The Killing House

52

The chilly hall of white walls and concrete flooring was empty.

Fletcher stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. Another door was less than twenty feet ahead; mounted in the corner and watching, a security camera, its single green light blinking.

He raised the SIG as he threw open the door.

The morning’s dull light filtered through the gaps between the wooden blinds drawn around all the kitchen and living-room windows. The ceiling fans mounted in the rafters hadn’t been shut off. The spinning blades pushed the warm air down him, with its lingering smell of an extinguished fire.

No one came running. Watching and listening for movement, Fletcher crept towards the archway leading into the living room. Then he swung around the corner. The entire living room was empty.

Now he checked the security room. It was empty, the monitoring screen dark. The electrical cord for the security station had been unplugged. He checked the bedroom across the hall, found it empty. Same with the bathroom. The ground floors were empty.

The wind died down and the warm air inside the living room seemed to throb with silence.

Were they waiting upstairs?

Fletcher moved up the carpeted steps, mindful of his shadow dancing across the wall, announcing him.

The first-floor hallway was empty, the air significantly cooler and the three bedroom doors were hanging open. The first bedroom, the one on his left, was empty. The second one was empty. The last one was empty. Everything was in order. Slowly he moved down the hall and when it curved left he walked across the last part and entered the large room where Dr Sin had treated Nathan Santiago.

The hospital bed was still in the centre of the room, the plastic liner covering the pillow and mattress smeared with dried blood. Drops were on the floor, and the rubbish bin was full of bloody gauze.

Fletcher wondered if Karim’s surveillance cameras had captured anything useful.

Returning to the security room, Fletcher slid the plug for the console into the wall outlet. As the system turned on, he opened the unit’s metal cabinet. The Ethernet cable had been torn from the router, and the system’s hard drive was missing, prised from its metal clasps. The person who had performed the work had known exactly where to look. Only someone well acquainted with the design mechanics of security-system stations would be able to locate where the hard drive was housed, as the area was concealed and couldn’t be accessed easily. Someone had taken every available action to remove recorded evidence of what had happened inside the house.

The security cameras were back online but not recording. Fletcher spoke into his headset: ‘There’s no one here.’

‘What did you find?’

‘The hard drive is gone.’ Fletcher moved back to the foot of the stairs. ‘Dial Boyd’s number.’

No ringing, just the sound of the wind shrieking.

Karim’s voice came over his earpiece: ‘It’s coming from the BMW — the trunk, I think.’

‘I’ll be right there.’ Fletcher did not want the man to pop the trunk and witness Boyd Paulson’s manner of execution.

Opening the door for the garage, he found the BMW’s trunk already popped open, the small halogen light shining down on Boyd Paulson. A gunshot entry wound the size of a half-dollar had replaced Paulson’s left eye.

Dr Sin was not in the trunk. Had she been taken with Santiago?

Karim had a phone mashed up against his ear. Fletcher was moving towards him when Karim yanked the phone away and said, ‘FBI and New Jersey SWAT are on their way.’