The Killing House

by Chris Mooney

  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.

  Marie cleared her throat. She touched her colourful diamond necklace, her voice shaking with rage when she spoke.

  ‘Tell me everything Corrigan said. Word for word.’

  Fletcher shadowed the Lincoln as it drove north on the Jones Falls Expressway.

  He had travelled to Baltimore on a handful of occasions but had never ventured north of the city. Unfamiliar terrain. Not wanting to be surprised, he used the dashboard computer’s GPS-navigation system. The screen held a standard map of glowing blue, red and yellow bands representing streets and highways. Names and points of interest were written in white.

  Nathan Santiago kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Fletcher had tried to speak to him, but the man hadn’t responded.

  The Lincoln drove at the speed limit and stayed in one lane. Fletcher watched it from a safe distance.

  The Lincoln pulled off the highway, taking the ‘Falls Road’ exit. If the driver planned on conducting any counter-surveillance manoeuvres, it would be here, in a suburban setting that offered a variety of choices, especially at night.

  Jenner stopped speaking when Marie held up her hand. ‘You haven’t said anything about the man who did this.’ She had turned to give him her full attention. She had stopped crying.

  ‘That’s because I don’t know anything,’ Jenner said. ‘Corrigan didn’t describe him.’

  ‘Did you ask?’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance. The guy who was with Corrigan terminated the call. Corrigan couldn’t have done it; he was bound to the chair. I hightailed it to the house. You know everything I do.’

  ‘And you’re saying that when you went upstairs, the door to my bedroom closet was open.’

  Jenner nodded and, thinking about the rows of soiled clothing, swallowed his disgust.

  ‘That’s … not possible,’ Marie said. She was having trouble keeping her anger in check. The look in her eyes reminded him of Grandfather, a mean son of a bitch who would beat the shit out of you until he’d exhausted himself. Guy’s kids’d spent more time growing up in hospitals than they had at home.

  Jenner shifted in his seat. He’d never felt comfortable around this broad. There was something about her that gave him a queasy feeling he still couldn’t put a finger on. His gut sensed something repulsive lurking beneath her patrician features, her dignified air and speech.

  ‘I think we can safely rule out that whoever did this is a cop,’ Jenner said. ‘A cop wouldn’t tie up a guy and kill him – there’d be hell to pay for that, lawsuits up the wazoo, you name it. My first thought was a private investigator, but then you have to ask yourself, what’s this guy’s agenda? Why call me instead of the police?’

  ‘Did Marcus see what was inside the closet?’

  ‘No, just me.’

  ‘What we do in the privacy of our home is not any of your business.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Marie continued to glare at him, as if wanting him to prove her point.

  ‘How long have we been doing business together? Seven years?’

  ‘Almost eight,’ she said.

  Even better, Jenner thought. ‘Eight years, and we haven’t had a single problem. I think I’ve proven I’m capable of discretion.’ He changed the subject. ‘We need to talk about Santiago,’ he said. ‘I still have contacts on the force, people who owe me favours. I’d like to let them in on this, have these guys go and cover the hospitals, see if our merchandise shows up.’

  Marie turned and looked back out of her window.

  She didn’t speak.

  38

  Fletcher shadowed the Lincoln through a residential area. Traffic was mercifully light.

  Far ahead, he saw the Lincoln slow at a four-way stop sign. So far, the driver had failed to perform any counter-surveillance measures.

  The Lincoln turned right on West 41st and continued to move at a normal speed. The driver didn’t appear to be in a rush to reach his destination.

  Fletcher consulted the Jaguar’s GPS unit to see where West 41st turned. He quickly memorized the surrounding streets, pulled into the opposite lane and planted his foot hard on the gas, taking the d
river in front of him by surprise. He blew past the stop sign and came to a sudden halt against the corner where Falls Road met West 41st.

  The Lincoln had two choices: continue straight on West 41st or turn left on to Hickory Avenue, a street about a quarter of a mile long. It offered two left turns, both of which would loop the driver back on to Falls Road.

  Fletcher looked out of the passenger’s window, at Hickory.

