The Bone House

by Brian Freeman

  'Sheriff, my name is Cab Bolton,' he said. 'I'm a detective with the Naples Police in Florida.'

  Reich, who wore a heavy flannel shirt tucked into corduroys, sighed and slid sideways on his stool. He wasn't a big man, but he was packed tightly into his clothes. His face was weathered, as if he had a permanent case of frostbite, and his blue eyes were hard and impassive.

  'A detective?' he asked.

  'That's right.'

  'Well, Detective, if one of my cops came into work wearing an earring, he'd have a choice. He could either yank it out and go home until the hole closed up, or he could quit.'

  Cab grinned, but Reich didn't smile back. He could see the old sheriff studying his smile and thinking: Look at how white those teeth are.

  'I guess it's a good thing I don't work for you,' Cab told him.

  'What did you say your name was?'

  'Cab Bolton.'

  'Cab? What kind of name is that?'

  'I was named after my grandfather;' Cab replied, selecting a new explanation and a new name to go with it. 'Cornelius Abernathy Bolton.'

  'Abernathy?'

  Cab just smiled.

  Reich grunted and reached for his coffee. 'You here because of Glory Fischer?'

  'That's right.'

  'You planning to arrest Mark Bradley?'

  'For now I just want to find out more about him. About Glory, too.'

  The bartender wandered closer and gave Cab an interested smile. She was about twenty-five, with no ring on her finger. She had big brown eyes and round cheeks. 'Can I get you a drink?' she asked Cab.

  Reich gestured at the line-up of alcohol bottles behind the bar. 'Yeah, what is it you people drink down in Florida? Mojitos?' He pronounced it moh-jee-toes.

  'No thanks,' Cab said.

  The bartender winked. 'Maybe you want to join the club instead.'

  'What club?'

  Reich snuck a smile at the fat men playing pool. They drifted closer and the smoke in the bar thickened. 'Detective, you're not just in a pub,' the sheriff explained. 'This is the worldwide headquarters for the Bitters Club.'

  'Oh?'

  'That's right. It was started on the island by Tom Nelsen back in eighteen ninety-nine. Nelsen was convinced that Angostura bitters were an elixir of health. Sort of like you Florida folks and orange juice. He drank a pint or so a day.'

  'A pint of bitters?' Cab asked.

  'It's not exactly Guinness, but you get used to the taste. It's right up there with motor oil. You don't have to down a whole pint, though. If you can put back a shot glass of the stuff, you're in the club.'

  Cab wasn't going to let this man win his macho game. 'Sure, set me up.'

  The bartender smirked and reached under the bar. She placed a shot glass in front of Cab and filled it with a black liquid that did look suspiciously like motor oil. Cab brought the glass under his nose and smelled it. Reich eyed him carefully, and so did the others, watching for his face to screw up with distaste. He didn't react, despite the noxious aroma that would have awakened a coma patient. He figured it was all or nothing. This wasn't brandy you sipped and savored. He swirled the liquid in the glass, tipped it to his lips, and gulped down the bitters in a single swallow. His lips pinched together involuntarily. His throat contracted. The taste reminded him of chewing cigarette butts picked out of the gutter.

  'Like it?' Reich asked.

  'Great,' Cab croaked.

  'Welcome to the club.'

  'I'll call my mom,' Cab replied.

  Reich relaxed and smiled, as if Cab had passed a Door County test of endurance. 'So give me the dirt, Detective. What exactly do you have on Mark Bradley?'

  Cab played with the empty shot glass. His mouth still tasted like weedkiller. 'Honestly? Not much.'

  'I'm sorry to hear it,' the sheriff replied. 'I couldn't nail Bradley for sexual assault last year, because Tresa Fischer was so moon-eyed in love with the bastard that she wouldn't say a word against him. You ask me, a teacher poles one of his kids, he ought to be hauled off to a pig farm for castration. We wouldn't have to worry about repeat offenders.'

  'You're sure they were having sex?'

  'I read the girl's diary. Her imagination's not that good.'

  'Can you think of a reason why Bradley would kill Glory Fischer?' Cab asked.

  'I can think of lots of reasons. Maybe he tried to rape her, and she fought back. Maybe he just popped his cork and went off on the girl. Take your pick.'

