The Killing House

50

Fletcher stepped out of the elevator, carrying a garbage bag full of laundry, and found Karim pacing near the Jaguar. The man had thrown on his tatty bomber jacket but left it unzipped. Beneath the buttoned flannel shirt Fletcher saw the outline of a bulletproof vest.

Fletcher opened the trunk and tossed the garbage bag inside. Karim stopped pacing.

‘My contact at the hospital called me — the one working the ER who was going to get Santiago squared away for us,’ Karim said, his voice echoing through the chilly air. ‘Boyd hasn’t shown up, and he isn’t answering his phone. Neither is Dr Sin.

‘Boyd’s BMW has a tracking unit — all of my company vehicles do — and the signal shows it’s still parked at the beach house. His phone also has a GPS chip, and it shows he’s still at the house.’ Panic had leached colour from Karim’s face and there was a visible sheen of sweat on his smooth forehead. ‘I don’t know about Dr Sin. She doesn’t use one of my phones, so I can’t locate her through my network.’

Fletcher’s mind was already working. ‘When I was inside the house, I noticed a security console in one of the first-floor bedrooms.’

‘That’s the monitoring station for the security cameras posted in and around the house. I know where you’re heading. Yes, it’s connected into my network, but I can’t access the cameras or whatever videos are stored on the hard drive. The whole bloody thing is offline.

‘Malcolm, I know I shouldn’t have to ask this, but were you followed?’

‘No.’ Fletcher, ever vigilant, had made sure no one tailed him to Cape May, New Jersey — or to Karim’s home.

‘Then they must have found the house some other way,’ Karim said.

‘What about triangulating Dr Sin’s cell signal?’

‘I don’t have that equipment here. It’s under lock and key at a secure location — the police and federal government don’t look too kindly on an independent security contractor who can trace a cell signal at whim when they have to obtain court-ordered subpoenas.’

‘Are you heading there now?’

‘No. I’ve sent M. I’m going to New Jersey.’

‘I’ll go.’

‘I’m coming with you. I have to be there in case…’ Karim’s voice trailed off. He didn’t know what to do with his hands and he had difficulty swallowing.

Fletcher leaned over the trunk to start collecting his tools and weapons. ‘Before we leave, you need to check to see if the New Jersey police were called to your home.’

‘They weren’t; I already checked. Did you check your car for a tracking device?’

‘I always do.’

‘I’d feel better if we took one of my vehicles,’ Karim said. ‘I’ll drive.’

The black Range Rover had tinted windows and a cream-coloured interior and smelled of new leather. As Karim navigated his way through the morning traffic clogging Midtown, fighting for any opening, Fletcher divided his attention between the windows and the passenger’s side mirror, studying the vehicles, watching for any sign of a tail.

‘I have people following us, watching for anything suspicious,’ Karim said. ‘They’ll follow us to New Jersey and then my people there will take over — we’ll be completely covered. Don’t worry, they won’t see you.’

Fletcher nodded but still conducted surveillance, memorizing vehicle makes and models.

Karim drove with both hands on the wheel. His BlackBerry sat inside a dashboard cubbyhole. He kept glancing at it.

‘You can’t call an ambulance,’ Fletcher said.

‘We’re a good hour away — probably more in this traffic. For all I know Boyd and the doctor are clinging to life.’

‘You need to consider the evidence.’

‘What evidence?’

‘Since Boyd and his car are still on the premises, it stands to reason neither he nor the doctor had time to clean up properly. If you call for an ambulance, the paramedics will enter the house and, at the very least, find blood in the treatment room. The police will be summoned. Forensics will be called in to collect blood samples. If Santiago’s DNA sample is stored inside CODIS, they’ll want to know how blood from a missing seventeen-year-old wound up inside your home.’

Karim threaded his hands through his hair. ‘You and your goddamn logic,’ he muttered. Then, louder: ‘What’s that pragmatic brain of yours telling you about how Santiago was located?’

‘I can tell you he wasn’t wearing a tracking device.’

‘You checked his pockets?’

‘His pockets were empty.’

‘Shoes?’

‘He was barefoot,’ Fletcher said. ‘Tracking units are bulky items. If Santiago was wearing one, I would have found it.’

‘Then they must have used something else — something small, something that could have been sewn into Santiago’s clothing. Or his skin.’

‘His skin?’

‘How familiar are you with radio-frequency identification?’

‘I know the meat-packing industry uses RFID tags to identify a livestock’s herd of origin.’

Karim lit a cigarette. ‘Human applications have been devised,’ he said, cracking open his window. ‘A glass-encapsulated RFID chip slightly larger than a grain of rice can be tucked inside a pocket or sewn into clothing — or, in the case of biometric security, surgically inserted beneath the skin. The Mexican attorney general did that to his senior staff, had a chip implanted in that web of skin between your thumb and index finger. You notice anything like that on Santiago?’

‘The man had a number of scars,’ Fletcher said. ‘If I’m not mistaken, the RFID chip you’re referring to is no longer manufactured.’

‘You’re partly correct. The FDA approved the chips for human use in 2008. Then all these independent medical studies tested the glass-encapsulated chips on dogs and cats. They developed cancerous tumors, and the FDA revoked approval. The company that manufactured it — there was only one — went into bankruptcy, but then they received a godsend when the Indian government started a project to take every citizen’s fingerprints and iris scans, and store them on these tiny RFID chips so they could be identified.’

‘And the range of these chips?’

‘A couple of miles,’ Karim said. ‘All you need is a special antennae hooked up to a computer that has the right software. If you weren’t followed, Malcolm, then Santiago had to have been tagged with one of these RFID chips or some other type of hidden tracking device that emitted a signal powerful enough to allow his captors to pinpoint his location. It’s the only conceivable scenario.’

And one I failed to consider, Fletcher thought.

Karim propped an elbow on the door and massaged his forehead. In the silence that ensued, Fletcher contemplated what might have happened in Cape May. He surmised that Nathan Santiago had been removed from the premises. The question facing him was, had the woman and her partner decided to remain behind — or had they left people behind? They employed the services of at least two men: William Jenner and Marcus De Luca. Jenner’s home had been torched, but Fletcher couldn’t assume that either Jenner or his partner were dead. Were the former Baltimore patrolmen waiting at the Cape May house?

Fletcher considered tactics. Tall brush and scrub cedar bordered the driveway; even in daylight, the area would provide plenty of hiding spots where he could watch. With the downtown area a quarter of a mile away, an outside gunshot would sound no louder than a firecracker in the harsh ocean wind.

Shooting, however, would be foolish. Karim equipped all of his vehicles, even his personal ones, with bulletproof windows and special armour that could withstand a bomb.

‘How do you do it?’ Karim asked.

‘Do what?’

‘Unplug yourself from your emotions.’

‘I’m not uncaring, Ali.’

‘Looking at you — hearing you — I don’t get a sense that you’re… well, feeling anything.’

Fletcher didn’t answer.

They drove in silence.

‘Mathematics,’ Fletcher said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The human body is nothing more than a complex energy system. It has a finite amount of resources. Focusing energy into endless speculation is a waste of time and, worse, a drain on mental resources. Better to channel my focus on the upcoming task.’

‘Malcolm,’ Karim said, drawing out the word, curls of smoke drifting from his nostrils, ‘there are times when I truly envy you.’