The Murder House

  I tell him the truth.

  I say, “I’m not sure.”

  58

  MIDNIGHT. THE temperature fallen to the low fifties, the wind coming hard off the ocean, less than a mile to the south, carrying some hint of the rain that just stopped an hour ago, with me unprepared in my short sleeves. I left the bar in a fog, not drunk exactly, not on alcohol at least, my emotions swirling, my thoughts consumed by the murders, by Uncle Lang, by my shipwreck of a life, and somehow instead of driving home I found myself at the cemetery on Main Street.

  The lighting from the street is dim, casting the cemetery in almost complete darkness. I can’t even read the tombstone, but I know it, of course, by heart.

  LANGDON TRAVIS JAMES, it reads. HE KEPT US SAFE. That’s what he told Chloe he wanted said about him, when it was all over, that he devoted his life to protecting people. And he did. Sure, he cut some corners with the Ocean Drive murders, but he thought Noah was his guy—he thought he was framing a killer whom he otherwise couldn’t catch. Wrong methods, but right reasons.

  And I, of all people, exposed him. I didn’t have a choice. I hope he knows that. Aunt Chloe promised me that he does, wherever he is now. Aunt Chloe, whose blank tombstone rests next to Lang’s. He bought these tombstones early in their marriage, Chloe said, so they’d be together forever.

  He was broken when she left him. She surely had her reasons, but he lost the love of his life. He was never the same person again. My mother was never the same after my father and Ryan died in that car accident, either. Losing your soul mate, by death or divorce—is it better than never having one in the first place? Better to have loved and lost, as they say, than never to have loved at all?

  I drop to my haunches, suddenly exhausted. Chloe’s right. I have to leave this place. It’s doing something to me. But that means I’ll have to give up being a cop. Nobody will give me another chance. The job’s my love, probably the only one I’ll ever have. But I’ll have to leave. I don’t think I can survive many more of these night terrors, these panic attacks or whatever they are.

  But first things first.

  “I’m not leaving,” I say to Lang’s stone, “until I figure out who killed you.”

  The winds die down.

  A noise. A shuffling movement.

  I get to my feet and spin around. I look south into darkness, my eyes not fully adjusted.

  A beam of light, twenty yards away, a small yellow circle on the ground.

  I draw my sidearm.

  “Who’s there?” I call out.

  The light swings in my direction until it passes across my face, then returning to me, blinding me.

  “Town police!” I call out, shutting my eyes.

  The light on my face disappears. I open my eyes, unable to see much of anything from the overload to my retinas; I squint and drop low.

  “Identify yourself!” I yell.

  I hear something, feet adjusting in wet grass, think maybe I see a figure moving. The flashlight beam has disappeared, nothing but spotty darkness. I break into a run, the gun at my side, my eyes still off-kilter after the blinding light, dodging tombstones as best I can. As I race farther south, some faint light off the side street helps me navigate.

  The figure up ahead, in a full-out sprint.

  “Stop! Town police!”

  I pick up my pace, feeling like I’m closing the gap, a faint mist hitting my face, but it’s not far from the street, and then the woods, plenty of places to hide. I’m running full-speed, but I’m running out of time.

  I fire a round into the earth, the gunshot’s echo piercing, and the sloshing sound of feet running on wet grass suddenly stops.

  “Don’t move! Town police!”

  I shuffle forward, both hands on the gun trained ahead of me, though I can’t really make out the figure yet. “Hands out where I can see them!” I order, as if I could possibly see them.

  As I get closer and my eyes readjust, I make him. He has turned to face me. His arms are extended upward.

  A mousy face, hair jutting out from beneath a baseball cap flipped backward.

  “Who are you?” I ask, but I think I know the answer.

  “Who are you?” he says.

  “Detective Murphy, STPD. Tell me who you are, and don’t move!”

  “Aiden Willis.”

  I shuffle toward him, closing the gap, less than ten yards away. The wind picks a lousy time to kick back up, carrying mist and some stray leaves.

  “You in the habit of running from cops, Aiden?”