  'You may be right,' Cab told Reich, 'but right now, I can't even prove Bradley was on the beach with the girl. We're still running the forensics, and I hope we'll get lucky. Otherwise, we need to find somebody who saw something.'

  'So what do you want to get done on my turf, Detective?' Reich asked pointedly. 'You're going to stir up a lot of people who are already hurting because of what happened.'

  'I'd like to find out if Bradley had some kind of previous relationship with Glory Fischer. I'd also like to know if there was anything else going on in that girl's life.'

  Reich put down his coffee mug on the bar. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'Glory saw someone she knew in Florida. It scared her. I want to know who it was and whether it had anything to do with her death.'

  'Someone she knew?' Reich asked. 'You think it was someone from around here?'

  'That's what I'd like to find out.'

  Reich's lips crinkled unhappily. 'My advice is to keep your eyes on the ball, Detective. I spent a lot of time with Mark Bradley last year. Having him in the middle of this thing doesn't surprise me at all.'

  'No?'

  'No. That man is a powder keg.'

  'What about Glory?'

  'What about her?' Reich asked.

  'I hear she had problems. Stealing, drugs, sex. Sounds like she ran pretty fast for a nice country girl.'

  Reich shrugged. 'Around here, there's not a lot to do in the quiet season. Kids get into trouble. Glory had her share. People aren't going to take it too well if you start dragging a nice girl's name through the mud. She's the victim here. Don't you forget that.'

  'I won't.' 'Delia Fischer is a good woman. She doesn't deserve to see her kids treated like this.'

  'You know her well?' Cab asked.

  'We're both natives. Those of us who have been around here our whole lives know everybody else, Detective.'

  Cab got off the bar stool. 'I've taken up enough of your time, Sheriff. I've got a ferry to catch. I just didn't want to start nosing around your jurisdiction without introducing myself.'

  'That was a smart plan,' Reich agreed. 'If my deputies or I can help you nail Bradley, you tell me, OK? There's bad blood for me on this one.'

  'I understand.' Cab nodded at the shot glass, which contained a residue of bitters. 'Thanks for the drink. I'm not likely to forget it.'

  'I bet not.'

  'Tell me something, Sheriff,' Cab added. 'You know pretty much everything that happens around here. Is there anything else I should know about Glory Fischer? Anything that could have led to her death?'

  Reich finished his coffee and wiped his mouth. 'Not a damn thing, Detective. You just keep your eyes on Mark Bradley.'

  * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hilary spotted the purple Corvette in the boarding line for the last ferry of the day and saw a lanky man in a business suit atop a bench in the park by the harbor. She recognized his gelled blond hair and movie star looks, and her hands tightened around the steering wheel with anxiety. She pulled sharply off the road.

  Cab Bolton nodded to her as she climbed out of her car. He held a cell phone high over his head, aimed at the sky. 'Hello, Mrs Bradley,' he said. 'This is a beautiful island, but the cell signal sucks. It's driving me crazy.'

  Hilary didn't waste time with small talk. 'I hope you weren't harassing my husband, Detective.'

  'God forbid,' Cab replied pleasantly. He climbed off the bench and stood up to his full height. Hilary, who wasn't small, wasn't used to anyone towering over her the w
ay Cab did. He gave her a disarming smile and tugged at the sleeves of his suit coat. 'Is it always so cold here in late March'

  'If it's too cold for you, go back to Florida.'

  'Oh, I just like complaining.' He glanced around the island at the rocky water beyond the harbor and the thick barrier of evergreens hugging the shoreline. 'This is a barren place to live. Why did you and your husband move up here?'

  'Not everyone loves the suburbs,' Hilary replied.

  'Were you running away from something?'

  'Yes, we were. Smog. Crowds. Traffic. Concrete. Sameness.'

  Cab took off his sunglasses and dangled them on his fingers. His eyes were irresistibly blue. 'I did my homework on you, Mrs Bradley.

  People in the Chicago schools told me you were one of the best teachers they'd ever had. They hated to lose you.'

  'So?'

  'So I wonder why you'd give it up to work in a small school in the middle of nowhere.'

