt no sense of danger or unease. It could simply be a passing vehicle. Or, if one or both owners were about to arrive, he could dart back to the bedroom office, quickly gather his things and escape. He would not be seen or caught.

  The bedroom across the hall overlooked the front of the house. He pulled back the dusty blinds. A truck was pulling off the main road – a Ford 350 Super Duty painted black and covered in dirt and dried mud. A diesel engine, judging by the sound.

  The truck parked round the front. The driver didn’t kill the engine. Left it running as he opened the door and got out holding a big, metal toolbox. A rotund older man with a thick white beard: Santa Claus dressed in cheap flannel. He dropped the toolbox on the porch, turned and moved back to the truck.

  Fletcher returned to the office. It took him only a few seconds to find the folder holding the company’s completed order forms. He removed the thick stack of paper and then checked the rest of the hanging-file folders. Finding nothing else of value, he slid the drawer shut.

  He checked the laptop. The software was still running. He leaned back in the chair and rifled through the stapled sheets. Thirty-six completed orders dating back to early March of last year.

  Placing the papers on the desk, he leaned forward, pulled up his left trouser leg and removed the Velcro straps securing the portable scanner to his calf. The wand-size cordless device scanned a black-and-white document in two seconds, storing the images on the unit’s micro-SD card.

  He slid the scanner across the first page, then the next. Within four minutes he had scanned all 108 pages. He had to wait another six minutes for the CD software to finish copying the files to his portable hard drive.

  His gear packed up and tucked away, Fletcher left through the back door and jogged across the field to retrieve his backpack from the tree.

  Having been condemned to a life of constant vigilance, Fletcher was forced to take every conceivable precaution to make sure he wouldn’t be caught. While he had found no evidence to suggest that he had been followed here, he could never entirely dismiss such a possibility. His rental car, locked and parked on the hidden trail in the woods, had been left unattended for the past hour.

  Fletcher spent several minutes sweeping the car for listening devices or a GPS-tracking system. Finding it clean, he drove like a man who knew he was being followed. He watched the rearview and side mirrors for any signs of a trail – a task made much simpler by the remote setting and its lack of vehicles – and conducted the normal counter-surveillance measures. Deciding it was safe to return to the airport, he called Karim.

  The conversation was brief. Fletcher explained the items he’d recovered. Karim didn’t ask any questions and assured him everything he needed was on board the plane. They picked a meeting spot.

  An hour later, Fletcher parked his rental car and made his way across the lot. It was half past five and there was still light in the Alabama sky, the February air still pleasantly cool – a much welcome relief after Chicago’s frigid temperature and biting winds.

  He found Karim waiting near a flagpole in front of a brick-faced building. Only waiting wasn’t an accurate description. The man was smoking and pacing at a furious clip, like an expectant father from the time when men weren’t allowed in delivery rooms, leaving him to fret while his wife underwent the world’s most difficult childbirth. Karim, Fletcher knew, always acted this way at the start of a hunt. He kept fuelling the adrenalin with too much coffee and nicotine.

  ‘Good, you’re here,’ Karim said. ‘I was thinking, this information you recovered –’

  ‘You want Miss White to analyse the data I recovered from the company laptop while you and I sort through the scanned documents. It will save time, and possibly allow us to identify our shooter before the plane lands in Chicago.’

  ‘Either you’ve developed psychic abilities, or I need to develop a better poker face.’

  ‘You intended to use her from the very start, Ali. That’s why you brought her along.’

  ‘I’ve come to rely heavily on M’s talents.’

  ‘That is, of course, your choice. But I won’t be joining you on the return flight.’

  Karim’s expression turned stoic. ‘After all our time together, do you honestly believe I’d bring someone into the fold who would put your freedom in danger?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But you’re not living under the sword of Damocles. A man in my position has to be careful.’

  ‘I know this woman, Malcolm. I trust her as much as I trust you, which is considerably.’

  ‘Be that as it may, the three-million-dollar bounty on my head might change her mind.’

  ‘Your fears are unwarranted. Even if she knew who you really are – and she doesn’t – M would never do such a thing. She’s incapable of it.’

  ‘ “Passion persuades me one way, reason another.” ’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I forgot to bring along my copy of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotes.’

  ‘Clearly this woman has cast some sort of spell on you. You should see the way you simper in her presence.’

  Karim chuckled as he dropped the last of his cigarette.

  ‘I’m not judging you,’ Fletcher said. ‘In addition to being attractive, she projects a rather intense magnetism. Your choice of paramours is your business, but I would suggest you exercise caution.’

  ‘Oh, and why’s that?’

  ‘Ali, the woman is young enough to be your daughter.’

