The Killing House

43

Even behind the sunglasses’ dark lenses Fletcher could make out the lines etched around the woman’s eyes and mouth. The shoulder-length hair, at one time completely black, was now streaked with grey and white, and was brittle. She hadn’t zipped up her parka. She wore form-fitting chinos and a white shirt cut especially for her petite frame.

She was about to extend a hand when she suddenly tucked it back into her jacket pocket. Clearly Karim had instructed her to not to introduce herself.

‘I understand you wanted to speak to me.’

Fletcher nodded. He caught the distinct scent of her perfume again and in his mind’s eye saw the crime-scene photographs: a pregnant woman bound to an oak kitchen chair; her son and daughter, aged sixteen and fourteen, bound to similar chairs, duct tape strapped across their mouths. He saw blood-splatter patterns on white living room walls; gunshot wounds and soiled boot prints left on an oak hardwood floor.

‘Do you mind if we speak out here?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to stretch my legs, and the sea air feels good — unless you’re cold.’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

Dr Sin zipped up her jacket and strolled towards the dunes overlooking the water. Fletcher fell into step with her. He suspected the woman knew who he was; her gaze had lingered too long on his face.

‘The man you brought here is in the early stages of septic shock,’ she said.

‘From the kidney removal.’

Dr Sin stopped walking. She had to crane her neck to look up at him.

‘How did you know?’

‘The shape and location of the wound,’ he said.

‘It wasn’t done by a butcher. A trained surgeon made that incision.’

‘A surgeon was, in fact, treating him.’

‘But not in a hospital.’

‘No. It was a… private setting.’

She digested that for a moment. ‘That makes sense,’ she said. ‘When I removed the staples, I found something… well, interesting.’

‘Maggots.’

Surprise bloomed on her face. ‘You’ve seen this sort of thing before?’

‘Upstairs, when I saw the wound and the way the tissue rippled, I suspected maggots since they consume necrotic and infected tissue. It’s an effective, low-cost method of cleaning an infected wound.’

She nodded. ‘American doctors used this technique in the prison camps during the Second World War. They’d take the infected soldiers out to the latrine area and let flies lay their eggs inside the wounds. Then they’d cover them, and after the maggots ate the infected and dead tissue, you’d have clean and sterile wounds. Some hospitals still use the treatment today. Are you a doctor?’

‘No.’

‘But clearly you have some sort of medical training.’

‘No. What else can you tell me?’

She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Here’s what I don’t understand,’ she said, examining the tops of her shoes. ‘Using Lasix after a kidney removal is typical, as the drug stimulates kidney function and urine output. Patients who’ve had a kidney removed are susceptible to infection, so treatment with a wide-spectrum antibiotic is, again, typical. A surgeon or any other reasonably trained medical person would know not to administer Demerol to a patient who is clearly showing signs of septic shock — fever, an increased heart rate and tachypnea, which is rapid breathing. Administering Demerol or another type of narcotic to someone in this condition causes decreased blood pressure, which more often than not results in death. Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ Fletcher said. ‘Did he speak to you?’

‘No, and I don’t think he’ll be able to for some time. At the moment, he’s stabilized. After I stemmed the bleeding, I flushed the wound with sterile saline and drained off the puss with a surgical drain and a suction bulb, then packed it with sterile gauze and dressed it with a sterile dressing. Now we have to wait and see about the sepsis. I need to bring him to a hospital. I spoke with Mr Karim, and he’s going to make arrangements at Sloan-Kettering in Manhattan. I work there. We’re going to admit him under a false name. The paperwork will be fudged so no one will find him.’

‘When will you move him?’

‘In a few hours. He needs to rest, and Mr Karim needs some time to procure the documentation and work out a cover story.’

‘Thank you for your time and your efforts, Doctor.’

Fletcher had turned to leave when she said, ‘Mr Karim is a good man. I met him while I was living in Brookline — that’s in Massachusetts. Three… men broke into my house. I was married with two children and pregnant with my third. They tied us up, and after they robbed us, one decided to come back.’ She brushed the hair blowing around her face and breathed deeply, holding it for a moment. ‘I still don’t know how I managed to survive.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

‘The Boston police never caught the men responsible.’ She faced the sea, watching the wind bending the sea grass. ‘Mr Karim, however, believed he could find them. He seemed so… absolute in his resolve, that I said yes. When I asked him the cost for his services, he baulked. He said he provided pro bono assistance for victims of violence. Then he told me what had happened to his son, Jason.

‘Months passed, and then one day Mr Karim showed up and told me that justice had been served. That I wouldn’t have to live out the rest of my life wondering if those men would come back for me. To use his words, “The matter had been put to bed.” I wanted to know details but he refused to tell me anything — their names, how they had been found. He said it was for my own protection.’

‘I don’t mean to be rude, Doctor, but I must be leaving.’

‘When Mr Karim called and asked me to provide him with some discreet medical service, I was only too grateful to help. He didn’t tell me your name, just that he trusted you implicitly. Before he hung up, he mentioned you had worked for him on a number of occasions. You helped Mr Karim find the men who killed my family, didn’t you?’

Fletcher did not reply.

‘He didn’t tell me anything, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ she said. ‘When I saw you walk into the room, I had this… sense that you recognized me despite the fact we’ve never met.’ A polite smile, and then she added, ‘I would have remembered meeting you.’

Then her expression changed, her eyes cursed by the same look he had seen in all victims of violence: that damnable need to know what she’d done to invite this horror into her life. Why she had been chosen.

‘Tell me why,’ she said, hot-eyed. ‘Please.’

Fletcher weighed the question on his cold scales. ‘Because they could,’ he said.

‘It has to be more than that.’

‘You lived in a nice home. They envied your possessions. You were available.’

She stared at him, wanting more.

He didn’t have anything else to give her.

‘Tell me they suffered,’ she said. ‘At least give me that.’

All three men had died the same way: wrists and ankles manacled and left alone to rot in the decrepit and soggy earthen belly of an abandoned mineshaft where their screams couldn’t be heard. Would knowing the details help her heal, or curse her?

‘I can assure you, they suffered,’ he said.

A moment passed. When he provided no further explanation, the woman nodded, then kept nodding, her head down at the last nod. She stared at the ground as though she had dropped something.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Please take care of yourself.’

Fletcher got back behind the wheel of his car. The doctor continued to stare out at the water — a shell of a woman condemned to living in a grey-filtered daze, alone with a cemetery of memories and the ghosts of her loved ones whispering words she couldn’t understand.