It was Aiden I saw, wasn’t it?
“Open up, Aiden!” I pound on the door until my fist hurts.
I check my watch. Half past midnight.
Either he’s not home or he’s ignoring me.
Either way, I’m out of luck. It’s not like I can kick in the door. I don’t have probable cause or anything close to it.
But nothing says I can’t check the back of the house.
No outdoor lighting on the house, the property surrounded by trees that block any neighboring light, so I use my Maglite to move around the narrow side of the house.
The backyard is equally dark and tree lined. A bicycle lies in the grass. No back porch or patio.
Something moving—
A squirrel or some small animal, sprinting through my beam of light.
I take a breath. Shine the light on the house.
A window well, into the basement. I shine my light inside. Just enough room for me to fit in there.
The window’s been unlatched, pulled inward.
I squat down. The window’s filthy. I wipe the muck with the sleeve of my sweater, but the light combines with the smears to block any view, like high beams in fog.
I push on the window to open it farther, as far as it will go, to a sixty-degree angle inward.
A noise in the woods behind me, something moving across fallen branches and dead leaves. I shine my light over the woods.
Dry grass moving gently with the breeze. Long, naked trees like skeletons waving at me.
An animal, probably.
The open window gives me, maybe, an inch or two of space. I shine my light directly into the basement and peek inside.
Looking right at me is a woman, sitting in a chair.
66
I JUMP AT the sight, fall against the back of the window well. Shine the light through the crack in the window again, make sure I actually saw what I think I saw.
The small circle of light, cutting through the darkness, searching for her— There.
The woman, seated in a chair, wearing an old-fashioned shawl over her shoulders, her hair pulled back tightly in a bun, her hands resting quietly in her lap. A relaxed expression on her face. Her mouth closed. Her eyes glazed, immobile.
“Town police!” I call out, just to be sure. “Ma’am, can you hear me? Ma’am, are you okay?”
My pulse in overdrive, I draw back, brace my hands against the window well, raise my leg into kicking position.
Wait. Something about that …
I lean back in, shine the light once more, find her again.
No movement. Her eyes don’t respond to the light. She’s dead.
I move the light slowly, probing as best I can the quality of her skin. Hard to do from a distance, with a flashlight.
But little decomposition.
Actually, no sign of decomp. None. Her skin looks flawless, even …
Inhuman.
I look around her. Next to the rocking chair in which she’s seated is a— “Oh, Jesus—”
My hand jerks, and the beam of light shoots to the ceiling. Hands shaking, I sweep the light through the darkness again, past the woman— A man. Wearing some kind of coat, tweed. Hair greased back. A thin face, eyes open and vacant. Sitting on a love seat, legs crossed.
Same deal with the glossy skin, the immobile eyes, unresponsive to light.
Not dead people. Not people at all.
Wax figures.
I exhale with the realization. I was two seconds away from kicking in this window to rescue a couple of wax mannequins.
I keep the light moving.
An area rug on the floor. A battered coffee table with a vase and flowers—fresh flowers, not fake.
Against the wall, a faux fireplace—something painted on the wall, complete with logs and a spirited flame.
A television set. I can only see its back, but a soft, flickering glow emanates from it, the only occasional illumination in this basement, other than my flashlight.
A picture over the fake fireplace. A blown-up photograph.
Aiden as a boy, that scarecrow hair and scrawny face, next to a woman.
“What the hell?” I say, repositioning my feet on the bed of rocks.
Which is why I don’t hear the footsteps, approaching me from behind on the soft grass.
But I do hear the pump action of a shotgun.
67
“DON’T MOVE!” A voice calls out.
Startled, I lose my flashlight on the rocks, bathing myself in a little circle of light inside the window well. I turn my head for a look back, but it’s no use. I’m below him and lit up; he’s above me in the dark.
“I said don’t move! Put up your hands!”
If I raise my hands right now, squatted down as I am, I’ll probably fall over.
“I’m with—”
“Hands up or I shoot!”
“Listen to me, I’m a po—”
“Now!”
“Okay, okay. Easy.” I do my best, like a tightrope walker struggling for balance, rising from my crouch and bringing my hands out, leaving my Maglite on the floor of rocks. I’m half turned toward him, so he can see my profile, but I can’t see him.
“I’m a cop,” I say. “Southampton Town Po—”
“Who sent ya?”
“I’m a cop.”
“Whatchoo doin’ here? What right you got?”
I take a breath. “Aiden—”