The Bone House

Chapter Thirty

Mark Bradley made the ferry crossing through Death's Door and drove to their favorite open-air market between the towns of Ellison Bay and Sister Bay. It was one of the few farmers' markets that was open year round, baking hot pies daily and lining the shelves with produce canned in the kitchen at the rear of the store. He loved the smell of sugar and flowers and the samples of mustards and cheeses between the open wooden bins. He carried a paper bag through the aisles, filling it as he went. Some of the locals stared at him, but he shrugged it off. He didn't care what anyone thought of him.

He only cared what one person thought. Hilary.

The morning had felt like a turning point between them after a bad, bad night. He'd slept alone, feeling her absence. He hadn't blamed her for doubting him, but he'd worried that doubt was like a genie you couldn't put back in the bottle once it was free. Every day for the rest of their lives, he feared that she would look at him and a single thought would flit through the back of her mind, even if she never said it out loud. Did he?

Then Hilary came home. She arrived on the first ferry to the island in the morning. They didn't say a word. Something shook loose in both of them. Her lips were on his, and his fingers were on her clothes, and they stripped on the new carpet he'd laid in the living room and made frantic love, soundless except for the pace of their breathing. The tenderness of their bruises didn't matter. The graffiti hiding under the fresh paint didn't matter. They were alone and connected for the first time in days, and in the aftermath, as he stroked her bare skin, he felt as if he'd won her faith back.

She was sleeping now. He'd left her a note that he was going to the mainland for a few hours.

At the bakery counter, Mark ordered a loaf of rosemary-garlic bread and a cherry pie, warm from the oven. Everything in Door County was cherries. Fresh cherries, cherry pies, cherry soda, cherry caramels, cherry jam, cherry cider, cherry ice cream, cherry wine. There were cherries in tomato sauce, cherries in cheese, cherries stuffed in peppers, cherries stuffed in olives, cherries stuffed in roast beef. He didn't really even like cherries, but that was like living in Chicago and not rooting for the Bears. He'd become a cherry fan out of sheer necessity, because you couldn't escape them here.

He balanced the pie box on his hand. The tin was hot through the cardboard, and he juggled it. At the end of an aisle, he put down his shopping bag and dipped a pretzel stick in mustard. It was cherry mustard. Of course. He actually liked it. He took a jar and put it in the bag.

Mark heard his phone ringing. He had a special ring tone for Hilary, which was Aerosmith's 'Dude Looks Like a Lady'. She'd got very drunk one night at a bar in downtown Chicago and danced to it solo, and he'd never let her forget it.

'I really needed to sleep,' she said.

'I figured.'

'That was a nice way to come home.'

'Will I get the same treatment tonight?' he asked.

'Come home and see.'

'Soon. I'll swing by the Pig for groceries and get some wine at the liquor store and then head for the ferry. Do you need anything?'

'You.'

'That's a date,' he said.

He hung up the phone and realized he was smiling, because he felt a glimmer of the life they'd enjoyed in their first year. Before Tresa. Before Glory. When they were first living on the island and commuting together to their teaching jobs, he'd wondered what he had done to deserve that kind of happiness. He'd feared in his secret soul that one day fate would want to take it all back and even the score.

Sure enough, fate did.

Even now, he couldn't escape it.

Mark looked up, holding his phone in his hand, still smiling at the thought of going home to Hilary. He found an older man with slicked, jet-black hair standing in front of him. Alcohol wafted from the man's breath. They were nearly the same height, but the man's shoulders were rounded by age, and he held himself at an angle, as if one leg was weaker than the other. The man jabbed a finger in Mark's face.

'I know who you are,' he said.

Mark had no interest in a confrontation with a stranger. He picked up his shopping bag and tried to squeeze past the man in the aisle. 'Excuse me,' he said.

'Do you know who I am?' the man asked sharply.

'I have no idea.'

'My name's Peter Hoffman.'

Mark stopped and took a deep breath. 'OK. All right. I've heard of you. What do you want, Mr Hoffman?'

'I know what kind of man you are,' Hoffman snapped. His voice grew louder and more belligerent. People in the market turned to look at them.

'I'm leaving,' Mark said, but Hoffman blocked his way and put his hand squarely on Mark's chest.

'You stand there, and you listen to me,' Hoffman told him.

Mark felt his heart rate accelerate. His fist tightened around the phone in his hand. He imagined Hilary standing next to him and what she would say. Stay calm. Don't make it worse.

'What do you want?' Mark asked. 'Because if all you want is to accuse me of things I didn't do, then you're in a long line, and you'll have to take a number.'

'You think you're funny? You think this is funny?'

'No, I really don't.'

'Do you have any idea what I lost? My daughter? My grandchildren? Do you know what it's like to watch your family die?'

Mark felt the flush of embarrassment on his face. A crowd was gathering, and he wasn't the sentimental favorite in this contest. 'Mr Hoffman, I do know what you went through. I can't imagine how horrible that was for you. You have my sympathy, you really do.'

'I don't want your sympathy.'

'Then please move aside, so we can both leave in peace.'

'I've killed men, Bradley. More than I want to remember. I did what my country needed me to do, and I don't regret any of it. But you. I don't know how you live with yourself.'

'That's all. We're done here.'

'Then you have the goddamn nerve,' Hoffman continued, his raspy voice growing shrill, 'to hide behind the man who killed my whole family. How dare you. I won't let you do it. I won't let you get away with it.'

Mark pushed past Hoffman, their shoulders colliding. For an old man, Hoffman was solid, and even drunk he was fast. Mark never saw the punch coming. Hoffman's left fist shot up from his hips and connected with the underside of Mark's jaw, snapping his head back. Mark staggered. The pie tumbled from his hand, spilling out of the box as it fell to the floor, spraying cherries and filling on to the ground like blood. His phone flew. Mark lost his balance, stumbling backward into shelves lined with canning jars. The shelves dropped, and dozens of jars clattered downward and rained a mess of sauce and glass. His face and clothes dripped with stains.

Mark regained his balance. He rubbed his jaw, which was stiff, and ran his tongue along the back of his teeth to see if any were loose. He shook his clothes, and bits of glass sprinkled around him. The crowd in the shop around them froze in silence. Hoffman cocked his fists, expecting Mark to retaliate, but Mark had no intention of hitting an old man. He just wanted to get out of the store.

Hoffman rooted his feet so Mark couldn't pass. 'Nobody thinks I've got the courage, but I do. I'm going to make sure you get what's coming to you.'

Mark tried to keep a lid on his temper, which raced to a boil. He felt trapped as people closed in between the aisles. 'My wife and I almost died yesterday, Mr Hoffman. I'll tell you this only once. If anyone comes after us again, it will be the last thing they ever do.'

'You can't threaten me, and you can't scare me.'

'I'm promising you,' Mark said.

'I'm not afraid of someone who messes with teenage girls.'

Mark was tired of denying it. Tired of protesting his innocence. Angry with the world. 'Get the hell out of my way,' he snapped.

'Your wife knows the truth. I told her. She knows what kind of man you are.'

Something snapped in Mark. He couldn't stop himself. By mentioning

Hilary, Peter Hoffman stepped across a line that no one could cross. Mark's muscles wound up into knots, ready to burst. He backhanded his left arm like a club into Hoffman's chest and shoulder. Despite his military bearing, Hoffman was no match for Mark's strength. The blow lifted the man off his feet and drove him sideways, where he crumpled into a card table that collapsed under his weight. Hoffman dropped, hitting the floor hard. Broken glass scored the man's face and drew blood.

'Shit,' Mark hissed under his breath.

The older man squirmed to get up, but he couldn't get his balance. Mark bent over with an outstretched hand to help the man up, but Hoffman swatted the hand away. Mark saw rage and humiliation in his face.

The crowd closed in on all sides, rumbling with menace around him. Mark's claustrophobia increased, and the store suddenly felt small. He needed to get out. He needed a chance to breathe in the open air. He felt arms grasping for him, trying to wrestle him to the ground like a prisoner, but he pushed past the people in the store and bolted for his truck.

Chapter Thirty-One

Hilary hung up her phone with a pang of worry. She'd tried to reach Amy Leigh in Green Bay half a dozen times since the previous night, and each time, the call had gone straight into voicemail.

Wherever Amy was, she wasn't answering her phone.

She knew it didn't mean that anything was wrong. The girl had sounded drunk during her odd phone call. It was possible that Amy was embarrassed about making the call and was now ducking Hilary's attempts to reach her. Things like that happened at college parties. You drank too much, and you no longer knew what you were doing or why. Even so, that wasn't the girl that Hilary remembered.

Her former student had always reminded Hilary of herself in her high school days: confident, bubbly, determined, and sometimes naive. The girl was self-conscious about her larger frame and determined to make everyone forget it when she was on the dance floor. Amy was religious, just as Hilary was, and she came from a solid Chicago family. On the other hand, she was also young, and fun, and prone to impetuous mistakes, like any student away from home.

Hilary just wanted to make sure that Amy was OK. She dialed again. Voicemail. She left another message. 'Amy, it's Hilary. Listen, sorry to be a pest, but could you call me back? I'm a little concerned.'

She wouldn't have made a big deal of Amy's strange call, but the girl had talked about Florida in the midst of her ramblings. More than that, she'd said the one name that made Hilary sit up and take notice.

Glory.

