The Killing House (15 page)

Corrigan's licence picture showed an older man with
a sagging chin and a bloated face. The man strapped to the chair had noticeably different features. In addition to a subtle facelift, he had gained muscle mass. In the flickering candlelight Fletcher could see the thick fibrous muscles flexing and moving beneath the pale skin. Show muscle. Lots of low reps with heavy weights, their bulk and definition aided by steroids. The diminutive size of the man's testicles proved he had been on the juice for quite some time.

Sensing the man's embarrassment at having his genitalia on display, Fletcher pushed the chair up against the table until the lip of the linen tablecloth covered his lap.

Fletcher took the chair next to Corrigan. 'Do you own this house, Mr Corrigan?'

Vigorous shaking of the head:
No, no, no, no.

'I thought not.' Fletcher picked up a coffee cup painstakingly decorated with hand-painted violets and vines and, turning it over, read the writing printed on the bottom: 'Haviland Limoges. I'd compliment you on your excellent taste, but I suspect you had nothing to do with the purchase. A man who could afford Limoges china and the antique luxuries inside this house certainly wouldn't scrimp on his clothing, would he? Your Hugo Boss suit and Hermes overcoat are clearly knock-offs. You can tell by the inferior stitching.'

Fletcher leaned forward and pulled the cloth from Corrigan's mouth. The man's chest heaved as he sucked in air. Inbetween the rapid breaths Fletcher heard the
ticking from the antique grandfather clock sitting in the room's corner. Corrigan glanced at it as he spoke.

'Who are you?' He had a light and airy voice. Educated. 'What do you want?'

'As for who I am, think of me as a borrowed angel -
your
borrowed angel, Mr Corrigan, sent from on high to unburden you of your sins. Now let me explain what I want.

'The path to salvation can be very straight and narrow, but I should warn you, I'm someone who finds dishonesty unspeakably ugly. Please bear that in mind before you answer my questions. If I feel you're lying to me, I'll use this on your fingers.' Fletcher tapped the meat cleaver resting on the man's dinner plate. 'If that doesn't help clarify your priorities, I'll move on to the more sensitive items residing a few inches south of your navel. Do we have an understanding?'

The man nodded, swallowing.

'Good.' Fletcher leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He draped his arm on the table, resting his fingers next to the handle of the cleaver. 'We'll start with an easy question. The gentleman tied up in the upstairs bedroom: what's his name?'

Corrigan swallowed. 'Timmy.'

'Does Timmy have a last name?'

'I'm sure he does, but I don't know it.'

'And why, pray tell, is Timmy hooked up to an IV?'

'He's dehydrated. Some sort of stomach flu.'

'He has a number of needle marks on his arms.'

'He's a junkie,' Corrigan said. 'Heroin, I was told.'

'Told by whom? The woman who owns this house?'

'What woman? What are you talking about?'

'The one with the black hair pulled back into a bun. The one with the fur coat. Where is she? What's her name?'

'I don't know anything. This is my first time here.'

Fletcher sighed. 'Does Mr Jenner live here?'

Corrigan went a little pale.

Fletcher held up the man's iPhone. 'I examined the call log,' he said, and then placed the phone on the table. 'Over the past three hours I noticed seven incoming and outgoing calls between you and someone named Jenner. I checked your contacts and saw a listing for Jenner but no first name or address, just a cell-phone number. Enlighten me.'

'I don't know if Jenner is the man's first name or his last.'

'Is this his house?'

'I don't know.' Corrigan stole another glace at the clock. 'Whatever this is about, I've -'

'Why did you tie your patient's hands to the headboard?'

'Jenner did that. He didn't want Timmy to rip the IV out of his arm. I had to get fluids in him. He called me - Jenner - he called and asked that I come over to treat Timmy.'

'You inserted the IV?'

Corrigan paused a beat, considering the question. 'I was a nurse a long time ago.'

'Why did you give it up, Mr Corrigan?'

'It gave me up. Cutbacks. The economy.'

'I see. And when did you give up practising surgery?'

'I don't know what -'

'Your hands reek of chlorhexidine,' Fletcher said. 'You scrubbed your hands in the upstairs bathroom before treating your patient, didn't you?'

'That doesn't mean I'm a surgeon. It's a standard antiseptic cleaner. I use it because -'

'I watched you doing your hand exercises with that rubber-strengthening ball.'

