The Bone House

by Brian Freeman

  He saw it in her face. 'Even you're wondering if I'm a murderer.'

  'I'm not.'

  'You're thinking, he's got a temper. Hoffman pushed him too far, and he lost it and killed him.'

  'Don't talk that way, Mark.' She didn't want him to know what was in her head. He did have a temper. He had been pushed too far. None of that mattered now.

  Mark reached out and covered her hand. 'I'm not lying. I didn't do this. Any of this. Not Glory. Not Hoffman.' He stared at her and added, 'Not Tresa, either.'

  'Tell me exactly what you did at Hoffman's house.'

  'I wasn't there for more than a minute or two. I drove to his house from the port. I walked up the driveway, and I saw that the front door was open. I called Hoffman's name, but he didn't answer. I went inside and found him in the hallway on the floor.'

  'What did you do next?'

  'I got the hell out of there. I slammed the door behind me, and I ran to the car and went back to the ferry port.'

  Hilary glanced at Mark's hands. He was wearing leather gloves. 'Did you have the gloves on when you went inside the house?'

  'Sure.'

  'So you didn't leave fingerprints?'

  'I guess not.'

  'What about footprints?'

  Mark nodded. 'I left plenty.'

  'Get rid of your shoes,' she told him.

  'What?'

  'Drive to a deserted beach before you go home. Throw them into the lake as far as you can. Make sure no one sees you.'

  'That's crazy. I'm not going to do that.'

  'Mark, we can't let them prove you were there. The footprints are the only things to put you at his house. Get your clothes in the washer; too. You may have tracked blood from the scene.'

  'Hil, forget it. I borrowed a phone at the pier. I called my number, and I pulled out of the ferry line. You don't think people will remember that? If I try to cover it up, it will only make me look guilty.'

  He was right, but Hilary didn't want to hear it. Her voice rose as she felt anger and despair carrying her away. 'You can't give them rope to hang around your neck. They're not going to care about the truth. All they want is to put you in prison. They want to take you away from me, and I am not going to let that happen.'

  Mark reached out and embraced her. She felt as if they were holding on with nothing but their fingertips, slipping out of each other's grasp. To make it worse, she was about to leave him alone for the night.

  'Call Gale,' she told him, 'but don't mention the shoes. A lawyer can't advise you to destroy evidence. I still think you should get rid of them.'

  'That's like admitting I killed him.'

  'Why are you fighting me on this?'

  'Because this time, I think you're wrong, and if I do it, there's no going back.'

  'How long were you gone from the ferry line when you drove to Hoffman's house?' she asked.

  Mark shrugged. 'Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.'

  'That's not much time.' 'They'll say it's plenty of time to get to his house, argue, struggle, and kill him.'

  'For God's sake, Mark, whose side are you on?'

  'Ours,' he said, 'but I'm not going to pretend. I'm in trouble. Lying and hiding won't get me out of it.'

  Hilary saw the crew at the ferry dock waving to her. The other cars had already pulled ahead of her and boarded. She checked her watch; it was two minutes before four o'clock. The boat was leaving.

  'I have to go,' she told him.

  'What? Why? Where are you going?'

  'Amy Leigh is missing. I got a call from her roommate at Green Bay. She hasn't seen Amy since last night, and Amy's not answering her phone. I'm going to Green Bay. We're going to talk to the police.'

  Mark blew out his breath in disappointment. 'Of all nights, Hil. I really need you with me.'

  'If something happens to Amy, and I didn't do anything to stop it, I'd never forgive myself. She called me. She reached out to me. I've got to do this.'

  'Let me come with you.'

  'Not in those shoes. Not in those clothes. Go home and call Archie Gale.'

  'Hil, let it go. I'm coming.'

  She shook her head. 'Look at yourself, Mark. You're not in any shape to do this now. Plus, if you're there, the police will make this about you, not Amy.'

  He opened the car door. Wind rushed in. 'OK. Go.'

  'This might be our one chance to find out what really happened to Glory,' she told him. 'To prove it wasn't you. This coach that Amy talked about, Gary Jensen, I called a friend of mine at the school where he used to work. He was suspected of having sexual relationships with teenage girls.'

