Fletcher fired.
The first shot hit her high in the shoulder. She dropped the laptop and her car keys as he fired again, a double-tap into the centre of the woman's back. Marie collapsed face down against the garage floor.
The teenager was shaking violently; he had trouble standing, and he had gone into shock. Fletcher helped him down the steps, reassuring the young man that he was safe. A cold wind inside the garage, and there was still light in the sky.
Fletcher placed the teenager in the back of the Mercedes. He shut the door as Marie Clouzot rolled on to her back. She hadn't buttoned her coat and, oddly, wore nothing except a pair of white panties. Her long fingers with their dark-painted nails traced the visible scars along her chest and ribs, the tight skin over her breast implants. The scars were thick and wormy, all shapes, sizes and lengths. He knew they had been caused by knives, and by fire. He saw the marred areas where she had been branded with something hot, like a fireplace poker.
The fingers didn't touch the network of scars along the belly above her penis.
Her eyes were huge and white. 'They pulled me into alleys and beat me, men like you,' she croaked. 'When
I fought back, when I kicked them to the ground and made them bleed, men like you arrested me. Men like you judged me.'
Fletcher scooped up the car keys from the floor.
'Men like you sent me to a psychiatric hospital and injected me with poison because I was different. They tried to kill me and they raped me and I survived it. No matter what men like you did, I
survived
.'
Fletcher grabbed the laptop and moved to the car.
'I watched them suffer, every last one,' she said. 'I regret nothing.
Nothing
.'
As Fletcher backed out of the garage, he saw Marie Clouzot pulling something out of her jacket pocket - an ornate gold necklace adorned with jewels of various sizes and colours.
84
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 & 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 thirty-three, she was about to become a partner at Banks & 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.'