The Killing House

35

As the doctor started to die, his brain bleeding out from the two blows and his muscles convulsing in protest, Fletcher removed a small, battery-powered audio bug from a tactical pouch. He peeled off the self-adhesive strip and stuck the bug underneath the table. Then he pulled the dishcloth from the man’s mouth.

Wine and blood and shattered teeth splashed down across Corrigan’s chest, splattering the dinner plate and staining the tablecloth. Fletcher quickly wiped his gloved hands on his black trousers and then opened another pouch and retrieved a small, circular object the size of a pencil eraser. He jerked the doctor’s head back and shoved the GPS transmitter past the slick tongue and down the man’s throat. To make sure it stayed in the man’s stomach, Fletcher stuffed the dishcloth back into Corrigan’s mouth.

He left the doctor’s iPhone on the table. He made two quick stops, in the living room and kitchen, before heading back upstairs.

Gary Corrigan’s patient was no longer on the bed. The nightstand near the window had been overturned, the drawers pulled open; Nathan Santiago, semi-conscious, clawed at them as he lay sprawled against the floor, moaning, his drowsy eyes blinking, trying to focus on the objects blurred by his Demerol haze.

Fletcher darted inside the master bedroom, stepped back inside the walk-in closet and found a hiding spot for a second audio bug. He picked up the evidence bag holding the highball glass on his way out.

Nathan Santiago saw Fletcher approaching and held up a shaky arm to shield his face.

‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ Fletcher said, kneeling. Corrigan’s long camelhair overcoat was draped over his arm. He placed it on the floor. ‘I’m going to bring you someplace safe. Lie still while I take this out.’ Fletcher removed the IV needle and covered the puncture wound with one of the fresh bandages scattered along the carpet. Then he helped the man sit up.

Santiago didn’t fight him. Corrigan’s roomy overcoat swam over the thin, frail body.

The man clearly couldn’t stand on his own, even with assistance. He needed to be carried. Fletcher scooped him into his arms, his broken ribs exploding in pain. He fought his way through it and carried the shivering body out of the bedroom.

During his previous trip to the kitchen, Fletcher had opened the sliding glass door. He moved outside and down the porch steps, then across the dark garden, Santiago was as light and frail as a bird in his arms. He opened the gate and, cradling Santiago against his chest, moved down the leafy slope. He had reached the main trail when he heard the roar of a car engine followed by a peel of tyres.

The trip to the parking lot was prolonged by his injury. Fletcher reached his car, winded, sweating despite the cold air. With a press of a button the Jaguar’s lights flashed as the doors unlocked. He laid Santiago across the backseat, folding the man’s limp arms across his chest, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.

Fletcher staggered to the trunk. He opened it, placed the evidence bag inside and removed the small leather briefcase holding his netbook. He drove out of the lot and headed back to the house.