The Murder House

by James Patterson

  Aiden Willis stands up and fishes in his pocket for money, drops it on the table. Under his arm is a paperback—Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men.

  A little deeper reading than I might have expected from our Aiden.

  “Apparently, after Cecilia’s death, a string of murders and disappearances began,” Ricketts continues. “Over two dozen people died over the next twenty years.”

  I turn back to Ricketts. “Tell me about the victims.”

  “They were hookers or immigrants. They’d go missing in the summer and then they’d be found dead with some kind of hole in their body, usually a through-and-through.”

  “Impaled,” I say, my heartbeat responding.

  “Yeah. Always some kind of spear or cutting instrument. And sometimes with all the blood drained out of their bodies.”

  “Jesus.” I draw back. “And they never put this on Winston? Or his kid, Holden?”

  My eye catches Aiden Willis, stuffing his hands in his pockets, checking me out with a sidelong glance on his way out, the paperback still tucked under his arm.

  Then I look back at Noah, who’s watching me while he drinks a bottle of beer, still with his friends at the table.

  Then Noah’s expression changes, goes cold, hard, and his eyes move away from mine to…

  …Isaac, approaching him, the entire table freezing up. Isaac, with that cop bravado, saying something to Noah that elicits a frown, and I see something in Noah’s eyes that makes me think there’s going to be violence between them. But then Isaac moves along, heading toward the exit, catching my eye as well, smirking at me.

  “They never charged either Winston or Holden,” says Ricketts. “Legend has it, Winston had the local constable in his pocket. He was one of the wealthiest people on Long Island.”

  I watch Isaac leave and think over what Ricketts has told me. “He chose prostitutes and immigrants,” I say. “Drifters. People—”

  “—who wouldn’t be missed. Yeah, there’s a saying attributed to Winston. I think I have this right: ‘A peasant, any peasant will do, and better still a stranger. Whosoever shall not be missed is welcome in my chamber.’”

  Our scallops arrive, with a delicious buttery aroma, but I’ve lost my appetite.

  “Sounds like a fun family,” I say.

  “Oh, but it gets better,” Ricketts says, trying to keep her voice down. “Every generation left a single son, each of them named Holden. Holden Junior, Holden the Third, etc., all the way to Holden the Sixth. All of them suffering some mental illness, most of them suspected of violence. One of them killed his wife. Several committed suicide.”

  “Where’s the most recent Holden?” I ask.

  Ricketts spears a scallop with her fork.

  “In the ground,” she says. “The last Holden died almost twenty years ago, without any children.”

  63

  I CHECK my sidearm for ammunition and holster it.

  My head is buzzing after spending hours poring over a copy of the book that Ricketts used for her research, Winston’s Heirs: A Haunted House in the Hamptons, chronicling the Dahlquists from the time when Winston came to Long Island in the late 1700s until recent years, the many generations of Holdens.

  The original Holden, who these days would have been in an institution for the criminally insane, who may have murdered as many as two dozen women.

  Holden Junior, who had three kids of whom only one survived, the only boy.

  Holden III, who decapitated his wife on their fifth anniversary before jumping out of the same bedroom window from which Cecilia fell.

  Holden IV, who went through four wives and a lot of booze before hanging himself at age fifty-two.

  Holden V, who married and divorced three times and overdosed on a combination of amphetamines and alcohol, just days after four vacationers were stabbed to death on the beach not fifty yards from his home at 7 Ocean Drive.

  And Holden VI, described by his mother as a “simpleton with violent tendencies and the empathy of a rattlesnake, but other than that a dear boy.” Known for his philanthropy publicly, but suspected of multiple rapes and assaults, none of which ever stuck. Holden was found dead in his bedroom in 1994; he slashed his own throat and tossed the knife out the window before dying, thus ending the ignominious reign of the Dahlquist clan.

  My sidearm in place, I leave the house, a chill in the midnight air.

