The Bone House (38 page)

    'Whatever.'

    'Is
the ferry on time?'

    'Bobby
shook his head. 'Nah, it'll be ten to fifteen minutes late getting in.'

    Mark returned
to his Explorer. He switched on the radio, and the local rock station was
playing a song by the Black Eyed Peas. That wasn't his kind of music, and he
normally would have changed the station, but as he listened, the beat of the
song thumped in his head. The refrain, repeated over and over, was the title of
the song, and he found himself responding the more he listened to it.

    Let's
Get It Started.

    That
was right. He wasn't going to lie down for anyone anymore. Whatever happened
would happen.

    When
Mark checked his watch, he saw that the ferry delay gave him time to drive to
Peter Hoffman's home and see the man face to face. He pulled out of the ferry
line, did a sharp U-turn, and shot through the flat ribbon of curves toward
Port des Morts Drive.

    The
house was dead still, the way it always was.

    Peter
Hoffman sat at the butcher block table in his kitchen and drank whiskey
straight from the bottle as he listened to the silence. His need for quiet was
a holdover that he'd never been able to shake from his days in the war. He
never played music. He rarely watched television. He wanted to hear exactly
what was happening outside so that he could detect anything out of place. His
ears were attuned to every sound that the house made, every trill of every
bird, every shriek of wind, hiss of snow, and drumbeat of rain. There were
times when his wife had insisted on playing symphonies on the stereo, but he'd
found that he couldn't stay in the room with the noise. Since she'd died, he'd
lived in silence, listening and waiting.

    Forty
years had passed, the war was long gone, and he still expected an enemy to come
from somewhere. If they did, he'd hear them.

    Hoffman
had a map of Door County laid out in front of him. Next to it was the metal
ring on which he kept his bulky set of keys. He held on to keys long after he
didn't need them anymore, but he couldn't bring himself to remove them from the
ring and throw them away. He still knew the lock associated with each one. His
1982 Cutlass. The strongbox where he'd kept his insurance and mortgage
documents, when he still had a mortgage. Nettie's house, Nettie's garage,
before the fire.

    He
picked up the ring and found the key he was looking for. It was a small silver
key, the kind that opened a heavy padlock. It was in good condition, but the
lock to which it belonged was dirty and rust- covered where it lay in the dirt,
exposed to the fierce elements. In the early days, he'd gone there every few
months to check on it, but he'd never opened the lock. He'd tugged on it to
make sure it held good, and then he had left. Eventually, he'd realized there
was no reason to keep coming back. All he was doing was torturing himself.

    Hoffman
separated the key from the others on the ring. He undid the latch and extracted
the key and dropped the ring back on the table. He held the key and rubbed it
until it was warm between his fingers. It was horrifying, the vivid memories
you could find in a shiny piece of metal. When he couldn't stare at it anymore,
he slid the key inside his pocket.

    It
was next to Mark Bradley's phone.

    He
pushed himself up from his chair. As he did, a shiver of pain coursed down his
leg like ice. His bad leg, where he'd taken a bullet for Felix Reich in a fetid
jungle, had stiffened since the fall at the store, and now it was almost
immovable. His calf was swollen and purple and tender to the touch. He
suspected he had broken a bone. They'd wanted to call an ambulance for him, but
he'd refused, even though now he could barely walk. It didn't matter. He had
other things to do.

    Cab
Bolton would be here soon.

    Hoffman
clung to the kitchen counter and grabbed his cane. He leaned into it,
supporting his weight. With his other hand, he picked up the map from the table
and slid it under his arm. Step by step, he limped from the kitchen into his
bedroom, where he kept his desk and a printer that doubled as a copy machine.
He fumbled with the map, unfolding it and laying it on the glass. He punched
the copy button, but when he saw the page that printed, he realized that he had
misaligned the map. He moved the paper, tried again, and decided that the image
was too small. He set the machine to enlarge.

    It
would have been easier to drive along with Cab Bolton to show him the way, but
Hoffman knew he couldn't walk that far in the cold and rain. He didn't want to
go back there anyway. He had faced evil things in the past, but some evil was
too much to bear.

    He
made several more copies before he was satisfied with the result. He crumpled
the other pages and dropped them in the trash basket next to the desk. He left
the map where it was on the glass. With the copy in his hand, he staggered back
to the kitchen, biting his lip at the shooting pains running up his leg. He
lowered himself into the chair with a groan. He searched on the desk for a pen
and squinted at the copy of the map.

    He
listened.

    Outside
the house, above the tremors of wind, he heard a sharp snap, like the crack of
a bullet. Someone's footfall had broken a branch. He had a visitor approaching
his house through the woods, someone who was trying not to be heard.

    Hoffman
wasn't surprised.

    He
folded the copy of the map and slid the paper into his pocket along with the
key and the phone. He pushed himself up with both hands flat on the glossy wood
of the table. This time, he didn't bother with the cane, and the weight on his
calf nearly made him collapse with his first step. He dragged his leg behind
him, making stutter steps toward the closet near the front door. The short
distance felt endless. At the closet, he reached inside to find his shotgun,
which he always kept oiled and ready. He reached up for a box of shells from
the closet shelf and spilled them like marbles as he loaded the gun.