Hadn't she? It had all happened so fast on the phone, and Amy's voice was a drunken whisper, and Hilary had barely understood the words. Amy had been talking about her dance coach, Gary Jensen. Then she'd said it. Glory. Or maybe Hilary had simply had Glory on her own mind, and when Amy said Gary's name again, she'd heard Glory instead. Maybe she was hearing what she wanted to hear. Maybe.

Hilary padded into the kitchen and poured herself a third cup of coffee from the pot. She wore a roomy sweatshirt, running shorts, and white socks. Her blond hair fell loosely about her shoulders; it was clean and wet from her shower. Her body ached, but it was mostly a pleasant ache now. A post-sex ache. She'd come home not realizing how badly she and Mark needed each other, like both of them grasping for a lifeline. The result was a wild, almost animal coupling, the way it had been in the early days, when they were getting to know each other's bodies. She could still feel him where he'd held her and been inside her.

It made her believe in him all over again. He couldn't fake what he felt for her. There had been a time when she, like Amy, was naive about relationships, but she'd left that part of herself far behind in her twenties. She had open eyes about men and about Mark. If Cab Bolton had a witness, then the witness was wrong. Whatever had happened in Florida, it wasn't what everyone else thought.

Florida. Glory.

Hilary was sure that Amy had said Glory's name.

She took her coffee into their bedroom, booted up her desktop computer, and logged into her Facebook home page. When she called up a listing of her online friends, she found Amy Leigh on the third page. She clicked on Amy's profile and saw that the girl had updated her status at 6:47 p.m. the previous day.

Amy's status read: I'm going into the lion's den.

Hilary didn't think that Amy sounded like a girl heading for a college party. She reviewed the rest of the girl's profile page and noticed a comment from another Green Bay student that had been posted earlier this morning. Hey, Ames, missed you in class today.

Hilary didn't like that at all.

She replayed the brief, hushed phone call from Amy in her head. She didn't know if there was anything she could glean from it. The call itself had only lasted a few seconds. Even so, whether Amy had said Gary or Glory, she had definitely mentioned Florida, and more important than that, Amy had been in Florida when everything had happened. She was a dancer, like Tresa. So maybe she saw something. Or maybe she knew something. What?

Amy talked about her coach. My coach. Do you know him?

Hilary knew most of the college coaches who worked with dancers in the Midwest, because she'd had to counsel students on choosing colleges, mostly in Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. She knew the name Gary Jensen, but she'd never met the man. His name had made its way around the dance grapevine when he'd been hired as a physical education instructor at Green Bay and been put in charge of the dance team. She didn't know much about his background, but from what she'd seen, he'd done well with the girls. She remembered an email from Amy two years earlier in which Amy talked about the enhanced physical training regimen their coach had implemented, which was something Hilary always emphasized herself. It wasn't just about coordination and practice; it was about conditioning.

She also remembered something Amy had said in her email back then. It was the kind of throwaway line that a college girl would use. He's a good coach, if you can get past the creepy factor. That was the word she'd used. Creepy.

Hilary wanted to know more about Gary Jensen.

She visited the UWGB web site and drilled down to the athletics page. She found a link to the coach's biography in the faculty roster. The first thing she noticed was that, unlike most instructors, Jensen had no photograph posted on his page. His bio indicated that he'd taught at the school for four years, and she thought it was odd that he'd managed to duck the photo shoots for so long.

His bio said little about his past. He had a bachelor's degree in physical education and a master's in educational leadership, both from the University of Alaska at Anchorage. Based on his years of graduation, Hilary calculated that Jensen was in his mid-forties. At Green Bay, he taught physical education classes for freshmen and coached dance and wrestling. What was missing from his bio was detailed information about his work experience prior to his arrival in Green Bay. The summary was vague: 'Gary has been an adjunct professor and coach at colleges in Alaska, Oregon, South Dakota, and Canada.'

Despite the lack of specifics, his bio raised no red flags. Even so, Hilary kept digging, looking for more information about Jensen's past. She found references to him — or to someone with his name — in articles about sports teams in Anchorage and Portland, but most of the articles were more than ten years old. The name was also common enough that she found thousands of pages on men named Gary Jensen who had no connection at all to Amy's coach.

Then she found a headline on one of her searches that caught her attention.

COACH'S WIFE DIES IN FALL.

She read the brief article from the Green Bay newspaper. Not even four months earlier, Gary Jensen had lost his wife during a rock-climbing vacation in Zion National Park. The couple had been married only three years. Jensen was described as devastated. Heartbroken. The Utah Police had investigated the incident and found no evidence to suggest the death was anything other than what Jensen described. A terrible, tragic accident.

Hilary wondered. Two violent deaths in four months, and both times, Gary Jensen was nearby. A coincidence?

She of all people knew that smoke didn't mean fire when it came to guilt or innocence. Mark had suffered when others jumped to conclusions. She had nothing specific to feed her suspicions about Jensen. No connection to Glory. Nothing in the man's background. Just Amy's unsettling phone call. And a dead wife.

Hilary returned to Amy's profile page. She knew that Amy posted photographs compulsively, and she found an album dedicated to the girl's dance activities. The album included nearly one hundred pictures of Amy and her college teammates in performances and competitions over the past three years. Hilary went through the pictures one by one, eyeing the backgrounds, trying to find a photo in which she could spot Gary Jensen.

She found three pictures. Jensen wasn't the focus in any of them; he was standing behind the girls. When she enlarged the photos, she was only able to obtain two-inch by two-inch squares on her screen, not enough to see his face in detail. She squinted, focusing on his balding crown of hair and his narrow face. One of the pictures was in profile, and she could see the sharp V-angle of his nose. He looked fit and fat-free. She printed out the best of the pictures, and then she ran another search.

This time she hunted for a photo of Harris Bone.

A man with no identity could be anyone at all, she reasoned to herself. Even a fugitive with another dead wife in his past.

The newspapers had all used the same photo of Bone at the time of the fire, a face-front shot from his arraignment. Hilary printed that photo and compared the two. The results were inconclusive. There were some similarities between the two men, but Hilary couldn't be sure if she was looking at a ghost or a stranger. If Gary Jensen was Harris Bone, then he'd lost weight in the last six years and probably had some surgical work done to his facial features. The most she could say was that it wasn't impossible. On the other hand, the faint resemblance may have been nothing more than her own wishful thinking.

Hilary frowned and rocked back in her chair. The only way to be sure was to know what Gary Jensen was doing six years earlier, before he arrived at Green Bay, when Harris Bone was burning down his house in Door County. She ran another search, and this time she found a brief notice about Jensen's hiring. The article was no more than three paragraphs long, but it provided her with the one fact she needed. The university had hired Jensen away from a coaching position at a private high school in Fargo.

One of Hilary's best friends at Northwestern was the director of financial affairs at the same school.

She dialed the number. She hadn't spoken to Pamela Frank in almost three years, but they still sent Christmas cards and the occasional e-mail. When she reached Pam at her desk, she was relieved to discover that news of Mark's problems hadn't made its way to Fargo. The last thing she wanted to do was rehash the events of the past week. Instead, after five minutes of small talk, she got to the point.

'Listen, there's a name I want to run by you,' Hilary said. 'Someone who may have been a coach or teacher at the school a few years ago. Gary Jensen.'

Pam was silent on the phone for a long while. 'OK.'

'Do you know him?'

'I remember him, sure.'

'How long was he there?' Hilary asked.

'Three or four years, as I recall.' Pam was oddly close-mouthed.

'What do you remember about him?'

'Why do you want to know?' Pam asked. 'Is this in conjunction with some kind of employment application?'

'No, nothing like that. It's personal.'

'Oh.' She sounded relieved. 'I have to be careful what I say, Hilary. It's too damn easy to get sued.'

'You know me, Pam. This goes no further.'

'Let's just say we weren't unhappy when he left us to go to Green Bay. That was about four years ago.'

'What was wrong with him?' Hilary asked.

'We didn't have any real evidence,' Pam said. 'It was just rumors.'

'Rumors about what?'

'Sex with students,' Pam said in a clipped tone. 'We investigated but couldn't prove anything. The law says we can't talk about unproven allegations in a reference check, so there wasn't anything we could say to the folks in Green Bay. But it was solid enough that his wife divorced him.'

The second wife wasn't so lucky, Hilary thought.

'What's going on?' Pam asked. 'Is Jensen in trouble again?'

'I don't know.'

'Well, you said it was personal. I assume you're not involved with this guy?'

'God, no.'

'Good. I never heard anything bad about his work as a coach, but if you ask me, he was creepy.'

'I appreciate the information, Pam.'

'How's Mark?'

'Great. Just great.'

'Tell him I said hi.'

'I will.'

Hilary hung up the phone. She didn't know how to interpret what she'd found. Pam knew Jensen from his years in Fargo, which overlapped with the timeline of the fire. That meant one thing: Gary Jensen was not Harris Bone.

So who was he?

Amy and Pam had both used the same word to describe him. Creepy. If Pam was right, the coach also had a history of sexual relationships with underage girls.

Like Glory.

Hilary stared at the fuzzy image of Gary Jensen in Amy's photograph. She wished that the phone call with Amy hadn't ended so abruptly.

She wished she knew where Amy was.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Amy awoke to find that her senses had been stripped. She opened her eyes and saw nothing. She tried to scream, but her mouth was stuffed with a wadded-up cloth that made her cough and choke. When she moved, she found that her wrists and ankles were tightly bound. She was on her back on what felt like a soft mattress. When she turned her head, her brain was still dizzy with pain. She tried to piece her memory together, but her mind was blank, and she struggled in confusion and panic before she remembered Gary Jensen.

