The Killing House (38 page)

Authors: Chris Mooney

Tags: #Fiction, #Suspense

He looked sad when he said it.

'I take it you've seen the video.'

The man nodded.

'Unfortunately,' he added.

Celine knew what he meant. The video had gone viral two months ago. Like everyone else she had watched it. Once. She couldn't stomach a second viewing. Seeing all those starving and near-dead people locked in dog cages and trapped inside that abandoned printing press in Baltimore, the shootings ... it had given her nightmares.

'Those poor children and their parents,' Celine said, shuddering at the thought. 'Still, there's no concrete
piece of evidence linking the victims to the FBI and that BMP thing. Even if it's true, the FBI will squirm their way out of it. They always do.'

'You think so?'

'Absolutely. I'm in public relations. The Bureau is a PR machine. No one can beat them when it comes to spinning a story.'

The man smiled. He had nice teeth.

'I think you may be right.'

'Unfortunately,' she added with a smile of her own.

'Yes,' he said. 'Unfortunately.'

'I don't place much trust in the government either. But unless solid evidence comes forward concerning this research project, I think the story will die out.' Celine drank some of her mojito. 'What about Malcolm Fletcher? Do you think he's innocent?'

'The video seems to suggest he is.'

'True,' she conceded. 'He did rescue that boy, what's his name.'

'James Weeks.'

'That's it. But you know the saying, where there's smoke, there's fire.'

The man laughed quietly and picked up his glass. He was drinking bourbon. He polished it off and glanced at his watch.

'Can I buy you another drink?'

'No,' he replied. 'But I'll buy you one.'

'Thank you.' She offered a hand. 'Celine Strauss.'

'Francis Harvey. A pleasure to meet you.'

'Likewise.' She stood and touched his forearm as
she leaned in and said, 'Would you excuse me for a moment? I'll be right back.'

Celine went to the ladies' room to freshen up. When she returned, she found a fresh mojito waiting for her, but Francis Harvey was gone.

Malcolm Fletcher drove his new vehicle, a used but sound Volvo, out of Boston. He was heading to the western part of the state, the Berkshires, where he had rented a secluded home under the name Francis Harvey.

He had grown up during a time when payphones dominated nearly every city corner, restaurant and hospital. Cellular phones had slowly killed off the market, and, while payphones still existed, he had to use the Internet to find one.

The payphone he used to speak with Karim was located several miles from his rental home, at a gas station, which was conveniently closed for renovations. Fletcher parked his car and walked through the cool evening, the surrounding woods throbbing with crickets.

It was now mid-April and Karim was still inside Manhattan's Sloan-Kettering Hospital, undergoing rehabilitation. Three evenings a week, at quarter past nine, his bodyguard would wheel him into a different hospital room to use a different phone. The FBI was still monitoring Karim's home and business phone lines but had failed to secure a wiretap for the hospital switchboard.

His lawyers were still in negotiations with federal prosecutors, who were working feverishly to prevent him or one of his people from leaking the surveillance video of Hostage Rescue Team Operator Daniel Jackman's attempted murder of Ali Karim. Karim was using the video as a bargaining chip to force the FBI to go public with the names of the patients and doctors involved in the Behavioral Modification Project.

Fletcher used his smartphone to check his email. M had sent him an encrypted message telling him the number of the room where Karim would be this evening. Fletcher fed the quarters into the payphone.

'Always.'

'I don't have any news for you, I'm afraid. The drinking glass from the closet had fingerprints on it -'

'And since the FBI owns and operates the fingerprint database, they won't release Marie Clouzot's real identity.'

'Exactly,' Karim said. 'The Bureau is maintaining its stance that the Behavioral Modification Project, along with its doctors and nurses, never existed. As for the parents of James Weeks, they're under federal protection. My lawyers can't get access to them. I don't know which one was involved with the project, but haven't given up hope. My people are still working on it. We're using the video as leverage to get either the mother or the father to come forward and admit their role in this and -'

'You need to stop this.'

Karim laughed and started to cough.

'I live for this.'

'The FBI will never stop searching for me, even if you clear my name. You know that.'

'What do you suggest I do?' Karim asked. 'Roll over?'

' "There are truths which are not for all men, nor for all times." '

'Voltaire would think differently if he had to deal with the US government.'

'Use the remaining videos to protect yourself - and M. As long as you have those videos, the FBI will leave you alone. You'll be safe.'

Karim was silent for a moment.

'Until our next adventure, then.'

Fletcher softly replaced the phone on the cradle. He was examining the night sky when he heard a woman's scream.

The sound came from the dark woods directly in front of him.

Fisher cats and foxes, he knew, produced shrieks that mimicked a woman's. The fox was especially prone to do so if it discovered its mate dead.

He waited, listened for another scream. Seconds passed, and the only sound he heard came from the leaves rustling in the spring breeze.

Malcolm Fletcher walked through the darkness to investigate.

Acknowledgements

Each book is a challenge, and
The Killing House
proved to be especially difficult. Fortunately, I had several guides: Mari Evans, my amazing (and amazingly patient) editor; and my agent, Darley Anderson, and his talented staff - Clare Wallace, Madeleine Buston, Camilla Bolton and Zoe King.

Thanks to the people at Penguin UK: Louise Moore, Stefanie Bierwerth, Nick Lowndes, Donna Poppy. Patrick Tom Notestine, author of
Paramedic to the Prince: An American Paramedic's Account of Life Inside the Mysterious World of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
, was generous with his medical advice. All mistakes are mine.

And thanks to the people who keep me sane: my wife, Jen; Mark Alves, Randy Scott, Neal Sonnenberg, Gregg Hurwitz, John Connolly, Ted and Lynne Castonguay, Donna Bagdasarian and Maggie Griffin.

He just wanted a decent book to read ...

Not too much to ask, is it? It was in 1935 when Allen Lane, Managing Director of Bodley Head Publishers, stood on a platform at Exeter railway station looking for something good to read on his journey back to London. His choice was limited to popular magazines and poor-quality paperbacks - the same choice faced every day by the vast majority of readers, few of whom could afford hardbacks. Lane's disappointment and subsequent anger at the range of books generally available led him to found a company - and change the world.

We believed in the existence in this country of a vast reading public for intelligent books at a low price, and staked everything on it'
Sir Allen Lane, 1902-1970, founder of Penguin Books

The quality paperback had arrived - and not just in bookshops. Lane was adamant that his Penguins should appear in chain stores and tobacconists, and should cost no more than a packet of cigarettes.

Reading habits (and cigarette prices) have changed since 1935, but Penguin still believes in publishing the best books for everybody to enjoy.We still believe that good design costs no more than bad design, and we still believe that quality books published passionately and responsibly make the world a better place.

So wherever you see the little bird - whether it's on a piece of prize-winning literary fiction or a celebrity autobiography, political tour de force or historical masterpiece, a serial-killer thriller, reference book, world classic or a piece of pure escapism - you can bet that it represents the very best that the genre has to offer.

Whatever you like to read - trust Penguin.

www.penguin.co.uk

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ISBN: 978-0-14-196167-5

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