'I'm going to press the reset button on this conversation,' Lala told him, sounding more sober and sad. 'OK? Reset. Beep. This is Mosqueda. Is that Detective Bolton? What can I do for you, Detective Bolton?'
'Lala,' he repeated lamely.
'A report? You want a report? Because I have information for you.'
Cab sighed and played the game. 'What did you find out?'
'Enough to think that something's not adding up. Enough to think we have a problem.'
'Go on. Tell me.'
'I started thinking about Glory on Friday night,' Lala continued. 'When she ran into our bartender friend, Ronnie Trask. I tried to nail down the exact time it happened. Trask said he took his break before stopping at the hotel restaurant to stock up on wine for the bar. Then he went straight from his near-collision with Glory back to the pool bar. He figures he served a drink within two or three minutes of getting back. I checked the invoices and was able to calculate what I think was his first sale. Based on that, I have a window of about five minutes or so when Glory came running from the event center.'
'Good work, but I'm not sure where you're going with this,' Cab told her.
'Hang on. I called the woman who coordinated the entire dance competition and had her check that time against the performance schedules. Here's what I found. Tresa Fischer would have been in the line-up immediately before that time window. Makes sense, huh? Glory would have been in the arena to watch her sister.'
'Sure. Mark Bradley was there, too, so Glory could have bumped into him during the break.'
'Yes, but the next scheduled performance after Tresa's team was the team from Green Bay. So there were a lot of people with Wisconsin connections hanging around the event center. I started calling people from Green Bay who were staying in the hotel to see if anyone remembered Glory freaking out. I talked to a parent of one of the dancers, and damned if she didn't tell me she remembered a girl losing it outside the event center and go running off.'
'Did she know why?'
'No. She said that Glory was standing in front of a window in the corridor and suddenly she screamed and bolted.'
'What's on the other side of the window?'
'A patio.'
'I don't suppose we have any idea who was out on the patio.'
'Actually, we do. This woman's daughter was out there, along with the whole Green Bay team. They were getting a pep talk from their coach, who happens to be Gary Jensen. Ring a bell?'
'Oh, shit,' Cab said. 'Our witness?'
'That's him. Call me cynical, but I don't like the coincidence.'
Cab didn't like it either. 'Are you digging into Jensen's background?'
'I'm doing that right now.'
'Could there be a connection between Jensen and Glory?' Cab asked.
'That's the million-dollar question.'
'Could Gary Jensen be this missing fugitive from Door County? Harris Bone?' 'That was my first thought, too,' Lala said, 'but no. Unless Bone managed one hell of a sophisticated identity theft, Jensen's got a paper trail that goes back for years. Of course, there could be some other connection between him and Harris that we haven't found yet.'
'Keep at it,' Cab said, 'and keep me posted. That's great work.'
'Thanks.'
'You've earned the wine,' he said.
'I thought so.'
'Listen, about what you said,' he began. 'Before.'
'Forget it.'
'Lala, you took me by surprise. It's not that I don't—'
'Forget it,' she insisted. She added, 'Why did you call, Cab? You obviously wanted something.'
I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to bear your voice. He didn't tell her that; instead, he explained where he was and what he was doing. The map. The key. The roads that led nowhere. What he didn't say was that he was tired and lonely, and he'd run out of ideas, it's dark,' he said finally. 'There's no point in doing anything more tonight. I'm heading back to the apartment. I'll call you in the morning.'
Lala didn't let him go. He wondered if she wanted to hear his voice, too. 'Have you checked property records in the area?'
Cab glanced around at the dark parkland. There were no houses to be seen. There were hardly any houses anywhere among the roads he'd travelled here. He hadn't thought about people owning the land, because there seemed to be nothing to own. 'No, I don't have a laptop with me.'
'I can run some searches for you. Give me a second.' He heard the clink of crystal as Lala put down her wine glass, then seconds later, the tapping of keys. 'OK, hang on a second. Here we go, Door County Real Estate Records. All nicely online. You want to give me some street names?'
