‘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.
The second blow crushed the man’s larynx.
Fletcher balled up the dishcloth and stuffed it in the man’s mouth. Corrigan bucked and thrashed against his restraints, the cutlery and plates rattling against the table. The FlexiCuffs tying him to the chair had cut through his skin, and he was bleeding. Fletcher picked up the wine bottle, shoved the man’s head back and poured the wine into the dishcloth. Corrigan started to choke. Fletcher turned the empty, heavy bottle in his hands and swung it across the man’s face, shattering his nose. He swung the bottle again and smashed it against Corrigan’s temple.
35
As the doctor started to die, his brain bleeding out from the two blows and his muscles convulsing in protest, Fletcher removed a small, battery-powered audio bug from a tactical pouch. He peeled off the self-adhesive strip and stuck the bug underneath the table. Then he pulled the dishcloth from the man’s mouth.
Wine and blood and shattered teeth splashed down across Corrigan’s chest, splattering the dinner plate and staining the tablecloth. Fletcher quickly wiped his gloved hands on his black trousers and then opened another pouch and retrieved a small, circular object the size of a pencil eraser. He jerked the doctor’s head back and shoved the GPS transmitter past the slick tongue and down the man’s throat. To make sure it stayed in the man’s stomach, Fletcher stuffed the dishcloth back into Corrigan’s mouth.
He left the doctor’s iPhone on the table. He made two quick stops, in the living room and kitchen, before heading back upstairs.
Gary Corrigan’s patient was no longer on the bed. The nightstand near the window had been overturned, the drawers pulled open; Nathan Santiago, semi-conscious, clawed at them as he lay sprawled against the floor, moaning, his drowsy eyes blinking, trying to focus on the objects blurred by his Demerol haze.
Fletcher darted inside the master bedroom, stepped back inside the walk-in closet and found a hiding spot for a second audio bug. He picked up the evidence bag holding the highball glass on his way out.
Nathan Santiago saw Fletcher approaching and held up a shaky arm to shield his face.
‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ Fletcher said, kneeling. Corrigan’s long camelhair overcoat was draped over his arm. He placed it on the floor. ‘I’m going to bring you someplace safe. Lie still while I take this out.’ Fletcher removed the IV needle and covered the puncture wound with one of the fresh bandages scattered along the carpet. Then he helped the man sit up.
Santiago didn’t fight him. Corrigan’s roomy overcoat swam over the thin, frail body.
The man clearly couldn’t stand on his own, even with assistance. He needed to be carried. Fletcher scooped him into his arms, his broken ribs exploding in pain. He fought his way through it and carried the shivering body out of the bedroom.
During his previous trip to the kitchen, Fletcher had opened the sliding glass door. He moved outside and down the porch steps, then across the dark garden, Santiago was as light and frail as a bird in his arms. He opened the gate and, cradling Santiago against his chest, moved down the leafy slope. He had reached the main trail when he heard the roar of a car engine followed by a peel of tyres.
The trip to the parking lot was prolonged by his injury. Fletcher reached his car, winded, sweating despite the cold air. With a press of a button the Jaguar’s lights flashed as the doors unlocked. He laid Santiago across the backseat, folding the man’s limp arms across his chest, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.
Fletcher staggered to the trunk. He opened it, placed the evidence bag inside and removed the small leather briefcase holding his netbook. He drove out of the lot and headed back to the house.
36