  Mark climbed out of the car and leaned back in through the door with a sad smile. 'So was I.'

  'Damn it, Mark, don't talk like that.'

  'I'm sorry, I can't help it.' He pulled her face closer and kissed her. His lips were cool. 'I love you. Don't forget that.'

  'I love you, too.'

  He shut the door and walked away. After an instant of doubt, she put the Taurus in gear and drove on to the ferry. With the car parked, she got out and climbed the steps to the passenger deck. She stayed outside, hanging on to the railing as the boat eased away from the island. Beyond the shelter of the harbor, the wind on the open water intensified, and the ferry swayed under her feet. Back on the shore, in the parking lot, she could still see Mark's truck. She waved, and she saw the lights of the Explorer flash on and off. He was inside, watching her go.

  Inside the bridge cabin, on the top deck of the ferry, a nineteen-year- old man named Keith Whelan watched Hilary at the railing. He was as thin as a telephone pole, with shaggy black hair. He'd worked on the ferry runs for two years. The pilot at the wheel glanced away from the water and followed Keith's eyes to the woman on the deck.

  'There's nothing sexier than a woman in the wind,' the pilot said. 'Especially that one.'

  Below them, Hilary turned and disappeared inside the passenger compartment. The deck was empty. They could barely see the land of the NorDoor five miles away.

  'I see that woman going back and forth every day,' the pilot said, 'and I never get tired of the view.'

  'Whatever.' Keith rubbed his nose and tugged at the crotch of his jeans. 'Gotta piss.'

  'Sure, go.'

  Keith left the shelter of the bridge and took the steps down one deck. The boat rolled, but he didn't notice it anymore, even in the worst weather. He ducked through the door to the passenger space, where half a dozen drivers read magazines and gabbed into their phones while they still had signal. Hilary Bradley stood off by herself, staring out the window. Their eyes didn't meet. With her glasses, she looked stuck-up and brainy. Keith didn't like women who pretended they were smarter than he was.

  He slipped inside the phone-booth-sized toilet and locked the door. He grabbed his cell phone and punched in a number.

  'It's Keith,' he said. 'You wanted a heads up, right? She's on the four o'clock heading to the mainland. No way she's going to turn around and go back on the five. I'm telling you, she's sleeping somewhere else tonight. He'll be alone in the house. If you want him, this is your chance.'

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  'I'm sorry, Sheriff,' Cab told Felix Reich. 'It's hard to lose a friend this way.'

  Reich sat in the driver's seat of his Chevy Tahoe in the turnaround at the end of Port des Morts Drive. His hands were on the wheel, and he stared into space down the tree-lined road. His chest rose and fell with fierce precision. After a long silence, Reich's head swiveled on his neck, and Cab saw a fury so deep and bitter that blood vessels pulsed in the man's eye.

  'Let me tell you something, Detective Bolton,' the sheriff growled. 'I hate to say anything bad about a brother behind the shield, but you know what? I don't like you. You race your Corvette into my county with your expensive suits and your spiky hair and your earring, and the next thing I know, a friend of mine is dead. I blame you.'

  'I understand you're hurting, Sheriff, and I respect that, but let's lose the guilt
trip, OK? I don't need it.'

  Reich clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. 'Here's the way we're going to do this, Detective. You're going to tell me everything you know like a witness at a crime scene, which is what you are. When we're done, you're going to drive down to your luxury apartment in Fish Creek and pack your bags. Tomorrow I want you to get the hell out of Door County.'

  'Threats just make me more stubborn,' Cab replied.

  'I gave you free rein in my jurisdiction because you were investigating a murder. Now so am I, and you're in my way. Go home.'

  'If our cases are connected, we should work together.'

  'If our cases are connected, it's because you didn't listen to me about

  Mark Bradley. He's mine now. You're going to have to wait your turn, and that'll be a long time coming.'

  'You're convinced Bradley did this?' Cab asked.

