Brian Freeman - The Bone House

'So why'd you change your mind about coming over here tonight?'

'Long story,' Cab said.

A long story buried in a hole.

It was a story of vengeance and justice. Cab knew why Peter Hoffman was dead. He knew Mark Bradley would most likely be dead by morning, if he couldn't stop it. He knew things he wished he didn't know at all.

'I need a car,' Cab said. 'You know where I can get one?'

'You got a hundred bucks?'

'Yeah.'

'Then I know where you can get one.'

Cab peeled off a bill from the inside of his wallet, and Larch snapped it with a smile and strolled away from him down the dock. Cab followed as far as the parking lot. He saw Larch disappear inside the harbor restaurant, hearing the music get louder as the door opened and closed. Larch was gone for two minutes. When he returned, he flipped a set of keys through the air. Cab caught them.

'Here you go. It's a black Nissan around back. You'll have it back by morning, right?'

'Right.' Cab added, 'How much did you give your friend?'

'Fifty.'

'You're a good businessman, Bobby.'

Larch winked. 'Good luck, Detective.'

Cab had no trouble finding the Sentra parked behind the restaurant. It was old, crusted with road spray, and smelled like sweet pine thanks to a Christmas tree air freshener dangling from the mirror. He adjusted the driver's seat as far backward as it would go and shot down the harbor road. He switched on his high beams to light up the narrow lane between the trees.

The town was empty. The handful of year-round residents were down at the harbor listening to jazz, or guzzling beer at Bitters Pub. Heading north, he sped into the lonely land away from the shops. He almost missed the cemetery where he turned toward the water, and then he turned again on the dirt road toward Mark Bradley's house. He slowed to a crawl, scanning the woods for the man's driveway.

When he found it, he parked in front, blocking the way out.

Cab got out, bringing his flashlight with him. As he walked toward the house, he lit up the Ford Explorer parked diagonally on the edge of the clearing and then the ground surrounding the truck. His light glinted on something shiny, and he saw a set of keys dropped in the mud. He picked them up, shook off the dirt, and deposited them in his pocket. He saw a mess of footprints in and out of the house. When he turned the flashlight toward the front door, he saw it standing open.

'Shit,' Cab muttered.

He was too late. He reached inside his jacket pocket and slid his Glock into his hand.

He took a chance by shouting. 'Bradley!' Then a moment later, he called, 'Tresa!'

He listened, but no one answered. Water dripped through the trees, and wind rushed in whistles through the branches. He used the flashlight again, hunting on the ground and in the woods. He knew what he was looking for in the sodden earth. Bodies. He was relieved when he found none.

Cab called again. 'Bradley!'

He followed the perimeter of the house, tracking footsteps along the eastern wall. He came upon the screened porch at the rear of the house, and through the mesh, on the other wall, he saw another open door and the jagged splinters where the lock had been yanked out of the frame. He circled the porch and let himself inside through the broken door. The house was cold where the night air had been blowing through the open space. There was no smell of fresh blood. He checked the kitchen, then illuminated the hallway in the cone of light.

He spotted an open bedroom door and tightened his grip on his gun as he moved inside. He checked out the closet and saw clothes lying in piles on the floor. The bed was made, but the comforter was rumpled. On the wall, half under the bed, he spotted a cell phone, and he squatted down and flipped it open to look inside. The photo on the screen showed a girl in the wind, her long red hair blowing across her eyes, her face sad and contemplative.

Tresa.

Tresa had been here. In the bedroom. He half expected to smell the musk of sex lingering in the air, and he realized that the relationship between the two of them was still a mystery. He didn't know if the affair between them had been real or a product of the girl's erotic imagination. All he knew was that she'd come to the island as soon as she found out that Hilary was gone for the night.

Now Tresa and Mark Bradley were both gone.

He also wondered for the first time: where was Hilary? Why wasn't she here?

Cab slid the phone into his pocket and got to his feet.

As he turned, the air around his head whistled with motion. He flinched instinctively, knowing what was coming. Something rock solid hammered the base of his skull, where bone met muscle. The blackness of the night turned hot and orange behind his eyes. He had an instant of pain, and then he was falling, but he was unconscious before the weight of his body collapsed on the floor.

Ten minutes passed, and Katie hadn't returned.

Hilary got out of the Taurus and walked through the mushy grass to the trees near the road. She took cover and eyed the dark house across the street. She saw nothing. She heard nothing. She danced with impatience and indecision. When she checked her watch, more time had ticked away.

Katie might be inside, in danger. Or maybe, like the smart, manipulative girl that Hilary suspected she was, Katie had never gone inside at all. She might simply be hiding outside, waiting for Hilary to call the police.

Hilary started across the street. The light overhead cast a yellow glow in a pool on the asphalt and turned her shadow into a black giant. She passed through the light quickly. At the corner, under sagging telephone wires, she studied the brick house, which was almost invisible behind the trees. She sheltered herself under the low-hanging branches. On the front wall, a faint light glowed behind the curtains upstairs and downstairs.

'Katie,' she whispered.

If the girl was nearby, she was silent. Hilary fingered her phone.

She hiked toward the rear of the house. Beyond the bushy arms of a huge arborvitae, she found a gravel driveway and ducked into it, steps away from the downstairs windows. The curtains were drawn here, too; she couldn't see inside. She saw the garage ahead of her, its white door shut. The driveway was lit by a dim fluorescent bulb, and she felt exposed standing there. If anyone looked outside, she was visible.

Hilary crept around the side of the garage. The brick wall was built with a single window, tall and narrow, and she put her face close to the glass and peered inside. As she stood, framed by the window, the garage was flooded by light.

Gasping, Hilary threw herself to the ground. She heard the grinding of the garage door and the click of a car door as it opened and shut. An engine caught. She kept her chest tight to the wet ground, and she saw a Honda Civic back out of the garage toward the street. Its bright beams passed over her head. The car turned into the street, and as it headed east toward Highway 57, she heard the garage door groaning downward.

She acted on instinct before her brain could stop her. She pushed herself off the grass and ran for the corner of the house. Only six feet separated the bottom of the garage door from the concrete floor. She got to her knees and rolled under the door, scraping her hands on loose rock. The old door didn't have a safety mechanism. It slammed shut, nearly pinning her leg, which she scooted into the garage under the metal skirt at the last second.

Hilary was alone in the empty garage.

She hurried to the door leading to the interior of the house and turned the knob silently. She pushed it open and felt warm air and saw the darkness of the kitchen. She listened, not knowing if the house was empty. She didn't hear voices or the sound of a television, only the hum of the furnace. The kitchen smelled like burnt tomato sauce.