He'd done this to her.

He handed her a glass of wine, and she drank. That was when it all started, when she'd become disoriented. He'd put something in her wine. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She'd heard all the stories about date rape drugs, but she had taken the wine without even thinking about it. She wondered what he'd given her. Ecstasy. GHB. Whatever it was, the effects lingered. She kept feeling her head float away.

Think.

She had no sense of time or how long she'd been lying here. It could have been night or noon outside. She breathed through her nose and tried not to think about the saliva gathering in the back of her throat that made her want to gag. The aroma that she smelled was of flowers and dust. It was the same Victorian home smell from last night, and she realized that she was still inside Gary Jensen's house.

Amy heard the noise of the furnace and felt warm air from a vent near the bed. Outside, as the wind blew, a ghostly rattle scraped across the roof above her. She was upstairs. The noise was caused by tree branches rubbing on the metal gutters. Inside the house, below her, she thought she heard voices. It might have been the radio or television, but she felt the floors shudder, and she knew she wasn't alone. Gary was still in the house with her. She didn't know how much time she had before he returned.

There was no way to free herself. Pulling at the tape on her wrists and ankles only seemed to make it tighter. She tried to spit out the scratchy cloth in her mouth, but tape on her face held the gag in place. The only noises she could make were stifled, guttural groans, and she was afraid the effort would cause her to vomit and choke. In frustration, she squirmed frantically on the bed, struggling against her restraints, and she felt the whole structure lift off the ground and bang on the floor.

Shit. He'd heard her.

Footsteps moved below her, coming closer. She heard him on the stairs. In the hallway. Outside the door. As he came inside, she lay completely still, playing possum with her eyes closed, but she knew she wasn't fooling him. She could sense his presence looming over her. She heard him breathing and smelled the musk of his cologne. He switched on the bedroom light, and she reacted involuntarily, opening her eyes and squinting.

'Hello, Amy,' Gary said. His voice was hushed and sounded almost sad. 'I'm glad you're awake.'

She struggled, desperate to escape.

'I'm going to take off the gag now, so we can talk,' he continued. 'Don't scream. No one's going to hear you, and I'll have to get mean, and I really don't want to do that.'

She felt his fingernails on the side of her face, digging under the tape. 'It's better if I do this quickly,' he said. In the same instant, he ripped the tape from her face, and she moaned with the pain of her skin tearing away. He pulled the long ribbon of cloth from inside her mouth, and she gulped air. Her cheeks burned, and she tasted blood in her mouth.

'You fucking bastard!' she screamed. 'Let me go!'

His palm flew across her face, shocking her into silence with a stinging slap. 'Please don't make this harder than it has to be, Amy.'

'What the hell do you want?' she demanded, squirming against the restraints.

Gary dragged a wooden chair from the opposite side of the room and sat down near her. They were in a guest bedroom, dark and brooding like the rest of the house. 'I like you, Amy. I really wish you hadn't put yourself in the middle of this.'

'The middle of what?' Amy asked.

He didn't answer. The back of his fingers caressed her face and under her chin. She turned her head to get away from him, but she couldn't. He touched her lightly with the fingertips of one hand, making a line between her breasts and then following the slope to her right nipple.

'Stop it,' she hissed.

He let his palm rest on top of her breast. 'I have to tell you, you were one of the girls I fantasized about. I dropped hints, and I always hoped you'd take me up on it.'

'Dream on.'

'Was it because I was older? A lot of girls seem to find that exciting.'

'I'm sure you were a pervert when you were twenty-one, too.'

His fingers tightened until she gasped in pain. 'Be nice, Amy.' He released her from his grip, and she breathed heavily.

'What do you want?' she asked.

'I have some questions for you. Mainly, I just want to know who you told.'

'Told what?'

'For starters, you saw me with Glory Fischer in Naples. Who else knows about that? Who did you tell?'

Amy froze. Her roommate's face flashed in her mind. Katie. He was going after her. She also remembered — or thought she remembered — making a phone call to Hilary before she collapsed. Oh, God, what had she done? She'd put them both in danger.

'The police,' she said. 'I told the police.'

He chuckled. 'Nice try.'

'It's true. I have a friend who's a Green Bay cop. I told him I was coming here, just in case you did anything.'

'Really? What's his name?'

'You'll find out when he knocks down your door, asshole.'

'That's clever, but he's not coming. You didn't call the police. I want to know who you did tell.'

Amy sighed. 'OK. You win. I didn't tell anyone. No one knew.'

'I'd like to believe you, but I don't.'

'I didn't tell anyone else. I didn't even know I was right, you idiot. You could have lied, and I would have believed you. You didn't have to do this.'

'The hard part is, I know you, Amy,' Gary said. 'I've seen you practice and perform. You're determined. You don't let go of something until you get it right. It doesn't matter what I told you. You wouldn't quit.'

'So tell me why you killed Glory.'

'It won't make you feel better to know what happened, Amy. Believe me. Glory Fischer was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. She saw something that it would have been better for her never to see. And, like you, she wasn't going to keep the secret. Sooner or later, she was going to tell someone. So let's try this again, Amy. Who did you tell? Do you have a roommate? Do you have a friend on the team?'

'No one else knew.'

'I'm only going to ask once more. Who knew you were coming to see me last night?'

'Nobody.'

'God, I hate to do this, Amy.' He took his hands away from her body. Sharply, fiercely, he hit her again, his fist nearly breaking the bones in her face and wrenching her neck sideways. She heard him wince himself from the force of the blow. Her cheek and eye throbbed, and she started crying involuntarily.

'Stop,' she begged him.

'Let's go another way. Who did you call? What did you say last night on the phone?'

'I don't remember,' she sobbed. Her emotions soared between helplessness and fury. Her head spun with pain.

'I have your phone. I know the number you called. Who was it?'

'I don't remember making any call.'

'I heard you talking in the bathroom. What did you say? Did you mention my name?'

'You drugged me. I didn't know what I was doing.'

Gary sighed. 'You could make this a lot easier on yourself, Amy.'

'I don't remember anything.'

But she did remember. Through the haze of the drug, she remembered the sound of Hilary's voice, and she remembered telling her about Gary. And Glory. She hoped that Hilary hadn't written off the call as drunk ramblings from a former student; she hoped that she would tell someone, send someone. That was the only thing she could pray for. Help.

Katie would wonder where she was. Hilary would try to reach her. One of them, both of them, would send the police here. She had to stay alive until then, and that meant not giving Gary what he wanted.

It was as if he could read her mind.

'Rescue's not coming,' he told her. 'If that's what you're hoping for, give it up. By the time you're missing long enough for the police to care, this will all be over. I don't want to be ugly. Sooner or later, you'll tell me the truth, so you're only hurting yourself the longer you wait.'

'Go fuck yourself.'

Amy cringed, expecting another blow, but it didn't come. He sat in the chair silently, not moving.

'Unless you tell me, I'll have to start choosing for myself. I'll start with the people you care about. Your parents. Your friends. Maybe you don't care what happens to yourself, but what about them? Do you want them to suffer too? They don't have to, Amy. You can spare them. Tell me.'

'I didn't tell anybody. That's the truth.'

'You're lying,' Gary said. 'That's not going to save you.'

'Why the hell are you doing this?' Amy asked him. She felt blood bubbling out of her mouth. 'Why? Is it because of your wife? You killed her, too, didn't you?'

Gary inhaled loudly. 'I loved my wife.'

'So you pushed her off a cliff. Did Glory find out about it?'

'Don't try to understand me,' he advised her. 'This isn't psychology class. This is about life or death for the people you love. Believe me, I know how painful it is to watch someone you love die.'

'Everyone knows you were having an affair.'

Gary leaned in closer. 'Everyone? Who's everyone? Who told you that?'

Amy bit her lip and said nothing. She cursed herself in her head. She didn't want to give him a roadmap that would lead him anywhere near Katie. Or Hilary. Tell someone, send someone.

'OK, Amy, we'll do it the hard way.'

He stood up, and she could feel his presence above her, growing more ominous. She tensed, waiting for whatever was coming next, knowing it would be bad. Even so, she swore to herself that she wouldn't cry and she wouldn't beg. Not to him. Not in front of this monster. She just had to buy time and hope that someone would look for her. Come to the door. Find her.

At that moment, someone did.

Downstairs, she heard a muffled noise, and she realized it was the sound of the antique doorbell chiming. Gary flinched. Amy sucked in a breath to scream, but he anticipated her intention and was on her immediately, clapping a hand over her mouth. He squeezed her jaw, forcing her lips open, and jammed the ribbon of wet cloth back inside, choking her, cutting off any sound from her throat. When he was done, he slapped tape back across her mouth. She was mute again, other than a low squealing through her nose.

'I'll be back,' Gary said. He slammed the door of the room shut as he left.

She heard his muffled footsteps as he ran down the stairs. She fought, trying to move the bed and make a noise that would be heard below her, but she was running out of strength. She kept breathing through her nose, struggling to swell her lungs, but she began to cough bile into the thick gag. Panic made her gasp for air. Help me.

Somewhere in the house, she heard him talking. Gary had answered the door. She wanted to cry, knowing help was so close and yet out of her reach.

