The Killing House

84

Fletcher took out Brandon Arkoff’s cell phone as he raced around the side of the brick-faced building. It was three-storeys high, weathered and desolate, all the windows covered with security grilles.

The alleyway dumped him into a street of similar brick buildings. They were covered in graffiti, and the windows were broken. He turned left, the tyres spinning, and as he tore across the road he saw a weathered sign hanging from the front of the building: DECKLER amp; SONS PRINTING. He also found a street sign.

He called 911. A police dispatcher for the city of Baltimore picked up. He told the woman on the other end of the line about the bomb and gave her the address and the name of the building. Told her it had been set off by Brandon Arkoff and Marie Clouzot. Told her the bomb was planted most likely somewhere in the basement, told her she should evacuate the area, repeated the address and hung up. There was nothing more he could do. He took solace in the fact that the printing press was located in a desolate area of other vacant buildings. Collateral damage would be minimal, perhaps non-existent. Every street he passed was empty.

Fletcher glanced at his rearview mirror. The teenager was exhibiting the outward physical signs of shock: sweating, rapid breathing and blank stares.

‘I need to contact your parents,’ Fletcher said. ‘What’s your name?’

The teenager’s face was bloodless. He shook violently in shock and fear at what he’d just endured, at the pair of strange, black eyes staring at him from the rearview mirror.

‘Jimmy Weeks. That’s my name. I’m from Petersburg, Pennsylvania.’

Fletcher asked for the boy’s home number. Weeks gave it to him.

Fletcher’s next call was to M. She answered her disposable cell. He told her he couldn’t stay on long, then quickly explained that he’d used this phone to call 911. M didn’t ask questions. She knew any 911 call placed to a police dispatcher anywhere in the country was automatically traced. He figured he had no more than five minutes until Baltimore dispatch triangulated his cell signal.

He gave her Weeks’s name and phone number, told her where the teenager was from and followed it up with a concise summary of what had happened. M told Fletcher where to bring Jimmy Weeks. She gave him an address and directions, and they spent the remaining minutes discussing strategy and tactics.

When Fletcher hung up, he tossed the phone out of his window. The teenager watched from the backseat. Fletcher told him the truth.

‘I don’t want the police to trace it. My reasons have to do with the man who attacked you. That man was a federal agent. The police and the FBI are looking for him. I need to make sure you arrive safely.

‘The person I just spoke with works for a security company — one that specializes in finding missing people,’ Fletcher said. ‘Her company is going to contact your parents and let them know you’re safe. When you meet her, she’s going to give you a phone so you can call your parents. The important thing to remember is that you’re safe.’

Jimmy Weeks gave a small nod and then retreated behind his blank gaze.

‘If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If you have any questions, I’ll answer them. If you prefer to be left alone, I understand. Again, the important thing to remember is that you’re safe.’

Weeks was no longer listening. He had buried his face in his hands, sobbing.