The Bone House (30 page)

    Hoffman
uncapped the bottle and drank, not noticing the burn in his throat. He had
trouble standing. The cold and wind swirled around his body and picked at his
skin. Darkness grew deeper, making the forest a nest of shadows and hiding
places. He smelled the wood decaying. As he stood in the clearing, memories
stormed his brain. There were good ones and terrible ones.

    It
would have been easy to kill himself right here. Death had no fear or mystery
for him. He'd considered bringing a- shotgun and carrying it down inside the
musty storm cellar and using his toe to reach the trigger. Eventually, someone
would have stumbled upon the ladder in the ground and found him. Eventually,
they would all know what had happened.

    That
was the coward's way. Hoffman had never been a coward. He owed a debt to Delia
Fischer and to Glory, and he couldn't run away from it. It was time to face the
truth.

    The
bottle slipped from his numb fingers and landed in the soft ground without
breaking, but he didn't pick it up. The amber liquid ran out like a river on to
the dirt-covered lid of the storm cellar. He turned, leaving the cabin and all
its memories behind. His boots left dents in the earth. He felt at peace for
the first time in a long time.

    He
thought that he would be able to sleep tonight, which was something that
usually eluded him.

    He
hiked back along the rutted road until he could see the metal gate at the dead end
fifty yards away. The last flicker of daylight made the hole in the woods
bright against the gloomy interior of the forest. Sunlight gleamed against
something. A mirror. A window. A pair of binoculars.

    Hoffman
heard the engine of a vehicle. He didn't see it, but he heard it. It was loud
but got quieter as it disappeared down Juice Mill Lane with a roar of thunder
on the gravel. When he reached the gate, where his own car was parked, he saw
nothing but a trail of dust billowing out of the dirt road. The car had come
and gone in the time he'd been inside the woods.

    Someone
had been watching him. Following him.

    It
didn't matter. He didn't care about the consequences for himself or anyone
else. He knew what he had to do.

    It
had happened when Delia was sixteen. The same age as Glory.

    The
boy's name was Palmer Ford. That was the kind of name your parents gave you
when money was your birthright, when every school you would attend in your life
was private and privileged. He was from Kenilworth, one of those rich Chicago
enclaves with the gilded estates and the lakeside lots. He was the same age as
Delia. That summer, his parents rented a house on Mansion Row in Fish Creek for
the last two weeks of July. Palmer had his own car; he was on his own while his
parents shopped for art and antiques.

    He
did what rich boys do in places like Door County. He went to the local kids to
buy drugs. Delia met him at a Friday night party on Clark Lake, where stoned
teenagers lashed fishing boats together and lay on their backs and watched the
stars. Delia and Palmer wound up next to each other, mixing beer and pot and
dangling their feet in the cool water. They talked. They laughed. They kissed.

    He
was tall and handsome, with tight black curly hair, a hooked nose, and a
muscular physique. An athlete. He played high school football, and college
scouts were already jotting down his name in their rosters. He dressed well, in
Izod shirts, khakis, and boat shoes without socks. He threw money around. It
was impossible not to like someone who always picked up the check for everyone
else. That was what fibs did; they floated in and out of town, skimming the
cream, making friends with kids who wouldn't fit in back home.

    After
that first night, Palmer and Delia spent every evening together. They played
miniature golf. They got ice cream. They kissed more, and she let him inside
her blouse, where he rubbed her nipples with chapped hands. Delia wasn't a
virgin. She'd done it before with a couple boys, one a year since she was
fourteen. Later, the lawyers made it out like she was a slut who threw it
around, but that was a lie. Most of her friends went from boy to boy all
summer. Not Delia.

    Palmer
was a gentleman. That was what she thought. He didn't push her; he stopped when
she told him to stop, even though she could feel his erection through his pants
like steel against her thigh. On the last night, the night before he would
leave her forever and go back to Chicago - which was always how those
relationships went - she figured she would give in. Spread her legs, give him
his prize for all the money he'd spent on her. She didn't have any illusions
that he loved her or that he'd invite her back to Mansion Row to meet his
parents. She was summer candy. You unwrapped it, you ate it, and it was gone.
That was OK. She didn't expect more.

    Delia
never got the chance to wait until the last night. Palmer ran out of patience
with her. Four nights before the end of his vacation, he pulled on to a
deserted side road as he was taking her home at one in the morning. He wasn't
satisfied with feeling her breasts; he pushed up her T-shirt and exposed them.
His fingers went for the buckle on her jeans, then the zipper. It should have felt
right, but it was all wrong, and Delia found herself feeling terrified and
claustrophobic as the weight of his athlete's body held her down. She told him
to stop. He didn't.

    Twenty-five
years later, she could still close her eyes and feel it. The pressure of his
chest, making it hard to breathe. His tight hands locked around her wrists,
leaving bruises. Her head wedged sideways between the leather seat and the
metal car door, her hair across her face. His panting in her ear. The pain,
sweat, blood, saliva, and discharge.

    The
next day, in hushed tones, she'd told the police every detail about the rape.
They'd arrested Palmer. Felix Reich, who was a deputy then, not the sheriff,
had sworn to her and her mother that the boy would pay for what he'd done. He
was young; he was wrong. Palmer didn't pay; his parents did. They bought a
lawyer. They bought the politicians and the county attorney. Delia made it as
far as the deposition, in which a middle-aged female attorney asked in a
horrifying monotone about her sexual history, her period, her drug use, her
grades in school, her preference in birth control devices, her experience in
oral sex, and how often she masturbated. By the end of that ninety minutes, she
felt as if she had been raped a second time. She had a panic attack leaving the
attorney's office. She wound up in the hospital.

