James Patterson - Murder House

When his eyes pop open, it is still dark outside, the air cool and crisp through his window. Normally, he wouldn’t be up for another hour yet, but he could hardly sleep last night waiting for today. He’s not sure, in fact, that he slept at all.

He sees the long, narrow trombone case in the corner of his bedroom and his heartbeat ratchets up. All those rehearsals, all those hours of practice until his hands and shoulders ached, until his head throbbed, all of that preparation comes down to today. It’s finally here!

He quickly brushes his teeth and puts on his Halloween costume. He picks up the trombone case and his school backpack and heads downstairs quietly, not wanting to wake his mother.

He rips open the cellophane and drops two Pop-Tarts into the toaster and pours himself a glass of milk. He drinks the milk but doesn’t touch the pastries. His stomach is churning too wildly. He will eat later, after his performance.

It is still dark, a nip in the fresh air, as he leaves his house, backpack over his shoulder, trombone case in his left hand. At the end of his street, he looks to his right, where a half mile away he can see the fog of the Atlantic, dark and endless. His eyes invariably move to the house by the ocean, perched up on the hill, the haunted mansion that, even from a distance, scowls at him.

A shiver runs through him. He shakes it off and turns left, moving north on Ocean Drive. He alternates the trombone case between his left hand and his right, because it’s heavy, and he doesn’t want it to affect his performance today.

He perks up as he approaches the school from the south end. The morning air begins to warm, a refreshing break in the chill. The sun peeks through the treetops. Leaves of assorted colors dance in the wind. He stifles the instinct to skip along like an eager little boy.

But he’s no little boy. It’s not like he’s eight or ten anymore.

He’s the first one here, just as he planned, alone with an acre of grass, nothing but an expanse of open field, leading up to the baseball diamond and playground to the south of the brick building. No trees, no shrubbery, no brick walls, nothing for the length of half a football field at least.

He turns toward the woods on the east side and finds his perch. He opens the trombone case and removes the rifle, already fully loaded.

He holds the rifle in his hands and takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. His heartbeat is at full throttle, catching in his throat, bringing a tremble to his limbs.

He looks at his Star Wars watch, which he is wearing over his Halloween costume. The first bell, the warning bell, will come soon. Some of the students will arrive early, congregating near the back door, dispersing into their little cliques or tossing a football or Frisbee around. The playground equipment, for the younger kids.

But it’s not the younger kids he wants.

He looks back at his watch, where Darth Vader tells him the time is drawing near. He wanted to dress up today as Darth, fitting for the occasion but too clunky with the oversize helmet — visibility through the rifle’s scope was nearly impossible when he tried it out.

He loses himself in his thoughts, in his fantasies, in the dancing leaves, and suddenly time has crept up on him. They are arriving. Small kids holding their parents’ hands, bouncing with animation. Older ones walking together. Superman and Batman and Aquaman, vampires and clowns, kittens and bunnies, Cinderella and Snow White and Tinker Bell, Pocahontas and Woody from Toy Story, Ronald Reagan and Simba from The Lion King and Mr. Spock—

— and the oldest ones at the school, the juniors and seniors, a few of them with some obligatory face paint or semblance of costume but generally too cool to dress up like their younger classmates—

“Showtime,” he says. He heard that word in a cable movie he wasn’t supposed to watch and thought it sounded cool. His body temperature jacks up beneath his costume.

“Showtime,” he says again as he raises his rifle, but this time he finds his voice, strong and confident, and then everything changes, like the flip of a switch inside him. A sense of calm sweeps through him, itself exhilarating: Look at him! Look at him patiently walking out from the tree cover, rifle raised, aiming and firing and clicking in the next round, aiming and firing and clicking, aim-fire-click while he walks toward the unsuspecting masses. The pop of the rifle, with each pull of the trigger, is the most invigorating sensation he’s ever felt.

Jimmy Trager howls in a combination of pain and surprise as his back arches and he staggers to the ground. Roger Ackerman, that asshole, clutches his arm and tries to run but stumbles into the leaves.

Visible in the clearing now, he drops to one knee to steady himself as screams and cries fill the air, as fifty, sixty kids scatter in all directions like cockroaches, bumping into one another, tripping over one another, dropping their school bags and covering their heads, unsure initially which way to run, heads whipping in all directions, only knowing they should run, run, run—

“By the trees!” one parent yells.

“The parking lot!” cries another.

He fires and clicks in the next round, aim-fire-click, while panic propels the population of students like a strong gust of wind. Their squeals are like music. Their terror is his oxygen. He wishes this moment would never end.

Six hit, seven, eight in the clearing near him. Another half dozen farther away.

And then he raises his rifle with a dramatic flair and takes a moment, just a moment, to savor the delicious scene, the power he holds, the havoc he has created. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt. It’s beyond words, this rush, this thrill coursing through him. And then his vision blurs, and it’s a moment before he realizes it’s not the wind causing it but his own tears.

There are probably a dozen pellets left in his BB rifle, but he’s out of time. Faculty will pour out of the building any second. The STPD will be called. And he accomplished what he wanted, anyway. Just some superficial pellet wounds.

But wow, was that fun!

And I’m only twelve years old, he thinks. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Noah Walker stands carefully on the roof of his house, takes a moment to ensure his balance, and removes the Yankees cap from his head to wipe the sweat off his brow under the scorching early-June sun. He never minded roofing work, but it’s different when it’s your own roof, the place you’re renting, and the only reason you’re doing it is the landlord will take six months to get to it, and you’re sick of water spots on the ceiling.

He runs his hands through his thick, wavy hair. The Matthew McConaughey look, Paige calls it, noting that he has the physique to match. He’s heard that comparison for years and never thought much of it. He never thought much of what anyone thought or said about him. If he did, he sure as hell wouldn’t still be living in the Hamptons.

He hears the crunch of car tires down the road, the hum of a powerful, well-maintained engine. The unpaved roads just off Sag Harbor Turnpike are uneven at best, sometimes bumpy and other times outright treacherous. Not like the roads by the ocean, by the forty-thousand-square-foot mansions where the elite like to “summer.” Not that he should bitch too much about the blue bloods; he makes twice as much from May to August, doing their bidding, as he does the rest of the year combined. He fixes what they need fixed. He digs what they need dug. He stomachs their condescension.