The Killing House

24

Fletcher got to his feet. Having encountered such scenarios dozens of times over the course of his life, he felt no sense of danger or unease. It could simply be a passing vehicle. Or, if one or both owners were about to arrive, he could dart back to the bedroom office, quickly gather his things and escape. He would not be seen or caught.

The bedroom across the hall overlooked the front of the house. He pulled back the dusty blinds. A truck was pulling off the main road — a Ford 350 Super Duty painted black and covered in dirt and dried mud. A diesel engine, judging by the sound.

The truck parked round the front. The driver didn’t kill the engine. Left it running as he opened the door and got out holding a big, metal toolbox. A rotund older man with a thick white beard: Santa Claus dressed in cheap flannel. He dropped the toolbox on the porch, turned and moved back to the truck.

Fletcher returned to the office. It took him only a few seconds to find the folder holding the company’s completed order forms. He removed the thick stack of paper and then checked the rest of the hanging-file folders. Finding nothing else of value, he slid the drawer shut.

He checked the laptop. The software was still running. He leaned back in the chair and rifled through the stapled sheets. Thirty-six completed orders dating back to early March of last year.

Placing the papers on the desk, he leaned forward, pulled up his left trouser leg and removed the Velcro straps securing the portable scanner to his calf. The wand-size cordless device scanned a black-and-white document in two seconds, storing the images on the unit’s micro-SD card.

He slid the scanner across the first page, then the next. Within four minutes he had scanned all 108 pages. He had to wait another six minutes for the CD software to finish copying the files to his portable hard drive.

His gear packed up and tucked away, Fletcher left through the back door and jogged across the field to retrieve his backpack from the tree.

Having been condemned to a life of constant vigilance, Fletcher was forced to take every conceivable precaution to make sure he wouldn’t be caught. While he had found no evidence to suggest that he had been followed here, he could never entirely dismiss such a possibility. His rental car, locked and parked on the hidden trail in the woods, had been left unattended for the past hour.

Fletcher spent several minutes sweeping the car for listening devices or a GPS-tracking system. Finding it clean, he drove like a man who knew he was being followed. He watched the rearview and side mirrors for any signs of a trail — a task made much simpler by the remote setting and its lack of vehicles — and conducted the normal counter-surveillance measures. Deciding it was safe to return to the airport, he called Karim.

The conversation was brief. Fletcher explained the items he’d recovered. Karim didn’t ask any questions and assured him everything he needed was on board the plane. They picked a meeting spot.

An hour later, Fletcher parked his rental car and made his way across the lot. It was half past five and there was still light in the Alabama sky, the February air still pleasantly cool — a much welcome relief after Chicago’s frigid temperature and biting winds.

He found Karim waiting near a flagpole in front of a brick-faced building. Only waiting wasn’t an accurate description. The man was smoking and pacing at a furious clip, like an expectant father from the time when men weren’t allowed in delivery rooms, leaving him to fret while his wife underwent the world’s most difficult childbirth. Karim, Fletcher knew, always acted this way at the start of a hunt. He kept fuelling the adrenalin with too much coffee and nicotine.

‘Good, you’re here,’ Karim said. ‘I was thinking, this information you recovered — ’

‘You want Miss White to analyse the data I recovered from the company laptop while you and I sort through the scanned documents. It will save time, and possibly allow us to identify our shooter before the plane lands in Chicago.’

‘Either you’ve developed psychic abilities, or I need to develop a better poker face.’

‘You intended to use her from the very start, Ali. That’s why you brought her along.’

‘I’ve come to rely heavily on M’s talents.’

‘That is, of course, your choice. But I won’t be joining you on the return flight.’

Karim’s expression turned stoic. ‘After all our time together, do you honestly believe I’d bring someone into the fold who would put your freedom in danger?’

‘No, I don’t. But you’re not living under the sword of Damocles. A man in my position has to be careful.’

‘I know this woman, Malcolm. I trust her as much as I trust you, which is considerably.’

‘Be that as it may, the three-million-dollar bounty on my head might change her mind.’

‘Your fears are unwarranted. Even if she knew who you really are — and she doesn’t — M would never do such a thing. She’s incapable of it.’

‘ “Passion persuades me one way, reason another.” ’

‘I’m sorry, but I forgot to bring along my copy of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotes.’

‘Clearly this woman has cast some sort of spell on you. You should see the way you simper in her presence.’

Karim chuckled as he dropped the last of his cigarette.

‘I’m not judging you,’ Fletcher said. ‘In addition to being attractive, she projects a rather intense magnetism. Your choice of paramours is your business, but I would suggest you exercise caution.’

‘Oh, and why’s that?’

‘Ali, the woman is young enough to be your daughter.’

‘That she is,’ Karim said, stubbing out the cigarette butt with his heel. ‘She is, in fact, my daughter.’