“Don’t move!”
“I’m not moving. I’m not moving.”
Aiden’s breath, raspy and heavy.
“Mr. Willis, I just identified myself as a police officer. You don’t want to be pointing a shotgun at a cop, do you?”
He doesn’t answer.
“The correct answer,” I say, “is no, you don’t. You know me, Aiden. I’m Detective Jenna Murphy. You saw me the other night at the cemetery.”
At which time, I note, the roles were reversed—I had a gun trained on him. Turns out, it’s more fun when you’re the one holding the weapon.
“Put the gun down, Aiden. I’m not telling you again.”
He moves around so he’s behind me again, my six o’clock.
“You come ta kill me,” he says.
“No, Aiden. I’m a cop. I’m—”
“You comin’ ta kill me! You been followin’ me. You think cuz—”
“No, Aiden.”
“Why’d ya have to come back? Ya shouldn’ta come back—”
“Aiden!” I crank up the volume this time, trying to gain the upper hand. “Aiden, I’m a cop. You know me. Now, I’m going to climb out of this window well and you’re going to put down that shotgun.”
I move slowly, putting my hands on the top of the aluminum well.
“I’ll shoot.” He shuffles backward as he speaks, feet rustling in the grass.
“No, you won’t.” I jump and use my arms to push myself onto the grass.
“Don’t you move!”
I show my palms, though he probably can’t make me out very well.
“Now put down that damn shotgun,” I say. I rise to my feet.
I get a little bit of a bead on him, an outline, the hair sticking out, the shotgun in his hand.
“Self-defense,” he says, raising the shotgun.
I lose my breath, brace myself, consider my options. If I go for my sidearm, it’s a long shot. If I dive, I’m unlikely to miss the wide blast from his gun. Something out of a movie—drop and roll and come up shooting?
“You were at the cemetery tonight,” I say.
“No, I wasn’t.”
I’m calculating how well Aiden can see me now, standing as I am on solid ground in the darkness. Hoping he can’t see very well.
“You sure about that?” I put my hands on my hips, as if demanding an answer.
My right hand sliding down to my sidearm.
My fingers fitting into the grooves of the grip.
“Why did you take a piss on the Dahlquist grave, Aiden?”
“I didn’t. You’re just makin’ excuses so you can come here and kill me.”
My finger caressing the trigger.
If I draw my weapon, one of us dies.
“Aiden, drop the weapon,” I say.
“No.” One leg moves back, like he’s bracing himself for a shot. “You’re gonna kill me,” he says.
Maybe both of us die.
“No, Aiden—”
And then we both hear it, footsteps to the west. The beam of a flashlight, coming into the backyard.
“Aiden Willis, put down that goddamn gun.”
The chief’s voice. Isaac.
68
ISAAC SWAGGERS INTO his office and stands behind his desk. He crosses his arms and leans against the wall, next to the American flag and the flag of the Town of Southampton, blue and maize with a pilgrim in the center. He stares at me for a long time in his police jacket, a sweater underneath and blue jeans.
I’ve been here a good half hour, stewing in my juices, after Isaac ordered me to the substation.
“Is Aiden in lockup?” I ask.
His eyes narrow. “Aiden’s probably in bed now, fast asleep.”
“You didn’t arrest him?”
He stares back at me, his eyes shiny with venom. “Are you carrying?”
Am I carrying? “Yeah, I’m carrying.”
“Hand over your piece.”
“Why?”
Isaac lets out a heavy breath. “Detective, your commanding officer has ordered you to surrender your weapon.”
I blink. Something flutters through my chest.
I reach for my sidearm.
“Slowly,” he says.
“Isaac, what the fuck?” I set my Glock, grip first, on his desk.
He picks up the gun, ejects the magazine, catches it in his hand. “You been drinking, Murphy?”
“No. I haven’t. What’s the chief of police doing out on patrol past midnight?” I ask. “And why are we letting Aiden Willis walk when he was about to shoot me?”
He plays with his goatee, stares at me, almost amused. Having the upper hand is fun for him.
“The better question, Murphy, is what the fuck were you doing?”
Not such a good question for me, though. He told me to stay away from the Ocean Drive murders, my uncle’s murder, anything other than safety issues at Bridgehampton School. So there’s no answer remotely resembling the truth that will exonerate me.
I give him most of the cemetery story, only I make it seem like I was simply visiting Uncle Lang’s grave, not lying in wait for Aiden.
“You actually saw Aiden take a piss on a tombstone?”