Free The Killing House by Chris Mooney Page B

about the premises.'
    Fletcher said nothing. Karim was a meticulous planner; the woman's presence here was no accident. Karim had intended to use her on this from the very start.
    'I'd prefer it if you limited our interactions.'
    'I'll keep her up front,' Karim said. 'Would you mind if I joined her for the flight? She has some paperwork for me.'
    Fletcher shook his head and Karim trudged away.
    Fletcher closed his eyes as the plane taxied to the runway. He saw himself standing on the front doorstep of the Herrera home. Felt the falling snow against his hair and neck as he replayed his conversation with Theresa Herrera.
    He paused the frame just before she was shot.
    The shooter had been standing only a few feet away from Theresa Herrera. The woman in the fur coat could hear them talking but she couldn't see him. There were no windows to watch from.
    You couldn't see my face.
    You couldn't see me drawing my sidearm.
    So what made you panic and start to shoot?

19
    Marie Clouzot drove through the entrance of the Franklin Grove Cemetery, a maze of looping, hilly roads contained within ten-foot stone walls. She knew where she was going, having scouted the area during a previous visit to Petersburg, Pennsylvania.
    She climbed a steep hill on the northeast side of the cemetery and, reaching the top, saw the new silver Cadillac DeVille Statesman hearse parked in the prearranged meeting spot. She pulled behind it, angling her Chevy so Brandon could easily access their latest prize.
    They always picked cemeteries to do the exchange. Here, a hearse wouldn't arouse suspicion, and more often than not there were no security cameras watching. Such was the case with Franklin Grove; Brandon had checked with the company in charge of both maintenance and security. The person with whom he'd spoken hadn't found the questions in the least bit odd or suspicious, as Brandon Arkoff was the owner of Washington Memorial Park, one of the finest funeral homes Baltimore, Maryland, had to offer.
    The lapels of Brandon's navy-blue suit jacket flapped in the wind as he darted around the hearse, his head turned so she could see only the right side of his face.Even after all their time together, he was still sensitive about his disfigurement.
    Having done this many times before, there was no need to speak. They knew their responsibilities.
    Marie moved to the back of the hearse and opened the hatchback. The door swung to the left, blocking the view of anyone who might suddenly appear at the bottom of the hill. No one was standing there, but Brandon always moved as though the police were about to descend on them at any moment. He threw open the Chevy's door, flinching at the sight of the blood on the passenger's seat. It was everywhere, bright and red: smeared against the seat and console, across James Weeks's jeans and the front of his wool coat, on his cut and swollen lips; it had soaked into his long, blond, girlish fringe and dried on his high, smooth forehead peppered with acne.
    Brandon shot her a withering look of disapproval.
    'I accidentally broke his nose when I pinned his head against the console,' Marie said, fishing the plastic police-grade handcuffs from her jacket pocket.
    With a grunt Brandon lifted the limp body out of the passenger's seat, turned and dumped the unconscious teenager on top of the tarp set up next to the coffin they always used - a dark stained timber model with a high-gloss lacquer polish and carved panels of The Last Supper fitted on each side. The lid was already open, the edge resting against the hearse's padded ceiling.
    Marie secured the cuffs around the boy's ankles. Brandon, kneeling on the hearse's back seat, reachedover the headrest and grabbed the teenager underneath the arms. Together they lifted Weeks and moved him inside the coffin - a difficult task, given the tight opening. Weeks's lolling head smacked up against the edges of the lid and coffin. Having been heavily sedated, he made no sound, nor any sign that he