The entire island is only a couple square miles with one main road that runs along the outside border. The road is aptly named Harsen’s Boulevard, and I steered onto it from the ferry dock. It had been over fifteen years since I’d been on the island, and then I was a high-schooler driving out to my buddy’s cottage to get drunk.
I’d never seen a lighthouse on the island, or if I had, I certainly didn’t remember, didn’t know that one even existed out here.
I also figured there weren’t many cops out here either. So I hammered the pedal down and turned Harsen’s into my own private Indianapolis 500.
After about five minutes, I sped around a steep curve and saw the lighthouse—although, technically, it was more like a light post you see in the suburbs. A tiny harbor had a few boats tied off, and I looked at the surrounding land.
No sign of a farmhouse.
I did, however, see an older woman walking a Bassett Hound. I pulled the car up next to her.
“Do you know of a farmhouse around here with a view of the lighthouse? It belongs to a songwriter named Memphis Bornais?” I said.
She looked at me with bloodshot blue eyes. They looked just like the dogs’. I thought she was going to tell me that Harsen’s residents were a private people and that if this Memphis woman wanted me to find her she would’ve given me directions.
Instead, she jerked an unusually large thumb in the direction behind her.
“Third mailbox down,” she said. The Bassett Hound gave a soft bark, and they went on their way.
I thanked her and sped down to the mailbox—instead of the little flag sticking up from the box it was a metal musical note. I knew I had the right place.
The driveway was dirt and gravel, and it immediately climbed. From the road, the tall trees blocked any view of the houses behind. But once I got near the top of the driveway, I realized there was a very small bluff. And perched on top was a little white farmhouse, with a picket fence and a red barn behind it.
It was a cross between Mayberry and Martha’s Vineyard, before Billy Joel moved in.
I skidded to a stop in the roughly hewn semi-circular drive and jogged to the front door. I rang the doorbell and waited, but I heard nothing from inside. I tried the knob. Locked.
I ran to the back of the house and saw a silver 7 Series BMW backed up against the house. I went up the back porch steps and was about to knock on the door when I saw that it was already open.
I went through it, into a small mudroom. There were potted plants and gardening gloves and an umbrella. The door leading from the mudroom into the kitchen was open as well. Inside the kitchen, I saw a few dishes in the sink, a pot on the stove, and a small cat bowl with food in it.
From the kitchen, I went through a doorway into a small dining room and off the dining room was a living room. The place was furnished with big, overstuffed chairs and throw rugs. A small fireplace sat off to one side of the living room. I saw on the mantle a collection of photographs.
To my right, I saw a stairwell and heard a bumping noise from above me.
“Hello!” I yelled up. No one answered.
I climbed the stairs two at a time and came to a hallway with three doors. The first door on my right was open, and I could see tile as well as the edge of a pedestal sink.
To my left was another door, closed. And straight ahead, the third door was open, and I could see shadows moving inside. I walked forward, my heart beating from exertion and fear.
For the first time in my career, I desperately wished for a gun.
I peeked into the room and immediately understood the bumping sound and the moving shadows.
Memphis hung from the ceiling fan, her neck stretched in a way that could mean only one thing. The ceiling fan was on, slowly spinning her body, her foot occasionally bumping against the bed’s footboard.
I froze, unable to tear myself away from the image of Memphis’ face, her lips frozen in a look of terror, blood dripping from her nose—
Blood dripping . . .
Fresh blood . . .
An electric spike shot down my spine just as I heard the whisper of a shoe on carpet, and I ducked, but the blow cracked along my vertebrae between my shoulder blades. I hit the floor. I rolled and caught the sight of Erma’s—or was it Freda’s?—face flushed red, her teeth gritted, a Taser in her hand.
She cursed in German, and I rolled into the bedroom where Memphis hung.
And I rolled right under Freda.
She’d been standing behind the door. While her sister had been in the bedroom with the door closed. As I watched them descend on me, I realized they knew I was coming. Somehow, they knew. They’d staged the scene to lure me in.
The first one pounced on me, sat on my chest, and pinned my arms under her knees. I tried to head-butt her in the face, but she pulled back easily, and all I caught was air. I felt an incredible weight on my legs and realized the other one was kneeling on them.
If I had any doubts about what they were trying to do, those doubts ended when the first one grabbed a handful of my hair and brought her gun up toward my mouth. I gritted my teeth, but she let go of my hair, brought her forearm down and pinched my nose shut.
I held my breath, knowing what was going to happen. When I opened my mouth to breathe, she would jam the gun in and blow off the top of my head.
Then they would jot a little note.
Double suicide. Or murder/suicide depending on which story they went with.
I’d killed Memphis for some reason, and then they’d bring out my past. An ex-cop ate his gun. Happens all the fucking time. Every day, in fact.
I didn’t think my sister would let it ride, but hey, these two fuckers were pros. They’d make it look very good, very real.
My lungs were on fire, and I knew I couldn’t hold my breath very much longer. The first one had a little smile on her face. She looked like a mean little kid who’d pulled the wings off a fly and was now happily watching it die a pathetic little spasmodic death.
It pissed me off.
Every muscle in my body slammed into place, and I bucked with everything I had.
The first one barely moved.
But move she did.
Just enough to free my left arm.
I reached up and got her neck and bucked again, this time bringing her head toward me as I rammed my head forward. I heard and felt her nose squash against my forehead. Blood sprayed, and now my right arm was loose. I grabbed the gun as the woman on top of me sagged. The gun fired a round, and the explosion brought the three of us into a burst of frantic energy.
I’d hoped that I’d knocked the first one out, but her eyes cleared just as I was bringing the gun around. She had the advantage, but I had momentum on my side. I gave one more shove, and the gun came around toward her chest.
I pulled the trigger.
Just as she was knocked back, the second one let go of my legs and reached for her gun. I put three rounds into her chest, and she staggered back into the hallway and fell on her ass, her feet still in the room. She had a look of utter sadness, looking down at her dead sister. She toppled over then, her big body landing with a thud.
The smell of gunpowder was overwhelming, and I felt stars shooting across my forehead.
Everything started to go black, and I was suddenly scared I’d been shot.
But then I realized why.
I was still holding my breath.
Chapter Forty-Two
The first thing I did was vomit. I made it to the toilet, worrying about destroying evidence, but hurl I did. My whole body was shaking, probably from both fear and the aftermath of having an ungodly amount of volts shot through my system. I was having a near-death and an out-of-body experience at the same time.