The Killing House (8 page)

'What do you think she was trying to hide?'

'That she's done this before,' Fletcher said.

15

'What makes the Herrera family so unique?' Fletcher asked. 'What sets them apart from anyone else?'

'Their missing son,' Karim said. 'Rico.'

Fletcher nodded. 'We know Rico Herrera was abducted from his bedroom while he was sleeping. Four years have passed, and the police have failed to find him or to uncover any new investigative angle or piece of evidence. The trail has gone cold. Dead cold. The mother refuses to give up hope. Maybe she really does believe her son is alive or maybe, on an unconscious level, she knows he's most likely dead and needs the police to find him so she can grieve and move on with her life.'

'It's probably a combination of both,' Karim said. 'Hope is always the last thing to die.'

'We know she's referred to you by your contact in Colorado, the homicide detective who worked her son's case. You ask me to talk to her and her husband. I arrive to find the upstairs bedroom light being turned off. When Theresa Herrera finally answers the door, she's frightened but able to maintain enough composure to concoct a story about suffering from a stomach virus and that her husband is out for the night. She tries to send me away, and we know what happens next.

'These are indisputable facts. We also know the shooter is inside the house before I arrive on the scene, but we don't know why. What is her
reason
for gaining access to the house? I started with that question and operated from the theory that the shooter is somehow connected to Rico Herrera's abduction. If so, why would she decide to visit the family four years later? It certainly wouldn't be to tell them their son is dead.'

'I think you're right,' Karim said. 'If the shooter had told the mother her son was dead, she wouldn't have allowed Theresa Herrera to answer the door. The woman would have been too distraught. Even with a gun pointed at her, she might have risked screaming for help - or chosen to flee the house.'

'So the shooter had leverage, something to make Theresa Herrera cooperate.'

'You think, what, the shooter told Herrera that her son was alive?'

'It would give the shooter the power to force Theresa Herrera to do what she was told.'

'It's possible, sure. But we don't know that was, in fact, what happened.'

'Correct. Let's go back to our original assumption that the shooter is either responsible or somehow connected to Rico Herrera's abduction. If this is true, we're back to the original question: what's the shooter's reason for being there? Not to kill the wife and her husband. If this was simply about killing, she could have done that very easily. We know she gained access to the house, and we know she had a gun. She could have
used it at any time, but she didn't. She
made
Theresa Herrera answer the door to send me away.'

'You know what was going on inside the house, don't you?'

'I have a theory.'

'Let's hear it.'

'Our shooter, the woman in the fur coat, planned on abducting one of the parents.'

Surprise bloomed on Karim's face.

Fletcher stood, his ribs screaming in protest, and left the dining room. He entered the kitchen and came back with the manila folder holding the three sheets of notes he had written earlier that morning.

Fletcher resumed his seat and said, 'I conducted some preliminary research and found eight families who have had either a son or a daughter abducted from their house, on their way home from school, from a car - the abduction methods vary. The child vanishes, and after a significant amount of time passes - several months or, in the case of Rico Herrera, several years - one of the parents vanishes, never to be seen or heard from again.'

'And the surviving spouse?'

'Killed inside the house.' Fletcher slid the folder across the table and added, 'They're all unsolved.'

Karim read through the pages. They contained only salient details: the names of the eight families; the names of their missing children and the date and circumstances of their abductions; the date and details involving the murder of the husband or wife followed
by those for the husband or wife who vanished afterwards.

'These families are scattered all over the country,' Karim said.

'And there may be more. I only had a day to do the research.'

'Where did you get this information?'

'Articles posted on various newspaper websites,' Fletcher said.

'It's an interesting theory - certainly one that warrants further investigation.'

'There's one other thing.'

Karim glanced up from his reading.

'Theresa Herrera wasn't who she said she was,' Fletcher said.

16

'That can't be ... that's not possible,' Karim said. 'If what you're saying is true, the person I assigned to do the data mining would have found it.'

'The person you assigned was very thorough. I read the reports.'

