No One Needs to Know (25 page)

As he moved down the driveway toward the gate, Adam heard a twig snap. He stopped dead, and glanced around. Was someone hiding in the bushes or behind one of the trees on the front lawn?

He noticed some of the first-floor lights were on inside the house, but the curtains were all drawn. Dean’s BMW and Joyce’s Jetta were still parked in the driveway. Why weren’t they answering their phones?

Adam didn’t see anyone skulking on the front lawn. With uncertainty, he approached the front gate for a better look at the thing fluttering from one of the spokes.

It was a pale blue nightgown, splattered with blood.

Adam turned around and stared at the house. He felt sick to his stomach. With the painter’s knife clutched in his shaky fist, he started back up the driveway. He headed for the kitchen door. It was how he usually entered their house.

He kept his eyes glued to the bushes alongside the driveway. The leaves quivered in the breeze—like that awful, bloodstained thing on the gate. He didn’t know his sister-in-law’s sleepwear. He prayed the nightgown wasn’t hers.

He was just drunk enough that he didn’t trust his own judgment. He thought about calling the police. But what if he was wrong? And the cops would see he was intoxicated. Dean would be furious.

The kitchen door wasn’t locked. As he opened it, the hinges squeaked. “Dean? Joyce?” he called tentatively. The overhead light was on. Adam noticed a few of the drawers were open—one of them, the utensil drawer. The phone message light was blinking.

As he moved through the kitchen, he heard a scratchy
click-click-click
sound. It came from Dean’s study, just down the hall. The desk lamp was on, and two drawers were open. He saw Dean’s music console was on. He was a vinyl and old LP collector. A record album had been left on the turntable. Adam pressed the power button, and the turntable stopped. He saw the record that had awoken him earlier:

IMMORTAL

The Legendary D
IRK
J
ORDAN
Sings

“Elaina”
and Other Hits

Without the noise from the record skipping, the house was suddenly quiet.

Adam started down the hall to the living room. “Dean?” he called again. He rounded the corner, and then halted. What he saw sucked the breath out of him. It was as if someone had suddenly punched him in the gut.

He saw his brother curled up on the floor with his hands tied behind him. The plush, beige Persian rug beneath him was soaked with blood. He wore a pair of sweatpants. Adam could see the puncture marks on his naked back.

There were too many to count at a glance.

Monday, July 7, 2:31
A.M.

Seattle Police 911 recording

911:
Seattle Police. What’s the nature of your emergency?

CALLER
:
They’re dead, they’re both dead . . . My brother and my sister-in-law . . .
[Crying, indistinguishable] . . .
They’re here on the living room floor, and there’s blood everywhere . . .

911:
Can I have the address?

CALLER
:
They’ve been stabbed . . . someone . . .

[Crying, indistinguishable].
Dean, I’m so sorry . . .

911:
What’s the address there, sir?

CALLER
:
517 Prescott in Washington Park.

911:
Is there anyone else in the house? Do you think you might be in danger?

CALLER
:
I don’t think so . . . Whoever was here, I’m pretty sure they’re gone . . . the—the front gate . . .

911:
Are you hurt?

CALLER
:
No . . . I’m . . .
[Crying]
I didn’t see who did it. I didn’t see anything. They—they must have broken in. They tried to get into my apartment—in—in the basement . . .

911:
You said there are two people dead?

CALLER
:
My big brother . . .
[Crying] . . .
Dean Holbrook. They stabbed him. And Joyce, his wife, my sister-in-law. Joyce—she’s naked. They took her nightgown . . .
[Indistinguishable]
And they did something to her neck. Her head, it’s completely turned around.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

Monday, July 7, 5:50
A.M.

Seattle

L
aurie and Cheryl were driving across the Magnolia Bridge, on their way to the house on Gayler Court where the murders had occurred exactly forty-four years ago. Cheryl had assured her earlier they’d be working in the food truck the whole time. It would be parked in the driveway. She’d said neither of them would have to set foot inside the house.

Now all that had changed.

Cheryl had subcontracted with a woman named Bonnie to set up a food table on location every morning with donuts, croissants, and bagels, and three big urns with coffee, decaf, and hot water for tea. Bonnie also provided coolers of soft drinks, bottled water, and packaged snacks for the cast and crew. She’d told Cheryl she wouldn’t have any problem doing the job when the shooting locale moved to the “murder house.”

But Bonnie had phoned Cheryl just an hour ago. She’d loaded up the minivan with everything, and she’d gotten as far as the front gate at the Gayler Court address. Because it had started to rain, one of the production people had told her that she’d have to set up the breakfast spread inside—on the kitchen counter. But Bonnie couldn’t even make herself drive up to that house. She’d turned around the minivan and headed to Cheryl’s place.

Cheryl had woken Laurie with a distress call at 5:20. She needed help setting up the breakfast spread. Laurie had gotten a hold of the Cassellas next door, and they’d agreed to take Joey. Thank God they were morning people. And thank God Joey had slept through the whole handoff process.

“Bonnie said she’ll get someone else to handle the breakfast deliveries for the rest of the week while we’re at Gayler Court,” Cheryl said. Clutching the steering wheel, she watched the road ahead. She had the windshield wipers on delay. The rain wasn’t too heavy, but it kept the dawn sky a dark gray.

Laurie squirmed in the passenger seat and remained quiet. Earlier, she’d been too rushed to think about anything beyond getting dressed and getting Joey over to the Cassellas. It had just started to sink in where they were headed.

“She’s lucky I don’t fire her ass,” Cheryl went on. “Then again, she was pretty shaken up and apologetic. And after all, actually going inside the house wasn’t in her job description.”