Find me.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Cab held up the folder with his Florida badge to the man who opened the door.

'Mr Jensen? My name is Cab Bolton with the Naples Police. I'm investigating the murder that occurred at the hotel where you were staying last Sunday. I believe you talked to someone in my department about the events you witnessed from your room that night.'

Gary Jensen looked flustered by Cab's arrival. His face was flushed, and he peered nervously over his shoulder. 'Oh. Oh, yes, Detective Bolton, of course. You took me by surprise. Your people told me that there would be a follow-up interview, but I just assumed it would be by phone. I didn't think you would come all the way up here to talk to me in person.'

'The victim in this case was from Door County,' Cab told him, 'so I've been conducting an investigation in that area. Since you're only an hour away, I thought it would be easiest to talk to you face to face.'

'Yes, of course.'

'I stopped by the university, and they told me you were home today.'

'Right. Good. I'm glad you found me.'

Cab stared past Gary Jensen at the gloomy interior of his house. 'Do you mind if I come in?'

'Oh, yes, yes, I'm sorry. Please. Come in.'

'I apologize if this is a bad time. I should have called you first. It's a bad detective's habit, I'm afraid. We show up unannounced.'

'No, come in. This is fine.'

Jensen swung open the door and gestured with his hand. Cab stepped over the threshold into the foyer, which was dimly lit. Ahead of him, twisting stairs with an ornate iron banister wound to the second level. He saw a living room furnished with dark wood and heavy furniture immediately on his left, but Jensen pointed the opposite way down the hallway. The walls were lined with framed photographs of college teams in action.

'I could use a Coke while we talk,' Jensen said. 'I'm pretty dry. Do you mind?'

'Not at all.'

Jensen led him through swinging doors into a compact kitchen with dated yellow appliances. He checked his watch and switched on a radio as he passed the counter, and Cab heard the dialogue of a sports talk program. The volume was oddly loud. Jensen opened the refrigerator and popped a can of Coke and gestured at Cab.

'You want one?'

'No, thanks. Do you mind turning down the radio?'

Jensen made the volume marginally lower. 'Sorry, the spring training report is coming up next. The Brewers are in Maryvale.'

Cab shrugged but didn't protest further. He took a seat at the kitchen table and pointed the chair outward where he could extend his legs. Jensen took a seat opposite him and drank his Coke straight from the can. The man acted uncomfortable, but Cab wasn't surprised. Most people lost their bearings when a police officer showed up on their doorstep. He liked the element of surprise, before witnesses had a chance to practice their story.

Other than his demeanor, there was nothing unusual about Gary Jensen. He was middle-aged but athletic, with a narrow face and pointed chin. There was no pouch of fat on his neck. He wore a navy blue fleece hoodie and mesh sweatpants and brightly colored Nikes. It was easy to imagine him as a college coach, intense and competitive, hollering on the sidelines at students who were substantially taller and larger than he was. The longer Jensen sat with Cab, the more the man made a show of relaxing. He eased back into the chair. A smile came back to his mouth, but it looked artificial and forced.

'Am I keeping you from something, Mr Jensen?' Cab asked.

The coach shook his head. 'Not at all.'

'I appreciate your calling us about what you saw.'

'Of course. I would have called sooner, but our bus left early in the morning on Sunday, so I had no idea that something had happened at the hotel. I saw news reports during the week, and I realized I should get in touch with your department.'

'I'm glad you did. I'd like to go over some of the details again, if you don't mind.'

'Yes, sure.'

'Are you a full-time employee at the university?' Cab asked.

'That's right.'

'Do you do anything other than coach?'

'I also teach physical education.'

'Did any other university employees participate in this trip to Florida?'

Jensen shook his head. 'No, it was just me and the students. We contracted with a local bus service for a vehicle and driver.'

'Did anyone else share your hotel room with you in Florida?'

'No, it was just me.'

Cab's eyes flitted to the ring on Jensen's left hand. 'Your wife didn't come with you?

'Sorry, I'm no longer married,' Jensen explained, twisting the ring. 'My wife passed away last year.'

'I'm very sorry.'

'Thank you.'

'So on Saturday night, you were alone in your room?' Cab asked.

'That's right.'

'Tell me what happened.'

Jensen took another swig from his can of Coke. 'I couldn't sleep. You know what hotel beds are like. Around two thirty or so, I took a cigar out on the balcony and figured I'd relax with a smoke. My room faced the Gulf. Great view. Big moon. I think I was on the tenth floor. Anyway, I sat outside for about half an hour or so. I don't know what time it was, but at some point, I saw a man walking from the hotel down to the beach right below me.'

'Can you describe him?' Cab asked.

'I wish I could. It was pretty dark. He looked like a fairly big guy, but from that height, it's hard to tell. All I saw was his yellow tank top. It was bright, so it was easy to spot. I'm not sure I would have remembered him, but I saw him again a while later, down close to the water. It looked like he was making out with a girl.' 'Where did this girl come from?' Cab asked.

Jensen shook his head. 'I don't know.'

'Did you see her leave the hotel?'

'No, I only saw the guy. I noticed her for the first time when the man approached her on the beach. He came from the north, and she was already there when I spotted them. I couldn't see anything about her, other than it was a girl in a bright bikini.'

'Are you sure it was the same man you saw leaving the hotel?'

'Well, it was the same shirt,' Jensen said.

Cab stopped and looked up at the water-stained ceiling as he heard a heavy thud on the floor overhead. Jensen's face seized with dismay.

'I'm sorry, did you say you live alone now?' Cab asked.

The coach looked embarrassed. He spread his hands as if to say: You caught me. 'I live alone, but I'm finally at a point where I don't always sleep alone, Detective.' 'Ah.'

'You can see why I was a little surprised when you showed up. I was sort of occupied, if you know what I mean.'

'I understand,' Cab told him. 'Just to confirm, you didn't have anyone in the hotel with you in Florida. Right?'

Jensen nodded. 'That's right.'

'What happened when this man in the yellow shirt approached the girl on the beach?' Cab asked.

'They talked for a while,' Jensen said. 'Then it was more than talking.'

'Meaning what exactly?'

'I could see them kissing.'

'Are you sure that was what they were doing?' Cab asked.

Jensen hesitated. 'I just assumed it was what they were doing. Their arms were wrapped around each other, so that's what it looked like. You don't think he could have been hurting her, do you?'

'You tell me.'

Jensen rubbed his hands over his balding head. 'I'm really not sure. I mean, you see two people together like that, you assume they're making out, but now that I think about it…' His voice trailed off, then he started again. 'I don't know, maybe she was struggling. I hope I'm wrong. I hate to think I was watching him kill that poor girl, and I didn't do anything.' 'What happened next?' Cab asked.

'I went back inside and went to bed.'

'You didn't stay on the balcony and watch?'

Jensen smiled. 'I'm not a pervert, Detective. I wasn't going to hang around to see if they had sex. Besides, by that point, I could barely keep my eyes open.'

'What time was this?'

'It must have been a little after three. I remember noticing the clock shortly after I got back in bed, and it was just about three fifteen.'

'Could you identify the girl or the man you saw?' Cab asked.

'No, as I told you, it was too dark.'

'Have you seen a photo of the girl who was killed?'

Jensen nodded. 'Yes, I've seen photos of her in the paper.'

'Do you remember seeing her at all during the time you were in Florida?'

'No, I don't. I'm not saying I didn't, but there were teenage girls all over the hotel. I don't remember her specifically.'

'Have you told anyone else about what you saw?' Cab asked.

'No, I didn't give it a thought until I saw what had happened. Then I called your department.'

'What about the girls on the Green Bay team? Did any of them mention seeing anything unusual in Florida? Have you heard any discussion among them about the murder or about the girl who was killed?'

'No, I haven't.'

'I'd like a list of the girls who were on the school trip with you. As long as I'm in the area, I'd like to interview them personally.'

'You mean today?' Jensen asked.

'If that's not a problem.'

'No, no, no problem. I could just jot down a list from memory right now, if you'd like. I don't have their contact information, though. You'd have to get that from the university.'

'That would be fine,' Cab told him.

'It'll take me just a minute.'

Jensen got up and opened a kitchen drawer and retrieved a notepad and a pen. He scribbled names on the paper, then hesitated with his pen poised in the air, as if he was trying to remember. 'I heard you have a suspect,' he told Cab. is that true? Is that the man I saw?'

'I can't comment on that,' Cab said. 'It would be much better if you didn't read any more articles about the case, Mr Jensen. You shouldn't talk to anyone about it either. If this goes to trial, you'll need to testify, and you'll be asked about things that might have influenced your memory.' 'I understand.'

He finished writing, tore off the page from the pad, and handed it to Cab, who studied the list of names.

Tracey Griffiths

Bracey Berard

Katie Baumgart

Nancy Gaber

Sally Anderson

Paula Davis

Michelle Palmer

Lenie Korbijn

Laura Hansen

Carol Breidenbach

Deb Bodinnar

'This is the whole team?' Cab asked.

Jensen nodded. 'Those are my girls.'

Cab folded the paper and slid it into the pocket of his suit coat. He stood up. 'Thank you for your help, Mr Jensen. I think that's all for now. If I have any more questions, I'll give you a call.' 'Of course.'

Jensen led him out of the kitchen. As the coach opened the front door, Cab glanced up the stairs, and Jensen followed his eyes and gave him an awkward smile.

