The Killing House

by Chris Mooney

  A full minute passed with no word.

  They’re moving slowly through smoke, taking no risks, Borgia thought. Fletcher spooked them – and with good reason. The monster might have the investigative mind of Sherlock Holmes, but he was as cunning and bloodthirsty as a vampire.

  Ten minutes passed and the smoke was no longer drifting through the front doorway or shattered windows.

  Borgia’s eyes narrowed in thought, his insides turning to water even before a new voice spoke over his headset: ‘CP, we’ve found a body hidden inside a closet – hidden inside what looks like some sort of panic room. It has –’

  ‘Is it Fletcher?’ Cronin asked.

  ‘No, sir. He’s one of ours. Danny Jackman.’

  57

  The SWAT tactical paramedic kneeling in the back of the swaying ambulance went to work applying new pressure bandages to the comatose stabbing victim strapped down to the gurney. The paramedic had completed two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan; he had seen the many ways in which the human body could be torn apart by high-velocity bullets and roadside bombs. This victim was relatively easy compared to those miseries.

  Two stab wounds: the lower left quadrant of the abdomen and the other on the chest, just below the left clavicle. The attacker had been aiming for the heart. The vic had worn a bulletproof vest but had opted out of using a steel-plate insert. If he had, the long blade wouldn’t have punctured the lung.

  The stabbing vic was intubated and had a breathing tube inserted through the trachea to protect the airway. The problem now was blood. The vic had lost a lot, maybe too much. He’d been found lying in at least a litre, and his abdomen was rigid and distended from internal bleeding. Every time he coughed, a fine red mist sprayed the inside of the breathing tube, a sure sign his lungs were filling up.

  The paramedic started two large bore IV lines to replace the lost blood, hoping to God the intravenous fluid would keep the victim’s brain and vital organs alive without accelerating the internal bleeding. Then he went to work suctioning blood from the man’s endotracheal tube to keep the airway open and oxygenated.

  The second victim riding in the ambulance was an HRT operator named Jackman. He had suffered blunt-force trauma from the lead slugs that had struck his chest. The man had been shot three times – once above the heart, the other two dead centre of the chest. His vest had a steel plate, and it had saved his life.

  And Agent Jackman had possibly saved this other man’s life. Entering the bedroom filled with smoke, the paramedic had found the stabbing vic’s vest already cut off, a HALO chest seal on the bleeding wound.

  The paramedic had tried to take off the agent’s gas mask to rinse away the tear gas, but Jackman had waved him off, saying in a mechanical voice over the mask’s speaker that he had on a vest and was fine, just in severe pain. The HRT operator kept pointing to the stabbing vic, who was certainly more in need of help.

  The operator was sitting up now. Christ, he’s one big son of a bitch, the paramedic thought, stripping out of his bloody gloves. He turned to the radio and called the Cape Regional Medical Center. It had an excellent trauma unit, from what he’d been told.

  ‘Cape Trauma, this is Tac Medic One, do you copy?’

  ‘Tac Medic One, this is Dr Notestine, I copy, go ahead.’

  ‘We’re en route to your facility, code three with an ETA of ten minutes,’ the paramedic said. ‘On board we have an older male patient with multiple stab wounds. Wound one is on the left chest, mid-clavicular fourth intercostal space. Wound two is left upper abdominal quadrant. Knife was approximately two-inch-width blade, length of five inches. Patient is unconscious and unresponsive, estimated external blood loss at one litre. Skin is cool and diaphoretic with a delayed capillary refill. Blood pressure 80 over 40, heart rate of 144.’ A glance at the monitor and he added, ‘He’s showing sinus tachycardia.’

  Out of the corner of his eye the paramedic saw the HRT agent stripping out of his jacket. ‘Patient is intubated with a number eight endotracheal tube,’ he said. ‘Lung sounds are diminished on the left, right lung fields are clear. There’s blood in the tube on expiration. I have two large bore IVs infused with approximately 500cc of normal saline. Patient was found comatose. Medications, last meal and medical history unknown, over.’