'Europe Bay Road,' Cab said.
'Sounds rustic. I'm getting about a dozen parcels and owners. You want names? Two parcels for Waters, then Petschel, Clark, Moore, Barrick, Sawyer, Lenius, Haines, Mikel, Knoll, Heinz. Any of those mean anything to you?'
'No.'
'Next?' 'Wilderness Lane.'
'You're kidding.'
'No.'
'Wilderness. Lots of parcels, one owner. Royston.'
'Lost Lane.'
'Where the hell are you, Cab?'
'Lost.'
Lala was quiet. Finally, he heard her typing. 'No parcels on that one.'
'Juice Mill.'
'I've got the Nature Conservancy owning a parcel, then individual owners Gunn, Kolberg, Dane, and Hoffman.'
Cab had closed his eyes, and now they sprang open. He straightened up in the car and banged his head on the roof. 'Did you say Hoffman?'
'Yes.'
'Peter Hoffman?'
'That's him. The fire address is 11105 Juice Mill Lane.'
'Anything about the property?'
'I can tell you what he pays in taxes, the value of the land, and the value of the improvements.'
'Improvements?' Cab asked. 'There's a house there?'
'Something's there, but the improvements don't even total ten thousand dollars. The land around it is worth a lot more.'
'OK, I'll see what I can see. Thanks, Lala.'
'Call me tomorrow, and I'll tell you what else we know about Gary Jensen.'
'Good.' He added, 'Hey, you want to know something?'
Lala didn't answer. He took her silence as an invitation.
'I miss you,' he said.
She still didn't answer. He heard nothing from her at all. He wondered if he'd crossed the line, or if she simply didn't know whether he was serious. When Lala was still silent, he glanced at the phone and realized that the wind had changed, and his signal had vanished into the frigid air. She was gone.
* * *
Chapter Forty-Three
Mark followed his headlights into the driveway and immediately realized that something was wrong. He'd switched on a lamp in the living room before he left the house, but there was no light shining behind the curtains now. The house was dark.
He climbed out of the Explorer and waited next to his truck. He couldn't see. Rain trickled through the tree branches, splattering on the dirt and covering up other noises in the woods. He ran his hands along the damp metal of the chassis, hunting for the handle of the rear door. When he found it, he opened the door and leaned inside and searched on the floor. His fingers closed over the forked head of a hammer. He grabbed the tool by its wooden handle and shut the door quietly.
Mark felt as if he was blindfolded. Night on the island was black under the hood of trees, and the thick clouds made the sky moonless and starless. He made his way with his hands, creeping toward the house. He felt flagstones under his feet, marking the path. When his outstretched fingers found the front door, he turned the handle, which twisted easily; the door was open. He shoved the door inward and clutched the hammer tightly. Squatting, staying low, he crept into the hallway of his house.
He left the lights off. Light painted him as a target. He peered around the wall that led to the living room and could make out the shapes of the furniture. The walls still smelled like fresh paint. The room was empty. He side
stepped down the hallway, his knees bent, and passed the open door to their bedroom on his left. He lingered there, watching and listening, before he continued to the kitchen and then the den. He ducked into the porch and checked the door leading outside, but it was locked and deadbolted. He began to relax, but as he did, a noise startled him. It sounded like the casters of their bed scraping across the hardwood floor, the way it did when he banged the frame with his knee.
Mark retreated toward their bedroom but stayed in the hallway. In the glow of the clock on his nightstand, he could see that their closet door was ajar, which wasn't how he'd left it. He gripped the hammer and sprang off his knees and charged. He leaped across the short space and threw himself past the door into the belly of the tiny closet. His shoulder slammed the wall, cushioned by the fabric of Hilary's dresses.
He heard running feet and twisted around in time to see someone rolling across the bed on their way from the bathroom to the bedroom door. He jumped, and the two of them collided, landing together in a heap on the floor. Something metallic skidded away into the wall. He expected a fight and didn't get one. The person in his arms was bony and fragile. He smelled girlish perfume. He held her shoulders to the ground, and she whimpered as his weight overwhelmed her.
