Ty laughed, hating that her voice sounded high and jumpy. She said, “I hope the script doesn’t have us going down the basement stairs.”
Flynn said, “Hey, there are three of us, and we’re armed. No self-respecting ghost would want to take us on.”
Savich stopped dead in his tracks when he stepped into the entrance hall. He felt a bone-numbing cold.
Ty cocked her head at him. “Is something wrong?”
He realized no one else felt it. Only him.
She asked again, “Dillon, are you all right?”
He drew a deep breath. “Yes, of course, Ty. You were right about the desecration.”
She nodded. “Some morons even smashed the beautiful etched front windows, at least I think they were once etched. I’ve always wondered why people, kids especially, get off on destroying things.” She pointed to the floor. “Look at those Italian tiles. You know they were beautiful once, but now they’re filthy, gouged, and chipped. And the white walls, covered with graffiti that probably goes back years. See, here’s one dated 2003 and signed, Motown. Go figure.”
Flynn said, “Kids are all hormones and bravado, and the house can’t fight back.” He grinned, waggled his eyebrows. “Or maybe it can.” He checked his iWatch. “Forensics might already be in Willicott to take the bones and Octavia Ryan’s body to Quantico. They should be out here soon. When will this Hanger start dragging the lake again?”
Ty said, “Not much longer, I don’t think. He’s good, don’t worry. Any more bones, he’ll find them.” She swallowed, cleared her throat. “I’ve been told bones take a very long time to disintegrate. I can’t help but think about all those people who were thrown in out there.” She shook herself. “Okay, through there is the living room—big, beautiful once, you can see traces—the high ceilings and the elaborate moldings. You’ll see some lowlifes ripped out the appliances in the kitchen, tore off the doors to the cabinets. It’s really sad. So I guess we’ll split up. Look for any signs that someone’s been here lately.”
“Yes, that’s fine. I’ll check upstairs.” Savich headed for the wide, once-ornate staircase.
“Don’t let a ghost grab you by the throat,” Flynn called after him.
Savich waved his hand and walked slowly up the stairs, careful where he stepped because the oak boards were scuffed and scarred, some scored with knives, some ripped up entirely. Many of the banister posts were broken, tossed onto the floor below. The wall beside him was covered with a science fiction landscape, all done by one hand. The aliens were very inventive, their tentacles heaving and intertwining in what looked like violent copulation.
At the top of the stairs, Savich found himself on a wide landing. To his right stretched a long, narrow hallway, the light dim because all the doors were closed. To his left was a shorter hallway, shadowed as well. He turned right and walked to the door at the very end of the hall. It was the master bedroom. He stepped into a large, perfectly square room, empty of furnishings. He stood in the doorway, disbelieving. There was no graffiti on the walls. They were painted a soft cream color that had held up well, looked almost freshly painted. He walked to the center of the room and stood quietly, looking around, not understanding. There were no broken windows, no gouges in the oak-planked floor, no dust he could see anywhere. The room looked frozen in time, as if waiting for its occupant to walk in. He looked into an enormous adjoining bathroom. The sink, toilet, shower, tub, and counter were dated, but stark white and clean, again, without a hint of dust. Like in the bedroom, nothing looked touched, again, as if waiting for someone to come in and brush his teeth. He stepped back into the bedroom, trying to make sense of it. Why wasn’t this room trashed? Because someone had to have been there recently. He walked to French doors that gave onto a deep covered deck looking out at the lake, glistening beneath the noonday sun, his hand outstretched to turn the shining gold handle.
Suddenly, as if someone on the remote had changed the channel, the scene in front of him morphed into something else entirely. He saw a fog bank, gray and thick, rolled nearly to the shore, and a figure in an acid-green boat rowed toward him out of the fog, dipping the oars rhythmically. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The person was wearing a ball cap pulled low, a dark jacket, and jeans.
The rowboat touched the end of the dock, and a man—Savich was certain now it was a man—stepped onto the dock and laid the oars down beside him. Savich couldn’t make out his features, he was wearing dark sunglasses, and now his ball cap was pulled even lower. He watched the man step off the dock and onto the beach. Savich watched him pick up a large rock, carry it back, and place it in the rowboat. He worked quickly, made three more trips. Satisfied, he tipped the side of the boat until water started to pour in. He watched the Green Gaiter slowly sink. He picked up the oars and hurled them out into the lake. He turned back, stopped, and looked up, directly at Savich. He yelled something Savich couldn’t hear, grinned wide, pumped his fist in the air, and walked back toward the house. Savich would swear he heard whistling.
He heard the front door open and close.
His heart skipped a beat. Savich didn’t want to believe what he’d seen, but there was no choice. He knew to his bones he’d witnessed the killer coming back after murdering Octavia. He stood motionless, drew a deep breath, let it all sink in. This sort of phantom re-creation of a violent deed had happened to him before, but this time he hadn’t seen the actual violent deed, only the aftermath. Had he imagined hearing the door, too, or had he heard the murderer come into the house? No, it had to have been the police chief or Flynn. He turned to look out again at the lake. He saw Charlie standing at the end of the dock, looking down at the sunken rowboat, the chief and Flynn standing beside him. Neither of them had closed the front door. Who had?