  'I've assembled more evidence in an hour on this case than you've gathered since you arrived. When you live in a place your whole life, people trust you. They become your eyes and ears. They tell you things. You didn't know that Pete had a fight with Bradley near Sister Bay today, did you'

  Cab raised an eyebrow. 'No.'

  'I got four calls about it. Pete swore in front of a dozen witnesses that he was going to make sure Bradley paid for his crimes, and Bradley threatened to kill Pete. Bradley was also spotted in the ferry line at Northport at two forty-five. He borrowed a phone and made a call, and then he took off at high speed and came back fifteen minutes later. Guess who he called? His own phone. The one you found in Pete's pocket. This is the end of the line for that man.'

  Cab wasn't convinced, but he didn't say so. 'I wish you luck, Sheriff.'

  'Remember what I said. I want you heading home to Florida in the morning.'

  'I'll keep that in mind, but I have one question first. What did Peter Hoffman know about Bradley?'

  'I don't follow you.'

  'Hoffman said he'd make sure that Bradley got what was coming to him. He told me he could help me prove that Bradley killed Glory. I'd like to know how he planned to do that.'

  'If I find out anything about that, you'll be my first call.'

  'I was wondering if you knew what it might be.'

  'I have no idea.'

  'You can't keep secrets in a small town. Somebody knew something.'

  'Pete didn't talk to a lot of people.'

  'What about Delia Fischer?' Cab said. 'Hoffman was close to the Fischer family. Maybe he had information about Glory. Or Tresa. Something that would tie Bradley to one or both of them.'

  'Leave Delia out of this,' Reich snapped. 'I don't want you bothering her. Is that clear? Anything that involves Peter Hoffman is part of my investigation now, not yours. Stay out of my way.'

  'Whatever you say,' Cab replied.

  He pushed open the door of the Tahoe, but Reich reached across the truck and stopped him with a powerful hand on his shoulder.

  'Before you leave, find one of the evidence technicians and give them a fingerprint sample. Shoes, too. We'll need to clear your prints on anything we find inside and outside.'

  'Of course.'

  'Talk to one of the deputies and go over your movements in detail.'

  'Sure,' Cab said.

  'What are we going to find?' Reich asked.

  'Meaning what?'

  'Meaning, what did you do before you called me? You knew you wouldn't get another shot at Pete's house. I assume you tried to figure out what he was going to tell you.'

  Cab smiled. Reich wasn't a fool. 'I opened a few drawers. I looked in the file cabinet. That's all.'

  'Did you find anything? If you did, you better tell me now.'

  Cab had been hoping to hide behind a vague denial, but Reich wasn't giving him the chance. The smart thing to do was to hand over what he'd found in Hoffman's pocket. The enlarged section of Door County map. The key. If he didn't, he was committing a crime. If he did, it was also the last time he'd see the evidence, and he wasn't ready to take himself out of the chase yet.

  'I didn't find a thing,' Cab told Reich. 'Nothing at all.'

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The tiger-striped cat sauntered across Delia's path as she sat on the rocking chair on the front porch. It perched on its haunches next to her and watched her with its serious dark eyes. Delia stretched out her foot and stroked the cat's short-haired back. The animal slid down on to its side and offered up its plump stomach for attention. It squirmed and purred as Delia's stockinged foot rubbed its fur, and Delia only stopped when she realized that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Part of Delia loved the cat, because she couldn't see it without thinking of Glory. Part of her hated the cat for the same reason.

  Glory had named the cat Smokey, which she said was because of the swirls of black in the cat's fur. Delia knew better; the kitten had smelled of smoke for days after the fire. Smokey was bereft now and was constantly near Delia seeking comfort. The cat had slept in Glory's arms every night, and it didn't understand why the girl was gone. It kept looking out of windows and doors with confused longing, as if it expected her to come back.