It wasn’t in my job description either,
Laurie wanted to say. But she stayed silent.

“We should be out of there this morning by eight,” Cheryl continued. “Then we’ll head to the barn, load up Grill Girl II, drive back this way and be on schedule for lunch . . .”

Yesterday, they’d spent their afternoon at Cheryl’s making potato salad and noodle salad, cutting up chicken to marinate, and doing other prep work for today. Laurie also baked chocolate chip “blond brownies” and frosted cookies. It was fun. Cheryl had
The Best of Bruce Springsteen
playing. Joey was at his busy desk, rocking along with the music. Then while she fed Joey his dinner, Cheryl cooked them up an impromptu dinner—delicious salmon tacos and dirty rice.

Laurie was having such a good time she didn’t dare spoil the momentum by asking Cheryl what she’d been doing on Thursday afternoon with that thirtysomething, silver-haired man in Volunteer Park. She figured it was none of her business anyway.

She returned with Joey to their apartment last night, feeling content. After putting him to bed, she sat on the living room sofa with the laptop in front of her and the baby monitor on the end table. It was a novelty having him sleeping on a different floor. Laurie had decided to read up online about the “murder house,” though at the time she hadn’t figured on having to set foot inside the place.

Now she sort of wished she hadn’t done the research. It probably would have been less stressful going into the house knowing very little about it.

While Cheryl drove, Laurie gazed out the window at the incredible view of the twinkling city lights and Elliott Bay from Magnolia. Even in the rainy dawn it was impressive—as were the homes in the area.

“Turn right on Gayler Court in approximately five hundred feet,”
the navigation system announced.

Laurie felt a nervous twinge in her stomach. She wished it were lighter out.

Hunched close to the wheel, Cheryl seemed to be searching for the street. “Remember, there will be at least a dozen technicians in the house when we get there,” she said, almost as if she read her mind. “It’s not like the two of us are going into this spooky old mansion alone with a couple of flashlights. Oh, here it is . . .”

She turned onto the narrow side street. Laurie didn’t see any other houses, just trees and bushes. Up ahead, parked along the roadside was a white sedan with
SECURITY
printed on the back. Someone had set up orange cones.

“Your destination is on your left,”
the navigation system announced.

Cheryl slowed down. A heavyset black woman in a guard’s uniform climbed out of the security car. Laurie rolled down her window. The guard had a plastic rain cover over the top of her guard hat. She gave them a big smile. “Here’s breakfast!” the guard laughed. “We weren’t sure we’d see this truck again. Your friend took one look at the place, turned around, and hightailed it out of here. Go on in. You’ll have to lug everything in through the front. They have a truck blocking the back way. What’s for lunch today?”

“The pulled pork is the best thing on the menu,” Cheryl said. Then she pointed to Laurie. “And just wait until you try this one’s blond brownies.”

Laurie tried to work up a smile. But she kept staring at the big, open metal gate—the same one Elaina Styles’ bloodied nightgown had been tied to.

“By the way, just a heads-up,” the guard said. “There might be more of us security folk when you come back here with the Grill Girl truck. We’re expecting trouble.”

“What do you mean?” Cheryl asked.

“Those nutty Hooper Anarchists or whatever they call themselves,” the woman said. “They posted something online about how they were going to congregate around here today and do their damnedest to make noise, raise hell, and screw up the film shoot.”

“Oh, Lord,” Cheryl sighed. “Spare us . . .”

Laurie had read some more about the Hooper Anarchists that the
Entertainment Weekly
article had alluded to. A dozen to twenty idiots donning ski masks and Trent Hooper T-shirts had created a disturbance at two different shooting locations in Los Angeles. So far, they hadn’t shown up at the Seattle locales. Laurie wondered if they really had enough clout to organize something here. Probably. If they could get themselves on TV or on the Internet—even with their faces covered—all sorts of morons would show up and create a disturbance for the sheer fun of it.

And then, of course, there were the ones who were dead serious.

“Save me one of those blond brownies,” the guard said.

Laurie nodded at her. “I sure will.”

She braced herself as Cheryl started down the driveway. Ahead, she saw two big trucks parked in a turnaround in front of the white, sixties-modern estate. Even in the muted dawn light, Laurie could see that the lawn had been mowed, and the trees and hedges had been trimmed back. They’d spiffed up the house, too. Obviously, the filmmakers had tried to make the place look as it had in 1970.

She knew about its history. She’d seen photos of the place before the movie people had come along to give it a face-lift.

The owner back in 1970 had moved to Brentwood, and used the house as a rental. But once the murders occurred there, no one in their right mind wanted to lease the place. Besides, the house remained a crime scene—and uninhabitable—for well over a year. During that period, the police had a tough time keeping out adventurous high school and college kids.

According to the online article Laurie had read called “Haunted Seattle,” this was when the house went from being a macabre landmark to something “truly evil and cursed.” In 1971, a UW student snuck into the house through a kitchen window—the same window Trent Hooper’s disciple (most likely Jed “JT” Dalton) had used to break into the place the year before. Once inside, the young man went upstairs, where he tied a rope around the railing that overlooked the spacious foyer. With the other end of the rope, he fashioned a noose, slipped it over his head, and made the fatal, aborted jump toward the foyer’s tiled floor.

In 1972, a seventeen-year-old high school dropout stabbed his girlfriend to death—in the living room, where Elaina, her husband, and their nanny had been slain.

People who broke into the house for fun or on a dare later talked about “cold spots” in different rooms. One girl, who managed to sneak into the mansion with two friends on a warm July night, swore they could all see their breath when they stood in a certain spot in baby Patrick’s nursery. There were other reports—of strange, “almost human” sounds, and doors shutting on their own.