Corrigan grew still, his face shiny with perspiration.

'Then I watched you pick up your little stack of coins and check your hand for tremors. I'm assuming that's why you take these.' Fletcher held up the man's plastic vial of pills. 'One is a betablocker, and so is the other, Propranolol. These are the only two medications that, when used together, decrease surgical tremors and anxiety.'

Corrigan couldn't mask his surprise at being found out.

'If you're not a surgeon, Mr Corrigan, then why are you taking these medications?'

The man didn't answer. Beads of sweat rolled down his face.

Fletcher reached for the cleaver.

'
Was
,' Corrigan said. 'I
was
a surgeon.'

'But you told me you were a nurse.'

Corrigan swallowed. Licked his lips and swallowed again.

'Let's talk about this like two civilized people, okay? I'll tell you everything I know. It's not much, but I'll -'

'You lied to me,' Fletcher said, picking up the meat cleaver as he stood.

33

'
Hold on
,' Corrigan screamed, jerking against his restraints. The dining-room chair tipped back. Its arms banged against the table's underside and the chair rocked forward. '
For the love of Christ just hold on a moment and let me explain!
'

Fletcher rested the tip of the cleaver against the plate. 'Why does Mr Jenner employ a surgeon?'

'Former surgeon. I'm a
former
surgeon.' Corrigan's breathing came hard and fast. 'He employs me to treat people he doesn't want to bring to the hospital. That's all I do,
I swear to God.
Whatever beef you've got with him, it isn't with me, so let's just -'

'What, exactly, is Mr Jenner's business?'

'It's none of mine,' Corrigan said. 'I don't ask questions, I just take care of the medical end of things. He called and told me to come here, and I did. Timmy was already here and tied up to the bed, that's the God's honest truth. Jenner told me to give him the antibiotics, and I did.'

'And Demerol.'

'Yes. Yes, I did. Timmy was going through heroin withdrawal. Jenner wanted him to sleep, so I sedated him with Demerol. Jenner tied him up because he didn't want Timmy getting his hands on it.'

'Dosage?'

'A hundred milligrammes every two to three hours.'

'IM injection or slow IV push?'

'Push,' Corrigan said. 'Who
are
you?'

'Who supplies the medicine, you or Jenner?'

'Jenner. I tell him what I need and he gets it for me.'

'And you're saying Mr Jenner does not own this home.'

'That's right.'

'Who does?'

'I don't know, I swear to Christ -'

'I think you do,' Fletcher said. 'And I think if I apply the right amount of pressure, you'll tell me.'

'How many times do I have to say it?
I. Don't. Know.
'

Fletcher pulled out Corrigan's chair at an angle, exposing the man's right hand.

'
You're asking the wrong man
,' Corrigan howled, squeezing the chair's armrest. '
I'm just a hired hand, I swear to God I'm telling you the truth.
'

Fletcher rested the blade against the man's wrist and said, 'Then tell me the name of the man and woman who own this house.'

'
I don't know! I don't know!
'

Fletcher brought up the cleaver.

The veins in the man's neck stood out like cords of rope as he screamed: '
I'M TELLING YOU THE TRUTH, I SWEAR TO GOD, JESUS IN HEAVEN, I DON'T KNOW WHAT JENNER DOES FOR A LIVING OR WHO OWNS THIS HOUSE OR WHO'S COMING OVER TO DINNER, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE DON'T HURT ME!'

Fletcher placed the cleaver on the table.

'What time are your dinner guests arriving?'

Corrigan struggled to catch his breath. 'They're not
my
guests,' he said. 'I have no idea what time they're coming.'

Fletcher suspected that was a lie. He suspected that every word Corrigan had spoken was a lie. Given the number of times the man had consulted the grandfather clock, Corrigan was expecting Jenner and/or tonight's guests to be arriving shortly - perhaps within minutes. The man was stalling to save his life.

Fletcher picked up the iPhone and placed it on the doctor's dinner plate.

'What are you doing?'

'We're going to have a conference call with your employer,' Fletcher said.

34

Corrigan stared at his iPhone as though it had suddenly transformed itself into a poisonous snake. Fletcher outlined how the upcoming conversation would be conducted as he removed his own smartphone and, with it, a cord wound into a tight coil. He placed both items on the edge of the table.

