James Patterson - Murder House

The floor is spinning, everything is upside down. The intruder now casts a shadow over the chief, seeming to be in no particular hurry for this ordeal to come to an end. The chief can do nothing but hope — hope that this man just wants to hurt him and not kill him.

The next bullet drills through his right calf. Langdon can no longer bring himself to scream.

Silence follows, a pause. For just that moment, the chief feels a surge of hope. He’s been shot in the limbs, not the head or torso, no vital organs. Maybe the man will let him live. Maybe—

The chief feels a foot in his ribs, a gentle nudging. And then he hears the man’s voice, slow and deliberate, icy-calm.

“I... need a few minutes,” the man with the mask says. “Your fireplace... is really old.”

I cup the badge in one hand and slam through the double doors with the other. There are other officers already in the emergency room, who register who I am and point down the hall with looks of apology, sympathy on their faces. The hallway feels narrow and too bright, full of people in police uniforms or surgical scrubs. Someone tries to stop me and I say, “I’m next of kin.”

There are rooms to the left, all covered with gray-blue curtains. A gurney pops through one of them, several doctors and nurses jogging alongside it, holding bags of fluids and calling out stats to one another.

An arm grabs me. Isaac Marks says, “They’re taking him to surgery, Murphy. He—”

“Call Aunt Chloe,” I tell him.

“I did already.”

I pry my arm free and follow the doctors. “I’m his niece,” I say when they object, and I position myself between them and the elevator so they can’t stop me.

Uncle Langdon looks foreign, ancient, a mask over his face for oxygen, a bulge in the covers by his lower torso. I take his right hand in mine. “I’m here, Lang,” I manage, yelling over the commotion.

His hand squeezes back. The elevator opens and we all go inside. I angle between two medics who don’t resist, allowing us as private a moment as they can possibly give us.

“You’re going to be fine,” I whisper, my face close to his.

Lang slowly raises his arm, like he’s doing a difficult biceps curl, his hand finally reaching the oxygen mask. He pulls it down to his chin. “Jenna Rose,” he says, the words thin and whispery.

“I’m here,” I choke out.

“You’re... a good cop.”

“I learned from the best.” I place my hand delicately on the top of his head, tears streaming down my face, my throat hot and full. “I’m so sorry I questioned you and said all—”

“No.” His eyelids flutter, and his head turns ever so slightly back and forth. “Don’t ever stop... questioning... look up... Chloe... look...”

“I will — Chloe’s on her way—”

“Okay, we have to go!”

The elevator doors part. I press my lips against his forehead. “You’re my favorite uncle.” I squeeze out the words through a sob.

One side of his mouth curves just for a moment; a tear slides down his temple into his ear. “I’m your... only uncle,” he whispers.

And then we are separated, a tug on my arm holding me back, my uncle wheeled off to surgery, my view of him narrowing as the elevator doors move toward each other and then shut.

Not Lang, I think. Not Lang, too. No. Please, no.

When the elevator doors open again, I hear Isaac Marks’s voice, talking to another cop. “Five gunshot wounds to his extremities,” he says. “And then he heated up a fireplace poker and drove it through his kidney.”

I turn in Isaac’s direction, not looking at him, the words echoing between my ears. Shot in the extremities and speared with a poker.

Tortured. Just like Zach Stern. Just like Melanie Phillips. Just like the prostitute impaled on the tree stump in the woods.

“Oh, Murphy.” Isaac’s hand rests on my shoulder. “You okay?”

I don’t answer. I can’t speak.

“It’s going to be hours before he’s out of surgery, Murph. Maybe — maybe get some fresh air. Get away from this place for a while. But take the back exit. The press is gathered out front. The chief was supposed to testify tomorrow against Noah Walker.”

Noah Walker .

I stagger toward the rear exit, into the humid night air, where I finish the long hard cry that I started in the elevator. I don’t cry much, but when I do, it’s a heaving, gasping avalanche. I fall to my hands and knees and let it all out, the images from my childhood rushing back, Langdon holding me in his arms after Dad and Ryan died, showing up on weekends at our house in the Bronx, always with a little toy or gadget for me, always ready with stories about the bad guys he put away.

Not Lang. Please, God, I know I’ve doubted you, but I’ll do anything now, anything at all, just please, please don’t take him away.

And then, after some amount of time I can’t quantify, it stops. I get up and brush myself off. The soft tide of sorrow running through my chest turns hard. My senses readjust, back to alert, cop-alert. My vision clears. My nose stops running. My muscles tense.

Noah Walker .

I check my magazine for bullets, then reholster the weapon.

Hours, Isaac said. That will be more than enough time. Noah Walker’s house is only a half hour away.

I shove my star deep in my pocket. I won’t need a badge tonight.

Noah Walker’s house is dark. If he’s home, he’s pretending to be asleep. But he won’t have to pretend much longer, and this time he’ll never wake up.

The night is sticky but peaceful, nothing but some stray insect sounds. I trot gingerly over the gravel driveway on the balls of my feet and cross around to the back of his house. There is a small yard that borders on heavy woods, an afterthought of a concrete slab with a barbecue grill covered by a hood. The back door is less secure than the front, especially after we busted through it during the arrest.

The door comes open with minimal noise. I shine my Maglite into the back room — a couple of motorcycle helmets, an old Corona typewriter, an easel with a canvas of a seascape, boxes stuffed with clothes and knickknacks, an antique desk in the corner, some framed artwork resting against a wall.

I move into the hallway, my flashlight and gun at eye level, moving them in tandem while I shuffle forward along the tile, surveying room after room — the kitchen, the foyer, the living room.

I stop. Listen. The house groans. The wind outside plays with the trees.

Now the attic bedroom. The only room left.

I try my weight on the first stair and it complains to me. I take every other step, crouched low, slowly transferring my weight onto each new stair like a spider approaching prey, keeping the light beam down.

My eyes are now level with the second floor, my body still below it. I listen for any sounds. There is no such thing as silence in a house. But this house, suddenly, is silent.

I take a step up into the attic, a large open space. I throw the beam of light onto a bed right in front of me, with the covers pulled back and a pillow indented in the middle. I swing to my left when something strikes me, sharp and violent, cracking me in the cheek, knocking me sideways to the right, sending fluorescent stars through my eyelids. The Maglite skitters across the floor, sending a crazy pattern of rolling circles of light against the wall. I remain standing but unbalanced, staggering, disoriented, and all I can think is—

Duck .

I drop to a crouch as a force propels itself at me, over me. Noah’s lunging tackle misses me, worthy of a SportsCenter highlight, but as he sails over me, his knees connect with my shoulder and we fall awkwardly. Noah’s momentum carries him to the corner, slamming him against the wall, while I land hard on my back, my head bouncing on hardwood, the gun no longer in my hand. Everything is dancing, but there’s no time. I get to my feet just as he does. He’s like a shadow, in a fighter’s stance in a dark room, the only illumination coming from the far corner, where the Maglite has rolled to rest and shines a wide yellow circle against the back wall.