'Don't hurt me, don't hurt me. Christ, Troy, it's me, Tresa.'
Mark couldn't see her face, but he recognized the shape of her body and her familiar long hair. 'Tresa? What the hell are you doing here?'
She almost seemed to be holding her breath as he spoke. It took her a moment to say anything. 'Mark? Is that you?'
'Of course it is.'
Tresa threw her arms around his neck. 'Oh, thank God you're OK. I've been waiting forever. Where were you?'
'I went out to dinner,' he replied. 'Tresa, what's going on?'
She breathed heavily, still holding him. When he peeled away her arms, she touched his face in the darkness with her fingertips. Her perfume filled his nose as she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.
'Tresa, stop,' he said.
She backed away. 'I'm sorry. I'm just so glad it's you.'
'I'll turn a light on,' Mark said.
Tresa grabbed his shoulder. 'No. Don't. Leave it dark.'
'Why?'
'He could be out there. We can't let him see us.'
'Who?' He thought about what she had said as he landed on her. 'Why did you think I was Troy?'
Tresa leaned against the bed. She held his hand, and her skin was moist. 'I overheard Troy talking to my mom. He has a gun, the stupid bastard. He knew Hilary was gone tonight. He said he was going to sail over here and kill you.'
Mark swore to himself. 'Did you see the gun? Are you sure he really has one?'
'I saw it.'
'Do you know when he was planning to come here?'
'No, but he must be here by now. He must be close by. If he saw you come home—'
'Take it easy, Tresa,' Mark told her. 'I'm not sure Troy's got what it takes to pull this off. It's one thing to think you can shoot someone, but it's different to actually pull the trigger.'
'He'll do it, Mark. You should have seen his face.'
'I understand, but you shouldn't have come here. You should have called and told me.'
'I know, but I thought - I wanted - that is, I figured maybe Troy would listen to me.'
Mark heard guilty embarrassment in her voice. It wasn't just that she was afraid of what Troy would do, or that she thought she could talk him out of it. Mark realized that she wanted to be the one to save him. She wanted to rescue him. That was what you did for someone you loved.
'How did you get here?' he asked.
'I drove my mom's car. I parked it down the road. I didn't think you'd want anyone to see it in your driveway - you know, because of what people would think. I mean, Hilary's not home, and here I am.'
He knew she believed it. See? I'm trying to protect you. Even so, her voice had a breathless quality to it, and he was conscious of the warmth of her body pressed against him.
'Do you know anyone else on the island?' he asked.
'No.'
'I'll take you to one of the motels. You can spend the night there, and you'll be safe.'
Tresa clung to him fiercely. 'No way. I'm not leaving you alone.'
'I'll be fine.'
'No, Mark. I'm staying here.'
She had a childish determination. Part of him wondered if the story about Troy was really true, or if she had made it up as a way to bring them together. He didn't know how far Tresa would go. She'd taken the ferry to be here on a night when Hilary was gone, and he'd found her hiding in his bedroom. He couldn't help but wonder if this was a fantasy, like the sexual encounters in her diary. A fairy tale. It started with him being in danger, and it ended with her seducing him.
Or was she telling him the truth?
'Did you call the police?' he asked.
'I couldn't do that. I don't want my mom getting in trouble.'
Don't call the police. Mark wondered: did she really want to protect Delia? Or did she want to protect herself from another lie? He'd been fooled by this girl and her desires before. He liked her, he felt sorry for her, but he had to keep reminding himself that she'd nearly destroyed his life once already.
'Let's go, Tresa,' he said.
'Wait! Did you hear that?'
Mark listened. The rain beat on the roof. That was all he heard. 'There's no one outside,' he said, but he had the same feeling he'd had earlier. Something was wrong. He looked around the bedroom, trying to pinpoint his anxiety, and realized that the clock on the nightstand was dark. Moments earlier, it had glowed with white numbers.
'Stay right there,' he told her.
