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.