  The Lincoln drove by and vanished from his view.

  Fletcher pulled away from the kerb and drove straight ahead, accelerating to the next turn, Weldon. He pulled against the corner kerb and this time cut the lights. Again he looked out of the passenger’s window.

  The Lincoln passed Weldon and kept driving across Hickory.

  Has to be driving to his destination either on Hickory or the next street, West 42nd, Fletcher thought, pulling back on to Falls Road with his lights still off. He accelerated to West 42nd, turned right and drove halfway down a small street lined with identical homes: two-floor boxy structures stacked against each other, white-trim windows, metal or cloth awnings installed over the white front doors. None of the homes contained driveways or carports. Residents parked on the street.

  Fletcher pulled against the kerb and waited.

  Seconds passed and the Lincoln didn’t come.

  Fletcher crept to the end of the street, where it turned into Hickory. Straight ahead he found three connected brick buildings. A quick glance to his right and he caught sight of the Lincoln’s sagging rear bumper before the car disappeared behind the buildings.

  The windows for all three buildings were dark, and there were no outside lights. A sign made of wood had been staked in a small front lawn of dead grass: SCOTT & ALVES CAR DETAILING.

  Fletcher switched the GPS to an aerial view and zoomed in on the roofs. The buildings took up the entire block between the end of West 42nd and Weldon Avenue. In the back was a small parking lot surrounded by a vast forest of trees. The Lincoln had nowhere to go. Either this was its destination or the driver had spotted him and was waiting to see what he would do next.

  Fletcher decided to wait too. Monocular in hand, he examined the buildings for heat signatures.

  Jenner had turned in his seat and was facing Marie, talking to her about how to handle the Santiago situation, when he heard the rumble of a big metal garage door opening. He looked out of the front window as the Lincoln dipped down a ramp, heading for an underground garage belonging to a five- or six-storey brick building.

  Brandon Arkoff pulled inside, killed the engine and got out. Jenner followed. The garage bay was wide and cold. It held a single vehicle, an old black Mercedes. The air smelled damp. He spotted some hoses connected to spigots.

  Arkoff disappeared behind a glass door at the far end of the garage. A light clicked on and he came back out, holding the door open. Jenner nodded his thanks and stepped inside the concrete stairwell, his foot planted on the first step when he felt something sharp wrapped around his throat. He clutched at it with both hands, his fingertips slicing against the razor wire sawing its way through his neck. As he was pulled back out into the garage, blood – his blood – sprayed the walls and glass door. Great warm pools gushed down his chest, his scream lost in his severed throat.

  39

  The monocular’s thermal-imaging technology, while state of the art, couldn’t penetrate multiple walls or floors. Fletcher had searched the buildings for nearly half an hour and failed to find a single heat signature, not even a blip of swirling colour from a heating vent or a computer monitor or tower unit. He suspected the buildings were void of actual business.

  There are three others. At least, Corrigan had told him.

  If Rico Herrera and the other victims were locked somewhere inside one of these buildings, Fletcher couldn’t see them – at least not at this angle, seated behind the wheel of his car. He couldn’t see the Lincoln either. The car was still parked somewhere in the back, possibly in a garage. Behind the wind he had heard the distinct sound of a garage door opening and closing. He didn’t know where they were or what they were doing. He did, however, know he wasn’t being watched. There were no heat signatures outside the buildings, which suggested he hadn’t been spotted.

  Jenner had entered the back of the Lincoln. Either the passenger’s seat was occupied or the man had to speak with someone sitting in the backseat. Including Jenner and the driver, that left the possibility of two, maybe three additional bodies inside the car – two in the front, three crammed together in the back. A maximum of five men – or four, if the woman in the fur coat was inside the car.

  In order to investigate, Fletcher would need to leave his vehicle. That meant leaving Nathan Santiago alone inside the Jaguar. The car doors could be opened only from the outside, and the bulletproof windows had been treated with a special coating that prevented anyone from breaking in – or kicking their way out. Such a risk would have been acceptable if the man lying in the backseat didn’t require medical attention.

  Fletcher picked up his phone and called Karim. ‘Did you locate a doctor?’

