The Bone House (45 page)

    '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.

    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 sidestepped 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.'

    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.

    The
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.