  “I didn’t know you were a cop.”

  “I announced myself.” Moving closer still. Gun still held high. Adrenaline still pumping.

  “So? How do I know it’s true?”

  A fair point, I guess. This time of night, in a cemetery.

  “Where’s that flashlight?” I ask.

  “In my hand.”

  “Shine it under your chin,” I say. “And move slowly, Aiden. Don’t make a cop with a gun nervous.”

  He complies. The light goes on, and there he is, illuminated by a haunting, ghost-story-around-the-campfire light under his face, those raccoon eyes that constantly flitter about.

  “What are you doing here, Aiden?” Moving closer, under five yards now.

  “What are you doin’ here?”

  “Hey, pal, you wanna stop asking me the same question I ask you?”

  “I work here.”

  True enough, that. Isaac told me he did maintenance here.

  “You’re working at midnight, are you?”

  “It rained. We got an open site for burial tomorrow. Sometimes the rain messes it up. I’m just checkin’.”

  “Who’s getting buried?”

  “How should I know?”

  I feel my adrenaline decelerating. “You scared the shit out of me,” I say.

  “You scared the shit out of me.”

  What’s with this guy repeating everything I say? But I have no basis to detain him, and now that my heart has stopped racing, and the wind’s finding its way under my shirt and licking my sweat-covered face and neck—I’m reminded how freaking cold it is out here.

  “I remember you now,” he mumbles, or at least that’s what I think he said.

  “What?”

  Did he say he remembers me?

  He double-blinks. “Can I go now?”

  I let out a breath. “Yeah.”

  The light goes off under Aiden’s face.

  Bathing him in darkness again.

  59

  LET ME OUT

  Bam-bam-bam

  Let me out

  Bam-bam-bam

  I can’t see can’t breathe

  Darkness, then penetrating light from above, a shadow blocking it

  A face coming into focus, backlit by blinding yellow

  A boy, long hair, a hand

  Don’t touch me, please don’t touch—

  I lurch forward in bed, sucking in air, my heartbeat rattling.

  The same nightmare, but different.

  Closed in, dark, let me out, suffocating—

  But a boy. This time, a boy.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to re-create it, to make out a face, but it’s like trying to grasp vapor in your hand. You can’t pull back a dream from the netherworld of the subconscious.

  It comes when it wants to, and it vanishes at will.

  I climb out from under the covers, wipe thick sweat off my forehead, splash cold water on my face in the bathroom. A quarter to five. Slept for four hours.

  I throw on a shirt and shorts, lace up my New Balance shoes, and hit the pavement for ten miles.

  The Hamptons, at their most charming at sunrise, the tranquil bays and deserted beaches and open roads, the smell of recent rain. I run over sand and grass and asphalt, working out the kinks, exorcising the night demons.

  Later, I’m in my car, heading toward the school, my thrilling assignment. I dial information on my cell phone and get the number for the church.

 
“Presbyterian church.” An elderly woman’s cheery voice.

  “Hi,” I say, “I was wondering if you could tell me if there’s a burial today.”

  “Today? Hold on, sweetie.” Muffled conversation in the background. “Today? No, ma’am. We don’t have any burials scheduled for the rest of this week. What’s the name of the deceased?”

  No burials today. Aiden Willis lied to me.

  “I must have the wrong cemetery, my apologies. Thank you very much.”

  Why would Aiden lie about his reason for being at the cemetery last night?

  My cell phone buzzes in my hand. It’s from the substation.

  “Murphy,” I say.

  “Detective, it’s Margaret at the substation. Chief Marks wants to see you.”

  “I’m on my way to my assignment,” I say.

  “He said right now.”

  I blow out air.

  “He didn’t say it very nicely, either,” she adds in a quieter voice.

  60

  I TURN my car around and drive to the substation. What assignment is Chief Marks going to give me now—school crossing guard?

  By the time I enter his office, I’ve worked up a little attitude. How much worse can it get for me here?

