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.
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.
