Driving her back to the compound, his stomach was in knots. He didn’t want a confrontation. He just wanted to end things with her.
The only radio station the car picked up on the island played nonstop Christmas music. Slightly drunk, Jae sang along with each selection. When “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime” came on, Wes reached over and switched off the radio because he absolutely loathed the song—and because he couldn’t stall any longer on having the talk with her.
“Hey, why’d you do that?” she asked. “I love that song!”
Figures, Wes thought. But he didn’t say anything. He just tightened his grip on the steering wheel, sighed, and shook his head.
“What’s wrong with you tonight anyway?” she asked. “I mean, would it have killed you to be nice to my friends? All you did at the party was sulk.”
“That’s because I didn’t know anyone—and nobody would talk to me.” He took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at her. “You introduced me to—like—a total of three people, and then you disappeared. You left me there all alone. I felt like an idiot . . .”
“Well, I’m sorry, but they’re my friends, and I haven’t seen most of them since the summer! And you were being a grouch. What was I supposed to do, stick by your side and hold your hand the entire night?”
“It might have been nice if you’d held my hand there just once,” he murmured.
Jae sighed and then looked out the car window. “You know, maybe it’s a good thing you’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Probably,” he said, “because this isn’t working out, none of it is.”
Wes kept waiting for her to say something, but she didn’t. He wondered if that was it. Were they broken up? Or did he actually have to say the words?
Up ahead, he spotted the side road that led to the Singleton compound. He slowed down and took the turn. The dark road snaked up a wooded hill. Branching off the narrow two-lane road were driveways and winding lanes that led to other houses and cabins. Through the trees, Wes spotted a few lights in the distance, but very few. Most everyone was asleep at this hour. He’d made this trip several times now but was still uncertain about a couple turns. He usually had someone in the car giving him directions. He was already worried about getting lost after he dropped Jae off tonight.
The silence in the car made him even more nervous.
The woods grew so dense that Wes couldn’t see much beyond the car’s headlights. Last night, he’d almost hit a deer. Now he imagined some guy in a hockey mask brandishing an ax, springing out of the darkness into the illuminated path.
Wes shuddered.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jae asked.
“Nothing. I’m just cold, that’s all,” he murmured.
“You need to turn right at the Tall Pines sign,” she muttered.
Nodding, Wes followed the gravel road to the right. He knew the compound was around one of the curves coming up. He kept following the road, and then he spotted the big house. A couple of the lights were on upstairs. He slowed down and pressed the switch on the armrest to lower his window.
That was when Jae noticed someone had left the front gate open.
He turned into the driveway. The older brother’s Fiat was parked in front of the house, so Wes pulled up beside the garage. The windows above the garage were dark. Wes figured the caretaker was asleep.
“That’s weird,” Jae said. “All the curtains are closed on the first floor . . .”
“What’s so weird about it?” Wes asked.
“We never close the curtains,” Jae said. “There’s no reason to out here in the woods.” Frowning, she glanced back toward the open gate.
Wes followed her gaze. Then he turned toward the house again. He could see light peeking through the slits between the curtains. Maybe someone had left a few lights on for her downstairs and decided to leave the gate open, too.
Was that really so unusual?
Jae seemed to shrug it off. She turned toward him and sighed. “Well, I guess I won’t see you until I get back on Monday . . .”
Wes cleared his throat. “Well, actually, I thought—”
“I’ll miss a couple of classes, but who cares?” she interrupted.
She didn’t seem to understand that he wanted to break up.
“You know, I think it works out better that you’re leaving tomorrow,” Jae continued. She flicked her blond hair and then rolled her eyes. “My mother has been riding her broomstick all weekend. You must think she’s awful. She totally screwed up my plans for us this weekend. It was supposed to be just you and me here . . .”
Wes squirmed a bit in the driver’s seat. He had a hard time believing that. For starters, didn’t the caretaker live there year-round? And second, if they were alone in that big house in the middle of the woods, it would have been pretty damn scary—especially at night, like now.
He thought he saw a curtain move in one of the first-floor windows.
“Do you think someone’s waiting up for you?” he asked.
“At this hour?” she said. “I doubt it.”
Wes couldn’t help thinking something was wrong. Then again, the house, its surroundings—and even Jae—seemed strange to him. She’d been concerned about the gate and the curtains just a minute ago, but not anymore. Of course, she was still a little drunk, so her judgment might be off.
Jae smiled and touched his shoulder. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a sandwich for the ride home tomorrow.”
“Oh, you don’t have to,” he said. “In fact, listen, I really think we—”
“Nonsense,” she interrupted. “There’s all that turkey left. And you have a mini-fridge in your room at the Islander. You can keep it fresh for tomorrow. Come on in with me while I make the sandwich.”
“No, really, I think—”
“Okay, then you stay put. I’ll be back in just a couple of minutes . . .”
She opened the passenger door.
“Jae, wait—”
But she jumped out of the car and shut the door.
“Shit,” Wes muttered under his breath.
He watched her weaving slightly as she headed to the front door. She seemed to take forever to find the keys in her purse.
