The Bone House (21 page)

    Cab
got off the bar stool. 'I've taken up enough of your time, Sheriff. I've got a
ferry to catch. I just didn't want to start nosing around your jurisdiction
without introducing myself.'

    'That
was a smart plan,' Reich agreed. 'If my deputies or I can help you nail
Bradley, you tell me, OK? There's bad blood for me on this one.'

    'I
understand.' Cab nodded at the shot glass, which contained a residue of
bitters. 'Thanks for the drink. I'm not likely to forget it.'

    'I
bet not.'

    'Tell
me something, Sheriff,' Cab added. 'You know pretty much everything that
happens around here. Is there anything else I should know about Glory Fischer?
Anything that could have led to her death?'

    Reich
finished his coffee and wiped his mouth. 'Not a damn thing, Detective. You just
keep your eyes on Mark Bradley.'

    Hilary
spotted the purple Corvette in the boarding line for the last ferry of the day
and saw a lanky man in a business suit atop a bench in the park by the harbor.
She recognized his gelled blond hair and movie star looks, and her hands
tightened around the steering wheel with anxiety. She pulled sharply off the
road.

    Cab
Bolton nodded to her as she climbed out of her car. He held a cell phone high
over his head, aimed at the sky. 'Hello, Mrs Bradley,' he said. 'This is a
beautiful island, but the cell signal sucks. It's driving me crazy.'

    Hilary
didn't waste time with small talk. 'I hope you weren't harassing my husband,
Detective.'

    'God
forbid,' Cab replied pleasantly. He climbed off the bench and stood up to his
full height. Hilary, who wasn't small, wasn't used to anyone towering over her
the way Cab did. He gave her a disarming smile and tugged at the sleeves of his
suit coat. 'Is it always so cold here in late March'

    'If
it's too cold for you, go back to Florida.'

    'Oh,
I just like complaining.' He glanced around the island at the rocky water
beyond the harbor and the thick barrier of evergreens hugging the shoreline.
'This is a barren place to live. Why did you and your husband move up here?'

    'Not
everyone loves the suburbs,' Hilary replied.

    'Were
you running away from something?'

    'Yes,
we were. Smog. Crowds. Traffic. Concrete. Sameness.'

    Cab
took off his sunglasses and dangled them on his fingers. His eyes were
irresistibly blue. 'I did my homework on you, Mrs Bradley.

    People
in the Chicago schools told me you were one of the best teachers they'd ever
had. They hated to lose you.'

    'So?'

    'So I
wonder why you'd give it up to work in a small school in the middle of
nowhere.'

    'I love
teaching. It doesn't matter whether the school is big or small.' She added,
'Mark loved it too, until he got crucified.'

    'That
must be hard, going to work every morning, knowing people think your husband
cheated on you with a student.'

    'I
don't need your sympathy, Detective.'

    'I'm
still curious about why the two of you moved out here. Did Mark have a problem
with girls in the Chicago schools? You may as well tell me. I'll find out
anyway.'

    'There's
nothing to find,' Hilary snapped. She was tired of having her motives
questioned by people who didn't understand them. Cab Bolton wasn't the first,
and he wouldn't be the last. Her family. Her colleagues. Her neighbors. They
were all the same. They looked at her and Mark and wanted a vote in how they
chose to lead their lives.

    'You
know what my mother said to me, Detective?' she went on. 'When I told her that
Mark and I were moving to Door County? She asked me how I could be such an
independent woman for so many years and then give up everything in my life for
a man.'

    'What
did you say?' Cab asked.

    'I
told her the truth. I wasn't giving up anything at all. Mark and I were making
a choice about what we wanted. That's it. That's the big secret. I don't care
if you understand it.'

    'The
two of you were just crazy in love,' Cab said, and she heard cynicism in his
voice.

    'Spare
me the sarcasm, Detective. I'm not in the mood to play games with you.'

    'I'm
not trying to play games. I like you, Mrs Bradley. Really. I think you're smart,
and I respect that you're ferociously protective of your husband.'

    'But
you think I'm a fool.'

    'I
think people aren't always who we think they are,' Cab told her. 'While you're
protecting your husband, you might start protecting yourself, too.'

    'If
you're trying to make me doubt Mark, you can stop.'

    'I
think you have doubts, but you won't admit them to yourself.'

    'Then
you don't understand what it means to have faith in someone,' Hilary said.

    'You're
right. I don't.'

    'If
that's true, I feel sorry for you.'

    'Don't
worry about me.' Cab shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged his body
against the cold. 'Look, let's assume your husband told you he was out on the
beach with Glory. I'm not asking you to say yes or no, but if he was there with
her, there's a good chance he killed her. You're smart enough to realize that.
Maybe he didn't mean to do it. Maybe things got out of control. It doesn't
matter.'

    'I
can see I'm wasting my breath,' Hilary said. 'You're like everyone else around
here, assuming Mark is guilty. You've appointed yourself judge and jury.'

    'I
don't assume he's guilty, but I don't assume he's innocent, either.'

    'Good
night, Detective.' Hilary pointed at the boat, where one of the deck workers
waved to attract Cab's attention. 'You don't want to miss your ferry. I'd hate
to think of you trapped overnight in a barren place like this.'

    Cab
smiled and slid his car keys from his pocket. 'I talked to Sheriff Reich. He's
not a fan of your husband.'