'I'll let you get back to what you were doing,' Cab told him. 'Thank you. Good luck with your investigation, Detective.' Jensen closed the door, and Cab ducked through the swaying trees to the Corvette. He climbed inside, eyeing the dirty sky, which promised to open up in heavy rain before it was night. The wide street was empty of traffic. The upstairs level of Gary Jensen's house was barely visible through the thick web of maple branches, but he could see curtains drawn across all of the windows.

He wasn't impressed with Jensen as a witness. The man qualified everything he'd seen with 'maybe' and 'I'm not sure', as if he'd begun to regret opening his mouth in the first place. A smart defense attorney like Archibald Gale would shred him on a witness stand. There was also something about Jensen's demeanor that made Cab uneasy. He didn't like him.

He retrieved the coach's list from his pocket. He wanted to know what the rest of the Green Bay dance team had seen in Florida. He was ready to drive back to the university, but before he pulled away from the curb, his phone rang.

Cab heard a raspy voice when he answered. 'Detective, my name is Peter Hoffman.'

He searched his memory and was coming up blank when the man added, 'My son-in-law was Harris Bone.'

'Yes, of course, Mr Hoffman,' Cab said. 'What can I do for you?'

'We need to meet.'

'I know. You're on my list. Where do you live?'

'I'm not far from the ferry landing in Northport. When can you be here?'

Cab checked his watch. 'I'm about ninety minutes south of you right now, Mr Hoffman. I'm in Green Bay, and I have some other interviews to conduct in the next few hours. Can I come by your place first thing in the morning?'

'This can't wait,' Hoffman told him curtly.

Cab paused. He was curious. 'What is it you want to talk about?'

'I have information for you, Detective. It's urgent.'

'What kind of information?'

Hoffman practically spat into the phone. 'I can help you prove that Mark Bradley is the man who killed Glory.'

Chapter Thirty-Four

Mark waited at the pier in Northport for the three o'clock ferry back to Washington Island. He couldn't see the boat out on the water through the fog and haze. His jaw ached where Peter Hoffman had connected with an uppercut of his fist, and he worked it carefully with his hand, feeling a loose molar. He sat and fumed, angry at himself for losing control. It didn't matter that he'd been assaulted and provoked by the old man's threats. He wished that he had ignored Hoffman and pushed his way out of the store. Instead, news of their altercation was probably already flying through the county.

Impatiently, Mark got out of his truck. His Explorer was the second vehicle in line for the ferry, and no one had pulled up behind him. It would be a quiet ride back to the island. He walked with his hands in his pockets down to the end of the pier, where he stared out at the white boulders of the breakwater and the choppy waves in the passage. The island wasn't even five miles away, but it was invisible on the mist-shrouded horizon. The afternoon sky was threatening and black. It mirrored his mood. The bright spirit in which he'd started the day, in Hilary's arms, had descended into a storm of depression.

He realized that he hadn't called Hilary yet to tell her what had happened between him and Peter Hoffman, but he wondered if she already knew. Their friend Terri in Fish Creek was a lightning rod for gossip, and if word of the fight had reached her, her first call would have been to Hilary. On the other hand, if his wife knew, she would have called him. His phone hadn't rung all day.

Things were going from bad to worse. Their lives were spinning out of control. He didn't know how to stop it.

Mark reached into the pocket of his jacket but discovered that his phone wasn't where he usually kept it. He patted all of his other pockets and couldn't find it. Thinking that he had left it on the passenger seat of the truck, he tramped back from the shore to his Explorer. He checked the front seat and the glove compartment and then under the seats, but his phone was missing.

He remembered that he'd dropped it in the farmers' market when Hoffman hit him. In the confusion, he'd never picked it up again. He cursed and shook his head. There was no time to drive back to Sister Bay. If he skipped the three o'clock ferry, the last ferry of the day wasn't for two more hours. He'd have to let his phone go until tomorrow.

He walked twenty yards to the ticket booth for the ferry. The crews on the boats and at the pier all knew him. In the old days, they'd shared jokes and talked sports with him while he waited, but not anymore. They were like everyone else now, believing the rumors. The fat man in the booth, Bobby Larch, slid open the customer window when Mark tapped on it. He was reading a copy of Playboy, eating fries from a styrofoam box, and drinking a bottle of Baumeister's cherry soda. His daughter Karen had been in Mark's English class during his first year teaching in Fish Creek, and Bobby had told Mark back then how much Karen had raved about his class. He was her favorite teacher.

None of that mattered now. In the days since Tresa, every parent looked at him as a predator.

'Hey, Bobby,' Mark said.

The man barely looked away from his magazine. 'What do you want?'

'Can I borrow your phone?'

'Why?'

'I lost mine,' Mark told him. 'Come on, Bobby, I want to call my wife.'

Bobby shrugged and dug in the pocket of his dirty jeans. He handed a Samsung flip-phone to Mark. It was warm and greasy.

'Thanks,' Mark said. He added without thinking, 'How's Karen doing? Is she in college now?'

Bobby didn't answer and slid the booth window shut with a bang.

Mark dialed his home number. The phone rang over on the island, but after four rings, the answering machine took the call. He left a message: 'It's me. I lost my phone if you've been trying to reach me. I'll be on the three o'clock. I'll see you soon.'

He decided to dial his own mobile number to see if someone had found his phone and turned it in at the market. He wasn't anxious to be showing his face in there again after what had happened.

Mark dialed.

A man answered on the second ring and said in a gravelly voice, 'Who is this?'

'This is Mark Bradley. I think you've got my phone.'

'Bradley,' the man said. 'I was wondering when you'd call me.'

Mark recognized the voice now. He wished he hadn't dialed the number. It was Peter Hoffman. The old man must have picked up his phone at the store and kept it. Instinctively, Mark's temper, which he'd tried to tame all day, flared again. He struggled to keep a lid on his emotions.

'Mr Hoffman, I'm sorry about what happened between us. Really. I hope you're OK.'

'Don't you worry about me, Bradley. I just hope that glass jaw of yours is broken.'

Mark didn't take the bait. 'I didn't call to pick up where we left off. I just want to get my phone back.'

'I've got it right here,' Hoffman said.

'I don't know why you took it with you. I wish you'd left it at the store.'

'I could have done that, but then you wouldn't have had to face me again, would you? If you want your phone back, you can come and get it.'

Mark checked his watch. The ferry was due in ten minutes. Hoffman's home wasn't far, but he doubted that he had time to go to the man's house and make it back to the port in time. He also didn't think it would be a simple matter of Hoffman handing him the phone. The man wanted another confrontation.

'I have a ferry to catch.'

'In other words, you don't have the guts to look me in the eye. I suppose tomorrow you'll send your wife to collect it.'

Mark grimaced, because that was exactly what he'd planned to do. Hilary wouldn't let him cross Hoffman's doorstep. Not with what had already happened.

'Good night, Mr Hoffman,' he said.

'Yeah, you hang up, Bradley,' the man cut in. 'Go back across Death's Door and get a good night's sleep. But let me tell you something. I already talked to that detective in Florida. He's coming to see me.'

'Good for you.'

'When he knows what I know, he'll be heading out there to arrest you, Bradley.'

Mark slapped the phone shut, cutting off the abuse from Hoffman's mouth. He got out of the truck. He smelled the approaching downpour in the thick air. He shivered and hiked to the ticket booth, where Bobby Larch slid open the window and took back his phone.

'Thanks,' Mark said.

'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.

Chapter Thirty-Five

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.

Chapter Thirty-Six

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.

He noticed something else, too. From the woods at the rear, a second set of footprints made impressions in the long grass leading toward the back door.

Two visitors. One in front, one in back.

Cab approached the porch warily. He saw tools strewn across the floor and patches of sawdust. The front door was closed. He climbed the steps, but he couldn't see inside, because the drapes were closed across the windows.

He rang the bell. When no one answered, he pounded loudly.

'Mr Hoffman!' he called. 'It's Cab Bolton.'

There was no response from inside.

Cab nudged the door with his shoulder. When it didn't open, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully twisted the knob. The door was locked. He stood on the porch, hands in his pockets, and surveyed the yard. To his left, beyond the house, he saw a detached garage. The door was open; a car was parked inside. Rutted tracks led in and out, but they didn't look recent. Hoffman hadn't driven anywhere today.

His gut sounded an alarm. He reached inside his coat and extracted his service Glock, which he cradled loosely in his hand. He descended the steps and followed the house to the rear, noting the footsteps in the grass, which were mostly indistinguishable, with no visible tread marks. The rear door of the house was ajar. Beyond the door, the frame of the roof angled upward, and huge windows looked out on the water. In the yard, he saw a lonely deckchair beneath the shade of a mammoth oak tree, near the sharp drop-off to the shore. In the stretch of gray-blue on the horizon, he spotted a dot of white where a ferry cruised through the passage toward Washington Island.

Cab approached the open door and called again. 'Mr Hoffman!'

The door led into the dinette area of the kitchen. At the doorway, he stepped out of his loafers and crossed the threshold in black socks. He was near a butcher block table placed in front of the windows. The kitchen was on his right. The house was warm, and in the shut-up space, he smelled the metallic smoke of gunpowder. Above it was something fetid, a dead smell of excrement and blood.

Cab swore under his breath.