Wes kept the headlights on, figuring that might help Jae in her search. Besides that, everything about this place gave him the creeps right now. He just wanted to get out of there.
He lowered the window a crack and then glanced back over his shoulder at the open gate again. He heard a noise and swiveled around in time to see Jae duck inside the house. He realized it was just the sound of her unlocking and opening the front door.
Wes let out a little laugh. “Quit creeping yourself out,” he said under his breath. Still, he reached for the armrest and pressed the lock for the car doors.
Slumping back in the driver’s seat, he glanced at his wristwatch: 1:46 A.M. He couldn’t believe he had to wait around here while she made him a lousy sandwich. He had no intention of eating it. When she’d invited him to spend this “intimate weekend” with her at “the cabin,” Jae had said something about showing him what a great cook she was. Outside of opening a bag of Fritos and a couple of Diet Cokes, he hadn’t seen her perform any tasks in the kitchen so far. Maybe this turkey sandwich was supposed to prove something to him.
Wes listened to the car engine idling. Past it, he thought he heard a scream.
He sat up straight.
The shrill, aborted wail seemed to have come from inside the house. He was almost certain it was Jae.
He switched off the engine and listened. There wasn’t another sound. He kept staring at the house, waiting for one of the curtains to move again. But everything was so still. Even the tree branches weren’t moving.
He glanced up toward the windows above the garage—still dark. Obviously, the caretaker hadn’t heard it. But without a doubt, there had been a scream.
Maybe one of the other kids had played a joke on her and surprised her or something.
Biting his lip, Wes took out his phone and speed-dialed her number. It rang twice and then went to her voicemail: “Hi! It’s Jae,” the familiar, perky recording said. “I can’t pick up right now. So you know what to do!”
Wes grimaced. He didn’t want to hear that voicemail recording right now. He wanted to hear her. He wanted Jae to tell him everything was fine and she’d be out with his sandwich in a minute.
Instead, he waited for the beep. “Hi, it’s me,” he said in a slightly shaky voice. “Are you okay? I heard a scream. I’m worried. Call me—or come out and tell me everything’s okay just as soon as you can. All right?”
He clicked off and anxiously stared at the front door.
He thought about calling the police, but what if nothing was wrong? They’d come out here and wake up the entire family—all for nothing.
Well, that’s one way to make sure she’ll never want to see me again, he thought. He let out a nervous chuckle.
But then he thought he saw something, and the feeble smile disappeared from his face. It looked like someone had just ducked behind a big tree at the edge of the driveway. Wes stared at the tree for a few moments, but nothing moved. He told himself it was just his imagination playing tricks on him.
The car lights automatically shut off.
Wes had forgotten that he’d switched off the engine. He quickly turned the key in the ignition and started the car again. The headlights came on once more.
Just go, he thought. Drive away. Something isn’t right. Something happened in that house. And if you’re mistaken, it doesn’t matter that you’ve driven off. You’re breaking up with her anyway. Once you get to the main road, you can call her again and explain that you got tired of waiting. Just go, for God’s sake. Go . . .
Wes’s trembling hand hovered over the gearshift.
He heard a door slam, and he glanced toward the front of the house again.
There was no one by the front door. But at the side of the house, he saw someone dart between the trees—heading toward the driveway. It wasn’t his imagination this time. It was a man, walking at a brisk, determined, robot-like clip.
Panic-stricken, Wes couldn’t move. He watched the shadowy figure coming closer and closer to the driveway. It didn’t look like Mr. Singleton or Jae’s older brother. He disappeared behind some shrubs for a few seconds.
Wes went to start the car, but realized the engine was already running.
The man emerged from behind the bushes and zeroed in on the car. He held a gun in his hand.
“Oh, Jesus,” Wes whispered, his heart stopping.
The man raised his gun.
Wes heard a shot ring out. From the windshield bits of glass sprayed him in the face. God, this isn’t happening, he thought.
He reached for the door handle, but a second shot punctured the glass again, and Wes knew he’d been hit. It felt like someone had slammed a hammer into his upper chest. He saw the dashboard dotted with his own blood.
The front of his jacket was wet.
The man moved even closer to the car.
Moaning, Wes started to black out.
Two more shots echoed in the still night—and then nothing.
CHAPTER TWO
Sunday, November 26—9:29 P.M.
Friday Harbor, San Juan Island, Washington
On the way to his car at the far end of the parking lot, Jason Eichhorn felt a strange kind of elation. He knew it was wrong. The swarthy twenty-nine-year-old was a stringer for The Seattle Times, covering a horrible multiple murder. But he’d just had dinner at The Rumor Mill with two guys from CNN, a correspondent from Time, an older, Pulitzer Prize – winning reporter from the AP, and a smart, sexy redheaded correspondent from NBC News—some pretty impressive company. They were tapping his expertise about the local haunts and the ferry system.