  I start up my car and put it into gear. The roads are all but empty at this hour, in late March, before the summer vacationers have begun to arrive.

  A gray pall hangs over the lonely streets.

  I kill the headlights as I approach and let my foot off the gas. I pull my car over on Main Street and kill the engine. I’ll walk the rest of the way. One hand on my sidearm. The other clutching my Maglite.

  I approach the cemetery from the west. The air is thick, promising rain, but none has yet fallen. As I get closer, the street lighting dims considerably, leaving the cemetery in sleepy black.

  This time, I’m more prepared. A sweater instead of short sleeves. Running shoes, not flats. A flashlight.

  I pass through the gate quietly and drop down low in the grass among the tombstones. It may take a while, if it happens at all. But just to be sure, I’m not signaling my presence.

  The wind kicks up off the ocean, making me wish I’d worn a second layer. Standing still, crouched down, it’s not easy to stay warm. My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, but the effect isn’t helpful—it’s still too dark to see much of anything, but now the darkness is filled with dancing shadows and fleeting movements.

  Keep it together, Murphy.

  The sleep deprivation doesn’t help. My eyes feel heavy these days, my movements lumbering, my brain fueled by adrenaline but unfocused, sloppy.

  A noise. Something soft but persistent. At first, I think it’s wind rustling through the trees, but it stays consistent when the breeze ebbs, grows stronger as it draws closer.

  Footfalls. Someone walking over the soft earth, heading toward the cemetery.

  But no flashlight beam. Nothing illuminating his path.

  I steel myself but don’t dare move. I can’t see anything in the blackness, but the sound is unmistakable now—someone walking into the cemetery.

  He’s walking in pitch dark without the aid of a flashlight, and without hesitation. He knows exactly where he’s going.

  Knows it by heart.

  And then the footsteps stop.

  I look up but can’t see anything. Close enough for me to hear, too far away for me to see. Maybe a hood—a sweatshirt with a hood—

  A beam of light pops on. Startling me—I almost fall backward in my crouch.

  I try to gauge his location from the flashlight beam. But then the light disappears, almost as quickly as it appeared.

  Darkness again, and silence. What is—

  A new sound. Spray of some kind, a thin stream of liquid slapping against stone.

  Sounds like…

  No, I decide. Couldn’t be.

  64

  I STAY fixed in my position until the sound stops; then the footsteps begin again, but now moving away from me. He’s leaving the cemetery, same way he came, disappearing into the void of black.

  Should I accost him? I’m assuming it’s Aiden Willis, as before, but I can’t see shit out here. And if I confront him, I might be giving up an advantage.

  No. Better I let him leave and try to figure out what he does here at night.

  I wait until I can’t hear him anymore, then wait another ten minutes for good measure. I keep my eyes focused on where I saw that momentary flashlight beam, trying to use it as a beacon to guide me in the pitch dark.

  Once I’m ready to move, I shine my Maglite at that destination point and start walking toward it. It’s not perfect, but it should get me where I’m going. Especially if that sound was what I think it was.

  Something big up ahead. Something tall. The cemetery has all kinds of tombstones, large and elaborate, small and simple, many
variations in between. This one is of the big-and-fancy variety. I run the light over the monument until I hit the name.

  Dahlquist

  A large stone monument bearing that same family crest with the bird, the shrike. The whole plot surrounded by an iron bar, no more than three feet off the ground, supported by small stone pillars.

  My heart skips a beat. I move closer, sweep the beam of light around.

  Three tombstones at the monument’s base: Winston, Cecilia, Holden. The first Dahlquists. Then, just below them, five more tombstones, presumably for the successive generations of Dahlquists, all males named Holden.

  I shine my light over each Holden tombstone, the earliest ones in not nearly as good shape as the more recent ones. Finally, I hit the last generation—Holden VI, buried here since 1994.

  There it is.

