The Bone House Part 32

'I don't want her to hear this. You know how she is about Bradley.'

Delia's eyes narrowed. 'What's going on?'

The boy gestured to the house. 'Let's go inside, OK?'

Delia sighed and handed her jewelry tray to Troy as she pushed herself out of the rocker. Smokey scampered between her legs and disappeared through the cat door into the house. 'Take off your shoes,' she snapped. 'I don't want you tracking dirt on the carpet.'

Troy kicked off his shoes on the mat. He followed Delia inside, and she led him back to the kitchen. She needed to get dinner started. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out an egg and a package of ground beef and dumped it into a metal bowl, where she separated the meat with her fingers. She cracked the egg into the bowl and poured in breadcrumbs.

'So what do you want?' she asked Troy again.

Troy sat at the kitchen table and fidgeted. 'You heard about Peter Hoffman?'

'Of course.'

'The word is Bradley did it.'

'I heard about the fight. So?'

'We have to do something,' Troy said.

Delia shot him a look of disdain. She didn't need false hope now. 'Troy, do you really think you're some kind of hero? You? Let it go. Leave this for the men.'

'I can do this,' Troy insisted. 'Bradley has to be stopped.'

'And you're the one to stop him?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, quit kidding yourself and go home,' Delia said.

Troy shook his head. 'I'm going to do this, and it has to be tonight.'

Delia stopped kneading the beef. 'What are you saying?'

'My friend Keith called. He saw Bradley's wife leaving the island on the four o'clock ferry. He's going to be alone.'

Delia realized that something was different about Troy. He was older. Determined. She'd a.s.sumed all along that the boy was puffing out his chest with his threats, but now he'd gone from talk to action.

'Troy, you don't know what you're saying,' Delia said, hesitating. 'This isn't a game. It's serious business.'

Troy reached inside his coat and laid his gun on the table. It was the same gun he'd shown her at the lake, a silver revolver with a fat black grip that must have been thirty years old. 'I am serious.'

'All you're going to do is get yourself killed. That gun looks like it would blow up in your face if you pull the trigger.'

'It's old, but it works fine. Look, I know where I can steal a boat from a summer house, and I can get to the island myself. I'll stay overnight at Keith's and go back in the morning.'

'Why are you telling me this? Do you want me to talk you out of it?'

'No, I want you to get rid of Tresa tonight. Send her to a friend's house for a few hours. Whatever it takes. That way, you can say I was here with you. We were talking about Glory, looking at pictures. If anyone tries to point a finger at me, you can back me up.'

Delia's fingers were thick with raw meat. She pulled them out of the bowl and ran them under hot water in the sink. When they were clean and damp, she wiped them with a towel. She studied Troy, who was watching her intently, his face hungry and mean. He was still just a boy, but he was also big and strong enough to go up against a man. She'd known him since he was a baby, and she knew his father had never stopped treating him like a kid in diapers. He'd always been desperate for approval. Desperate to prove himself. He was going to do this whether she said yes or no.

She spotted Smokey in his cat bed on the floor. The cat was curled into a ball, but its eyes were open, watching the two of them like a co-conspirator. It was as if he knew. It was as if he understood. This was about justice for Glory. That was what they all wanted.

'OK, Troy,' Delia told him in a quiet voice, if you think you can do this, then you go do it. Go get that son of a b.i.t.c.h.'

Tresa backed down the hallway in silent horror. Her blue eyes grew huge. She was careful not to make a sound so her mother and Troy didn't realize she was there. She let herself out through the screen door and closed it quietly behind her. She pulled up the hood on her sweats.h.i.+rt and hurried down the steps. Her mother's car was next to Troy's Grand Am, where she'd parked it moments earlier. She got inside, threw the plastic grocery bags on the pa.s.senger seat, and veered backward on to the road.

Her heart was clear; she had to get to Mark right now. She had to warn him.

She sped down Highway E where the bridge crossed over Kangaroo Lake, and then she swung on to Highway 57, heading northwest toward the top of the county. The last ferry for the island departed in less than half an hour. She didn't know if she had time to make it through the upper towns of the NorDoor.