    'I'm
not a fan of the sheriff, either,' Hilary replied. 'He hasn't lifted a finger
to stop the locals harassing us.'

    'He
says Delia Fischer was right. Your husband was having sex with Tresa.'

    'Tresa
was a sweet, misguided kid. That's all there was.'

    'Men
are awfully easy to seduce,' Cab reminded her. 'Women usually find a way to get
what they want.'

    Hilary
was good at reading people, and she thought she could see past the armor in the
detective's blue eyes. His cynicism wasn't just professional. 'Is this about me
or you, Detective?'

    'Excuse
me?'

    'It
sounds like there was a woman who messed with you. You loved her, and she hurt
you.'

    Cab's
face darkened. 'Now who's playing games?'

    'I'm sorry,'
Hilary said, 'but don't take out your past on me and Mark.'

    'I'm
not doing that.'

    'No?'

    'No.
I already told you I'm not assuming your husband is guilty. If the evidence
points to someone else, so be it.'

    'If
that's true, then tell me something. Did Sheriff Reich mention Glory and the
fire?'

    'What
fire?'

    'Glory
lived next door to a man who burned down his house with his family in it,'
Hilary told him. 'She was there when it happened. She almost died.'

    Cab's
mouth puckered into a frown. 'I didn't know that.'

    'Neither
did I until today. Don't you find that interesting? This girl was a witness to
a murder six years ago, and now she gets murdered herself. That's a big
coincidence.'

    She
watched Cab working through the implications of this information in his mind.
Weighing its significance. Deciding if she was blowing smoke at him.

    'Why
do you think there's a connection?' he asked. 'I'm not sure how a six-year-old
crime, even a horrific one, has any relevance to what happened to Glory in
Florida.'

    'Only
that the killer escaped,' Hilary said. 'He's still on the run.'

    'The
man who started the fire is at large? Is that true?'

    'It's
true. His name was Harris Bone. Look it up.' Hilary returned to her Camry and
stood outside the driver's door. She was pleased with herself. Looking at Cab
Bolton and studying his face, she decided that the man might never be an ally,
but he might not be an enemy, either.

    'If
you can get past your obsession with my husband,' she called to him, 'you
should ask yourself the question that I've been asking myself all day,
Detective. What if Harris Bone was in Florida? Think about that. What if Glory
recognized him? What do you think he would do to her?'

    Night
fell on the island two hours later. Without daylight, the temperature dropped
like a stone, dipping below the freezing mark. Gusts off the bay blasted the
land and made the dark trees sway. No one came or went through the canyon-like
waves of Death's Door. The ferries were done until early morning, and the
private boats that traversed the passage stayed in the shelter of the harbors.
The stone outpost of Washington Island was cut off from civilization, isolated
and empty.

    He
drove without headlights. At night, under low clouds, he could barely pick out
the headstones of the island cemetery laid in granite rows beside the road.
Where the cemetery ended, the road disappeared into the forest, and he slowed
to a crawl. The tires of the stolen pickup crept over the gravel as if it was
sandpaper. Ahead of him, he spotted the pale break in the trees where the road
stopped at Schoolhouse Beach. He turned right on a crossroad less than a
hundred yards from the water and navigated blindly round the curves that hugged
the shore. He knew where Mark Bradley lived. It wasn't far. When he was a
quarter-mile away, he saw house lights glowing out of the black forest like
torches. He stopped.

    He
parked in the driveway of a home that was empty for the winter season. He got
out, taking a heavy crowbar with him, nestled in his gloved hand. On the road,
he was invisible as he hiked toward the lights. He stayed close to the
shoulder, where the birch trees leaned over the gravel and waggled their
fingers at him. The wind covered the crunching noise of his boots. Near the
house, he veered into the woods, worming his way through spindly branches and
mushy ground, until he was barely twenty yards from their windows.

    He
could see the Bradleys. They were both inside.

    Mark
Bradley stood by the glass, staring into the darkness directly at him. If it
had been daytime, he would have felt exposed, but he knew the window was
nothing but a mirror of reflections now. Behind Mark Bradley, he saw the man's
wife, holding a near-empty glass of red wine. Hilary Bradley was still dressed
for work in a shimmery silver blouse and black slacks that emphasized her long
legs. She came up behind her husband and whispered in his ear, but he didn't
react.

    Hilary
finished her wine and squeezed her husband's shoulder, but he remained where he
was, a statue. She left the room, and a moment later, light illuminated the
small square of the bathroom window down the hall. There were no curtains. In
the privacy of the island, there was no one to spy. Except now. He could see
her torso framed against the white tile and watched with detached interest as
she undressed. She undid the buttons of her blouse and slid it down her arms
and hung it on a hanger on the back of the door. Her fingers, which were topped
with bright red nails, picked apart the strands of her blond hair, loosening it
and letting it fall over her shoulders. She took off and folded her glasses.
The effect of the innocent gesture was strangely wanton. With both hands behind
her back, she undid the hooks of her bra and lifted it from her chest. Her
breasts were pale, full globes. She unzipped her slacks, stepped out of them,
and peeled down her panties, bending over so that her breasts hung forward and
swayed. She was naked now, but he could see her milky skin only as far as her
hips. As he watched, she stepped into a running shower and disappeared.