  I bend down to get a closer look at the tombstone. Fresh liquid splattered all over it. I don’t dare taste it, but I lower my face close enough to confirm with my nose what I thought I heard with my ears.

  Urine.

  Whoever crept into this cemetery just took a piss all over Holden VI’s grave.

  Good thing I looked up Aiden’s address.

  Maybe it’s time to pay him a visit.

  65

  I KILL the headlights so Aiden won’t see my car approaching his house. But he might hear it bouncing over the bumpy, unforgiving roads just north of Main Street.

  His house is obscured by trees until I reach his driveway. I pass it and pull the car over on the sloping shoulder of the road.

  Only a quarter mile away, last summer, the prostitute, Bonnie Stamos, was found impaled on that tree stump.

  The house is dark as I walk up the driveway. It’s a dilapidated shingled ranch that almost sags at its sides, a beater Chevy parked in the driveway. I step up onto a cracked concrete porch and can’t find a doorbell.

  I open the screen door, which is on the verge of falling off, and bang my fist on the door.

  “Open up, Aiden. Town police!”

  Nothing at first. I bang again. Announce my office once more.

  Nothing.

  He couldn’t have beaten me here by much. Fifteen minutes, tops.

  No way he’s asleep.

  It was Aiden I saw, wasn’t it?

  “Open up, Aiden!” I pound on the door until my fist hurts.

  I check my watch. Half past midnight.

  Either he’s not home or he’s ignoring me.

  Either way, I’m out of luck. It’s not like I can kick in the door. I don’t have probable cause or anything close to it.

  But nothing says I can’t check the back of the house.

  No outdoor lighting on the house, the property surrounded by trees that block any neighboring light, so I use my Maglite to move around the narrow side of the house.

  The backyard is equally dark and tree lined. A bicycle lies in the grass. No back porch or patio.

  Something moving—

  A squirrel or some small animal, sprinting through my beam of light.

  I take a breath. Shine the light on the house.

  A window well, into the basement. I shine my light inside. Just enough room for me to fit in there.

  The window’s been unlatched, pulled inward.

  I squat down. The window’s filthy. I wipe the muck with the sleeve of my sweater, but the light combines with the smears to block any view, like high beams in fog.

  I push on the window to open it farther, as far as it will go, to a sixty-degree angle inward.

  A noise in the woods behind me, something moving across fallen branches and dead leaves. I shine my light over the woods.

  Dry grass moving gently with the breeze. Long, naked trees like skeletons waving at me.

  An animal, probably.

  The open window gives me, maybe, an inch or two of space. I shine my light directly into the basement and peek inside.

  Looking right at me is a woman, sitting in a chair.

  66

  I JUMP at the sight, fall against the back of the window well. Shine the light through the crack in the window again, make sure I actually saw what I think I saw.

  The small circle of light, cutting through the darkness, searching for her—

  There.

  The woman, seated in a chair, wearing an old-fashioned shawl over her shoulders, her hair pulled back tightly in a bun, her hands resting quietly in her lap. A relaxed expression on her face. Her mouth closed. Her eyes glazed, immobile.

  “Town police!” I call out, just to be sure. “Ma’am, can you hear me? Ma’am, are you okay?”

  My pulse in overdrive, I draw back, brace my hands against the window well, raise my leg into kicking position.

  Wait. Something about that…

  I lean back in, shine the light once more, find her again.

  No movement. Her eyes don’t respond to the light. She’s dead.

  I move the light slowly, probing as best I can the quality of her skin. Hard to do from a distance, with a flashlight.

  But little decomposition.

  Actually, no sign of decomp. None. Her skin looks flawless, even…

  Inhuman.

  I look around her. Next to the rocking chair in which she’s seated is a—

  “Oh, Jesus—”

  My hand jerks, and the beam of light shoots to the ceiling. Hands shaking, I sweep the light through the darkness again, past the woman—

  A man. Wearing some kind of coat, tweed. Hair greased back. A thin face, eyes open and vacant. Sitting on a love seat, legs crossed.

