42

The properties Ali Karim used for safe houses were often lavish affairs — elaborately furnished brownstones, condominiums and townhouses in highly crowded downtown cities; exquisite beach-front properties used as rental homes in tourist spots where there was a constant turnover.

The secluded home in Cape May was no exception. It sat on top of a hill, a Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired contemporary settled among sand dunes overlooking the Delaware Beach. Soft lights glowed from behind the drawn Venetian blinds covering the windows.

Fletcher moved up a steep and curving driveway. Nathan Santiago lay curled asleep on his side.

When the awful wailing had stopped, Fletcher had tried to engage the man in conversation. Santiago, reduced to a childlike blubbering, hadn’t answered. He had exhausted himself, and at some point during the drive, aided by the Demerol in his system and, quite possibly, by a sense of overwhelming relief, he had drifted off into a deep sleep. Fletcher had used the time to update Karim.

Motion-sensor lights winked to life when Fletcher reached the top of the driveway, a circular path both wide enough and long enough to accommodate a small fleet of vehicles. The area was empty but not the garage. Its single door was open. Parked in the wide bay was a black BMW with a New York licence plate. The garage was connected to the home by a portico.

The side door for the house’s wraparound porch flew open. The man who stepped outside had a misshapen face, crooked nose and cauliflower ears from years of boxing and street brawls — Karim’s personal bodyguard and childhood friend, Boyd Paulson. Dressed in his customary dark suit and matching shirt, Paulson jogged down the steps with a curious agility and grace for a man his size. He reminded Fletcher of a retired Lancaster bomber he had once seen displayed at London’s Imperial War Museum — a solid and crafty machine that had endured several wars and still possessed the means to carry out one last mission.

Fletcher killed the ignition and exited the car. A harsh ocean wind, coarse with sand, salt and grit, rattled the home’s windows, bent and twisted the brush and reeds in the sand dunes.

‘Where is he?’ Paulson asked.

‘Passenger’s seat.’ Fletcher went to open the car door.

Paulson grabbed his arm. ‘Karim doesn’t want him to see your face.’

‘He already has.’

‘Aw, bloody hell.’

‘He doesn’t know my name, and he’s asleep.’ Fletcher opened the door. The interior light clicked on. Nathan Santiago didn’t stir.

‘I’ll take him up,’ Paulson said.

Santiago moaned as he was lifted, his eyes fluttering open. Blood had soaked through the left side of his coat. Fletcher looked over the car door and saw more blood smeared against the leather seat.

Paulson darted up the porch steps, speaking over his shoulder: ‘Get the door — and you might want to put on your sunglasses.’

Fletcher did and held the door open. Paulson turned sideways and entered a generously sized kitchen of stainless steel, the warm air fragrant with strong coffee — Turkish, most likely, the only kind Karim stocked. A Cafetiere with two mugs stood on the small kitchen island. Fletcher followed Paulson across blond hardwood flooring scuffed by shoes. He had to duck under the archway leading into a large living room with modern lighting and cathedral ceilings fashioned with old timber beams. Wood popped and hissed from a fireplace. Behind the pleasant smoky pine he smelled new leather. A glass coffee table, coated with a film of dust, still had a price sticker attached.

Glowing squares of light caught Fletcher’s eye. He gave a quick glance to his left, down a short hall and through an open door, where he saw monitors housed inside a surveillance station.

Up a set of stairs with a burgundy runner and then Fletcher trailed Paulson down a hall of fresh white paint and brand-new carpet. Three doors hung open to identical bedrooms: twin beds, oak dressers and reading chairs, everything draped in plastic. The bookcases and unbreakable mirrors had been bolted to the walls.

The hall turned left and led into a master bedroom transformed into a treatment room. The doctor, a slight Asian woman dressed in a hospital-green smock, stood rigidly by a hospital bed that had been rolled into the centre of the room, the pillow and mattress covered in plastic liners. The other two beds were shrouded with plastic tarps.

The woman’s eyes widened when she saw Fletcher. She backed up as he approached, bumping up against the surgical tools arranged on a rolling stainless-steel cart.

Fletcher caught a faint whiff of the woman’s perfume, a rare and distinctive scent, and knew who she was: Dr Dara Sin.

Paulson placed Santiago on the bed. Fletcher removed the man’s coat. The doctor had already pulled on her latex gloves. The stethoscope draped around her neck swung slightly as she ushered Paulson and Fletcher away from the bed with a wave of her hand. She tore open Santiago’s shirt and listened to his heart and checked his pulse.

Santiago’s light brown skin was covered with scars new and old, welts, sores and cuts. His arms were swollen from oedema. Fletcher wondered if the young man’s fever and decreased level of consciousness had been caused by septic shock, a bacterial infection.

Paulson’s cell rang. He moved into the hall.

‘Demerol, I was told he was given Demerol,’ the doctor barked. ‘How much?’

‘One hundred milligrammes via a slow IV push. He was also being treated with an aggressive IV fluid therapy and a wide-spectrum antibiotic. Cefazolin. I found Lasix on the nightstand. Twenty-milligramme tablets.’

‘Hand me that oxygen tank.’

Fletcher had to walk around a crash cart to reach it. He picked up the tank and placed it near the bed. She strapped the mask across Santiago’s face, set the tank’s gauge to deliver fifteen litres and darted across the room to shelves packed with medical supplies.

Fletcher discovered the source of the bleeding: a curved and raw ten-inch incision that ran from Santiago’s pubic bone and ended just under the bottom of the ribcage, the wound held together by a Frankenstein mess of surgical staples, several of which had torn or were missing.

He must have torn them while vomiting, Fletcher thought. The wound’s distinctive horseshoe-shaped pattern told him what surgical procedure had been performed. It also showed signs of infection. The tissue contained within the island of staples was swollen and, oddly, vibrating as though something was trapped beneath it.

The doctor returned carrying an indwelling Foley catheter. She inserted it into his penis, guiding the tube into the bladder. A moment later the bag filled with urine and blood.

Paulson called from the doorway. Fletcher joined the man in the hall.

‘That was Karim,’ Paulson said in a low voice. ‘He wants you to come to Manhattan straightaway. House is cleared out. Use the garage entrance.’

Fletcher felt he should be with Nathan Santiago when he woke up. The man would be confused and frightened by the strange faces.

‘She’ll take good care of him,’ Paulson said. ‘Anything he needs, we’ve got it covered.’

‘I’ll leave once I know he’s stabilized. Tell the doctor to meet me outside.’

Fletcher needed to clean up the blood on his car seat. He couldn’t afford to have it seen, should he be pulled over during the drive to Manhattan. An unlikely scenario, but one he still had to consider.

The cabinet underneath the kitchen sink held liquid soap and rolls of kitchen towel but no soft cloths, towels or bucket. He ventured outside to the garage and saw a small green glow of light. It belonged to a security camera mounted in the far-right corner. He walked to the back shelves mounted against the wall and helped himself to a small plastic bucket and a stack of folded micro-fibre cloths.

Outside, on the right-hand side of the garage and in clear view, was a garden hose wrapped around an ornate wrought-iron hanger. After he filled the bucket, he added a dollop of soap and placed the spray nozzle on top of the holder.

Fletcher had finished mopping up most of the blood when he heard the porch door open behind him. Light and hesitant footsteps moved down the steps. The doctor. He dropped the bloody cloth into the bucket, cleaned his hands with a fresh piece of kitchen roll and slipped on his sunglasses before leaning back against his car.

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