He followed the hallway toward the front of the house, passing doors for two bedrooms on his right and stairs to a loft. At the end of the hallway, the house opened up into a large living room with a high ceiling. He saw the body lying halfway on the carpet behind the front door. Unspent shotgun shells gleamed in the floor. Blood made a spider on the tile of the foyer and soaked into a pool in the fibers of the carpet. Peter Hoffman was a limp mess of sprawled limbs. He had no face. The blast from the gun had obviously been dead on into his skull while the man lay on the ground.

Cab reached for his phone. He was about to call Felix Reich when he stopped.

He knew what would happen when the crew from the sheriff's department arrived. Reich would take a statement and get him out of the house, which was exactly what Cab would do if it was his own turf. Before he was banished, Cab wanted to know if Hoffman had left behind any clues about what he intended to tell him. Whatever information the man had, it had been enough to get him killed.

He backtracked to the kitchen. Based on the cane and pushed-back chair, he concluded that Hoffman had been sitting at the dinette table before he made his way to the front door and was shot. There was nothing on the table except a pen and an open bottle of Jameson's. On the kitchen counter, he saw the man's bulky key ring and a pair of glasses. He checked the master bedroom, which was impeccably neat, and spotted a computer and printer on one wall. When he lifted the top of the printer, the glass was clear. The wastebasket beside the desk was empty. He pulled open the top drawer and found pens, paper clips, staples, and a neatly folded Door County map. That was all.

He did a quick review of the filing cabinet near the man's desk, but the folders mostly revealed tax and property records, which would take hours to study in detail. He nudged the computer mouse with the knuckle of his finger, but the computer had been powered down.

Cab frowned. Nothing.

He checked his watch and knew the clock was ticking. He needed to call the sheriff. He made his way back to the living room and stared down at Peter Hoffman.

'What did you want to tell me?' he said aloud to the corpse at his feet.

At that moment, the body began to sing to him in Steven Tyler's voice. It was an Aerosmith song. 'Dude Looks Like a Lady.'

Cab started in surprise before realizing that the music came from the dead man's pocket. It was a phone. Cab bent down and used two fingers to reach inside Hoffman's right pocket and slide the phone into his hand. He answered neutrally. 'Yeah?'

'Hello? Mark? Who's this?'

'You first,' Cab said.

'This is Hilary Bradley. I don't know who you are, but I think you've got my husband's phone.'

Cab shook his head in sad disbelief. This wasn't going to be a happy call, it's Cab Bolton, Mrs Bradley.'

'Detective?' He could hear her freeze with shock and surprise. 'How on earth did you get Mark's phone?'

He didn't answer her question. 'Do you know how he lost it?'

'No, I don't.'

'Where is your husband now?'

'As far as I know, he's on the ferry back to the island. What's going on? Where did you find his phone?'

'I can't tell you that right now.'

'Excuse me?'

'You won't be able to get it back.'

'Why not?'

'I'm sorry,' Cab said. 'That's all I can say.'

'Is something wrong?'

'I'm sorry,' he repeated. 'I have to hang up now. It would be better if you didn't call this number again.'

He ended the call before she could say anything more. She'd know what it was all about soon enough. The sheriff was going to be out for blood, finding Mark Bradley's phone in the pocket of Peter Hoffman, lying dead in his own house. Peter Hoffman, who was Reich's lifelong friend. Peter Hoffman, who swore he had information that could help put Mark Bradley behind bars.

He bent down next to Hoffman's body. As he slid the phone back into the dead man's pocket, his fingers grazed something else. Paper. He extracted a single folded sheet with his fingertips, and when he unfolded it, he found an enlargement of a map showing a small portion of the NorDoor section of the county stretching west to east from the town of Ellison Bay to Newport State Park. Nothing was written on the page itself.

Curious, Cab reached into Hoffman's pocket again and dug to the bottom. This time he found something metal. He pulled it out and cupped it in his hand.

It was a key.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Hilary saw Mark's face as he drove off the ferry and knew that something had gone terribly wrong. He drove by her, oblivious to everything around him. His face was pale. His eyes were blank and distracted. She hit the horn to get his attention, and he pulled off the road when he spotted the Taurus. He got out and walked toward her. He climbed into the passenger seat, but when she hugged him, he sat motionless, not responding.

'What is it?' she asked. 'What's wrong?'

'Peter Hoffman's dead,' Mark told her.

'Oh, my God, what happened?'

'I don't know, but I know who they're going to blame for it.'

Hilary stared at the ferry port. They were behind schedule, and she knew they'd be rushing to get the half-dozen cars on board. 'Back up, back up,' she told him. 'What the hell's going on?'

Mark ran his hands through his hair. 'Hoffman confronted me at the market. He was spouting off about how I'd killed Glory. It got physical. He hit me. Cracked me right in the jaw.'

Hilary closed her eyes. 'What did you do?'

'I pushed him, and he fell. Everybody saw it happen.'

'You mean he died? Right there?'

'No, no, no, no, but everyone knows there was a fight.'

'Mark, you're not making any sense. What happened to your phone?'

'I dropped it at the store when Hoffman hit me. When I realized it was gone, I called my number, and Hoffman told me he had it. So when the ferry was delayed, I drove to his house. I wanted to apologize, get my phone back, and get the hell out of there. But he was dead. Someone blew his head off. It was so recent that I could still smell it. It must have happened in the fifteen minutes or so between when we talked and I drove over there.'

'What did you do?'

'I left. I ran.' He added, 'I didn't kill him, Hil. It wasn't me.'

Hilary cupped her hands in front of her mouth. Her mind raced. 'They already found your phone,' she murmured.

'What?'

'I called you. I forgot about your message. Cab Bolton answered. He must have been at Hoffman's house, which means he found the body and your phone.'

Mark shook his head. 'They're going to crucify me.'

Hilary wanted to tell him he was wrong, but she wasn't going to fool either of them with false hope. He was the obvious suspect. The accusations, the fight, the phone calls, all of it played against him, and all of it could be proved by witnesses and records. She felt a sense of uneasiness herself, however much she tried to pretend she was immune. Hesitation. Doubt. Every time she quelled it, something happened that pushed her deeper into shadow.

He saw it in her face. 'Even you're wondering if I'm a murderer.'

'I'm not.'

'You're thinking, he's got a temper. Hoffman pushed him too far, and he lost it and killed him.'

'Don't talk that way, Mark.' She didn't want him to know what was in her head. He did have a temper. He had been pushed too far. None of that mattered now.

Mark reached out and covered her hand. 'I'm not lying. I didn't do this. Any of this. Not Glory. Not Hoffman.' He stared at her and added, 'Not Tresa, either.'

'Tell me exactly what you did at Hoffman's house.'

'I wasn't there for more than a minute or two. I drove to his house from the port. I walked up the driveway, and I saw that the front door was open. I called Hoffman's name, but he didn't answer. I went inside and found him in the hallway on the floor.'

'What did you do next?'

'I got the hell out of there. I slammed the door behind me, and I ran to the car and went back to the ferry port.'

Hilary glanced at Mark's hands. He was wearing leather gloves. 'Did you have the gloves on when you went inside the house?'

'Sure.'

'So you didn't leave fingerprints?'

'I guess not.'

'What about footprints?'

Mark nodded. 'I left plenty.'

'Get rid of your shoes,' she told him.

'What?'

'Drive to a deserted beach before you go home. Throw them into the lake as far as you can. Make sure no one sees you.'

'That's crazy. I'm not going to do that.'

'Mark, we can't let them prove you were there. The footprints are the only things to put you at his house. Get your clothes in the washer; too. You may have tracked blood from the scene.'

'Hil, forget it. I borrowed a phone at the pier. I called my number, and I pulled out of the ferry line. You don't think people will remember that? If I try to cover it up, it will only make me look guilty.'

He was right, but Hilary didn't want to hear it. Her voice rose as she felt anger and despair carrying her away. 'You can't give them rope to hang around your neck. They're not going to care about the truth. All they want is to put you in prison. They want to take you away from me, and I am not going to let that happen.'

Mark reached out and embraced her. She felt as if they were holding on with nothing but their fingertips, slipping out of each other's grasp. To make it worse, she was about to leave him alone for the night.

'Call Gale,' she told him, 'but don't mention the shoes. A lawyer can't advise you to destroy evidence. I still think you should get rid of them.'

'That's like admitting I killed him.'

'Why are you fighting me on this?'

'Because this time, I think you're wrong, and if I do it, there's no going back.'

'How long were you gone from the ferry line when you drove to Hoffman's house?' she asked.

Mark shrugged. 'Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.'

'That's not much time.' 'They'll say it's plenty of time to get to his house, argue, struggle, and kill him.'

'For God's sake, Mark, whose side are you on?'

'Ours,' he said, 'but I'm not going to pretend. I'm in trouble. Lying and hiding won't get me out of it.'

Hilary saw the crew at the ferry dock waving to her. The other cars had already pulled ahead of her and boarded. She checked her watch; it was two minutes before four o'clock. The boat was leaving.

'I have to go,' she told him.

'What? Why? Where are you going?'

'Amy Leigh is missing. I got a call from her roommate at Green Bay. She hasn't seen Amy since last night, and Amy's not answering her phone. I'm going to Green Bay. We're going to talk to the police.'

Mark blew out his breath in disappointment. 'Of all nights, Hil. I really need you with me.'

'If something happens to Amy, and I didn't do anything to stop it, I'd never forgive myself. She called me. She reached out to me. I've got to do this.'

'Let me come with you.'