  'I love teaching. It doesn't matter whether the school is big or small.' She added, 'Mark loved it too, until he got crucified.'

  'That must be hard, going to work every morning, knowing people think your husband cheated on you with a student.'

  'I don't need your sympathy, Detective.'

  'I'm still curious about why the two of you moved out here. Did Mark have a problem with girls in the Chicago schools? You may as well tell me. I'll find out anyway.'

  'There's nothing to find,' Hilary snapped. She was tired of having her motives questioned by people who didn't understand them. Cab Bolton wasn't the first, and he wouldn't be the last. Her family. Her colleagues. Her neighbors. They were all the same. They looked at her and Mark and wanted a vote in how they chose to lead their lives.

  'You know what my mother said to me, Detective?' she went on. 'When I told her that Mark and I were moving to Door County? She asked me how I could be such an independent woman for so many years and then give up everything in my life for a man.'

  'What did you say?' Cab asked.

  'I told her the truth. I wasn't giving up anything at all. Mark and I were making a choice about what we wanted. That's it. That's the big secret. I don't care if you understand it.'

  'The two of you were just crazy in love,' Cab said, and she heard cynicism in his voice.

  'Spare me the sarcasm, Detective. I'm not in the mood to play games with you.'

  'I'm not trying to play games. I like you, Mrs Bradley. Really. I think you're smart, and I respect that you're ferociously protective of your husband.'

  'But you think I'm a fool.'

  'I think people aren't always who we think they are,' Cab told her. 'While you're protecting your husband, you might start protecting yourself, too.'

  'If you're trying to make me doubt Mark, you can stop.'

  'I think you have doubts, but you won't admit them to yourself.'

  'Then you don't understand what it means to have faith in someone,' Hilary said.

  'You're right. I don't.'

  'If that's true, I feel sorry for you.'

  'Don't worry about me.' Cab shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged his body against the cold. 'Look, let's assume your husband told you he was out on the beach with Glory. I'm not asking you to say yes or no, but if he was there with her, there's a good chance he killed her. You're smart enough to realize that. Maybe he didn't mean to do it. Maybe things got out of control. It doesn't matter.'

  'I can see I'm wasting my breath,' Hilary said. 'You're like everyone else around here, assuming Mark is guilty. You've appointed yourself judge and jury.'

  'I don't assume he's guilty, but I don't assume he's innocent, either.'

  'Good night, Detective.' Hilary pointed at the boat, where one of the deck workers waved to attract Cab's attention. 'You don't want to miss your ferry. I'd hate to think of you trapped overnight in a barren place like this.'

  Cab smiled and slid his car keys from his pocket. 'I talked to Sheriff Reich. He's not a fan of your husband.'

  'I'm not a fan of the sheriff, either,' Hilary replied. 'He hasn't lifted a finger to stop the locals harassing us.'

  'He says Delia Fischer was right. Your husband was having sex with Tresa.'

  'Tresa was a sweet, misguided kid. That's all there was.'

  'Men are awfully easy to seduce,' Cab reminded her. 'Women usually find a way to get what they want.'

  Hilary was good at reading people, and she thought she could see past the armor in the detective's blue eyes. His cynicism wasn't just professional. 'Is this about me or you, Detective?'

  'Excuse me?'

  'It sounds like there was a woman who messed with you. You loved her, and she hurt you.'

  Cab's face darkened. 'Now who's playing games?'

  'I'm sorry,' Hilary said, 'but don't take out your past on me and Mark.'

  'I'm not doing that.'

  'No?'

  'No. I already told you I'm not assuming your husband is guilty. If the evidence points to someone else, so be it.'

  'If that's true, then tell me something. Did Sheriff Reich mention Glory and the fire?'

  'What fire?'

  'Glory lived next door to a man who burned down his house with his family in it,' Hilary told him. 'She was there when it happened. She almost died.'

  Cab's mouth puckered into a frown. 'I didn't know that.'

  'Neither did I until today. Don't you find that interesting? This girl was a witness to a murder six years ago, and now she gets murdered herself. That's a big coincidence.'

  She watched Cab working through the implications of this information in his mind. Weighing its significance. Deciding if she was blowing smoke at him.