  Isaac takes his time reading a report, making me wait—purposeful, a show of authority—and starts talking to me without looking up. “Detective Murphy,” he says, “why are you asking people at the school about the Halloween BB gun shooting from seventeen years ago?”

  I should have seen this coming. “I’m trying to figure out more about Noah Walker,” I say. “Who he hung around with. Who helped him shoot all those kids.”

  “Helped him shoot those kids?” The chief drops his report. “Nobody helped Walker shoot those kids. He did it all by himself.”

  I shake my head. “There was a second shooter.”

  “No, there wasn’t. I was there. I was the same age as Noah. Same school.”

  I’m well aware of that fact, Isaac.

  “The angles of the shots fired,” I say. “And why was Noah just sitting on a bench by the school, waiting to get caught?”

  “Are you kidding me? Because he’s a psychopath, Murphy. The kind that could slaughter a family and then sit next to you on a bus and engage in polite conversation. He had no remorse, no guilt, no sense that he’d even done anything wrong.” He leans forward in his chair. “And why are we even having this conversation? Why are you looking into this?”

  “Because if Noah didn’t kill those people at 7 Ocean Drive, or my uncle, then someone sure made it look like he did.”

  “Someone set him up…and someone set him up seventeen years ago, the school shooting, too? You’re actually trying to tie those two things together?”

  I shrug. “Call it a hunch. But yeah. This is a really small town. It’s possible. Look, I’m doing the assignment you gave me. I’m doing this other stuff on my free time.”

  “I don’t want you doing it on any time,” he says. “No more questions about a second shooter. No more investigations into 7 Ocean Drive or your uncle. Can I be any clearer?”

  “No, you’re very clear, Chief,” I reply. “In fact, I’d like to compliment you on how clear you’re being, Chief. May I be excused, Chief?”

  Isaac stares me down, his tongue rolling inside his cheek. He gets out of his seat and comes around the desk. I stand, too, so we’re face-to-face.

  “Let’s go off the record,” he says.

  “Let’s.”

  “Nothing leaves this room.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What is this fascination with Noah Walker?”

  “I don’t have a fas—”

  “You want to fuck him, don’t you?”

  I draw back. “What did you just say?”

  Isaac throws up a hand in disgust. “Always the same with that guy. A juvenile fucking delinquent since the day I met him, but every girl in school fantasized about him. The kid’s never been anything but bad. Believe me, I know him a lot better than you, Murphy. Don’t be fooled by the movie-star good looks. That guy’s nothing but a bad seed.”

  For a moment, I’m speechless. Isaac’s chest is heaving, his cheeks crimson. It’s like we’re replaying middle school here.

  “Did he steal your girlfriend or something, Isaac?”

  His eyes flare. He drives a finger into my chest. “Noah Walker killed those people at 7 Ocean Drive and Noah Walker killed your uncle. Noah Walker shot up that school all by himself. You will stop trying to prove otherwise. You will stop right now, or I’m pulling your badge.”

  I hold my breath, willing myself to calm down. “You’re pathetic,” I say. “I mean, since we’re off the record.”

  He nods, grins at me, coffee breath and stained teeth. “You think you’re untouchable, but you’re not. I’m going to run you out of here sooner or later.”

  “Yeah? Good.” I turn and head for the door.

  “Oh, and Murphy? Since we’re off the record?” He takes a breath and composes himself. “I thought your uncle was a worthless prick.”

  61

  THE MAN who thinks of himself as Holden is getting restless. No, it’s not summer yet, but this March has been one of the warmest on record—is that close enough?

  Maybe. For right now, he’ll enjoy the sights and sounds at Tasty’s. So many people to choose from, men and women both. He’ll have to make a list and plan this out. He’s good at planning them.

  Hell, look at last summer, the summer of 2011. Four victims! In one summer, he doubled what he’d done up until then. Zach and Melanie, that hooker named Bonnie, and the good ol’ police chief. The police chief!

  And is he in prison?

  Nope, he sure isn’t. How’s that for smart? You kill the chief of police and nobody can lay a glove on you.