'Not in those shoes. Not in those clothes. Go home and call Archie Gale.'

'Hil, let it go. I'm coming.'

She shook her head. 'Look at yourself, Mark. You're not in any shape to do this now. Plus, if you're there, the police will make this about you, not Amy.'

He opened the car door. Wind rushed in. 'OK. Go.'

'This might be our one chance to find out what really happened to Glory,' she told him. 'To prove it wasn't you. This coach that Amy talked about, Gary Jensen, I called a friend of mine at the school where he used to work. He was suspected of having sexual relationships with teenage girls.'

Mark climbed out of the car and leaned back in through the door with a sad smile. 'So was I.'

'Damn it, Mark, don't talk like that.'

'I'm sorry, I can't help it.' He pulled her face closer and kissed her. His lips were cool. 'I love you. Don't forget that.'

'I love you, too.'

He shut the door and walked away. After an instant of doubt, she put the Taurus in gear and drove on to the ferry. With the car parked, she got out and climbed the steps to the passenger deck. She stayed outside, hanging on to the railing as the boat eased away from the island. Beyond the shelter of the harbor, the wind on the open water intensified, and the ferry swayed under her feet. Back on the shore, in the parking lot, she could still see Mark's truck. She waved, and she saw the lights of the Explorer flash on and off. He was inside, watching her go.

Inside the bridge cabin, on the top deck of the ferry, a nineteen-year- old man named Keith Whelan watched Hilary at the railing. He was as thin as a telephone pole, with shaggy black hair. He'd worked on the ferry runs for two years. The pilot at the wheel glanced away from the water and followed Keith's eyes to the woman on the deck.

'There's nothing sexier than a woman in the wind,' the pilot said. 'Especially that one.'

Below them, Hilary turned and disappeared inside the passenger compartment. The deck was empty. They could barely see the land of the NorDoor five miles away.

'I see that woman going back and forth every day,' the pilot said, 'and I never get tired of the view.'

'Whatever.' Keith rubbed his nose and tugged at the crotch of his jeans. 'Gotta piss.'

'Sure, go.'

Keith left the shelter of the bridge and took the steps down one deck. The boat rolled, but he didn't notice it anymore, even in the worst weather. He ducked through the door to the passenger space, where half a dozen drivers read magazines and gabbed into their phones while they still had signal. Hilary Bradley stood off by herself, staring out the window. Their eyes didn't meet. With her glasses, she looked stuck-up and brainy. Keith didn't like women who pretended they were smarter than he was.

He slipped inside the phone-booth-sized toilet and locked the door. He grabbed his cell phone and punched in a number.

'It's Keith,' he said. 'You wanted a heads up, right? She's on the four o'clock heading to the mainland. No way she's going to turn around and go back on the five. I'm telling you, she's sleeping somewhere else tonight. He'll be alone in the house. If you want him, this is your chance.'

Chapter Thirty-Eight

'I'm sorry, Sheriff,' Cab told Felix Reich. 'It's hard to lose a friend this way.'

Reich sat in the driver's seat of his Chevy Tahoe in the turnaround at the end of Port des Morts Drive. His hands were on the wheel, and he stared into space down the tree-lined road. His chest rose and fell with fierce precision. After a long silence, Reich's head swiveled on his neck, and Cab saw a fury so deep and bitter that blood vessels pulsed in the man's eye.

'Let me tell you something, Detective Bolton,' the sheriff growled. 'I hate to say anything bad about a brother behind the shield, but you know what? I don't like you. You race your Corvette into my county with your expensive suits and your spiky hair and your earring, and the next thing I know, a friend of mine is dead. I blame you.'

'I understand you're hurting, Sheriff, and I respect that, but let's lose the guilt trip, OK? I don't need it.'

Reich clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. 'Here's the way we're going to do this, Detective. You're going to tell me everything you know like a witness at a crime scene, which is what you are. When we're done, you're going to drive down to your luxury apartment in Fish Creek and pack your bags. Tomorrow I want you to get the hell out of Door County.'

'Threats just make me more stubborn,' Cab replied.

'I gave you free rein in my jurisdiction because you were investigating a murder. Now so am I, and you're in my way. Go home.'

'If our cases are connected, we should work together.'

'If our cases are connected, it's because you didn't listen to me about

Mark Bradley. He's mine now. You're going to have to wait your turn, and that'll be a long time coming.'

'You're convinced Bradley did this?' Cab asked.

'I've assembled more evidence in an hour on this case than you've gathered since you arrived. When you live in a place your whole life, people trust you. They become your eyes and ears. They tell you things. You didn't know that Pete had a fight with Bradley near Sister Bay today, did you'

Cab raised an eyebrow. 'No.'

'I got four calls about it. Pete swore in front of a dozen witnesses that he was going to make sure Bradley paid for his crimes, and Bradley threatened to kill Pete. Bradley was also spotted in the ferry line at Northport at two forty-five. He borrowed a phone and made a call, and then he took off at high speed and came back fifteen minutes later. Guess who he called? His own phone. The one you found in Pete's pocket. This is the end of the line for that man.'

Cab wasn't convinced, but he didn't say so. 'I wish you luck, Sheriff.'

'Remember what I said. I want you heading home to Florida in the morning.'

'I'll keep that in mind, but I have one question first. What did Peter Hoffman know about Bradley?'

'I don't follow you.'

'Hoffman said he'd make sure that Bradley got what was coming to him. He told me he could help me prove that Bradley killed Glory. I'd like to know how he planned to do that.'

'If I find out anything about that, you'll be my first call.'

'I was wondering if you knew what it might be.'

'I have no idea.'

'You can't keep secrets in a small town. Somebody knew something.'

'Pete didn't talk to a lot of people.'

'What about Delia Fischer?' Cab said. 'Hoffman was close to the Fischer family. Maybe he had information about Glory. Or Tresa. Something that would tie Bradley to one or both of them.'

'Leave Delia out of this,' Reich snapped. 'I don't want you bothering her. Is that clear? Anything that involves Peter Hoffman is part of my investigation now, not yours. Stay out of my way.'

'Whatever you say,' Cab replied.

He pushed open the door of the Tahoe, but Reich reached across the truck and stopped him with a powerful hand on his shoulder.

'Before you leave, find one of the evidence technicians and give them a fingerprint sample. Shoes, too. We'll need to clear your prints on anything we find inside and outside.'

'Of course.'

'Talk to one of the deputies and go over your movements in detail.'

'Sure,' Cab said.

'What are we going to find?' Reich asked.

'Meaning what?'

'Meaning, what did you do before you called me? You knew you wouldn't get another shot at Pete's house. I assume you tried to figure out what he was going to tell you.'

Cab smiled. Reich wasn't a fool. 'I opened a few drawers. I looked in the file cabinet. That's all.'

'Did you find anything? If you did, you better tell me now.'

Cab had been hoping to hide behind a vague denial, but Reich wasn't giving him the chance. The smart thing to do was to hand over what he'd found in Hoffman's pocket. The enlarged section of Door County map. The key. If he didn't, he was committing a crime. If he did, it was also the last time he'd see the evidence, and he wasn't ready to take himself out of the chase yet.

'I didn't find a thing,' Cab told Reich. 'Nothing at all.'

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The tiger-striped cat sauntered across Delia's path as she sat on the rocking chair on the front porch. It perched on its haunches next to her and watched her with its serious dark eyes. Delia stretched out her foot and stroked the cat's short-haired back. The animal slid down on to its side and offered up its plump stomach for attention. It squirmed and purred as Delia's stockinged foot rubbed its fur, and Delia only stopped when she realized that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Part of Delia loved the cat, because she couldn't see it without thinking of Glory. Part of her hated the cat for the same reason.

Glory had named the cat Smokey, which she said was because of the swirls of black in the cat's fur. Delia knew better; the kitten had smelled of smoke for days after the fire. Smokey was bereft now and was constantly near Delia seeking comfort. The cat had slept in Glory's arms every night, and it didn't understand why the girl was gone. It kept looking out of windows and doors with confused longing, as if it expected her to come back.

Delia wiped away her tears and continued with her work. She had a wooden tray draped across her lap, where she crafted her costume jewelry. She'd cut narrow strips from cans of Dr Pepper and Orange Crush, and she had pliers on the tray to bend and twist the strips together into two-tone spiral earrings. She wore a magnifier on a headband over one eye for the close work. She'd done it so many times that the process was mindless now, making metal curls and buffing the edges with steel wool. On eBay, she could sell a pair for ten dollars. The local gift shops charged more, but she had to give the storeowners a cut of the money. In the past year, she'd netted almost two thousand dollars, which was a welcome boost to a budget that never seemed to be in balance. There was always one bill too many.

Even with her extra income, it would never have been enough for Tresa's college tuition. State school or not, she couldn't afford it. Thank God for Peter Hoffman. He'd paid for everything, tuition, room and board, books, spending money. He'd told her he would do the same for Glory when it was her turn, but Delia had never believed that Glory was college material. Tresa was the serious one, the introvert, with the brains to make something of herself. Glory had no patience for school. Delia had grown up the same way. A party girl. Maybe that was why she had always favored Glory, not only because of how the girl had suffered, but because Glory reminded Delia of herself in a way that Tresa never did.

Tresa reminded her of other things. Bad things.