    He
closed the door and sagged against it, breathing heavily, almost weeping as
pain knifed his leg. Leaning his shoulders against the wall, keeping his foot
off the ground, he slid along the walnut paneling to the front door. He twisted
the knob and nudged it open. Outside, on the porch, he smelled dead leaves. The
forest was alive, twisting and knocking bare branches together. The dirt
driveway was damp with mud. He looked for fresh footprints from the road and
saw none.

    Where
was he?

    Hoffman
gripped the door frame and hung on as he cradled the shotgun under his other
arm. He studied the forest, just as he'd done years earlier, through the misery
of drowning rain and voracious insects. He didn't have to see anyone, or hear
them, or smell them, to know he wasn't alone.

    'I
know you're here,' he called into the woods.

    There
was no answer. The wind roared. He tasted the damp mist on his lips.

    'It's
time to end this,' he shouted, but no one replied. The trees cackled as if they
were taunting him.
We know what scares you, old man.
He should have
listened to their warning.

    Hoffman
heard a noise inside the house. He'd forgotten the cardinal rule: always watch
your back. The footsteps on the wooden floor were so close that he expected to
feel breath on his neck. He tried to turn, to wheel the gun around, but he
didn't have enough strength or time. Strong hands took hold of his shirt collar
and yanked him backward into the foyer. He fell like a stone drops, his leg
caving under him. As he collapsed, the shotgun was peeled from his hands. He
hit his head on the floor. He squirmed like an insect on his back, unable to
get up.

    In
every battle, there was a winner and a loser, and he had lost.

    
'Close
your eyes,'
the voice said above him.

    Hoffman
didn't. Not now, not ever. The twin barrels of his own gun dug into his
forehead, and he left his eyes wide open to see the end when it came.

    Hilary's
car smelled of freshly ground coffee. She'd emptied their supply with the last
pot of the morning, and so she decided to make a pilgrimage to the small shop
by the harbor before Mark arrived home. As she drove back, she heard her phone
ringing. She pulled off the road rather than navigate with her phone wedged at
her shoulder.

    'Is
this Hilary Bradley?' It was an unfamiliar girl's voice.

    'Yes,
who is this?'

    'My
name is Katie Monroe. I think you know my roommate, Amy Leigh.'

    Hilary
heard Amy's name, and her stomach turned over with anxiety, is something wrong?
Is Amy OK? I've been trying to reach her.'

    'You
have?'

    'Yes,
Amy called me last night. It was a strange call. I've called her several times
since then, but she's not answering her phone. I'm worried.'

    Hilary
heard the girl breathing into the line.

    'She
didn't come back to our room last night.'

    'Is
that unlike her?'

    'Some
girls stay out all night, but not Ames.'

    Hilary
yanked off her glasses and closed her eyes as she thought about Amy's call.
'Listen, Katie, Amy mentioned the name of her coach when she called. Gary
Jensen. Does that mean anything to you?'

    The
girl paused. 'Son of a bitch!' she exclaimed.

    'Did
she tell you anything about him?'

    'Amy
told me she was going to talk to Gary last night. She was meeting him at his
house. I haven't been able to reach her since then.'

    'Did
you call the police?'

    'I
called campus security, but they blew me off. They all know Gary. They told me
I was crazy. A college girl not coming home overnight isn't a big deal to
them.'

    'You
should go to the police,' Hilary repeated.

    'And
tell them what? My roommate didn't sleep in the dorm last night? They'll pat me
on the head and tell me to come back tomorrow. I can't do this alone.' Katie stopped
and then spoke again in a rapid voice. 'Listen, you're just over in Door
County, right? That's why I called. If you drove down here, we could talk to
the police together.'

    Hilary
checked her watch and frowned. 'I'm on Washington Island. There's only one
ferry left for the day. I'm not sure I can make it.'

    'Please,'
Katie insisted. 'If we do this together, they'll take us seriously. Otherwise,
they won't start pushing papers around for a couple days, and I'm afraid that Amy
is in trouble right now.'

    Hilary
hesitated. She knew they had nothing of any weight to tell the police. Gary
Jensen may have been creepy, but creepy wasn't a crime. Even so, she shared
Katie's fears that something was wrong. If Amy was at Jensen's house when she
made that odd call, then she might be in danger, particularly if Jensen was in
some way connected to Glory Fischer.

    'OK,'
Hilary said. 'If I make the ferry, it'll still take me a couple hours to get
there. In the meantime, don't do anything, OK? Just wait for me.'

    'Call
me when you're getting close,' Katie said.

    Hilary
hung up. She glanced at the foreboding sky and realized she'd be driving into
heavy rain as she neared Green Bay. A wicked storm was coming. She turned the
car around and accelerated toward the ferry harbor. As she drove, she punched
the speed dial for Mark's number. The phone was already ringing when she
remembered the message he'd left on their answering machine.

    He'd
lost his phone.

    She
was about to hang up when someone answered on Mark's line. It wasn't Mark.

    Cab
found the dead end at Peter Hoffman's house and followed the edge of the dirt
driveway toward the house. He brushed past tree branches, and his black shoes
sank into mossy ground. He noticed boot prints in the mud of the driveway;
someone else had come and gone recently. The house was situated in a clearing
that had been carved out of the woods, in the middle of a lawn littered with
leaves, acorns, and branches. The log beams of the building glistened. Steam
from the furnace spewed out like smoke from a pipe through a white exhaust
vent. Behind the house, where the woods began again, Cab could see a glimmer of
the blue water beyond the cliff.