'But?'

'I checked Theresa Herrera's medical records on MIB - the Medical Information Bureau,' Fletcher said. 'It's a digital warehouse for the country's medical records.'

'I know what it is,' Karim said softly. 'Insurance companies use it. What did you find?'

'Her social security number doesn't have a match on the MIB.'

'Nothing?'

'Not a single file.'

'Could be a simple clerical error.'

'Or it could have been expunged,' Fletcher said. 'Whatever the reason, it warrants further investigation.'

Karim nodded as he shut the folder.

'There's only one company that specializes in adding cremated remains to ammunition,' Fletcher said. 'Sacred Ashes, based in Dunbar, Alabama.'

He slid his smartphone across the table. Karim looked
at the company website displayed on the phone's screen.

'I'll drive to Alabama,' Fletcher said.

'Why?'

'To look through the company's records.'

'No, I mean why drive when we can fly? We'll take my plane.'

'In case you forgot, I'm a fugitive.'

Karim waved it away. 'What do you have for ID?'

'A passport and driver's licence.'

'Let's see them.'

'The provenance is clean.'

'Always check, Malcolm. Always check.'

'I always do.' To allay Karim's concerns, Fletcher handed over the items for Robert Pepin.

Karim inspected them for several minutes before placing several phone calls to make sure the documentation hadn't been compromised or flagged for review. His final call was to a contact at Interpol. Fletcher had, under his own name, been given an Interpol Red Notice - an international arrest warrant.

'They're clean,' Karim said after he hung up. 'What's your plan once we reach Alabama?'

'Surveillance,' Fletcher said. 'Then I'll break into their company, examine their computers and paperwork, and find our shooter.'

17

Seventeen-year-old Jimmy Weeks saw police lights explode across his rearview mirror.

It wasn't an ordinary cop car. Directly behind him and practically riding his back bumper was a big, black Chevy suburban - an undercover-cop car, he thought. No sirens, just flashing lights installed in the front grille.

Jimmy felt his chest tighten. An inner voice urged him to relax.

You haven't done anything wrong
, that voice said.
The cop probably just wants you to move out of the way since you're hogging the lane and driving like an old lady.

He
was
driving slowly - and with excessive caution. His dad had agreed to hand over the keys for his BMW. In return, Jimmy had agreed to run to the grocery store to pick up a few items needed for 'Wafflepalloza', his father's hip term for the waffle extravaganza he cooked up every Sunday morning in an attempt to get everyone to sit down and spend 'quality family time' together. Completely lame, but Jimmy had to admit the waffles were pretty good.

Jimmy pulled off the main road and banged a right on to Haymarket Street.

The Chevy followed. The flashing lights shut off as it pulled up directly behind him.

'But I haven't done anything wrong,' he mumbled to himself.

And that's why you have nothing to worry about
, that inner voice counselled.

But that didn't stop beads of sweat from popping out along his hairline. He parked against the kerb, removed the Velcro-canvas wallet from his back jeans pocket, leaned across the console and opened the glove box. He was fishing out the registration from the piles of papers when the knock came at the window.

The undercover cop was a woman. She wore a bulky black winter parka and a pair of sunglasses with mirrored lenses. A black knit cap covered her head and ears.

There was something wrong with her face. Like the skin had been stretched too far back. Mrs Dempsey's botched facelift came to mind as Jimmy rolled down the window.

On the heels of that thought came another one:
Why would an undercover cop pull me over?

Jimmy handed over his licence and registration. The lady cop didn't take them. She held up a leather wallet displaying a heavy gold badge. Beside it and tucked underneath a clear sheet of plastic was an ID with 'FBI' printed across the top in big bold blue letters. The accompanying picture showed a middle-aged woman with black hair worn tight across her scalp. Her name was Marie Clouzot.

FBI
.
She's a federal agent, oh sweet Jesus.

'Are you the owner of this vehicle, sir?'

Jimmy nodded. Then he said, 'It's my dad's car.'

