The Killing House (29 page)

On the bed he placed the clothing he'd purchased in Manhattan. He took a shower and redressed in the same clothing but exchanged his fedora for a woolly hat. He tucked his sunglasses inside his jacket pocket and put on a pair of glasses with tinted lenses dark enough to hide his eyes.

From his backpack he removed a small digital recorder and placed it underneath the bed. He took the backpack with him and left the hotel.

Cross Bay Boulevard was heavy with fast-moving traffic on both sides. He waited for a break, crossed and then made his way to a diner. He sat at the counter and drank coffee as he read the
New York Post
. His picture had also made their front page, printed under the
banner title 'Disgraceful!' The
Post
had decided to focus on the botched raid, citing the FBI's inability to catch fugitives, Malcolm Fletcher being the latest example.

From his seat Fletcher had a clear, unobstructed view of the motel. He had started in on his third cup of coffee when the disposable cell rang.

65

Fletcher brought the phone up to his ear as he watched a black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows pull into the motel parking lot.

'Are you inside the motel?' M asked.

'Ground floor, Room 7.'

She hung up. Fletcher watched her step out of the SUV holding a different gym bag. She had changed her appearance again: a black motorcycle jacket with jeans and black boots. The New York Yankees baseball cap she wore low across her face covered most of her hair, her eyes hidden behind a pair of aviator-style sunglasses.

She disappeared inside the motel. If the FBI had her under surveillance and had managed to follow her here, they would make their move now. They would surround the motel and go in armed. Fletcher left the money for the bill on the counter.

Outside, he moved to the back of the diner and then threaded his way through parked cars and dumpsters until he reached the alley next to a bait-and-tackle shop closed for the winter season. He watched the motel from the alley. If anything happened, he had plenty of avenues of escape.

Minutes passed and no vehicles entered the motel parking lot.

His phone rang and he didn't answer it.

Fletcher's well-honed instincts told him she hadn't been tailed. But the FBI
had
found her townhouse address, and, for all he knew, they had also found her. For all he knew, she had been apprehended and Alexander Borgia had offered her a deal: give him up and Karim would be spared prosecution. For all he knew, she had taken the deal in order to protect the person she loved and trusted the most.

Unlikely, yes, but not outside the realms of possibility. Fletcher had survived all these years by living by one simple law: trust no one. He did not know M, and he did not share Karim's ability to trust. There was too much riding on this next part.

His phone rang again and he answered it.

'Where are you?' she demanded.

'On the bed you'll find clothing that I purchased for you. I had to estimate your sizes, so you'll forgive me if they don't fit properly. After you put them on, I want you to dump your clothing inside the bathtub and turn on the water. Hold the phone up to the water so I can hear it running.'

'You think I'm working with the Feds?' She sounded more confused than angry. 'You think I have some sort of GPS or tracking -'

'A man in my position has to be very careful. I'm sure you understand.'

No answer.

She had hung up.

Fletcher did not call her back. If she didn't call him back, he would have to move on without her.

He'd give her ten minutes.

Six minutes later, his phone rang.

'I changed into the clothes you left,' she said. 'The clothes I wore here are in the tub. Listen.' He heard running water and then she came back on the line. 'What's next?'

'Leave everything inside the room - wallet, car keys, gym bag.'

'There are things I have to give you from Karim's lawyer.'

'Leave everything on the bed. Call a cab and come out wearing nothing but the clothes I purchased for you.'

'Where am I going now?'

'To the Clarion Inn on West Elm Street. Wait for me inside the lobby.'

'How do I know you're coming?'

'You don't,' Fletcher said, and hung up.

He memorized the makes, models and locations of the cars parked in the motel lot and alongside the road. The cab came fifteen minutes later. M stepped out of the motel wearing the clothes he had purchased for her - sandals, bright blue fleece-lined sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt. She couldn't run in sandals.

The cab pulled away. He left the alley and walked around the boulevard, watching the motel. He ducked into several shops. Slowly he made his way through the
back streets around the motel and kept watching. Nothing changed, nothing happened.

