The Killing House

81

Fletcher gave the heel of his boot a sharp twist. The seal broke. Quickly he unscrewed the heel. Now it was in his hands and he slid the compartment open, revealing the false bottom. Inside and set in the hardened, contoured plastic were lock picks and a small, five-inch folding knife.

The knife went into his mouth. Lock picks in hand, he threaded his fingers through the chain link, grabbed the padlock and went to work.

Jimmy Weeks had jumped to his feet when he heard the gunshots.

The police had found him. They had come in with guns ablazing and they were searching for him and they didn’t know where he was because he was locked alone inside this dark room. He

sucked in a deep breath and screamed at the top of his lungs, screamed ‘ HERE! HELP ME, I’M IN HERE! ’

He stopped when he heard the deadlock for the big, heavy door snap back.

Jimmy swallowed, his throat raw, throbbing, and nearly collapsed in relief. He was alive, he had survived; he was going home to see his parents.

The lights for his room went on; the sudden brightness, as always, felt like needles flying into his eyes. He gripped the cage’s chain link as the big, heavy door swung open, and with his eyes slammed shut he screamed in relief and fear and, now, anger: ‘ That crazy woman locked me inside here — there are other people in here, I heard them, they’re — ’

Jimmy cut himself off when he heard an electric crackle. His eyes flew open but he couldn’t see much of anything. Something sharp and cold hit his neck and then a blast of lightning flew through his body like millions of tiny electrified bolts. His legs gave out and he collapsed against the floor. His muscles twitched in painful, uncontrollable spasms. He heard keys jingling and then the crackling sound came again and more bolts of lightning slammed into the back of his head and through his limbs and the scream died on his lips.

Marie Clouzot stood in one of the printing press’s ground-floor offices, undressing in the submarine glow of Brandon’s computer screen. She’d heard the gunshots; they were faint, coming from the basement. She knew what Alexander was trying to accomplish (and that was his name, Alexander Borgia, not Terence Davidson; they didn’t use their old names any more). Alexander believed he could convince the monster to tell him where he’d buried the other patients.

During the drive to Baltimore, she had reminded Alexander of the many doctors and nurses who had been caged inside the basement’s chain-link kennels over the years. True, some of them confessed to knowing full well that Namoxin was an experimental medication with many side effects. And, yes, two of the doctors had admitted to working in the secret Behavioral Modification Project. But none of them — not one single doctor or nurse, she reminded Alexander, would say where the bodies had been buried. They kept professing their ignorance of such matters before and after a hand or foot had been amputated. When they watched their sons and daughters being led to the operating table.

Alexander’s response was always the same: I have to try. Alexander could shoot the doctors and nurses rotting in their cages, he could march Jimmy Weeks into the operating room and torture the teenager in front of Malcolm Fletcher and nothing would come of it because Malcolm Fletcher was a psychopath — a devious and cunning psychopath who would rather die a horrible death than share his secrets. The man was without a conscience.

Alexander refused to let the matter go, and, finally, she threw up her hands in surrender. Do whatever you want, she’d told him. Just get me the hair. The company who crafted the beautiful diamonds on her necklace could, if cremated remains weren’t available, create any size jewel using human hair. Alexander promised to grab a sample from Jimmy Weeks — and Malcolm Fletcher.

Marie slipped out of her trousers. She was going to change into the only piece of clothing she’d taken from the funeral home — a coveted black Chanel suit. Brandon had bought it for her, and, as much as she loved it (and she truly did), she had put the ensemble aside, wanting to preserve the delicate fabric for the day of her own funeral. No one would come, of course, except Brandon — provided he survived her.

Brandon was hunched over his laptop. Its screen held multiple windows, each one offering a different camera view of the basement. He was busy downloading the final set of videos. Years ago, as a surprise, he had purchased a commercial security-camera kit, complete with night vision and microphones. Every night before bed he’d hooked up the computer to the television, and together they would watch the wonderful movies. Sometimes she closed her eyes and listened only to the moaning, the pleas and cries for help. The unanswered prayers to God.

The movies were wonderful: the video quality was superb. When they had first started, Brandon recorded everything on videotapes and audiocassettes. During the day, she would listen to the audiocassettes on her Walkman while she was out and about, doing errands, while at work. At home, she would play them on the portable radio/cassette player. At night, she would fall asleep to the lovely voices. Sometimes she played the cassettes or videotapes while they made love.

Marie felt a sense of finality grip her. It was over — at least here in Baltimore. There were still other doctors and nurses living out their lives under new identities. Alexander wouldn’t be able to find them, however. He would disappear with her and Brandon, and Alexander Borgia would become just another one of Malcolm Fletcher’s many victims.

‘What the hell is he doing?’ Brandon nearly whispered the words.

Before she could ask, he had grabbed the wireless mouse. A click and he enlarged one of the camera windows. On the screen she saw Malcolm Fletcher pressed up against his cage door, his fingers threaded past the chain link and gripping the padlock.

Marie didn’t have to tell Brandon what to do. He had already turned back to the keyboard.

Fletcher felt the padlock spring free. He threaded it out of its clasp and it dropped against the floor. He took the knife out of his mouth.

‘Help me.’

The dry croak came from the sickly woman dressed in dirty jeans and a dark cotton T-shirt. The remaining fingers of her right hand gripped the chain link.

‘Help me,’ she croaked again. ‘Please.’

‘I’ll have you out of there momentarily,’ Fletcher whispered. He was standing outside his cage. ‘I need to secure the area — ’

The sprinklers turned on, water raining down on him, on everything.

Not water.

Gasoline.