Having become well acquainted with the neighbourhood during his surveillance, Fletcher knew a location where he could watch the house without arousing any suspicion.
He plugged his netbook into the cigarette lighter as he drove. The computer, resting on the passenger’s seat, booted up quickly. Ten minutes later, as he climbed up the steep hill, the program he needed had been loaded. He pulled over and set the audio bugs to record the conversations they overheard to the hard drive.
Fletcher cut the car lights and slid against the kerb, stopping when he saw the Colonial at the far end of the hill. He had an excellent view of the garage. Its exterior sensor lights had turned on, and he could see the car parked in the driveway.
The monocular aided his view.
The car was a silver Lexus sedan. He couldn’t see the plates, not yet. Turning to the passenger’s seat, he pressed the computer key for the audio bug tucked underneath the dining-room table. Footsteps clicking across the hardwood floors echoed over the netbook’s small speakers.
Faint voices spoke and Fletcher turned up the volume.
‘… not upstairs,’ said a phlegmy male voice. Not Jenner’s voice. Jenner had told Corrigan he had a passenger with him, a man named Marcus.
‘The sliding glass door in the kitchen is open,’ Jenner said. ‘He’s probably loose somewhere on the trails.’
‘Going where?’
‘That big parking lot at Gwynns Falls, maybe — no, stay here. We wouldn’t make it in time.’
Shoes crunched across broken glass. They had entered the dining room.
‘Jesus,’ Marcus said.
Jenner said nothing.
‘No cop would’ve done something like this,’ Marcus said.
Jenner did not comment.
‘The doc say anything about who did this to him?’ Marcus asked.
‘No.’
The trill of a ringing phone played over the netbook’s speakers. Fletcher heard Jenner speaking to the caller. ‘I’m here… I’m standing in the dining room right now… He’s dead… No. I don’t know where he is. This guy must’ve taken him… No, it was open… No, just me. Marcus didn’t go upstairs, that’s your… Okay.’
Jenner lapsed into silence. Fletcher checked his rearview mirror. Nathan Santiago was still unconscious.
‘Load the doc into the car,’ Jenner said. A new tone in his voice: fear. ‘Use a body bag.’
‘And take him where?’
‘Your place, for now. I’ll meet you there later.’
‘You’re not coming?’
‘I’ve got a few things to do here first. Call Rick on your way, tell him to keep everyone at the hotel.’
‘They might as well hop back on their jets and go on home,’ Marcus said.
‘Get moving — and make sure no one follows you.’
‘You think this guy’s lurking around?’
‘I just don’t want to take any chances.’
Over the computer speakers, the footsteps walked away and then faded.
Fletcher called up another program. He switched to the audio bug placed inside the closet, then called up another program and keyed in the alphanumeric serial number for the transmitter he’d placed inside Corrigan’s stomach. The transmitter was broadcasting perfectly.
He watched the garage through the monocular, listening to Jenner’s heavy breathing inside the closet, the crinkle of plastic as the man touched the garment bags.
‘Oh my God, Jesus Christ,’ Jenner mumbled to himself.
The garage door opened. Fletcher watched a heavy-set man dart outside — Jenner’s companion, the man named Marcus. He got behind the wheel of the Lexus, pulled into the street and then backed into the garage. Fletcher caught the licence plate and committed it to memory.
He turned down the volume on the netbook and called Karim.
‘I need a private doctor,’ Fletcher said after Karim answered. ‘Preferably one in Baltimore.’
‘How badly were you injured?’
‘Not me. Someone else. His name is Nathan Santiago. I sent his fingerprints to your computer, along with prints for a Baltimore resident and former surgeon named Gary Corrigan.’ Fletcher briefed Karim on what had transpired, stopping short when the Lexus pulled out of the garage and drove away in the opposite direction.
He stole a glance at the netbook’s screen. The GPS unit inside Corrigan’s stomach was still transmitting.
Fletcher had resumed his conversation, nearly finishing it when a black Lincoln town car with tinted windows pulled up alongside the driveway. Another Baltimore plate.
‘I need you to run two plate numbers for me,’ Fletcher said.
‘Go ahead.’
Fletcher read off both numbers.
‘Let me get to work on finding you a doctor,’ Karim said. ‘I’ll call you back.’
Seventeen minutes later, the front door opened. A potato-shaped Caucasian man with ruddy jowls stepped out, his leather-gloved hands clutching a white laundry sack. Jenner. The man shut the front door, testing the handle to make sure it was locked, and then waddled to the waiting car, the wind lifting the fine grey and white hairs combed over his balding pate.
Jenner dropped the sack into the Lincoln’s trunk and shut it. He didn’t get into the passenger’s seat; he climbed into the back.
Fletcher slid back in his seat as the Lincoln drove up the hill. He heard it whisk past him a moment later. He readjusted his seat, watching the glowing tail-lights in the side mirror growing dimmer. He started the car and, looking back at the Colonial, saw bright flames jumping from behind the windows. Jenner had set fire to the house.
37
Will Jenner badly wanted a cigarette but he was afraid lighting one would blow up the car. He had spilled gas on his shoes, trousers and overcoat. His hands reeked of it, and fumes filled the Lincoln. He had cracked open his window to help air out the car.
Fortunately, he had recently decided (again) to try to stop smoking and had a blister pack of nicotine gum tucked in his jacket pocket. Shit tasted like burnt pepper, but the important thing was the nicotine. He needed it to help soothe his frayed nerves.
He hadn’t told the buyers what had happened. They were waiting at the hotel, three of them — two who had flown in from Texas, the other from California. They had all arrived on private jets paid for by the clients they represented. Jenner had worked with these three men on a number of occasions over the years. They were expecting to be picked up at their hotel and driven to the house in Dickeyville. There, they would go upstairs and inspect the merchandise. Clients paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for the young organs Marie Clouzot and Brandon Arkoff provided, and the buyers always insisted on inspecting the merchandise. They had been burned before in the past, but not by Jenner. They knew him to be a professional, a man of his word, a man who ran things smoothly and didn’t make excuses.
Once they had seen the merchandise and had their questions answered, money would be exchanged in cash because wire transfers left a trace that could potentially lead back to him. Then everyone would go downstairs and enjoy a fine meal provided by Clouzot while Arkoff and the surgeon, Corrigan, took the merchandise to a separate facility to harvest the organs. An hour or two would pass before the coolers would arrive at the house. The buyers would be driven to the airport, hop on their private planes and deliver the coolers to their clients, who were standing by and anxiously awaiting the organs that would prolong, if not save, the life of a spouse or child. This schedule had been followed meticulously for the good part of the last decade, without so much as a single wrinkle. Tonight everything had gone to hell in a handcart, and he didn’t have a clue as to what had happened back at the