  ‘I did,’ Karim said. ‘But not in Baltimore, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Manhattan. She’s already on her way to Cape May, New Jersey. Boyd is driving her. This woman has performed a number of services for me over the years, so you’re guaranteed discretion. Santiago will be in good hands – and well protected. How is he?’

  ‘Still sedated.’ Fletcher rubbed a finger across his bottom lip as he stared at the dark buildings.

  What are you doing in there, Mr Jenner?

  ‘Do you have an office in Baltimore?’

  ‘No, not any more,’ Karim said. ‘The closest office is in Trenton, New Jersey.’

  ‘I followed the Lincoln.’ Fletcher gave Karim his address and then told him about Jenner setting fire to the house in Dickeyville.

  ‘Looks like they’re shutting down their operation,’ Karim said.

  ‘Corrigan told me there were at least three other victims. They could be somewhere inside these buildings, but I don’t see any heat signatures. And I don’t want to leave Santiago alone in the car.’

  ‘It will take my people at least two hours to arrive. Baltimore PD would be quicker.’

  ‘Agreed. I’m assuming you’ve already culled someone from your vast network of contacts.’

  ‘A homicide detective.’

  ‘Is he discreet?’

  ‘He is, and he’s good with sharing,’ Karim said. ‘But to ask him to go inside the buildings and take a look around without a warrant is a tricky business.’

  ‘Tell him you’ve come across information from a credible source that one or more missing children are being held there. Say “missing children”. That will give him probable cause to enter – and it will garner a faster response.’

  ‘Any sign of our lady friend?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Karim gave him the address of the house in Cape May.

  ‘Malcolm, before I let you go, your passenger … has he seen you?’

  ‘He’s unable to see much of anything in his condition.’

  ‘Make sure he doesn’t see your face,’ Karim said. ‘I can’t afford for him to connect you to me.’

  40

  Marie Clouzot hosed off the blood from William Jenner’s body, watching the bright pink swirls circling the drain before disappearing. Her life’s work had just disappeared too.

  Well, not all of it, she reminded herself. The clothes are gone, but at least I still have the ashes.

  Knowing this brought a small measure of relief. But the clothes … they were irreplaceable. It had taken years of hard work and sacrifice to collect them, and now they were gone. No more wonderfully blissful evenings spent sitting in the chair with her bourbon, no more evenings or weekends spent dressed in the clothes and matching jewellery.

  Thinking about it brought on a fresh round of tears. She should have gone back to retrieve the garment bags and the jewellery. Mr
Jenner would have offered to help; they could have done it in a single trip.

  Brandon had absolutely forbidden it.

  We’re not driving around with a trunk full of goddamn evidence, he’d said. The evidence needs to be destroyed, he’d said. We’re shutting down the operation, Marie. Call Jenner back and tell him to set fire to the house right now or so help me God I’ll go in there and do it myself.

  She’d said no, of course. Brandon pulled over to the side of the road, leaned over the seat and screamed at her with such ferocity that she thought the car windows would shatter. He had even come close to hitting her. Gripped with a terror she hadn’t experienced since her awkward and terribly painful teenage years, she called Jenner back and told him to set fire to the house. Hearing her speak those words had temporarily mollified Brandon – or so she’d thought. When he started in on what they would be doing for the remainder of the night, she decided to send Mr Jenner a text message, telling him to grab the big laundry liner from the master bedroom’s wicker basket and use it to collect the ashes.

  When Brandon saw Mr Jenner coming out holding the laundry sack, she thought he was going to reach over the seat and strangle her.

  Instead, he gripped the steering wheel with both hands, squeezing it. He relaxed his grip when Jenner entered the car. Brandon drove away, but not to the printing press. He wanted to make a point and had taken her here, to the building for the old car detailing service, to send her a message.

  Now the garage’s interior glass door swung open and Brandon stepped out, lugging a big, rolling suitcase. It held clothes and enough money to start a new life anywhere in the world. Brandon had packed it in advance, in case the day came when they had to drop everything and run. And that day had arrived. This was the message he wanted to deliver to her. It was time to go.