When she saw Tresa, she still thought of Harris Bone, and she wondered. Agonized. Doubted. She'd never pursued the truth, because she didn't want to know one way or another. Some things were better off as questions without answers. She could remember, though, the times when she'd watched Tresa and Jen Bone together as teenagers. The two girls were best friends, inseparable, almost like sisters. She'd tried to see the likeness in their faces.

She'd tried to decipher whether Harris was father to both of them.

The affair with Harris had been an on-again, off-again thing over the years, but when she'd become pregnant with Tresa, it was during a period when they were sleeping together regularly. Delia had never thought of sex with Harris as cheating. After her own rape, she had disconnected sex from her emotions. She'd never really loved her husband in a romantic way; he'd been convenient, a provider, sweet and reliable. When they had sex, it was to fill his needs, not hers. Harris was different. She'd understood him as a man, or she'd thought she had, until the fire. He'd spent his whole life under a woman's thumb, first with his mother, Katherine, and then with a wife who was just as controlling. The only person to whom he ever confided his frustrations was Delia. She'd enjoyed being his confidante, not realizing that there were emotional strings attached to his secrets. Their relationship had spilled over from soul-sharing to bed-sharing in no time at all, and for years, they had used each other in bad times for physical and spiritual release.

People wondered how she'd been able to forgive Harris for the accident in which her husband died. The truth was that his death had been an economic loss more than an emotional loss. She'd felt sorrow but not devastation. In the aftermath, she'd relied on Harris even more for all of her needs. So had the girls. Glory and Tresa loved him, and he loved them back. Delia knew the sacrifices Harris made every day, going on the road for a job he hated, coming home to a wife and sons who despised him. He did it without complaint, and that was what made the end so shocking. In all the time they'd spent together, sharing secrets and having sex, he'd never given her a hint of what he was planning. She hadn't seen how close he was to the breaking point.

She hated Harris now, not just for what he had done, but for leaving her alone in the process. And Tresa and Glory, too. He'd abandoned them, just as he'd abandoned his own daughter. All Delia wanted to do was forget him. She'd never breathed a word about the affair to anyone. She'd never given Tresa any reason to wonder who her father really was or to fear that she had bad blood in her. No one needed to know, especially not Peter Hoffman. If he had known the truth, he never would have been so generous with her and the girls. He would have blamed and resented Delia, rather than using her to massage his guilt and grief.

Now even that source of security had been taken away. Peter was dead. He'd written his last check to her. She wondered how she would break the news to Tresa that she no longer had money to send her back to school. It was one more body blow in a lifetime of disappointments and betrayals.

Delia removed the magnifier from her eyes as she saw an old Grand Am turn from the road into the bumps of their driveway. Troy Geier got out like a plump clown and jogged for the house. The wooden steps, which needed repairs, groaned under his weight. He was breathing hard, gulping down air. She could tell, looking at Troy, that the boy was scared.

'What do you want?' Delia asked impatiently. She wasn't in the mood to deal with his naive gallantry today.

Troy peered through the screen door into the house, is Tresa here?'

'No, she went to the grocery store. Why?'

'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 assumed 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 bitch.'

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 sweatshirt 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 passenger 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. 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 passed 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 passed 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 passed 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 hell 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.''

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 balls 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 passage.

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 sweatshirt 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 Washington 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 buttery 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. 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 shit 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?'

Larch shook his head, if Pete knew that, he would have taken Bradley's head off. He would have told Delia and the sheriff, too. It would have been all over the county.'

Cab nodded. Larch was right. 'I appreciate your talking with me.'

'No problem.' Larch opened the door of the Corvette, and the rain was loud outside. He climbed out and then bent down to shove his head in the car again. 'Hey, you really need to get over to the island tonight?'

'Why, can you take me?'

'Sure, I do private fishing charters all the time. It'll cost you, though.'

'How much?'

'Two hundred bucks. I'll take you round trip, or I can drop you and you can spend the night.' He added, 'Or you could let me take the Vette out for a spin, and then it's no charge.'

Cab grinned. 'I don't really need to go over there tonight. It can wait.'

Larch pulled a ferry brochure from his pocket and slid a pen from the top of his clipboard. He scribbled something on the brochure and handed it to Cab. 'That's my phone number. If you change your mind, give me a call. I live over in Gills Rock. I can have you there in less than an hour.'

Cab glanced at the sky. 'It'll be dark soon.'

'Night doesn't bother me. That's when you get the biggest walleyes.' Larch winked. 'Mark Bradley would be pretty surprised to see you at his house tonight.'

'What's that mean?'

'Hey, she's over eighteen now, so it's not like there's anything you guys can do about it. Even so, it tells you what a piece of shit he is.'

Cab's eyes narrowed. 'I'm still not following you.'

'Let's just say Mark probably has some company in his bed tonight,' Larch told him. 'His wife came over on the four o'clock. She's gone for the night. So who races up to the dock like she's a NASCAR driver to get on the last ferry? Tresa Fischer.'

'You're telling me that Tresa went over to the island tonight?'

Larch nodded. 'That's right. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?'

Water pummeled Troy. Water was everywhere.

The twenty-footer clawed into the waves, but beyond the top of the peninsula, the boat rocked like a toy in the ocean. The headwind bit at his exposed skin, and the sky gushed rain down as heavy as a waterfall. He stayed west beyond the worst currents of the passage, but even in the calm of Green Bay, swells rose up and slammed the boat down so hard that his jaw hurt as the bow landed. His progress was excruciatingly slow. After ten minutes, he thought he'd spent an hour on the bay.

He was cold to his bones. He wore long underwear under his jeans and a heavy wool sweater over his jersey, and he was covered head to toe in oilskin camouflage gear he'd borrowed from his father's closet. None of it kept him warm. His toes were numb inside his boots, and he clutched the wheel so hard he couldn't feel his fingers. Beads of rain squeezed inside through the gaps at his collar and trailed down his back like icy fingers.

The black sky felt as opaque as night. He had to keep wiping his eyes to see the land looming on the horizon ahead of him, seemingly as far away as when he'd started. To his northeast, the Plum Island lighthouse blinked out of the gloom. With every minute, he thought about turning back, but if he did that, he would prove what his father had always said about him. He was a failure. A coward. If Glory was looking down at him in the middle of the water, he didn't want her thinking he'd abandoned her.

Troy churned through the passage. He fought to keep the nose pointed toward the bulk of the island as the current swept him nearly in circles. The up-and-down hammering made a relentless thump, vibrating through his body. Even his breathing felt strained as rain flooded his nose and mouth. He had to cover his face and swallow air open-mouthed to keep from choking. As bad as it was, he barely noticed when the water finally grew steadier around him. The boat picked up speed. When he glanced eastward, he realized that Plum Island was behind him now. The land mass of Detroit Island, which stretched like a finger below Washington Island, acted like a reef to cut the chop from the lake.

His adrenaline soared. He'd survived the worst of the crossing. The island grew large less than two miles ahead of him.

As he neared land, Troy stayed west of the main harbor where the ferries came and went. He didn't want to be spotted there. He hugged the shore and turned north along the island's jutting index finger, where he could make out individual trees, the white paint of houses built on the water, and deserted beaches. Ahead of him, near the rounded end of the finger, the green trees stopped at the water's edge, and the vast bay took over, reaching twenty-five miles to Michigan's upper peninsula coast.

He followed the land as it turned back south into the deep inlet in the island's coast known as Washington Harbor. A long white beach tracked the water. The base of the inlet was known as Schoolhouse Beach, made not of sand but of millions of ivory rocks polished smooth by the currents. He'd gone there with Glory many times in the summers. If he looked hard enough, he could picture her there, in her bikini on a red beach towel, or skinny-dipping in the cool water on a late weekday afternoon. None of that mattered now. What mattered was that Mark Bradley lived on the east side of the beach, in a house hidden inside the trees.

Troy aimed for a forested stretch of shore, out of view of any of the beachfront houses. Most were unoccupied now anyway. Looking down, he saw the water growing shallow. He raised the motor and drifted. As he neared the beach, he climbed over the side and dropped into the knee-deep water, which knifed him with cold. He splashed on to the rocks, dragging the boat with him, until it was far enough out of the water to be too heavy to move. He left it there. He wasn't sure if he'd go back for it or if he'd slip on to the ferry in the morning with Keith's help.

With any luck, no one would have discovered Mark Bradley's body by then. He'd be free to escape back to the mainland.

Troy climbed the beach to the edge of the trees and followed the curving shoreline to the east. Heavy rain continued to dimple the half-moon of harbor water, causing overlapping circles. The wet rocks scraped under his feet. He was wet and frozen, but he was determined. He checked the silver revolver under his jacket. It was heavy in his hand. He'd found the gun a year earlier in one of the abandoned barns that he and Keith explored in the off season. Something about having a weapon made him feel strong. He'd cleaned the revolver as best as he could, oiled it, and tested it. A few times, he and Glory had slipped into empty fields and fired at pop cans placed on barbed wire fences. She liked the power of the gun too. She said it turned her on.

Troy reached the beach road that led from the water to the island cemetery. There was a park here, which was crowded with picnickers during the summer. Now, in the rain, as night fell, it was deserted. He chose a bench and sat down to wait. He was only a few hundred yards from Mark Bradley's house, and he could travel along the beach and arrive through the trees. No one would see him. He could creep up next to the house where he had a good shot and squeeze the trigger. That was all it would take. A split second to get justice.

Beyond the trees, on the beach, it rained and rained. It would be dark in minutes. When he had the cover of night, he would move.