Reporters from all over the country had descended upon the island, where the county sheriff’s office was located. It was the same way on Lopez Island—and in Anacortes on the mainland. Jason’s dinner companions had invited him to come back to Friday Harbor Suites with them and have a drink at the bar. But he wanted to return to his room at the far-less-expensive Orca Inn so he could phone his wife, Debra, at home in Bellingham. He couldn’t wait to tell her about how he’d been hanging out with these big shots. Plus, he missed her. Deb had taken time off work for Thanksgiving weekend, and they were supposed to have spent the entire Saturday together. But then the newspaper suddenly needed Jason to cover a big story.
Really big.
Scott Singleton and his entire family had been brutally murdered at their Lopez Island vacation home.
There was one survivor, a college student who had been dating one of the Singleton daughters. He’d been shot three times and was now in critical condition at Island Hospital in Anacortes. The Times had sent another stringer there, waiting for the kid to get out of intensive care. Police investigators were hoping that once he was conscious, Jae Singleton’s boyfriend might give them a description of the shooter.
The Singletons’ caretaker, a young man who lived on the premises, apparently slept through the whole thing. He found the bodies early Saturday morning: first, the wounded, unconscious college student, lying beside his car in the driveway; and then the seven dead inside the house.
Jae Singleton seemed to have returned home and surprised her killer—or killers. The other victims were in their pajamas, bound and gagged, and stabbed repeatedly. Jae’s body—along with her father’s—had been discovered on the first floor. Jae appeared to have been attacked and stabbed in the front hallway, but collapsed and died in the living room. Scott Singleton was found facedown on the sofa in his study. He’d been beaten savagely before someone slit his throat. The others were found in various rooms on the second floor.
The senseless, violent murders had people across the country locking their doors and windows. The veteran reporter from the Associated Press said he hadn’t seen anything quite like it since he was a young intern at the Chicago Sun-Times in the summer of 1966, when some creep murdered eight student nurses in their townhouse/dorm quarters. “I guess maybe the Tate-LaBianca murders in sixty-nine brought about the same kind of national panic, too,” he said, amending his own statement. “This isn’t just a local thing on these islands. Hell, even people in Maine are scared. It’s the same gut-sickening terror all over. No one feels safe.”
“I’ll bet gun sales go up again,” said the woman from NBC.
While a jazz quartet played onstage and a waitress took away their dinner plates, one of the CNN guys passed around his phone. Another reporter friend had sent him photos from inside the Singletons’ house. Jason looked at only one of the pictures—of the oldest daughter, twenty-two-year-old brown-haired Mandy, in a bloodstained pink gingham camisole and shorts. With her hands tied behind her, she lay on her side at the foot of an unmade bed. Crimson splotches marred the baby blue bedspread. Her eyes were open with a frozen, stunned stare. Jason couldn’t make himself look at any of the other pictures.
Little by little, more details began to emerge about the caretaker, twenty-five-year-old Joseph Mulroney. Mrs. Singleton had hired him to look after the Lopez Island grounds in September. Mulroney couldn’t explain how he’d managed to sleep through everything—including the gunshots right below his bedroom window. There was no evidence of a break-in at the gated grounds. Mulroney had been covered with blood when the police and paramedics arrived. He claimed to have been trying to revive eleven-year-old Connor Singleton, who had shown signs of life just minutes earlier. This was contradicted in an initial report from the coroner, who set the boy’s time of death at around one in the morning—along with the other family members. The most damning evidence of all came when investigators looked into Mulroney’s background. They discovered he’d been released from a state-run psychiatric facility earlier in the year.
Though Mulroney looked like a prime suspect, the AP reporter had mentioned over dinner that Willy Garretson, the young caretaker at the ho
use Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate had rented, had been the police’s first suspect in her murder. He, too, had slept through the night—while the five victims were viciously slain within shouting distance of his separate quarters on the grounds.
Joseph Mulroney was a thin, handsome, timid-looking guy. “Like Bundy,” mentioned the man from Time, “a real charmer, the boy-next-door type.”
“The angel-faced killer,” the woman from NBC added. “That’s what they’ll end up calling him.”
Mulroney was cooperating with the San Juan County Police, and he’d even agreed to take a lie-detector test for them. He hadn’t been charged with anything yet. They’d moved him from his apartment at the Singletons’ Lopez Island compound to Friday Harbor on San Juan Island so he’d be near the sheriff’s office. In fact, they’d put him up at the Orca Inn—at the other end of the hall from Jason. He’d spotted Mulroney a couple of times at a distance. A cop was stationed in the corridor, keeping guard. It was still up for grabs whether the guard was protecting Mulroney from the public or the other way around.
As the impromptu dinner party at The Rumor Mill broke up, a couple of the reporters offered to switch lodgings with Jason. They were jealous he was so close to all the action, right there practically in the command center. The Orca Inn was also close to the restaurant and the ferry. Jason could have easily walked the few blocks to The Rumor Mill, but it was chilly out and he’d been feeling lazy, so he’d driven.
Now he was the last of their group to leave the parking lot. He and the other journalists had closed the restaurant. As Jason headed to his car, somebody shut off the lighted sign above the entrance. The town had been all abuzz when he’d pulled into the crowded lot three hours ago. Now it seemed asleep. A brisk wind off the San Juan Channel cut through him, and Jason shivered. He reached into his pocket for his car key.
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