attention. 'You don't want to miss your ferry. I'd hate to think of you trapped overnight in a barren place like this.'
Cab smiled and slid his car keys from his pocket. 'I talked to Sheriff Reich. He's not a fan of your husband.'
'I'm not a fan of the sheriff, either,' Hilary replied. 'He hasn't lifted a finger to stop the locals harassing us.'
'He says Delia Fischer was right. Your husband was having sex with Tresa.'
'Tresa was a sweet, misguided kid. That's all there was.'
'Men are awfully easy to seduce,' Cab reminded her. 'Women usually find a way to get what they want.'
Hilary was good at reading people, and she thought she could see past the armor in the detective's blue eyes. His cynicism wasn't just professional. 'Is this about me or you, Detective?'
'Excuse me?'
'It sounds like there was a woman who messed with you. You loved her, and she hurt you.'
Cab's face darkened. 'Now who's playing games?'
'I'm sorry,' Hilary said, 'but don't take out your past on me and Mark.'
'I'm not doing that.'
'No?'
'No. I already told you I'm not assuming your husband is guilty. If the evidence points to someone else, so be it.'
'If that's true, then tell me something. Did Sheriff Reich mention Glory and the fire?'
'What fire?'
'Glory lived next door to a man who burned down his house with his family in it,' Hilary told him. 'She was there when it happened. She almost died.'
Cab's mouth puckered into a frown. 'I didn't know that.'
'Neither did I until today. Don't you find that interesting? This girl was a witness to a murder six years ago, and now she gets murdered herself. That's a big coincidence.'
She watched Cab working through the implications of this information in his mind. Weighing its significance. Deciding if she was blowing smoke at him.
'Why do you think there's a connection?' he asked. 'I'm not sure how a six-year-old crime, even a horrific one, has any relevance to what happened to Glory in Florida.'
'Only that the killer escaped,' Hilary said. 'He's still on the run.'
'The man who started the fire is at large? Is that true?'
'It's true. His name was Harris Bone. Look it up.' Hilary returned to her Camry and stood outside the driver's door. She was pleased with herself. Looking at Cab Bolton and studying his face, she decided that the man might never be an ally, but he might not be an enemy, either.
'If you can get past your obsession with my husband,' she called to him, 'you should ask yourself the question that I've been asking myself all day, Detective. What if Harris Bone was in Florida? Think about that. What if Glory recognized him? What do you think he would do to her?'
Night fell on the island two hours later. Without daylight, the temperature dropped like a stone, dipping below the freezing mark. Gusts off the bay blasted the land and made the dark trees sway. No one came or went through the canyon-like waves of Death's Door. The ferries were done until early morning, and the private boats that traversed the passage stayed in the shelter of the harbors. The stone outpost of Washington Island was cut off from civilization, isolated and empty.
He drove without headlights. At night, under low clouds, he could barely pick out the headstones of the island cemetery laid in granite rows beside the road. Where the cemetery ended, the road disappeared into the forest, and he slowed to a crawl. The tires of the stolen pickup crept over the gravel as if it was sandpaper. Ahead of him, he spotted the pale break in the trees where the road stopped at Schoolhouse Beach. He turned right on a crossroad less than a hundred yards from the water and navigated blindly round the curves that hugged the shore. He knew where Mark Bradley lived. It wasn't far. When he was a quarter-mile away, he saw house lights glowing out of the black forest like torches. He stopped.
He parked in the driveway of a home that was empty for the winter season. He got out, taking a heavy crowbar with him, nestled in his gloved hand. On the road, he was invisible as he hiked toward the lights. He stayed close to the shoulder, where the birch trees leaned over the gravel and waggled their fingers at him. The wind covered the crunching noise of his boots. Near the house, he veered into the woods, worming his way through spindly branches and mushy ground, until he was barely twenty yards from their windows.
He could see the Bradleys. They were both inside.
Mark Bradley stood by the glass, staring into the darkness directly at him. If it had been daytime, he would have felt exposed, but he knew the window was nothing but a mirror of reflections now. Behind Mark Bradley, he saw the man's wife, holding a near-empty glass of red wine. Hilary Bradley was still dressed for work in a shimmery silver blouse and black slacks that emphasized her long legs. She came up behind her husband and whispered in his ear, but he didn't react.
Hilary finished her wine and squeezed her husband's shoulder, but he remained where he was, a statue. She left the room, and a moment later, light illuminated the small square of the bathroom window down the hall. There were no curtains. In the privacy of the island, there was no one to spy. Except now. He could see her torso framed against the white tile and watched with detached interest as she undressed. She undid the buttons of her blouse and slid it down her arms and hung it on a hanger on the back of the door. Her fingers, which were topped with bright red nails, picked apart the strands of her blond hair, loosening it and letting it fall over her shoulders. She took off and folded her glasses. The effect of the innocent gesture was strangely wanton. With both hands behind her back, she undid the hooks of her bra and lifted it from her chest. Her breasts were pale, full globes. She unzipped her slacks, stepped out of them, and peeled down her panties, bending over so that her breasts hung forward and swayed. She was naked now, but he could see her milky skin only as far as her hips. As he watched, she stepped into a running shower and disappeared.
Mark Bradley was alone.
He made his way toward the rear of the house. His footsteps were soft on the spongy earth. He felt occasional snow flurries melting on his face. He ducked under the eave and crept sideways. The living-room window, which was open two inches, was immediately on his right. He edged his face around the frame to look inside. Mark Bradley was near the fireplace, studying a painting hung on the wall. The canvas was wild with blood- red strokes and strange giant angels. Bradley's back was to him, so he crossed the path of the window with two silent steps. He was near the rear corner of the house now, where a door led inside the screened porch. All he needed to do was lure Bradley outside.
He told himself he was doing the right thing. They couldn't afford to be exposed.
The warped door opened outward from the porch, offering him cover. When Bradley pushed the door open, he could take a step and swing the forked tongue of the crowbar squarely into the back of Bradley's skull. One blow. That was all it would take. He'd done much harder things in his life.
He reached in his pocket and dug out a Fourth of July firecracker that was no bigger than a birthday candle. He lit the fuse of the firecracker with a cigarette lighter and flicked it end over end with his thumb. It flew and landed ten feet in front of the porch door, but the fuse fizzled and burned out without triggering a bang. He pawed inside his pocket for another noisemaker. He only had one left, and it was old and just as likely to blow up in his hand. He touched the fuse to the flame and again flicked it away, watching it arc with a tiny glow. It landed, and he could see the wick burning.
Crack.
It went off with a flash of white light, but the pop was oddly muffled. I He wasn't sure if it was loud enough. There was a long, tense moment of silence, but then the old house shifted with the movement of cautious footsteps on the porch. Mark Bradley was coming closer, investigating the noise.
He cocked the crowbar in his arm.
In front of him, the porch door opened.