He pushed himself off the floor, but despite his warning, Tresa got up with him and clung to his side. Her arm wrapped around his waist. He felt the speed of her breathing as her chest rose and fell like a scared animal. She wasn't acting. This was real.
Mark groped for the light switch on the wall, and when he found it, he flicked it upward and downward several times. Nothing happened.
'The power's out.'
'Oh, shit,' Tresa murmured. 'He's here.'
* * *
Chapter Forty-Four
Cab found an old steel gate at the dead end of Juice Mill Lane, where it butted up against the western land of the state park. He examined the gate in the darkness with the beam of a Mag-Lite. Two dented signs hung over the top rail, tied with rusted wire. One said No Trespassing. The other was a number stamped like a license plate in faded white letters: 11105.
This was Peter Hoffman's land.
He studied the rutted road beyond the gate that disappeared into the thick of the forest. The ground was a muddy mess of dirt and grass. He didn't see footprints, which told him that no one had been here in the rainy hours since Peter Hoffman's death. That was good. If Hoffman had a secret that had got him killed, and if this land was part of that secret, then Cab didn't want to wait until morning and give someone else a chance to visit overnight.
The rain kept on like Chinese music, making a plink-plink rhythm on the roof of the forest. He walked around the gate. The ground had a damp, wormy smell. He saw one fat worm in the light, stretched out like pink candy among the old leaves. He picked his way along the path, noting Private Property signs with reflective letters shining among the wet, glistening trees. Far from the old gate, he spotted vines draped over a narrow trail, where an ash had fallen, blocking the way with a mossy trunk. He stepped over the tree and followed the trail away from the road, sweeping the dirt with a back-and-forth arc of his flashlight. Fifty yards inside the forest, he spotted a glint of glass reflecting from the ground. Standing over it, he saw an open, empty bottle of Jameson's whiskey. The glass was clean; it hadn't been lying here for long. It was the same brand he'd found on the kitchen table at Peter Hoffman's house.
Hoffman had been here recently.
Cab lifted the flashlight and saw the remains of a cabin in front of him.
Th
e dilapidated structure was quickly disappearing back into the arms of nature. Snow and rain had punched the roof downward, leaving gaping holes. The walls bowed inward, specked with remnants of red paint. Popped, rusty nails lined the beams like broken teeth. The door hung open, rotting away from its top hinge, and the chambered windows were broken into jagged fragments. Shredded yellow curtains billowed into the rain. Weeds grew as high as the gutters.
Cab walked up to the door and exposed the interior of the ruins to his light, scattering red-eyed mice. He saw an old stove, its door hanging open, with a rusted grate still inside. Two wooden chairs lay in broken slats on the floor, and bricks from the chimney had crumbled forward into scattered rubble. Rain splattered into puddles through the open roof, and he saw black pellets of feces. Old spiderwebs hung like lace across the windows. Other than the animal presence, the cabin had been unoccupied for many seasons, left to fend for itself in a losing battle against the elements.
Peter Hoffman had been planning to send Cab here to this spot with the section of map in his pocket. Cab was sure of it.
Why?
He followed the damaged walls of the ruins. When he'd made a complete circle, he took a cautious step inside. Debris sprinkled from the gaps in the roof. His foot sank through a rotting beam, trapping his ankle between jagged spikes until he bent down and pushed aside the splintered wood to free himself. He cast his light upward into the rafters, where he saw deserted bird's nests and wasp hives.
Cab backed out of the cabin. He studied the trail, which petered out amid a solid grove of pines. In the cone of light, he spotted the empty bottle of Jameson's again, and he made his way there to stand where Peter Hoffman would have stood. Near the bottle, he spotted a small square of dirt where nothing grew. It was almost invisible among the tall weeds. He pushed through the grass into the bare space, and when he kicked at the mud with his toe, he found that the ground at his feet was actually metal. He bent down and scraped aside the dirt until his fingers were black and found a corrugated metal door, two feet by two feet, built into the earth inside a concrete border. It was a tornado shelter.
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