Her fingers clawed the steering wheel. She thought the tires would fly.

'Stupid, stupid, stupid,' she murmured to herself. She couldn't believe what Troy and her mother were trying to do. They want to kill him. They want to kill him. She wouldn't let them get away with it. She'd be there to stop them. She wouldn't let them get away with it. She'd be there to stop them.

Desolate farmlands whipped past her in the late afternoon gloom. There was almost no traffic, but she studied the dashboard clock with nervous impatience as the minutes ticked closer to five o'clock. In Sister Bay, she pa.s.sed the wavy harbor on her left, where a handful of early sailboats bobbed in the slips, and then she accelerated on to the empty road heading north. The sky felt low over her head. She pa.s.sed ruined barns in overgrown fields, where flocks of birds screeched into flight at the noise of her car. On her left, she saw the soldier-like rows of trees guarding the bluffs over the bay.

She still had fifteen minutes ahead of her and only ten minutes before the ferry left the dock.

Tresa continued deeper into the countryside on the huge zigzag that marked the last miles leading to the port. Headlights beamed ahead of her. She hugged the right shoulder as a car pa.s.sed her heading south. Almost immediately, another car followed, and then another, and then another. She knew what it meant to see so many vehicles in quick succession. The ferry had landed, belching out cars on to the mainland. They'd be loading up for the last journey of the day. She was running out of time.

She saw the last car in the parade. Her eyes caught a glimpse of the driver behind the headlights, and she realized it was Hilary. She braked and leaned on her horn to attract her attention, but when she looked in her rear-view mirror, the car had disappeared into the shadows. Hilary was gone. She slowed, debating whether to turn around, but if she took the time to chase her, she lost her chance of getting to the island. Mark would be alone.

A mile later, Tresa reached the band of S-curves leading to the ferry pier. Her tires squealed as she spun the wheel back and forth, but finally she saw the open water and the boat dock dead ahead. The ferry was still in port, but she saw the gate closing on the boat behind the last vehicle. She hit the horn, blaring it over and over, and flicking the high beams on her headlights on and off. Her car skidded to a stop twenty feet from the ferry deck, and the rear of the car swung wide on the concrete. She shoved the car into gear and climbed out, waving her hands.

Tresa saw Bobby Larch near the boat. She'd gone to school with his daughter Karen. The large man jogged over to her car, his face pink with anger. He wasn't happy with her.

'Tresa, what the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?' Bobby shouted. 'Are you crazy? You could kill somebody driving like that.'

'Mr Larch, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, I really need to be on that ferry.' She fumbled in her purse for cash and held out several crumpled bills. 'I've got the fare right here, but this can't wait, it's an emergency.'

'We're closed up, Tresa, that's it. Catch the first one in the morning.'

'I know, but the boat's right there, please. You only have a couple cars, there's plenty of room. Please.'' Please.''

Larch let out an exaggerated sigh through his rounded cheeks. He waved at the bridge, making a downward swing with his arm. Tresa breathed with relief as the ramp descended again, opening up a path for her car. Larch took her money and pointed at a gap on the port side of the deck for her to park.

'Next time, Tresa, you're out of luck,' he told her. 'Remember that.'

'You're the best, Mr Larch, thank you!'

Tresa drove on to the ferry with a loud metal clang. She got out of the car and tottered on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet on the open boat deck. She hugged herself in the cold, feeling scared, sick, and alone. Her stomach lurched. The boat rolled and then slapped with a downward dip into the waves as it churned beyond the breakwater into Death's Door. When she checked her cell phone, she saw that she had already lost signal out on the water. She couldn't even call Mark to warn him. Instead, she had to hope that she was well ahead of Troy crossing the pa.s.sage.

Tresa felt a splash of water on her cheeks. She looked up and saw rain descending in silver threads out of the dark sky.

The storm that had been threatening all day had finally begun. It would only get worse.

Chapter Forty.

