The Killing House

38

Fletcher shadowed the Lincoln through a residential area. Traffic was mercifully light.

Far ahead, he saw the Lincoln slow at a four-way stop sign. So far, the driver had failed to perform any counter-surveillance measures.

The Lincoln turned right on West 41st and continued to move at a normal speed. The driver didn’t appear to be in a rush to reach his destination.

Fletcher consulted the Jaguar’s GPS unit to see where West 41st turned. He quickly memorized the surrounding streets, pulled into the opposite lane and planted his foot hard on the gas, taking the driver in front of him by surprise. He blew past the stop sign and came to a sudden halt against the corner where Falls Road met West 41st.

The Lincoln had two choices: continue straight on West 41st or turn left on to Hickory Avenue, a street about a quarter of a mile long. It offered two left turns, both of which would loop the driver back on to Falls Road.

Fletcher looked out of the passenger’s window, at Hickory.

The Lincoln drove by and vanished from his view.

Fletcher pulled away from the kerb and drove straight ahead, accelerating to the next turn, Weldon. He pulled against the corner kerb and this time cut the lights. Again he looked out of the passenger’s window.

The Lincoln passed Weldon and kept driving across Hickory.

Has to be driving to his destination either on Hickory or the next street, West 42 nd, Fletcher thought, pulling back on to Falls Road with his lights still off. He accelerated to West 42nd, turned right and drove halfway down a small street lined with identical homes: two-floor boxy structures stacked against each other, white-trim windows, metal or cloth awnings installed over the white front doors. None of the homes contained driveways or carports. Residents parked on the street.

Fletcher pulled against the kerb and waited.

Seconds passed and the Lincoln didn’t come.

Fletcher crept to the end of the street, where it turned into Hickory. Straight ahead he found three connected brick buildings. A quick glance to his right and he caught sight of the Lincoln’s sagging rear bumper before the car disappeared behind the buildings.

The windows for all three buildings were dark, and there were no outside lights. A sign made of wood had been staked in a small front lawn of dead grass: SCOTT amp; ALVES CAR DETAILING.

Fletcher switched the GPS to an aerial view and zoomed in on the roofs. The buildings took up the entire block between the end of West 42nd and Weldon Avenue. In the back was a small parking lot surrounded by a vast forest of trees. The Lincoln had nowhere to go. Either this was its destination or the driver had spotted him and was waiting to see what he would do next.

Fletcher decided to wait too. Monocular in hand, he examined the buildings for heat signatures.

Jenner had turned in his seat and was facing Marie, talking to her about how to handle the Santiago situation, when he heard the rumble of a big metal garage door opening. He looked out of the front window as the Lincoln dipped down a ramp, heading for an underground garage belonging to a five- or six-storey brick building.

Brandon Arkoff pulled inside, killed the engine and got out. Jenner followed. The garage bay was wide and cold. It held a single vehicle, an old black Mercedes. The air smelled damp. He spotted some hoses connected to spigots.

Arkoff disappeared behind a glass door at the far end of the garage. A light clicked on and he came back out, holding the door open. Jenner nodded his thanks and stepped inside the concrete stairwell, his foot planted on the first step when he felt something sharp wrapped around his throat. He clutched at it with both hands, his fingertips slicing against the razor wire sawing its way through his neck. As he was pulled back out into the garage, blood — his blood — sprayed the walls and glass door. Great warm pools gushed down his chest, his scream lost in his severed throat.