The Killing House

86

Celine Strauss had celebrated the arrival of spring in Boston with a weekly ritual. Every Friday after work she stopped by the Oak Bar and ordered the same drink: a pomegranate and cucumber mojito. At nearly twenty bucks a pop, she drank no more than two. Money wasn’t the issue. At thirty-three, she was about to become a partner at Banks amp; King, one of Boston’s hottest public-relations firms. Any more than two mojitos, and someone would have to carry her to a cab. She was well past the age where she went out on Friday and Saturday evenings and got sloppy drunk — especially at an establishment like the Oak Bar.

The Oak Bar was part of the Oak Room, the city’s premier steakhouse. Located inside the Tony Fairmont Hotel at Copley Plaza, the restaurant and bar resembled an old-fashioned cigar room decorated with Victorian flair — a small, intimate space crammed with tables and furniture, surrounded by rich, dark wood, chandeliers and heavy maroon brocade curtains with gold stitching. The place was a magnet for professional men. While she had never been in the market for a husband — she had no desire to have children or to settle down just because all her friends had — she did enjoy men, and the Oak Room offered an abundance of intelligent and successful candidates.

Celine went in looking sharp. She wore a dark charcoal pencil skirt and a matching jacket cut so it seemed stylish without being flamboyant. The shoes were tasteful open-toe pumps, and her jewellery was plain but elegant: diamond stud earrings and a Cartier watch. As she walked across the small dining room to the bar, she caught the stares of several men, most of them old enough to be her grandfather.

It was half past seven and there were no available chairs at the bar. She moved to the far-left corner, sidled up to the edge of the polished wood and waited for the bartender. The man to her right was nursing a scotch while he scrolled through his BlackBerry. The man to her left was reading a newspaper — that morning’s edition of the Boston Globe.

He stood, and Celine was taken aback by how incredibly tall he was. His black suit jacket had been tailored to accommodate his broad shoulders and long arms. He motioned to his chair.

‘That’s not necessary,’ she said. ‘I can wait for one to open up.’

‘Or you could simply take this one.’ The man graciously held out the chair for her. ‘Please.’

‘Well, if you insist. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’

The bartender came over. Celine ordered her drink and then turned slightly in her seat to the man who had just offered up his chair. She thought he was going to come on to her. She hoped he would. He was classically handsome, with chiselled features and a pair of deep green eyes — and his British accent was lovely.

Instead, he pushed the bridge of his black-framed glasses up his nose and went back to reading. His hair, thick and black, fell over the back collar of his shirt and nearly covered his ears. Normally she preferred a man with a more conservative haircut, but he carried the style well. He radiated confidence.

Celine wasn’t the only woman who had noticed the tall, muscular Englishman. She saw several gazes around the bar stealing glances at him.

She was wondering how old he was when the bartender returned with her mojito.

The man was still reading the newspaper.

She had finished half her drink when she turned to him and said, ‘What do you think?’

‘Pardon?’

She leaned closer and tapped the Globe ’s headline banner: ‘Hospital Grounds Searched for Remains of Former Patients’. The accompanying colour picture showed police and forensic archaeologists searching a dense and heavily wooded area in Harvard, Massachusetts — the site of a former hospital called the Graves Rehabilitation Center. The Gothic brick building, tall and intimidating, had caught fire sometime in the mid-eighties and subsequently closed.

‘Do you think it’s true?’ she asked. ‘That the FBI was involved in this clandestine research project that used patients for medical testing and buried their bodies?’

‘The federal agent, Borgia, admitted he was a patient in the Behavioral Modification Project, along with his two partners, Marie Clouzot and Brandon Arkoff. The Baltimore police found evidence connecting them to the abductions.’

‘The first two hospitals they searched, Texas and the other one.’

‘Philadelphia,’ he said. ‘The Spaulding Psychiatric Center.’

‘They didn’t find any buried remains on the hospital grounds. And now they’re searching this Graves place. They’ve been at it for nearly a week and haven’t found anything remotely sinister.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

He looked sad when he said it.

‘I take it you’ve seen the video.’

The man nodded.

‘Unfortunately,’ he added.

Celine knew what he meant. The video had gone viral two months ago. Like everyone else she had watched it. Once. She couldn’t stomach a second viewing. Seeing all those starving and near-dead people locked in dog cages and trapped inside that abandoned printing press in Baltimore, the shootings… it had given her nightmares.

‘Those poor children and their parents,’ Celine said, shuddering at the thought. ‘Still, there’s no concrete piece of evidence linking the victims to the FBI and that BMP thing. Even if it’s true, the FBI will squirm their way out of it. They always do.’

‘You think so?’

‘Absolutely. I’m in public relations. The Bureau is a PR machine. No one can beat them when it comes to spinning a story.’

The man smiled. He had nice teeth.

‘I think you may be right.’

‘Unfortunately,’ she added with a smile of her own.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘I don’t place much trust in the government either. But unless solid evidence comes forward concerning this research project, I think the story will die out.’ Celine drank some of her mojito. ‘What about Malcolm Fletcher? Do you think he’s innocent?’

‘The video seems to suggest he is.’

‘True,’ she conceded. ‘He did rescue that boy, what’s his name.’

‘James Weeks.’

‘That’s it. But you know the saying, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’

The man laughed quietly and picked up his glass. He was drinking bourbon. He polished it off and glanced at his watch.

‘Can I buy you another drink?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘But I’ll buy you one.’

‘Thank you.’ She offered a hand. ‘Celine Strauss.’

‘Francis Harvey. A pleasure to meet you.’

‘Likewise.’ She stood and touched his forearm as she leaned in and said, ‘Would you excuse me for a moment? I’ll be right back.’

Celine went to the ladies’ room to freshen up. When she returned, she found a fresh mojito waiting for her, but Francis Harvey was gone.