  'Why do you think there's a connection?' he asked. 'I'm not sure how a six-year-old crime, even a horrific one, has any relevance to what happened to Glory in Florida.'

  'Only that the killer escaped,' Hilary said. 'He's still on the run.'

  'The man who started the fire is at large? Is that true?'

  'It's true. His name was Harris Bone. Look it up.' Hilary returned to her Camry and stood outside the driver's door. She was pleased with herself. Looking at Cab Bolton and studying his face, she decided that the man might never be an ally, but he might not be an enemy, either.

  'If you can get past your obsession with my husband,' she called to him, 'you should ask yourself the question that I've been asking myself all day, Detective. What if Harris Bone was in Florida? Think about that. What if Glory recognized him? What do you think he would do to her?'

  Night fell on the island two hours later. Without daylight, the temperature dropped like a stone, dipping below the freezing mark. Gusts off the bay blasted the land and made the dark trees sway. No one came or went through the canyon-like waves of Death's Door. The ferries were done until early morning, and the private boats that traversed the passage stayed in the shelter of the harbors. The stone outpost of Washington Island was cut off from civilization, isolated and empty.

  He drove without headlights. At night, under low clouds, he could barely pick out the headstones of the island cemetery laid in granite rows beside the road. Where the cemetery ended, the road disappeared into the forest, and he slowed to a crawl. The tires of the stolen pickup crept over the gravel as if it was sandpaper. Ahead of him, he spotted the pale break in the trees where the road stopped at Schoolhouse Beach. He turned right on a crossroad less than a hundred yards from the water and navigated blindly round the curves that hugged the shore. He knew where Mark Bradley lived. It wasn't far. When he was a quarter-mile away, he saw house lights glowing out of the black forest like torches. He stopped.

  He parked in the driveway of a home that was empty for the winter season. He got out, taking a heavy crowbar with him, nestled in his gloved hand. On the road, he was invisible as he hiked toward the lights. He stayed close to the shoulder, where the birch trees leaned over the gravel and waggled their fingers at him. The wind covered the crunching noise of his boots. Near the house, he veered into the woods, worm
ing his way through spindly branches and mushy ground, until he was barely twenty yards from their windows.

  He could see the Bradleys. They were both inside.

  Mark Bradley stood by the glass, staring into the darkness directly at him. If it had been daytime, he would have felt exposed, but he knew the window was nothing but a mirror of reflections now. Behind Mark Bradley, he saw the man's wife, holding a near-empty glass of red wine. Hilary Bradley was still dressed for work in a shimmery silver blouse and black slacks that emphasized her long legs. She came up behind her husband and whispered in his ear, but he didn't react.

  Hilary finished her wine and squeezed her husband's shoulder, but he remained where he was, a statue. She left the room, and a moment later, light illuminated the small square of the bathroom window down the hall. There were no curtains. In the privacy of the island, there was no one to spy. Except now. He could see her torso framed against the white tile and watched with detached interest as she undressed. She undid the buttons of her blouse and slid it down her arms and hung it on a hanger on the back of the door. Her fingers, which were topped with bright red nails, picked apart the strands of her blond hair, loosening it and letting it fall over her shoulders. She took off and folded her glasses. The effect of the innocent gesture was strangely wanton. With both hands behind her back, she undid the hooks of her bra and lifted it from her chest. Her breasts were pale, full globes. She unzipped her slacks, stepped out of them, and peeled down her panties, bending over so that her breasts hung forward and swayed. She was naked now, but he could see her milky skin only as far as her hips. As he watched, she stepped into a running shower and disappeared.

  Mark Bradley was alone.

  He made his way toward the rear of the house. His footsteps were soft on the spongy earth. He felt occasional snow flurries melting on his face. He ducked under the eave and crept sideways. The living- room window, which was open two inches, was immediately on his right. He edged his face around the frame to look inside. Mark Bradley was near the fireplace, studying a painting hung on the wall. The canvas was wild with blood-red strokes and strange giant angels. Bradley's back was to him, so he crossed the path of the window with two silent steps. He was near the rear corner of the house now, where a door led inside the screened porch. All he needed to do was lure Bradley outside.