  Same deal with the glossy skin, the immobile eyes, unresponsive to light.

  Not dead people. Not people at all.

  Wax figures.

  I exhale with the realization. I was two seconds away from kicking in this window to rescue a couple of wax mannequins.

  I keep the light moving.

  An area rug on the floor. A battered coffee table with a vase and flowers—fresh flowers, not fake.

  Against the wall, a faux fireplace—something painted on the wall, complete with logs and a spirited flame.

  A television set. I can only see its back, but a soft, flickering glow emanates from it, the only occasional illumination in this basement, other than my flashlight.

  A picture over the fake fireplace. A blown-up photograph.

  Aiden as a boy, that scarecrow hair and scrawny face, next to a woman.

  “What the hell?” I say, repositioning my feet on the bed of rocks.

  Which is why I don’t hear the footsteps, approaching me from behind on the soft grass.

  But I do hear the pump action of a shotgun.

  67

  “DON’T MOVE!” a voice calls out.

  Startled, I lose my flashlight on the rocks, bathing myself in a little circle of light inside the window well. I turn my head for a look back, but it’s no use. I’m below him and lit up; he’s above me in the dark.

  “I said don’t move! Put up your hands!”

  If I raise my hands right now, squatted down as I am, I’ll probably fall over.

  “I’m with—”

  “Hands up or I shoot!”

  “Listen to me, I’m a po—”

  “Now!”

  “Okay, okay. Easy.” I do my best, like a tightrope walker struggling for balance, rising from my crouch and bringing my hands out, leaving my Maglite on the floor of rocks. I’m half turned toward him, so he can see my profile, but I can’t see him.

  “I’m a cop,” I say. “Southampton Town Po—”

  “Who sent ya?”

  “I’m a cop.”

  “Whatchoo doin’ here? What right you got?”

  I take a breath. “Aiden—”

  “Don’t move!”

  “I’m not moving. I’m not moving.”

  Aiden’s breath, raspy and heavy.

  “Mr. Willis, I just identified myself as a police officer. You don’t want to be pointing a shotgun at a cop, do you?”

  He doe
sn’t answer.

  “The correct answer,” I say, “is no, you don’t. You know me, Aiden. I’m Detective Jenna Murphy. You saw me the other night at the cemetery.”

  At which time, I note, the roles were reversed—I had a gun trained on him. Turns out, it’s more fun when you’re the one holding the weapon.

  “Put the gun down, Aiden. I’m not telling you again.”

  He moves around so he’s behind me again, my six o’clock.

  “You come ta kill me,” he says.

  “No, Aiden. I’m a cop. I’m—”

  “You comin’ ta kill me! You been followin’ me. You think cuz—”

  “No, Aiden.”

  “Why’d ya have to come back? Ya shouldn’ta come back—”

  “Aiden!” I crank up the volume this time, trying to gain the upper hand. “Aiden, I’m a cop. You know me. Now, I’m going to climb out of this window well and you’re going to put down that shotgun.”

  I move slowly, putting my hands on the top of the aluminum well.

  “I’ll shoot.” He shuffles backward as he speaks, feet rustling in the grass.

  “No, you won’t.” I jump and use my arms to push myself onto the grass.

  “Don’t you move!”

  I show my palms, though he probably can’t make me out very well.

  “Now put down that damn shotgun,” I say. I rise to my feet.

  I get a little bit of a bead on him, an outline, the hair sticking out, the shotgun in his hand.

  “Self-defense,” he says, raising the shotgun.

  I lose my breath, brace myself, consider my options. If I go for my sidearm, it’s a long shot. If I dive, I’m unlikely to miss the wide blast from his gun. Something out of a movie—drop and roll and come up shooting?

  “You were at the cemetery tonight,” I say.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  I’m calculating how well Aiden can see me now, standing as I am on solid ground in the darkness. Hoping he can’t see very well.