  Delia wiped away her tears and continued with her work. She had a wooden tray draped across her lap, where she crafted her costume jewelry. She'd cut narrow strips from cans of Dr Pepper and Orange Crush, and she had pliers on the tray to bend and twist the strips together into two-tone spiral earrings. She wore a magnifier on a headband over one eye for the close work. She'd done it so many times that the process was mindless now, making metal curls and buffing the edges with steel wool. On eBay, she could sell a pair for ten dollars. The local gift shops charged more, but she had to give the storeowners a cut of the money. In the past year, she'd netted almost two thousand dollars, which was a welcome boost to a budget that never seemed to be in balance. There was always one bill too many.

  Even with her extra income, it would never have been enough for Tresa's college tuition. State school or not, she couldn't afford it. Thank God for Peter Hoffman. He'd paid for everything, tuition, room and board, books, spending money. He'd told her he would do the same for Glory when it was her turn, but Delia had never believed that Glory was college material. Tresa was the serious one, the introvert, with the brains to make something of herself. Glory had no patience for school. Delia had grown up the same way. A party girl. Maybe that was why she had always favored Glory, not only because of how the girl had suffered, but because Glory reminded Delia of herself in a way that Tresa never did.

  Tresa reminded her of other things. Bad things.

  When she saw Tresa, she still thought of Harris Bone, and she wondered. Agonized. Doubted. She'd never pursued the truth, because she didn't want to know one way or another. Some things were better off as questions without answers. She could remember, though, the times when she'd watched Tresa and Jen Bone together as teenagers. The two girls were best friends, inseparable, almost like sisters. She'd tried to see the likeness in their faces.

  She'd tried to decipher whether Harris was father to both of them.

  The affair with Harris had been an on-again, off-again thing over the years, but when she'd become pregnant with Tresa, it was during a period when they were sleeping together regularly. Delia had never thought of sex with Harris as cheating. After her own rape, she had disconnected sex from her emotions. She'd never really loved her husband in a romantic way; he'd been convenient, a provider, sweet and reliable. When they had sex, it was to fill his needs, not hers. Harris was different. She'd understood him as a man, or she'd thought she had, until the fire. He'd spent his whole life under a woman's thumb, first with his mother, Katherine, and then with a wife who was just as controlling. The only person to whom he ever confided his frustrations was Delia. She'd enjoyed being his confidante, not realizing that there were emotional strings attached to his secrets. Their relationship had spilled over from soul-sharing to bed-sharing in no time at all, and for years, they had used each other in bad times f
or physical and spiritual release.

  People wondered how she'd been able to forgive Harris for the accident in which her husband died. The truth was that his death had been an economic loss more than an emotional loss. She'd felt sorrow but not devastation. In the aftermath, she'd relied on Harris even more for all of her needs. So had the girls. Glory and Tresa loved him, and he loved them back. Delia knew the sacrifices Harris made every day, going on the road for a job he hated, coming home to a wife and sons who despised him. He did it without complaint, and that was what made the end so shocking. In all the time they'd spent together, sharing secrets and having sex, he'd never given her a hint of what he was planning. She hadn't seen how close he was to the breaking point.

  She hated Harris now, not just for what he had done, but for leaving her alone in the process. And Tresa and Glory, too. He'd abandoned them, just as he'd abandoned his own daughter. All Delia wanted to do was forget him. She'd never breathed a word about the affair to anyone. She'd never given Tresa any reason to wonder who her father really was or to fear that she had bad blood in her. No one needed to know, especially not Peter Hoffman. If he had known the truth, he never would have been so generous with her and the girls. He would have blamed and resented Delia, rather than using her to massage his guilt and grief.

  Now even that source of security had been taken away. Peter was dead. He'd written his last check to her. She wondered how she would break the news to Tresa that she no longer had money to send her back to school. It was one more body blow in a lifetime of disappointments and betrayals.

  Delia removed the magnifier from her eyes as she saw an old Grand Am turn from the road into the bumps of their driveway. Troy Geier got out like a plump clown and jogged for the house. The wooden steps, which needed repairs, groaned under his weight. He was breathing hard, gulping down air. She could tell, looking at Troy, that the boy was scared.

  'What do you want?' Delia asked impatiently. She wasn't in the mood to deal with his naive gallantry today.