Finally, after an hour of surveillance, he went back to his room.

M had dumped her clothes inside the bathtub and filled it with water. He sorted through them and went to the bed. She had laid out the items very neatly - her car keys, a leather wallet with a money clip that could easily fit inside a pocket, and a compact SIG SAUER. The package from Karim's lawyer was sealed. Fletcher opened it, found ten thousand dollars in cash and a new pair of contact lenses that matched a passport and Washington licence for Francis Harvey. The handwritten note Karim had included contained all the necessary information to access an account set up at a Cayman Island bank.

Inside the gym bag he found a netbook computer and a CD tucked inside a jewel case.

Fletcher removed a pair of headphones from his backpack and connected the audio jack into an RF Bug Detector. The palm-sized unit used by the government could detect phone taps, hidden cameras, eavesdropping devices, cell-phone bugs and GPS trackers in a range up to 9GHz.

Fletcher scanned the items left on the bed. They were clean.

He placed the car keys inside his pocket. Everything went inside the backpack, except the contacts. He put those on in the bathroom.

Fletcher collected the recorder he had placed underneath
the bed. He plugged the audio jack for the headphones into the recorder, turned up the volume and pressed PLAY. He heard Emma White moving through the room and then listened to their phone conversations. He heard her slip out of her clothes and he heard her run the bathwater and call the cab. She didn't call or speak to anyone else.

Fletcher hung the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the doorknob and left the motel, slipping on his sunglasses. When he reached the Cadillac Escalade, he discreetly checked the outside for a GPS tracker. The bug detector did not go off. Next he checked the interior. The bug detector did not go off. The car was clean.

The hotel where he'd sent M had a parking lot in the back. Fletcher pulled into the nearly empty lot and checked to make sure he had an escape route. There was a road near the dumpster. He parked, left the engine running and loaded the CD into the netbook.

66

Four video files had been burned on to the compact disk. The first one was footage from the treatment room. Fletcher skipped it for the moment, wanting to watch the video taken from the security camera positioned inside the garage.

Boyd Paulson walked across the driveway, heading for the BMW. He popped the trunk. Then a figure appeared from around the outside corner of the garage. Boyd had turned to the sound and was shot in the head.

Fletcher paused the video. Then he clicked through each frame, stopping when he had a good view of the shooter's face - not the woman from Colorado but a man. The woman's partner, Fletcher suspected. The man was roughly the same size as Boyd - five foot ten - but he was wider. Fatter. The left side of the shooter's face ... something was wrong with it. Fletcher couldn't see anything specific. The man was too far away from the camera, and there wasn't enough light.

Fletcher found out on the third video, the one showing the fat man rushing into the treatment room and apprehending Dr Sin at gunpoint.

The man had been in some sort of accident; what
remained was a face drawn by Picasso - a jagged, scarred mess of severed nerves that resulted in a sagging eyelid and a permanent crooked grin. He bound Dr Sin with zip ties and carried Nathan Santiago out of the room.

The final video showed Santiago being loaded into the backseat of the Lincoln. The disfigured man made a return trip inside the house. He came back with Dr Sin and placed her gently inside the trunk - gently because the man knew the woman was a doctor, and he needed her to remove Nathan Santiago's organs. If that was true - and Fletcher suspected it was - the disfigured man and his partner, the woman in the fur coat, were holed up somewhere.

Fletcher called M.

'Meet me in the hotel parking lot,' he said, and hung up.

Here she came. She did not run, even though she shivered in the cold wind. He found the car controls and turned up the heat.

M slid into the roomy passenger's seat and kept her body pressed close to the door. Her eyes were cold, but not from anger.

He didn't drive away. He turned slightly in his seat and said, 'You left your sidearm on the bed, but not your knife.'

'What knife?'

'The one you carry with you at all times. The one tucked underneath your left-hand sleeve.'

She tilted her head. 'How did you know?'