    Palmer
Ford was never charged. She never saw him again. Felix Reich came to their
house and apologized to her personally, but she knew it wasn't his fault. You
can't fight a system greased with money and power. Rich boys, spoiled athletes,
can do what they want. She'd learned a lesson that would be proved again and
again in her life.

    There
was no justice.

    Delia
thought about Palmer as she stood on the concrete pier that jutted into the
rippling waters of Lake Michigan near Cave Point Park. He'd become an attorney,
representing victims of sexual harassment in the workplace. That was rich. She
wondered what his clients would think if they knew the truth.

    She
found herself crying. Not for herself, but for Glory. And for Tresa, too. All
these years later, it was no different. There was still no justice.

    Delia
heard footsteps behind her. She turned and saw Troy Geier. She hadn't even
heard him arrive in his 1980s-era Grand Am, which was parked next to her car in
the huge open lot at the end of Schauer Road. She'd been too caught up in her
own thoughts. He came and stood beside her, and she was annoyed by his
presence. She'd never thought there was any substance to Troy. He was slow and
naive, just as his father said. She'd never believed for a moment that Glory
had any serious feelings for him.

    They
stood silently by the lake. The water was nearly black beyond the land. Close
in, by the shore, she saw white seashells and slimy colonies of emerald-green
algae. Waves slurped against the rubber tires fastened to the pier. Her eyes
fell on the T-shaped boat ties dotting the concrete, which looked like tiny
crosses. It made her think of a graveyard. Delia shivered and grew impatient.

    'OK,
I'm here, Troy,' she snapped. 'What do you want? Why did we have to meet out
here?'

    Troy
glanced nervously behind him, making sure they were alone. 'I just didn't think
anyone should see us talking.'

    'Oh,
for God's sake. We work in the same bar every damn day.'

    'I
know, but this is different.'

    'I'm
tired. I want to go home and have a drink, OK? Tell me what's so important.'

    Troy
shifted on his feet and adjusted himself in his jeans. She felt guilty about
treating him badly, but everyone treated Troy badly. He just made you want to
yell at him because he was such a pussy.

    'I'm
sorry, Troy,' she went on. 'I'm just mad at the world. I'm sorry about the
things I said in Florida, too. What happened to Glory wasn't your fault.'

    'No,
you were right,' he said. 'I should have been there for her. I should have
protected her.'

    'Just
tell me what you want, so we can both go home.'

    'I've
been thinking about things,' Troy murmured. 'Nothing's going right, you know? I
don't like this detective. He's acting like I did this, which is nuts.'

    'Cops
treat everyone like they're guilty,' Delia said, it doesn't mean anything.'

    'Yeah,
but is he ever going to arrest Mark Bradley? Is that bastard going to pay for
what he did?'

    Delia
thought about Palmer Ford. Harris Bone. People who never paid. 'I have no idea,
Troy. There's a different set of rules for people like them and people like
us.'

    Troy
punched his hand with a plump fist. 'Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of. I think
he's going to get away with it.'

    'I
hope you're wrong, but there's nothing we can do but wait and pray,' Delia told
him with a sigh. She felt frustrated. Helpless. 'Maybe this time God will come
through.'

    'There
is
something we can do,' Troy insisted.

    'What?'

    'We
can take matters into our own hands.'

    Delia
turned from the lake and stared at the boy, whose round face had a childish
violence about it that she'd never seen in him before. Her heart pounded. 'What
do you mean by that?'

    Troy's
eyes darted around the vacant parking lot again. 'All we need is one night
where he's alone on the island. I have a buddy who works on the ferry. He'll
let me know if Bradley's wife leaves. I can sail over there and take care of it
myself. I'd just need an alibi, someone to say I was with them that night.'

    Delia
thought of all the things she should say to him.
You're crazy. This is
wrong. Don't ever bring this up again.
She knew she had to cut this off now
before it went too far. Before everything got out of control. She had to stop
this boy before he made a terrible mistake.

    The
truth was that she didn't want to stop him.

    'When
you say you'll take care of it,' Delia murmured, 'exactly what do you plan to
do?'

    Troy
opened his jacket and showed her. 'I have a gun,' he said.

    The
downtown street past the White Gull Inn in Fish Creek ended at a beach overlooking
the waters of Green Bay. Cab bought a sandwich of brie, sprouts, and focaccia
bread and found a bench where he could watch the sun set. He'd finally bought a
gray wool overcoat that was intended to reach to his ankles, but only draped as
low as his knees. He was warm for the first time since he'd arrived.

    The
beach was nothing like the beaches he knew in Florida or Spain, where sun gods
lay topless on towels beside water that was still and clear. Instead of flat
sand, the wind created a dune of peaks and valleys. Jagged driftwood littered
the shore. The water tussled with itself, and waves landed in angry slaps. The
disappearing sun looked impotent here, and when it was gone entirely, there was
nothing left but a long stretch of melancholy gray.

    He
felt his phone buzz as a text arrived. When he flipped it open, he saw that his
mother had written to him from London, where it was past midnight. His dark
mood brightened, thinking of her.