'Your name?'

'James Weeks. What's - did I do something wrong?'

'Well, Mr Weeks, it seems you're driving a vehicle that was used in the commission of a robbery.'

The heat that spread across Jimmy's face was so intense he thought his skin would melt.

'Several eyewitnesses reported seeing this model of BMW at the pharmacy last night, and they gave us a licence-plate number.
Your
licence-plate number, Mr Weeks.'

Everything came into a sharp and sickening focus - the way her eyes moved behind her sunglasses as she searched his car, her breath steaming in the frigid Pennsylvania air. His lips and jaw trembled as he stammered his way through an explanation.

'There's got to ... No, that can't be true. This car belongs - it's my dad's car.'

'Where were you yesterday, Mr Weeks?'

Yesterday. He'd had hockey practice after school. After that, he'd spent a few hours doing homework and preparing for Mr Glassman's upcoming ballbuster history test, and then he'd gone over to George Durant's house and played the new
Call of Duty
game until nine or ten -
and
he'd driven there in his mother's shitty Toyota Corolla.

Jimmy told all of this to the FBI agent.

'Where do you live, Mr Weeks?'

'Boynton Street,' he said. 'It's not that far, less than ten minutes.'

'Are your parents at home?'

Jimmy nodded, kept nodding.

'Do you have a cell phone?'

'In my coat pocket,' he said. 'I can call him right now, he'll -'

'Please keep your hands on the wheel, Mr Weeks.'

'Call him. My dad. He'll tell you where I was. I didn't - I wouldn't hold up a drugstore.'

She stared at him from behind her sunglasses.

'I swear to God I'm telling you the truth,' Jimmy said.

'Here's what we're going to do. You're going to get in my car. I'm going to drive you to your house, and we're going to sit down and talk to your parents, see if your story holds up.' She opened his door. 'Make sure you lock your car.'

He did. Agent Clouzot told him to get into the passenger's seat. He did. After she got settled behind the wheel, she asked him for his cell. Jimmy gave it to her. She examined it for a moment before slipping it inside her jacket pocket.

She started the Chevy. Then she took out a pair of plastic handcuffs.

'Please turn around and place your hands behind your back.'

'But I - I haven't done anything wrong.' Jimmy felt the sting of tears. Felt embarrassed and ashamed for acting like such a pussy - especially in front of a woman.

'Mr Weeks, the last person who professed his innocence attacked me while I was driving and almost got
me killed. If you're as innocent as you say you are, then you won't mind wearing these until we arrive at your home. It's for your safety, and mine. If you refuse, I'll place you under arrest.'

Jimmy's mouth felt like cotton. He swallowed dryly.

'We can talk to your parents at your house, or you can call them from our federal office. What do you want to do?'

Jimmy, frightened by the idea of being arrested and having to call his parents, turned around in his seat. He stared out of his window and, heart thumping at a frightening and furious clip, placed his hands behind his back.

This is some sort of mix-up
, he told himself as the woman tightened the cuffs against his wrists.
I didn't rob a pharmacy. My parents know where I was yesterday. There are at least, what, a dozen witnesses who can tell this agent I was -

Something sharp pierced his lower thigh. Startled, he swung around in his seat, knocking his head against the side window as a hot and stinging liquid flooded his muscle; FBI Agent Clouzot had stuck a needle into his leg, and her thumb was pressing down on the plunger of a syringe.

He tried to twist away, his shins slamming into the glove box. The woman reached up, grabbed him by the back of the neck and sent his face crashing down against the console separating the two seats.

The impact broke his nose. Jimmy felt it crack, heard the sound boom through his head, certain that bone fragments were flying through his brain. His eyes
watered, and blood poured out of his nose and down his throat, and he kicked underneath the glove box. He couldn't move his head; the FBI agent was placing all of her weight down on his neck, like she wanted to snap it. With his face smashed against the console, Jimmy let out a garbled scream, spitting blood against a brown leather sunglasses case.

18