'The fine scars on your palms and wrists. Give it to me handle-first please.'

'No.'

'Do you want to help Karim?'

'What kind of question is that?'

'Give me the knife and you'll find out.'

M stared at him for a moment before dipping a hand inside her sleeve. She displayed no emotion at being found out.

She came back with a Smith & Wesson Special Operation Bowie knife with a black aluminium handle and a seven-inch black stainless-steel blade. She placed it handle-first against his waiting palm.

'Thank you,' he said. 'How long have you been practising Bowie knife-fighting?'

'Only a few months.'

'Please lean forward and place your hands on the dashboard.'

'I'm not wired.'

'I need to be sure.'

'No.'

'Then you can't help Karim. Goodbye.'

Fletcher opened his door, about to step out, when she said, 'Wait.'

He shut the door. M did not lean forward. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head and dumped it on the floor. Then she slipped out of her sweatpants. Every inch of her body was exposed. No wire, just smooth skin and a slight puckered scar on her left shoulder.

She showed no sense of self-consciousness at being nude. Nor should she. M had worked exceptionally hard on her body.

'Satisfied?'

'Very much so,' Fletcher said. 'My apologies for having put you through this. You'll understand my reasons momentarily.'

67

Fletcher divided his attention between the road and the SUV's rearview and side mirrors. While he felt confident that they were safe, he needed to remain vigilant.

M had finished getting dressed. She sat with her palms flat on her thighs and stared out of the front window with that impenetrable glare that hid her emotions. Her mind, he knew, was very active.

'Where are we going?'

Fletcher didn't answer.

'I don't like surprises,' she said.

Of course you don't
, Fletcher thought.

He needed to address it. Now.

'Your rating,' he said. 'What is it?'

She cocked her head towards him.

'During CARS testing, you were given a rating,' he said. 'What is it?'

Her face was a blank mask, but he'd caught the fury building in her eyes at having been found out.

'Childhood Autism Rating Scale,' he said. 'The diagnostic tool measures -'

'I bloody well know what it is. What did Karim tell you?'

'He didn't. He would never betray a confidence.'

That seemed to relax something inside her. 'Then who told you?'

'You did.'

Fletcher didn't elaborate, wanting her to ask the questions so she could control the flow of information, process and store it. The autistic mind demanded order.

'How did - what gave me away?'

'The way you kept your distance on the plane when you shook my hand,' Fletcher said. 'The way you're keeping your distance from me right now by keeping your body pressed up against the car door. Like all autistics, you're aggressively protective of your personal space. And you abhor physical contact - you undressed rather than allowing me to touch you.'

'I don't like being touched by people I don't know.'

'When I called and told you about what happened to Karim, your tone was calm and neutral in the way all autistics discuss emotional matters.'

'I was focused on helping him - on helping you.'

'You have a difficult time maintaining eye contact even though I'm wearing sunglasses. You walked to the car instead of running because you're in a new setting and need time to absorb it so you don't overload your senses. And there's your insistence on knowing our exact destination.'

M was no longer looking at him. She was staring out of the window, her gaze darting over the houses and street signs.

'There's no reason to feel ashamed,' he said.

'I'm not. Are you ashamed of the way your eyes look, Mr Fletcher?'

'I wish they were different. It would make my life much simpler, but there's nothing I can do to change it.'

'I don't wish to change what I am, and I'm certainly not ashamed of
who
I am.'

'I wasn't suggesting you should be. You're quite adept at handling emotional regulation. I suspect people don't know you're autistic.'

'They don't. People think I'm cold. Different. I choose to be private. And, regardless of what my tone says, I do care about Karim.'

'Of that I have no doubt, Miss White.'

'Don't call me that. I'm not anyone's "miss".'

'What's Karim's condition?'

'He's in a coma,' she said. 'His personal physician is there, in New Jersey. He wants to move Karim to Manhattan.'

'When?'

'Sometime later today. Possibly tomorrow. I have no intention of turning you in, if that's what you're wondering.'