'I have five thousand dollars in my suit pocket,' Corrigan said, his eyes brightening with purpose. 'I've also got another fifty grand in cash stored inside a safe at my house.'

Fletcher slid one end of the jack into the iPhone.

'Take me with you and the cash is yours,' Corrigan said.

Fletcher slid the other end of the jack into his own phone.

'
Goddamnit, listen to me!
'

Fletcher pressed the iPhone's on-screen button for the speakerphone.

'I'm begging you,' Corrigan sputtered. 'In the name of God please don't do this.'

'You have nothing to fear, Doctor. I'll be standing right behind you to lend moral support.'

Fletcher slid the chair back up against the table.

'I'm not speaking to him,' Corrigan said.

Fletcher pressed the on-screen button to dial the number.

'Please don't do this.'

On the first ring Fletcher picked up the cleaver.

'Please,' Corrigan whimpered. 'Please, I'll do anything but this.'

Another ring and the line on the other end picked up: 'What's up, Gary?' Jenner had a deep and nasal voice. He sounded nervous.

Corrigan wouldn't answer. Kept his lips clamped shut.

Fletcher pressed the cleaver against the doctor's throat.

'Gary, you there?' Jenner asked.

'I'm here,' Corrigan answered, his voice pinched tight.

'Can this wait?' Jenner asked. 'I'm just about to stop for some gas. I should be there in twenty minutes or so.'

'No.' The doctor cleared his throat, started again. 'No, it can't wait.'

'Is it Santiago? Is the infection under control?'

Corrigan couldn't reply; Fletcher had clamped a hand over the man's mouth.

Corrigan trembled, beads of sweat dripping on to the plate. When he failed to answer Jenner's question, Jenner said, 'Jesus Christ.' Heavy breathing, and when Jenner spoke again, his voice kept rising: 'You said the infection was under control - said we had
nothing
to worry about. What the hell happened?'

Fletcher whispered his instructions into Corrigan's ear.

Jenner waited for an answer. The silence lingered.

'Don't tell me Santiago died,' Jenner said, his tone full of dread. 'Please don't tell me that.'

Fletcher looked at his phone. The software had locked on to Jenner's signal; the man was eighteen miles from the house.

Plenty of time
, he thought, and released his grip on the cleaver.

Corrigan said, 'Our patient is doing fine. Are you coming alone?'

A grateful sigh of relief echoed over the speakerphone. 'Jesus, you had me scared there for a moment,' Jenner said. 'How're your hands holding up? You ready for surgery?'

'Are you coming alone?' Corrigan asked again.

'I've got Marcus with me. The others will be arriving around nine or so. Why? What's going on?'

Corrigan couldn't answer the question; Fletcher had terminated the call.

Fletcher came out from behind the chair. 'Your patient, Santiago,' he said, collecting his phone and equipment. 'I want his full name.'

'Nathan,' Corrigan replied, trembling. 'Nathan Santiago.' He fought back tears. 'I'm sorry I lied, but you have to understand -'

'Do you want to save your life, Doctor?'

'God, yes.'

'Rico Herrera. Where is he?'

'I don't know their names.'

'How many others are there?'

'I don't know. I swear to God I'm telling you the truth.'

'You said that last time. Why should I believe you now?'

'Three, I think,' Corrigan said. 'There are three others. At least.'

Are
, Fletcher thought. There
are
three others. Present tense. 'They're alive,' he said.

Corrigan nodded, then broke down, sobbing.

'Where?' Fletcher asked.

'Let me go and I'll take you there.'

'Give me an address, and I'll consider it.'

'No. You have to take me with you.'

Fletcher felt a spike of anger. He looked at the cleaver.

'I won't tell you,' Corrigan said. 'You have to take me there.'

Fletcher couldn't take both Corrigan and the man lying upstairs, Nathan Santiago. There wasn't enough time.

'If you don't take me with you,' Corrigan said, 'you'll never find them.'

'And the surgery you're due to perform?'

'I'll explain everything once we arrive at our destination. Then I'll disappear, you have my word. Now hurry up and untie me before -'

Fletcher hit Corrigan in the throat.

The doctor's head whipped back, his face turning a dark crimson as he sucked in air in painful, broken gasps.