  ‘Copy, Tac Medic One, we’ll have operating room standing by. Do you know patient’s blood type?’

  The paramedic couldn’t answer. A powerful arm had wrapped around his neck, squeezing the carotid artery and cutting off the much needed blood to his brain.

  ‘My apologies,’ Agent Jackman whispered, but it was too late for the paramedic to answer.

  Nineteen-year-old Mindy Williams had been driving her boyfriend’s pickup when she heard the wailing ambulance. Unlike some of the other vehicles, she pulled over to the far side of the breakdown lane to give the ambulance a wide berth.

  After it whisked past her in a wail of sirens and flashing lights, she pulled back on to the two-lane highway, reviewing what she needed to pick up at the mall, when she saw the ambulance’s back door fly open. She immediately slammed on her brakes. The seatbelt kept her from smashing against the steering wheel.

  A paramedic stood by the opened door; she was close enough to see the bright blue jacket with its reflective bands, the large EMS emblem stitched on the breast. His hands were bloody. Whoever was riding in the ambulance must’ve been in one hell of an accident, she thought.

  The paramedic didn’t shut the door. Incredibly, he stepped on to the back bumper.

  Then he jumped.

  Car horns shrieked and tyres skidded, and she watched in fascination and horror as the man hit the fast-moving ground, tumbled and rolled, tumbled and rolled.

  What the hell is going –

  Her thought was interrupted by a new sound: police sirens. She glanced in her rearview mirror and in the far distance saw a cavalry of flashing blue-and-white lights – police cruisers and undercover vehicles were driving at rocket speed as if trying to outrun an atomic bomb. Mindy Williams looked back at the highway, catching a flash of the paramedic’s blue coat before the man disappeared into the woods.

  58

  Malcolm Fletcher spotted the gated parking lot and stopped running.

  His broken ribs had been aggravated by his tumble across the highway, the bones feeling as though they had been turned into shards of glass, the jagged ends shredding his muscles and lungs. His legs fluttered, threatening to give out, and his vision swam with pain. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and quickly tried to catch his breath.

  The gated lot was for people using Cape May’s small Woodbine Municipal Airport. The entrance and exit were in the same location, manned by a pair of automated machines that created parking tickets and collected the fees.

  The wailing sirens had reached a piercing pitch; the FBI had discovered HRT Operator Jackman’s body and realized that it wasn’t Jackman riding in the back of the ambulance. Fletcher suspected a small army had been dispatched for him. He ran for the lot, legs shaking and ribs screaming in protest.

  His tactical belt, slung across his chest like a bandolier and hidden underneath the bright blue paramedic jacket, did not contain the necessary tools to pop open a steering column. He needed to find a new vehicle with an auto-ignition system and make quick work of it.

  This sedan would do – a four-door tan Toyota Camry. He found the Vehicle Identification Number conveniently displayed on the windshield’s lower corner, the parking lot’s ticket sitting on the dash. The ticket was stamped with that day’s date and time.

  Smartphone in hand, Fletcher called up the necessary piece of software. Then he entered the Toyota’s VIN. A moment later he had the frequencies to unlock and start the car.

  Sitting on the passenger’s seat was a baseball cap with the words KOREAN WAR VETERAN printed across the front. Even better, he found a pair of sunglasses clipped to the visor, the kind favoured by elderly people plagued with vision problems – wraparounds with big square
lenses that fit neatly over a pair of prescription glasses.

  Fletcher had slipped the HRT Operator Jackman’s roomy tactical trousers over his own. He pushed them down now so he could reach Karim’s phone. He removed it, along with the battery. He placed both items on the passenger’s seat for the moment.

  Cap pulled down across his forehead, Fletcher paid the parking fee in cash and exited the lot. He left the window open, wanting to relieve himself of the atrocious odour baked into the leather’s sweat-stained seats: menthol and methyl salicylate, the two primary chemicals used in the pain-relieving ointment Bengay.

  Fletcher navigated his way through the quiet back roads. The paramedic coat he’d taken from the back of the ambulance hid the blood on his T-shirt but not the dried blood on his hands. He kept them on the bottom part of the steering wheel, where they were safely out of view.