  ‘That she is,’ Karim said, stubbing out the cigarette butt with his heel. ‘She is, in fact, my daughter.’

  25

  ‘My adopted daughter,’ Karim said, fetching the crumpled cigarette pack from his shirt pocket. ‘My simpering, as you called it, is nothing more than the expression of a proud father.’

  Fletcher, taken aback by Karim’s admission, said nothing.

  During the course of their professional relationship, Karim had made it abundantly clear that he would never remarry, let alone have another child. Burying his son and having to endure the painful mental disintegration of his former wife had banished Karim to a private
hell from which few emerged. When he had finally managed to claw his way back to the demands of the living, Karim made the conscious decision to conduct his emotional life from within a fortified prison. He kept people at a distance, and in his private life the handful of women who had aroused his interest had been amputated like a necrotic limb the instant they expressed the wish for a serious emotional connection. Fletcher knew this was partly a coping mechanism but even more an act of self-flagellation. Karim refused to forgive himself for having failed to protect his child.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘The adoption? Officially, when she turned sixteen.’ Karim lit his cigarette. ‘No one knows about it. Not even Boyd. I took some rather elaborate and extensive measures to make sure no one could find out. You’re not the only one with powerful enemies, Malcolm.’

  Clearly there was more to the adoption story, and Karim’s connection to a woman who had been born and raised on the other side of the pond. Fletcher’s natural investigative instincts prompted him to delve further, but this matter was none of his business, and counter-productive to the issue at hand.

  ‘How long has she been working with you?’

  ‘Since she graduated from university,’ Karim said. ‘M came to the States and went to work in my IT department. She lasted about a year. She found the work mundane and tedious, and so asked if she could work directly with me. I hired her as my personal assistant. During that time, I noticed that she possessed a certain unique set of skills, which could be invaluable to my … side projects.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘The last two years. M performs all the computer work so it can’t be traced back to my company.’

  ‘What’s this “M” business?’

  Karim shrugged. ‘That’s what she likes to be called.’

  ‘And she’s aware of what you and I do?’

  ‘She’s aware of what I do, yes. That’s how much I trust her, Malcolm. But she doesn’t know about you. I would never betray our confidence.’

  Fletcher knew this to be true. Karim was a man of his word.

  ‘And I would certainly never do anything that might jeopardize your freedom – our freedom, as I’m the one who’s aiding and abetting a known fugitive. I have no doubts concerning M. That being said, I should have told you when we were in Chicago. I know the value you put on your privacy. My apologies.’

  ‘How much does she know about the case?’

  ‘She did the data mining on the Herrera family,’ Karim said. ‘At the moment, her knowledge is limited to the information she recovered from the Internet and various databases. She knows I was in contact with Theresa Herrera regarding her missing son. She also knows about the bombing, but I didn’t tell her about your involvement or about the shooter.

  ‘If you allow M to work with us on this – and I think you should, Malcolm – you can control the flow of information, the extent to which she’s involved. Or you can work this privately and report back to me. Your choice.’

  Fletcher didn’t need to think it over; he had already made up his mind. He indicated his intentions by motioning to the airport building, curious as to what made the mysterious M so special – and how the young woman had penetrated Karim’s ironclad, wounded heart.

  Fletcher preferred reading to be a tactile experience. He didn’t want to read the scanned order forms from Sacred Ashes on his netbook computer screen. When he boarded the plane, he headed to the back and plugged the scanner’s micro-SD card into Karim’s high-speed laser printer. M, seated in the rear of the plane and hunkered over a MacBook Pro laptop, paid him no attention.

  That changed when he stepped beside her. She stared intently at him over the top of her MacBook, her body rigid. He noticed her hands gripping the edges of her seat.

  Fletcher placed the portable hard drive on the table. She listened attentively as he explained the data he’d collected from the company laptop, what information she should focus on and the tasks he needed her to perform. She punctuated each of his requests with a nod. She didn’t speak. When he finished, she didn’t have any questions for him.

  Inside the bathroom Fletcher took off his sunglasses. He put in his contacts and washed his face and hands. When he returned, he removed a thick stack of papers from the printer tray. There were two copies. He handed one to Karim, who was seated across the aisle from M.

  The table where Karim sat held a cheese tray and a pair of long-stemmed glasses set around an opened 1998 bottle of Château Latour à Pomerol. Fletcher offered M a glass. She politely declined without looking up from her MacBook.

  Fletcher settled himself in the spacious leather seat across from Karim. As the plane taxied to the runway, Fletcher started reading, slowly, studying the information printed on each sheet. When he reached the last page, he returned to the beginning of the stack. He didn’t look up until he had finished his third and final review.

