James Patterson - Murder House

But a reasonable person might not expect a man to be standing on the beach, peering northward with a pair of binoculars.

The man who thinks of himself as Holden lowers the binoculars and lets them hang around his neck. Wait — no — no, no. He removes the binoculars and throws them into his bag, which he calls his Fun Bag. This time of night, having binoculars is a dead giveaway — no chance of bird-watching or any other legitimate reason for using them, at ten in the evening. You might just as well wear a sign that says PEEPING TOM.

Be more careful, Holden! He likes calling himself that name. It gets him in the mood, in much the same way the alcohol gets those girls feeling more sexually adventurous. He rolls his neck. Stretches his arms. Cracks his knuckles. Jogs in place a moment, some sand kicking up.

He picks up his Fun Bag and climbs the beach onto Ocean Drive. He is happy, almost giddy. The sky is a deep purple and a soft wind plays with his hair. He is healthy and prepared. Tonight, he is Holden, and he can do anything.

He wonders how long they’ll stay up in the bedroom. Could be they’ll fall asleep, exhausted from the alcohol and sex. It won’t matter. He’ll be prepared either way.

They probably have the doors locked. They certainly should — there are scary people out there! Not that a lock will stop him.

He has a key to the place, after all.

But the front door isn’t an option — too creaky and noisy. No, he’ll use his private entry, his secret way into the house, reserved for special occasions.

Because this has all the makings of a special occasion.

Holden rests in the room that Winston Dahlquist once called the guest parlor, a waiting room of sorts off the ground-floor living room. It is ridiculously ornate, like all the rooms — candelabra and chandeliers and custom molding, a fireplace and a marble mantel, a Persian area rug.

They are almost directly above him. He closes his eyes and listens to their laughter upstairs. They are in love, he thinks, or at least they sound like it. His heart is pounding. He is here, and they don’t know it. That is special all by itself — they think they’re sharing something intimate, but he gets to be a part of it.

He opens up a small compact and checks himself over. His hair is smartly combed. His shirt is pressed. His beige trousers are new. His erection is at full mast, pushing against his trousers.

There’s no way to describe this. One part forbidden, one part intimate, one part sexual, and one part full of possibilities unknown even to him — he’s not sure what he’s going to do yet. There should be a word for how he feels.

He thinks of how they’d react if they saw him. What they would say. What they would do. The snappy dialogue that would ensue. The flirtation. They’d be attracted to him, wouldn’t they? Of course they would. Maybe a... a threesome? Wow. Maybe.

Footsteps overhead. Holden shakes out of his fantasy and listens closely. The footsteps are heading... where? Down the hallway toward the staircase?

No. No, she’s just walking into the master bedroom. He hears the water turn on now.

He sighs. This is not good enough, not real enough. He thought this was going to be special. This is kind of fun, but not special . He’s too far away from them, too remote. Should he go up the stairs? No, that would be too risky.

The kitchen, maybe. There will be glasses and dishes they touched. Maybe an article of clothing they left behind? That would help. That would really help.

He has to take a piss. But he can’t do that. Even if he used the bathroom near the back, and even if he sat down like a girl to cut down on the noise, he’d either have to flush — which they’d hear — or leave evidence behind. He’s not stupid. He’s not stupid at all. Stupid? He’s the opposite of stupid. He’s really smart.

Oh, maybe he should just leave.

But tonight I’m Holden .

Okay. He removes his shoes to minimize his footfalls and drops them in the Fun Bag. He picks it up and pushes through the French doors quietly, into the living room. From there, he walks through the foyer. He stops at the staircase, where he hears them upstairs singing in unison to Justin Timberlake:

“I’ll let you whip me if I misbehaaaave! / It’s just that no one makes me feel this way...”

He smiles to himself, feels himself relax. Feeling better, he walks into the dining room, where two empty bottles of champagne, an empty bottle of Evian, a bottle of Tabasco, two plates of discarded lobster tails and oyster shells, and a dish of horseradish rest on the pentagonal table beneath a grand chandelier. Winston Dahlquist used to bring the girls in here. They’d feast on duck and lobster and dates and olives. They’d drink the finest French wines. He probably viewed it as fattening them up before the slaughter.

He hikes the Fun Bag over his shoulder, carefully picks up one of the empty champagne bottles and one of the plates, and heads into the kitchen.

He’s never liked the kitchen much because it’s not original. Back when Winston built this place, the kitchen was for servants only, tiny and functional. Winston’s descendants remodeled the kitchen in the seventies, tripling the size, installing cherrywood cabinets, marble countertops, and stainless steel appliances. It just looks like a boring kitchen, no character. But it’s safe, and it will have to do.

He opens up the Fun Bag just to be safe, just to be sure, just to be prepared. He thinks of the girls having sex upstairs, and then singing “SexyBack,” and it helps him. They’d like him. He’s sure of it. They could share so much.

He smells the champagne bottle. Nothing special. Then he sees lipstick on it, so he touches it with his lips. Not cherry ChapStick, but red and sticky and sweet. Yes. Good. This is getting better now. This was a good idea—

And then it happens in an instant, sneaking up on him, how, how it could have happened he isn’t sure, because he’s so cautious and careful, but he hears footsteps bounding down the stairs and suddenly those footsteps are in the dining room, adjacent to the kitchen, where he is. He moves very quietly toward the opening, hoping, praying that nobody heard him, and peeks into the dining room.

It’s the blonde, the taller one with the short hair. She’s unplugging the stereo resting on the windowsill. She looks good bending over, just wearing a bra and panties. So firm and lean. So... so special.

Oh, God, if I could just...

He ducks back, just on the off chance that she might cast a glance in his direction. His heartbeat is drumming so loudly that he can’t hear, he can’t think straight, but he prepares just in case, he’s had it planned out just in case, and he recites it to himself now. I’m the owner. This is my house. Just in case.

And he reaches into the Fun Bag, also just in case.

He slowly steps back into the recesses of the kitchen and holds his breath.

It’ll be okay, he thinks. This will be better. It will enhance the whole experience, make it more real, more vivid.

That’s what he’s telling himself when the blond girl walks into the kitchen.

The blond girl doesn’t see him at first. Her head is down and she’s balancing the remnants of the meal — the champagne and water bottles, the plates of food and the Tabasco — and turns toward the counter in the center of the kitchen to plop it all down before she even realizes she’s not alone.

She recoils in an instant, her breath whisked away in surprise, her hands rising up defensively, everything she’d been holding crashing to the tile floor. Glass shatters everywhere. The sound only amplifies her shock.