  Watching the streets and searching for any signs of police, Fletcher replayed the moment when he left the panic room to find Karim lying on the floor and bleeding out from multiple stab wounds. Jackman, considerably taller and heavier, was straddling Karim; the agent’s legs were pinning Karim’s arms to the floor. The agent was pressing one hand against Karim’s mouth, while pinching his nostrils shut with the other, wanting to cut off the airways and ensure Karim’s death before any paramedics arrived.

  Operator Jackman had pulled out a folding knife and dropped it to the floor to stage the scene. He had turned off his weapon-mounted video camera so there would be no record. Alexander Borgia had brought the man into the treatment room and dismissed the two agents so there would be no witnesses. Borgia had brought Jackman with him so Jackman could kill Karim while Borgia left to check on Karim’s gun permit.

  Right now Karim was lying on an operating table, clinging to life. If he survived, would Alexander Borgia find another way to strike?

  Fletcher needed to speak to Emma White, needed to warn her, but could he risk calling? When Borgia listed the evidence against Karim, he hadn’t mentioned a wiretap. That, however, didn’t mean the FBI wasn’t monitoring Karim’s phones and, possibly, those of his personal assistant.

  Fletcher had no choice; he had to risk calling before Karim was put in further danger. He slid the battery into Karim’s phone.

  Emma White’s contact information was listed on the BlackBerry. Fletcher dialled the cell number first, as cell signals took time to triangulate.

  M’s voice came on the line: ‘Ali, I just got word –’

  ‘This is Robert Pepin. Are you alone?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Is this line secure?’

  ‘On this end it is,’ she said. ‘What are you doing with Mr Karim’s phone?’

  ‘Listen to me very carefully. Don’t speak, just listen.

  ‘Karim is being taken to the Cape May Memorial Hospital,’ Fletcher said. ‘It’s imperative that you send people there to guard him. They are not to let Karim out of their sight, they are not to leave him alone with a federal agent named Alexander Borgia. Do not allow this man or any other federal agent to be alone with Karim for any reason.’

  ‘Karim was injured?’ She said ‘Karim’ as though he were an office building, with no emotion or inflection in her voice.

  ‘They’ll tell you Karim attacked a federal agent,’ Fletcher said. ‘It’s the other way around. Karim hid me inside a panic room; I witnessed what transpired. Contact Karim’s lawyers – and his personal physician. Surround Karim by people you trust.’

  ‘I understand. Now I should –’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Fletcher said, thinking about his Jaguar. There was evidence locked in the trunk and there were traces of blood on the passenger’s seat – Nathan Santiago’s blood, blood that would become visible under a forensic light or when a chemical such as Luminol was used. ‘A black Jaguar is parked inside Karim’s home garage. You need to remove it immediately before the FBI impounds it. You’ll find a spare key inside a small box located underneath the right-hand side of the front bumper. Have you located Dr Sin’s cell signal?’

  ‘No. Her phone is a model that transmits a signal even if it’s turned off – provided the battery is installed. I’ll keep searching for it.’

  ‘Get back to the house and remove the car. I’ll contact you shortly.’

  Fletcher hung up and immediately removed the phone’s battery to prevent him from being traced.

  He did not encounter any roadblocks. He drove on to the highway and entered the smooth-running traffic.

  Despite the rush of events, he felt remarkably calm. After breaking Mr Jackman’s neck, Fletcher had relieved the man of his clothing and quickly dressed, leaving the agent’s tactical vest on the floor. Then, using the man’s sidearm, he’d fired three shots against the vest and quickly finished dressing. Lying on the floor, he’d radioed through what had happened.

  The scenario had worked out perfectly. With the chaos of an armed federal fugitive on the loose somewhere inside a house full of tear gas, the HRT operators guarding the pair of tactical paramedics did what they were trained to do: remove the injured from the line of fire. Head and face covered by a balaclava, the face shield for the gas mask smeared with Karim’s blood, Fletcher had allowed himself to be carried out of the house and into the waiting ambulance.