  Fletcher grabbed a fresh sheet of paper. He wrote down his instructions and, reaching across the aisle, slid the sheet on to M’s table. She glanced at it, nodded once, and then switched her gaze back to her MacBook.

  Fletcher glanced at the cockpit door. It was closed.

  ‘It’s safe to talk,’ Karim said.

  ‘Notice anything?’ Fletcher asked, tapping the stack of order forms resting on his lap.

  ‘All the orders were placed by men,’ Karim said.

  ‘And none from Colorado.’

  ‘So not only does our lady shooter live in another state, she took steps to conceal her identity.’

  Fletcher nodded. ‘I noticed one other thing,’ he said.

  ‘Just one?’ Karim grinned. ‘Where?’

  ‘The page containing the agreement order and the liability waiver.’ Fletcher removed three earmarked pages from his stack and, pushing the cheese tray aside, placed them on the table. ‘These three men from Virginia. Barry Johnson, from Purcellville. Jon Riley, from Leesburg. And Jessie Foster, from Ashburn. Take a look at the signatures. The slope of the writing and the connecting lines used between the letters are similar. The letter “J” is the most telling example. It’s identical in each case – and see how the writer connects it to the adjoining letter?’ Fletcher pointed for Karim’s benefit.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Karim said. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘All three men placed orders for 9-mm rounds. Johnson placed the first order in November of last year, followed by Riley in December and then Foster last month.’

  Karim’s brow furrowed. ‘So this person used three different names to create three separate orders using, what, three different sets of human ashes?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. The name of the deceased is different on each death certificate. I wouldn’t put too much stock in the names. Death certificates can easily be doctored using templates readily available on the Internet, and Sacred Ashes only requires a copy of the death certificate. They wouldn’t be checking its validity.

  ‘The weight of cremated remains depends on the weight of the individual,’ Fletcher continued. ‘A 200-pound man, for example, would yield six pounds of human ash. When I entered the house, I saw opened boxes containing roughly a cup of human ashes – about eight ounces. So you would have plenty of leftover remains to use for additional orders.’

  Fletcher returned to his stack. Out of the corner of his eye he could see M watching him intently.

  ‘Are you aware of Virginia’s gun laws?’ he asked Karim.

  ‘I’m not, but I’m assuming they’re fairly liberal.’

  Fletcher nodded. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said, and placed three new pages on the table. ‘Here are the shipping instructions provided by Johnson, Riley and Foster. They all ordered the same 9-mm rounds, and in each case Sacred Ashes mailed the ammunition to a local firearms dealer for pickup. This would make sense in a state that has restrictions on the type and/or amount of ammunition that can be delivered to a person’s home. Virginia, however, has no such restrictions.

  ‘If you took out a map, you’d s
ee these three Virginia towns are close to the Maryland border. And Maryland does have strict ammunition guidelines. If our shooter lives there, all she would have to do is drive to the Virginia dealers and pay their out-of-state FFL-transfer fees.’

  ‘If we contact the dealers and ask to see their records, we may tip off our shooter.’

  ‘You’re assuming they keep strict records. Some ask for a licence while others ask for nothing at all. And if our shooter hid her identity from Sacred Ashes, I think it’s safe to assume she would have taken similar precautions when picking up her ammunition. Exploring that avenue is a waste of time.’

  ‘What would you suggest?’

  Fletcher turned to M, saw that she was already looking at him, waiting, her hands folded on the table.

  ‘The three names I wrote down for you, were you able to find their emails?’

  She nodded, her emerald eyes glowing in the MacBook screen’s light.

  ‘I traced the ISP for each email,’ she said. Her tone was neutral, her expression almost phlegmatic. ‘All three emails originated from the same place.’

  Karim swung round in his chair. ‘Where?’

  ‘A house in Maryland,’ she said.

  26

  Jimmy Weeks’s eyes fluttered opened to darkness. It swam around him, as impenetrable as a wall. While he couldn’t see anything, he could feel things, minor sensations that seemed to be calling to him from a great distance, like an orbiting space satellite thousands of miles away relaying vital information to an earth base. He knew he was lying on his left side, on something cold and hard and flat. His knees were tucked against his chest. Something had happened to his back; he felt pain between his shoulder blades, and it seemed to be trying to draw his attention, urging him to investigate.

  Had he been in some sort of accident? Was he in a hospital and being given drugs? Or was he drunk? He did feel drunk, and a little sick to his stomach. It reminded him of that party at Tim Doherty’s house when he’d chugged an entire six-pack of Milwaukee’s Best within an hour. Huge mistake. He had got so shitfaced that he could barely stand. After he threw up, Tim had brought him to the basement and put him on a sofa. Jimmy remembered how he’d forced himself to sit up, everything spinning around him. Then, mercifully, he’d passed out.