The ferry was well into the channel as Cab arrived at the Northport pier. He watched the boat disappearing into the milky haze. He sat in his car in the deserted port, with the Corvette's engine idling like a caged cat, and pulled out the section of Door County map from his pocket. It told him nothing. The page showed a vacant stretch of northern land, populated by a handful of dead-end roads with colorful names. Lost Lane. Juice Mill Lane. Wilderness Lane. Timberline Road. There was nothing written on it to give him a clue about what this section of the county had meant to Peter Hoffman.

Cab caught a glimpse of movement in his side-view mirror. A fat man with his stomach bulging out of a Packers sweats.h.i.+rt tapped on the door of the Corvette. Cab lowered the window, letting in the drizzle. The man carried a clipboard and wore an employee name tag with a Was.h.i.+ngton Island ferry logo. The badge read Robert Larch.

'Nice car,' the man told him. Water dripped from the brim of his baseball cap.

'Thanks.'

'You need some help here?' he asked.

Cab shook his head. 'No, I came by in case the ferry was late, but I missed it.'

'Yeah, the next one is at eight o'clock tomorrow.'

'Thanks.'

It didn't really bother Cab that he'd missed the boat. He'd only wanted to see Mark Bradley that night to study the man's face when he showed him the key he'd taken from Peter Hoffman's pocket. To see if there was any reaction or recognition there that Bradley couldn't hide.

Someone in Door County knew what that key was and what it meant.

'You're that cop from Florida, right?' Larch said.

'That's right.'

'Yeah, I already talked to the sheriff. Mark Bradley was here a couple hours ago. He borrowed my phone.'

'So I hear. You want to get out of the rain for a minute, Mr Larch? I have a couple questions for you.'

'I'll get the seat wet.'

'It's a rental.'

'Well, sure.'

Larch walked around to the other side of the Corvette and climbed inside. He brought a damp, mildewed smell with him like a wet dog. He ran his hand admiringly over the dash and the b.u.t.tery leather of the seats. 'What does one of these things cost?'

'A lot.'

'I'll bet.'

'So Mark Bradley used your phone this afternoon?' Cab asked. 'Yeah, sounds like I'll have to give it to the cops. Evidence, huh? Just like CSI. CSI. Guess they'll buy me a new one. That's pretty sweet.' Guess they'll buy me a new one. That's pretty sweet.'

'Bradley left the ferry line and then came back?'

'Yup. After he used my phone, he sped off like he was in a big hurry.'

'How long was he gone?'

Larch scratched his chin. 'Ten minutes maybe? Could have been shorter, could have been longer. But hey, Pete lived just down the road.' 'So you heard about Peter Hoffman's murder.'

'Oh, sure. Word travels fast around here.'

'Did you know him well?' Cab asked.

'Who, Pete? Well enough. He's lived here forever. Tough old guy. Sucks what happened to his family.'

'Did you ever see him with Mark Bradley?'

'Pete and Mark? Don't think so.'

'I just wonder why Bradley would have killed him,' Cab said.

'Word is that they had a fight.'

'About what?'

Larch shrugged. 'You're the cop.'

'Do you have any guesses?'

'Beats me. I mean, you think you know people, but you don't. I thought Mark was cool. My daughter liked him as a teacher. Then all this s.h.i.+t with Tresa happened last year. Like I say, people surprise you.'

'Peter Hoffman must have been pretty upset about the accusations involving Bradley and Tresa. He was close to Delia Fischer, wasn't he?'

'Oh, yeah,' Larch agreed, bobbing his head. 'Pete was like a guardian angel to Delia and the girls. It's going to be hard on her with him gone. I hope he left her a little something in his will, you know?'

'What about Glory?' Cab asked. 'What was the buzz about her?'

Larch's brow furrowed into large wrinkles under his cap. 'I'm not sure what you're getting at.'

'I heard she liked to walk on the wild side.'

'Sure, Glory could be a handful. Hard to believe her and Tresa were sisters, you know? Tresa's a bookworm, and Glory was a party girl. That doesn't mean she was asking for trouble.'

'Of course not.' Cab added, 'Were there any rumors about Glory and Mark Bradley?'

'What, you think he was doing them both? That's news to me. Anything's possible, but I never heard about it.'

'What about Peter Hoffman? Could he have known whether something was going on between those two?'