  The only real exposure had come from his escape. Gawking drivers had seen him jump out of the back of the ambulance and run away dressed in a bright blue paramedic’s jacket. Blood covered his hands and Jackman’s black tactical trousers. He would need a change of clothing – and shoes. Running in the man’s ill-fitting combat boots was not at all convenient or comfortable.

  It would be foolish to assume the Toyota’s owner would be returning sometime later this evening. Any vehicle reported stolen in the Cape May area would immediately be added to the police watch list. He would need to find another car to borrow.

  Atlantic City, with its garish hotels and ample shopping choices, was close by.

  Fletcher’s thoughts turned back to Alexander Borgia. The man wanted Karim dead. Why?

  The question hung in his mind, unanswered.

  Let’s talk about Theresa Herrera, Borgia had told Karim. I understand you agreed to look into the disappearance of her son, Rico.

  Had Karim stumbled upon something that had triggered the FBI’s interest?

  The question hung in his mind, unanswered.

  Fletcher didn’t have his computers. The netbook and other vital equipment were stored inside the Jaguar’s trunk. His whole life was stored inside there.

  Her knowledge of computers is frightening.

  Karim’s words regarding Emma White.

  But could Fletcher trust her?

  She’s my adopted daughter, Karim had said. She’s aggressively loyal – she would fall on a sword to protect me.

  Safe now and driving under the bright sky, Fletcher stared at the highway exits, wondering which one to take. He was reminded of the Greek hero Odysseus, standing on his ship and watching the smoke of family fires visible on the shore of his home, Ithaca. Believing he was safe, Odysseus slept. While he did so, his companions cut open their master’s ox-hide sack and, instead of the gold they had sought, found only King Aeolus’s adverse winds, which drove Odysseus’s ships across the leagues of ocean.

  Malcolm Fletcher, forever homeless, contained one navigational rudder, and it directed him back to Baltimore.

  59

  Borgia stared at the empty gurney inside the back of the ambulance. He felt like he had just been kicked in the stomach.

  So close, so goddamn close …

  Federal agents from the New Jersey office were working in conjunction with local and state police to assist in the manhunt. The New York office had also been alerted and was coordinating efforts with their local law enforcement. Roadblocks were being set up at every tollbooth. Cars were being searched; local buildings were being searched. Any stolen car was being put on the watch list. Borgia had alerted the bureau’s Media Office to get the news played on the rad
io and TV.

  Almost an hour had passed since Fletcher’s escape and so far nothing had come of it.

  Borgia turned away from the ambulance. There was nothing more to do here. He had already been inside the hospital and spoken with the paramedic who had tended to Karim. Fletcher hadn’t killed the man, had merely rendered him unconscious by squeezing off the carotid artery. Fletcher, it seemed, had waited to the last moment to do it too; wanting to make sure, Borgia suspected, that Karim had been stabilized.

  Karim was still in surgery. According to one of the ER nurses, he had suffered a lot of internal injuries, and lost a significant amount of blood. Nonetheless, Karim, was in very good hands.

  Borgia had a long conversation with FBI Director Oberst on the way back to Karim’s home. The man was understandably upset. It had been Oberst who had given the order to take down Ali Karim.

  There was one silver lining: there was no recorded evidence of Special Agent Danny Jackman staging the crime scene. And then there was Karim. If he survived, no one would believe that Jackman had attacked him. The man had knowingly hidden a wanted fugitive, one who had then turned around and murdered a federal agent before escaping. The Bureau had Karim bang to rights on those two matters – and there were plenty of additional nails with which to hammer shut Karim’s coffin. One of Karim’s employees had been shot and killed, dumped in the trunk of a BMW conveniently parked inside the garage. Karim would have to answer for that – and he would have to explain the dried blood on the bed and rubbish bin inside the treatment room. Better for Karim to die on the operating table than face what was waiting for him if he survived.

  Emergency Response Technicians from the New York field office were on their way down to process the evidence. A separate team armed with the proper warrants had been dispatched to search every square inch of Karim’s Manhattan home.