  His eyes wander beyond the crowded restaurant to the window, where he recognizes someone getting out of a car in the parking lot.

  Detective Jenna Murphy, the sexy redhead detective. Blue jacket over a white blouse, tight-fitting jeans, low heels.

  She thinks she’s smart. She thinks she’s smarter than everyone.

  But she’s not that smart.

  If she’s so smart, why doesn’t she remember me?

  From all those years ago.

  It might be fun to remind her one of these days.

  62

  OFFICER RICKETTS and I are out of luck when we enter Tasty’s for lunch—no open tables. We take seats at the counter, with its view of the kitchen, where cooks in aprons and white hats are chopping and broiling and frying, reading orders off slips of paper clipped above them. The smells of garlic and tomato sauce and fried food fill the air.

  Aiden Willis is sitting alone at a middle table, always that cap turned backward, the strawlike hair jutting out, those beady, meandering eyes. He’s reading something while he eats fried fish out of a paper tray. Time will come, I’ll ask him how that “burial” went yesterday, to see if he’ll keep lying about it, but I don’t want to tip my hand yet.

  We both order scallops. Ricketts orders one of those iced-tea drinks served in those giant, colorful cans; ice water for me.

  Over my shoulder, I see Chief Isaac Marks, wearing a bib and dipping lobster into butter sauce. Another table for one. He must see me, but after our words yesterday, there isn’t much left to say.

  “Careful,” I tell Ricketts. “Chief’s sitting over there. Let’s not be too obvious.”

  She leans into me. “How ’bout I just talk quietly, then? I won’t pull out my notes.” She taps her head. “It’s all up here, anyway.”

  It’s pretty loud in here, so that would probably work.

  “Give me the Reader’s Digest,” I say.

  She takes a deep breath. A waiter serves us our drinks, mine in a plastic cup. “The Reader’s Digest,” she says, “is cree-py.”

  A ripple of boisterous laughter behind us. I turn back and see a group of guys—construction workers, a testosterone fest—in the corner.
r />   One of them: Noah Walker. T-shirt stretched tight over his chest, dirty jeans, work boots.

  I feel my temperature rise and pull my shirt off my suddenly sticky chest.

  Something about that guy. I can’t deny it. Can’t understand it, either.

  I have my back to the crowd, but when I’m turned toward Ricketts, I have a good sight line to both Noah and Aiden Willis. Isaac is behind me.

  Three men, all about the same age, all at Bridgehampton School.

  Ricketts says, “The house at 7 Ocean Drive was built by a Dutch settler named Winston Dahlquist in the late 1700s. He had, like, this massive potato farm on Long Island and was crazy rich. He had a wife, Cecilia, and one son.”

  Cecilia, O Cecilia / Life was death disguised.

  “Cecilia died in 1813. They said she jumped out of her bedroom window. She landed on the spiked fence.”

  “She…landed on it?”

  “Oh, yeah, they found her impaled on the fence, twenty feet off the ground. Her body was almost cut in half. But the author of the book I read on this—she had someone diagram everything, the angles, the distances. She concluded that if Cecilia had jumped from her bedroom, she would’ve landed several yards short of the fence.”

  “So the wife was pushed.”

  Ricketts nods.

  “Tell me about the son,” I say.

  “His name was Holden. Holden Dahlquist.”

  Noah’s eyes break away from his conversation and catch mine. He does a double take; then he fixes on me, his expression easing, his eyes narrowing.

  “Holden was basically insane,” she says. “Erratic. Violent. Couldn’t be in school. The author of the book thinks Holden’s the one who killed Cecilia. He would’ve been seventeen at the time.”

  “He killed his mother.” I nod along, casually, like she’s telling me about a new pair of heels she bought.

  “Apparently, after Cecilia died, Winston was never the same. As time went on, Winston started going batty, too. He wrote in a letter—I remember this—he wrote, ‘I hesitate to declare what is more alarming, the extent to which my son is beginning to resemble a wild animal, or the extent to which I am beginning to resemble him.’”