James Patterson - Murder House

He turns to face forward but doesn’t look at the jury. He finds a blank spot on the wall and stares at it, thinking through everything that has happened and wondering, How did it come to this?

He hears a woman’s voice. It turns out the foreperson of the jury is the single mother of two who has her own graphic design business, the one who sits in the front row of the jury box, three people from the left end. Is it a good thing that a woman is the leader? Another question that doesn’t make any difference. All that matters is what she’s going to say next.

“On count one, murder in the first degree with special circumstances, to wit the murder of Melanie Phillips, we find the defendant, Noah Lee Walker, guilty.”

Noah sucks in his breath.

“On count two, murder in the first degree with special circumstances, to wit the murder of Zachary Stern, we find the defendant, Noah Lee Walker, guilty.”

Noah turns and sees Paige. He starts toward her and she runs up the aisle toward him. There are bailiffs covering the gate that cordons off the spectators, and there are other bailiffs assigned specifically to Noah. Both sets of deputies do their jobs. Paige nearly makes it through, coming within a few feet of the defense table. The deputies grasp Noah firmly, gripping his arms, holding down his neck. He goes limp, compliant, before surprising them by breaking free and reaching Paige.

It won’t last, but he just wants to touch her one more time.

“Oh, baby,” she says to him, her face wet.

He puts his hand gently on the back of her neck and kisses her quickly. Then he moves his mouth to her ear. “Don’t give up on me,” he says as the deputies recover their leverage, pulling him back. When he refuses to go down, they shove a Taser against his neck, electrical current surging through him. His legs and arms go limp just before his mind does. He falls to the floor in a heap, his last memory of this courtroom.

Dede Paris and Annie Church have disappeared. They were last seen leaving their last final exam at Yale on May 9, completing their sophomore years. They said something vague to their friends about backpacking through Europe with the cash they’ve saved up while waitressing. They told their parents they were going to stay in New Haven for summer school and rent an apartment with their waitressing money. Neither set of parents made any attempt to verify their stories. Since May 9, over three weeks ago, no known acquaintance or family member has seen either woman.

Which is exactly how they want it.

Dede and Annie rush out of the ocean, holding hands, and find their towels and bags and umbrella. They slip into their flip-flops and don their shades. They are two beautiful, tanned twenty-year-olds, euphoric with love, with very few answers in life yet but, fortunately, very few questions, either. They will have the rest of their lives to discover their calling, to do their internships, apply to grad school, and brace for a hard world. This summer, they’re going to discover each other, and nothing else.

By the time they reach the place where they’re staying, their skin has long dried, and the withering oven-hot sun beats down on them. Fortunately, they don’t have to go far. Their place is just a two-minute walk from the beach. They’re staying at 7 Ocean Drive.

Well, it’s not their place, exactly. But nobody else is staying here, and it would be a shame for it to stay empty all summer, wouldn’t it?

“I love how freak-show this house is,” Dede says, looking up at the scowling Gothic structure. She is tall and lanky, with bleached-blond hair cropped like a boy’s that practically glows against her suntan. “I keep waiting for Elvira to pop out or something.”

They turn east, walking along the southern border of the estate, covered by thick shrubbery that is taller than they are. Dede, the more athletic and adventurous of the two, was the first to explore the shrubbery, looking for a point of entry. The coiled-wire fence hidden within the shrubbery was formidable but nothing that a good set of shears couldn’t handle, if you had time and patience, and they have plenty of both this summer. Besides, it didn’t have to be pretty, just a large enough hole for them to slip through, the slipping made easier by the thick pieces of rubber they’ve tied over the jagged edges of fence to avoid cuts and scratches during ingress and egress. Sure, they have to squat down and turn sideways to make it through, but it’s worth it — rent free and a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion all to themselves.

As they slide through the opening, Annie looks up at the mansion, the faded multicolored limestone, the stained glass and sharply pitched roofs and medieval-style adornments. She remembers the week she spent in the Hamptons as a girl, when she and her sister heard all about this place.

“No one ever leaves alive / The house at 7 Ocean Drive,” she says in her best ghoulish horror-movie voice, repeating the poem she’d heard. “Not friend or foe, not man or mouse / Can e’er survive the Murder House.”

“That creeps me out,” Dede says.

They head toward the rear of the house. The ten-foot shrubbery provides good cover on the grounds, but the mansion itself is perched on a hill, and they’ve decided their entries and exits should be as covert as possible. In the rear there is a door that, once upon a time, was probably reserved for the servants. The door doesn’t have a knob, just a latch held closed by a chain, another victim of Dede’s shears.

The smell of disinfectant and soap greets them when they open the door. They scrubbed down the rear entrance the first time they came in, clearing out the cobwebs, mopping the floor, scrubbing the walls. The first thing they see is the door to the basement, which is likewise chained. Sure, they thought it was a little odd that an interior door would be locked in such a way, but they haven’t bothered to investigate. There’s enough house without it, and their tolerance for creepy has just about hit its limit. The basement will remain a mystery.

They pass through the foyer, ignoring the museum-like rooms on each side, and climb the winding, creaky stairs. A veranda off a bedroom on the third floor that they found last week has a panoramic view of the ocean.

Annie leans against the railing, sighing with satisfaction. Her hair, up in a ponytail, is the color of cinnamon but has lightened in the sun. Dede comes up behind her and kisses her long bronzed neck. She runs her hands along the outline of Annie’s figure. Annie leans back into Dede’s arms, gently humming as Dede cups her breasts, caresses the skin on her flat belly. “That tickles,” says Annie as she turns to face Dede. They kiss deeply and lie down together on the blanket they’ve spread out, their legs intertwined.

And then they hear a noise. The hollow clink of metal tapping metal, and footsteps, and then a man whistling. Staying low, they inch toward the side of the veranda and peek through the wooden supports.

A man approaches the side of the house with a long ladder held at his side. He is shirtless and looks pretty damn good that way, a V-shaped physique, rippled abs. His curly dark hair falls from a Yankees cap, turned backward.

“Hot tool-belt guy,” Annie whispers. “If I liked boys...”

The hot tool-belt guy drops the ladder against the side of the house and quickly climbs up. The women don’t move, holding their breath, as he reaches their level on the third floor.

“Just behave yourselves, ladies,” he says without looking in their direction. “Deal?”

Busted! Neither woman says anything. Neither woman moves.