Brian Freeman - The Bone House

'Hilary.'

It was Mark. His voice was strangled with fear and urgency. Her brain was rattled, and she momentarily forgot how to speak.

'Hil.'

'I'm OK,' she murmured.

'Don't move.'

She heard him struggle with his door, prying it open. When he spilled on to the road, his knees caved, and he grabbed the frame to steady himself. His shoes kicked through metal and glass as he came around the rear of the car. He yanked on her door, and she felt him unlock her belt, and she dissolved limply into his arms. She clung to him as he helped her out of the destroyed chassis. Her legs bent like rubber as they hit the ground.

'You have to sit down,' he said.

She didn't protest. They were near the shoulder, and he kept her upright for several steps until she could sink down on to the dirt. Her legs dangled over the ditch. Her hair was plastered over her face. He slid down next to her and supported her back.

Hilary put a hand to her cheek, and it came back wet. 'I'm bleeding,' she said.

'You have a cut from the glass. That's all I see. How are you?'

She took stock of herself. 'No serious damage, I think. What about you?'

'Same.'

She eyed the remains of the Camry, which was twisted into an unrecognizable heap almost to the windshield. On the other side of the highway, she saw the upside-down wheels of the pickup jutting out of the ditch.

'God, Hil, I'm so sorry,' he told her. 'If I'd lost you—'

'You didn't.' She added, 'Can you walk? We should see if anyone was in the truck.'

'I'll check.'

Mark pushed himself up. Hilary watched him limp past their car and skid down the side of the ditch near the pickup. She could see his head and shoulders as he examined the truck. When he climbed back to the road, he called across to her.

'It's empty.'

He returned to the open driver's door of the Camry and reached down to the floor. She saw the trunk pop with a soft click, as if they were doing nothing but putting groceries inside. He reached into the trunk and extracted a first aid kit and a roadside emergency pack. He dug into the pack, and soon she heard sizzling and saw a fiery red light glowing as he lit a flare to warn oncoming traffic.

He came back and bent down beside her. He'd brought a blanket from the trunk, and he wrapped it around her shoulders. He dabbed at her cheek with a soft cloth, causing her to wince. The cloth came away doused in red.

'Facial cuts really bleed,' he said.

'How bad is it?'

'Not bad. Small.'

She knew she sounded vain, worried about a scar. She wondered if she would be reminded of this moment every time she looked in a mirror. 'I'm still beautiful, right?' she said, cracking a wan smile.

'Gorgeous.' He applied a small pad to her face and covered it with tape. He caressed her other cheek with the back of his hand, and she held it there, savoring his touch. His face flickered along with the light of the flare.

'Did you recognize the truck?' she asked.

'No, I haven't seen it on the roads around here.'

'Where's the driver?'

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

'He could still be close.'

Whoever had driven the pickup and then left it in their path had disappeared into the woods and escaped on foot. Or maybe he was still in the trees, watching them. Mark stood up and made a slow circle, studying the forest. Hilary closed her eyes and listened for noises close by, like the sound of branches snapping underfoot. She heard nothing. The sensation of being watched, which had dogged her at home, was gone.

'I think we're alone,' she said, 'but he was there before.'

'What do you mean?'

'At the house. He was at the house, too. Remember? You heard something outside.'

He nodded. 'Who's doing this to us?'

'I don't know.'

'I'll try to reach nine one one,' Mark said. He dug into his pocket for his phone and checked the signal strength. 'Thank God for Verizon.'

'I love that little guy with the glasses,' Hilary murmured.

She waited and listened to Mark estimating their location for the emergency operator. Her body ached, and she was exhausted and hungry. The blanket didn't stop her from feeling chilled, and her pants were cold where she sat on the ground. She closed her eyes.

'Ten minutes,' she heard Mark say.

She didn't reply. Her head swam. She was conscious of Mark sitting on the road behind her and of his arms gently taking her shoulders and easing her body back on to his chest. He stroked her hair and whispered in her ear. I love you. Thank God you're OK. She tried to say something, to talk, but the signals left her brain and broke into fragments long before they reached her mouth.

She had only one more conscious thought before she drifted away.

Someone was trying to kill them.

Cab found Sheriff Reich behind his desk on Thursday morning in the county administration building in Sturgeon Bay, which was the southernmost town on the peninsula. Sturgeon Bay was where people drove to get a taste of the suburbs in chain stores, big box retailers, and greasy fast food restaurants. North of the city, those things disappeared. The hour-long drive from Sturgeon Bay to the tip of the rock at Northport was a journey past miles of gnarled cherry trees, roadside farmers' markets, and sleepy block-long seaside towns. To Cab, it felt like a ship-in-a-bottle world.

Sheriff Reich sat in a leather chair that was oversized for his compact frame. He wore black reading glasses on the end of his stub nose and a white uniform shirt with silver buttons. His brown sheriff's coat, looking starched and perfect, was hung behind the door. On the walls, Cab noted photos and commendations from the man's service in Vietnam and framed newspaper articles of major Door County events from the past thirty years. There was also a Wanted poster featuring the jailhouse front-and-side photographs of a fit, balding man in his late thirties.

The name on the poster, in bold letters, said Harris Bone.

Reich, who was poring over paperwork, took off his black glasses and eased back in his chair when he saw Cab in the doorway. 'Detective Bolton,' he said.

'Good morning, Sheriff,' Cab said. 'I'm surprised to see you here so early. You have a long commute from the island.'

Reich shrugged. 'Most days I fly my Cessna down here. I keep a place in town for the bad weather. Otherwise, I'm not at my desk much. I don't believe a sheriff makes much of a difference when he's stuck inside.'

'That's a good philosophy.'

'I called your lieutenant about you, Detective,' Reich informed him, as he twiddled his glasses in his fingers.

'That must have been an interesting conversation.'

'It was. He tells me you're smart, but you don't play well with others.'

'That's fair,' Cab agreed.

'He also says you're stubborn, indifferent to authority, and condescending.'

'Guilty.'

'He told me about your mother, too. That explains a lot. I figured you were either rich or on the take. Most cops don't rent Corvettes.'

'They don't own Cessnas, either,' Cab pointed out with a smile.

'I'm not saying having money is a crime,' Reich replied. 'I've got a plane, I've got a boat, a couple of trucks. My family was smart enough to snap up a lot of real estate around here back when it was cheap. I could retire, but I don't want to sit on my ass all day.'

'Then we have something in common,' Cab said.

'That's about the only thing, Detective. What can I do for you?'

'I heard about the accident on the island.'

'You mean the Bradleys?'

'Yes. Are they OK?'

'Bruised but fine.'

'Do you have any idea who was responsible?' Cab asked.

'I'm not sure how that concerns you. This is a local investigation.'

'Mark Bradley is a suspect in my homicide case.'