A flashlight was turned on, the bright beam aimed at his face. Jimmy caught a flash of his surroundings before the light blinded him: he was trapped inside a cage made of the same type of chain link people used for fences. For dog kennels.
The flashlight was turned off. He opened his eyes, bright stars burning across his vision. A shuffle of footsteps approached him and he backed up, blinded. He bumped into the concrete wall, his heart quickening as a door creaked open. He heard moaning — at least that’s what it sounded like, someone moaning in pain, or fear, or both.
The door shut and the sound disappeared. The darkness surrounded him again, leaving him alone with his terror.
I’m locked inside a chain-link cage. I don’t have on any clothes and there’s a throbbing pain between my shoulder blades. He reached around his back with both hands, trying to feel the wound. He couldn’t reach it, but the smooth skin of his forearms rubbed against his head and felt stubble. He rubbed his hands across his head. No hair, just stubble. His head had been shaved.
Jimmy was too terrified to cry. His mouth opened, making blubbering sounds as his mind decided that now was a good time to play clips from all the horror movies he’d seen over the course of his life. He tried to shut them off, but they kept playing.
What am I going to do?
He thought about the moaning he’d heard a moment ago and his insides turned to water. Then the tears came.
What’s going to happen to me?
I don’t know, a voice answered. But you’re trapped in here.
Jimmy hadn’t been raised to practise any particular faith. He didn’t attend church, and wasn’t sure if he believed in God, but he closed his eyes and clasped his hands together and prayed as though his life depended on it — because it did.
II
27
Malcolm Fletcher checked out of his hotel on the evening of his fourth day in Baltimore. He paid using Robert Pepin’s American Express gold business card and politely declined the valet’s offer to fetch his car from the hotel garage.
Fletcher had parked on the top level, where there were fewer vehicles. He was alone, and he didn’t have to worry about security cameras. He opened the trunk and then rooted through his various cases, selecting the items he would need that night with great care.
After he finished, he climbed behind the wheel and started the car.
By the time Karim’s plane touched down at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, M had traced the emails and website orders of Barry Johnson, Jon Riley and Jessie Foster all the way back to a residential home in Dickeyville, a small historic village located on the western edge of Baltimore City.
Fletcher had checked M’s work himself. There was no question in his mind about the validity of her information. It was rock-solid. Not wanting to waste any time, he left the plane, headed to his car and made the twelve-hour drive to Dickeyville. Karim had called once, to inform him of M’s additional research. The three Virginia men were fictitious; they were not residents of the state. The names of the deceased written on the order forms were also false. The death certificates had been forged.
The house in Dickeyville was a single-family, weather-beaten white Colonial. It had been built on the top of a sloping hill on half an acre of land. Trees, shrubs and a waist-high wall made of stone separated the Colonial from the neighbouring homes.
The lights were off, the attached garage empty. Fletcher searched the house using a monocular equipped with thermal imaging. The technology, developed by the British SAS, could pick up heat signatures through walls and floors.
The home was empty. Fletcher decided to wait until he had more information about the house. There was no urgency, no need to rush. He found a hotel located less than seven miles away, checked in and slept. In the morning he collected the supplies he needed for surveillance work.
Fletcher watched the Colonial for three long days. With the exception of the postman, no one approached the house. No one collected the mail. On the evening of his first night and under cover of darkness, he approached the mailbox and examined its contents. No bills or personal correspondence of any kind, just a meagre offering of promotional leaflets, catalogues and other assorted junk mail, all of it addressed to ‘current occupant’.
The news hadn’t surprised him. Karim, using M’s computer skills, had completed a preliminary investigation on the property. The historic Colonial, built in 1870, had last been sold to ABC Property Management, a limited liability corporation owned by Mark Sullivan, of Madison, Wisconsin. The LLC was listed on the utility and property tax bills, all of which were paid through an online banking account set up by a man named Rodger Callahan.
Subsequent data mining on Rodger Callahan and Mark Sullivan revealed an endless web of phone numbers and addresses all across the country that either did not exist, or that belonged to abandoned or foreclosed property. Karim pulled the LLC papers for ABC Property Management that had been filed with the Baltimore Chamber of Commerce. Its business address belonged to a gas station in Madison.
Karim had also pulled, scanned and emailed the Colonial’s architectural plans to Fletcher, who memorized the layout during the boring slog of watching the house.
Amongst Karim’s information was the technical specification of an important item: the home’s alarm system. According to the installation notes, the control panel had been placed inside the basement. There were two security alarm keypads: one mounted near the front door, the other in the master bedroom. Each keypad had a panic button that, when pressed, immediately dispatched police and fire units. Both keypads also came equipped with a speakerphone that allowed the homeowner to communicate directly with emergency personnel.
Tonight Fletcher would bypass the alarm system, enter the house and conduct a thorough search. Then he’d wait inside for someone to return — hopefully the shooter, the woman in the fur coat.
28
Dickeyville consisted of two main roads: Wetheredsville and Pickwick. The historic homes, such as the one at No. 5131 Wetheredsville, the house of Union soldier and Gettysburg flag-waver Billy Ware, had been preserved with remarkable care. Construction for new homes, as well as existing homes requiring modernization, had to meet strict guidelines set by the Dickeyville Community Association in order to maintain the village’s historic charm.
Fletcher took Pickwick and snaked his way across the quiet and deserted street. He reached the Colonial, surprised to find the downstairs windows lit. Someone had returned. The driveway was empty, which suggested that the homeowner had parked in the garage.
Fletcher drove past the house. When he reached the end of the street, he turned and made his way to Gwynns Falls. The area, with its numerous urban hiking and biking trails, offered a discreet and direct route to the back of the house.
Fifteen minutes later he drove across a parking lot of compacted dirt. Given the time of night and the cold weather, there were no other cars — or neighbouring homes. He could dress privately. He popped the trunk and stepped out of the car.
Fletcher wore a black, long-sleeved shirt over his bulletproof vest; all of his clothing was black. He took out
