The Bone House

he didn't say was that he was tired and lonely, and he'd run out of ideas, it's dark,' he said finally. 'There's no point in doing anything more tonight. I'm heading back to the apartment. I'll call you in the morning.'

Lala didn't let him go. He wondered if she wanted to hear his voice, too. 'Have you checked property records in the area?'

Cab glanced around at the dark parkland. There were no houses to be seen. There were hardly any houses anywhere among the roads he'd travelled here. He hadn't thought about people owning the land, because there seemed to be nothing to own. 'No, I don't have a laptop with me.'

'I can run some searches for you. Give me a second.' He heard the clink of crystal as Lala put down her wine glass, then seconds later, the tapping of keys. 'OK, hang on a second. Here we go, Door County Real Estate Records. All nicely online. You want to give me some street names?'

'Europe Bay Road,' Cab said.

'Sounds rustic. I'm getting about a dozen parcels and owners. You want names? Two parcels for Waters, then Petschel, Clark, Moore, Barrick, Sawyer, Lenius, Haines, Mikel, Knoll, Heinz. Any of those mean anything to you?'

'No.'

'Next?' 'Wilderness Lane.'

'You're kidding.'

'No.'

'Wilderness. Lots of parcels, one owner. Royston.'

'Lost Lane.'

'Where the hell are you, Cab?'

'Lost.'

Lala was quiet. Finally, he heard her typing. 'No parcels on that one.'

'Juice Mill.'

'I've got the Nature Conservancy owning a parcel, then individual owners Gunn, Kolberg, Dane, and Hoffman.'

Cab had closed his eyes, and now they sprang open. He straightened up in the car and banged his head on the roof. 'Did you say Hoffman?'

'Yes.'

'Peter Hoffman?'

'That's him. The fire address is 11105 Juice Mill Lane.'

'Anything about the property?'

'I can tell you what he pays in taxes, the value of the land, and the value of the improvements.'

'Improvements?' Cab asked. 'There's a house there?'

'Something's there, but the improvements don't even total ten thousand dollars. The land around it is worth a lot more.'

'OK, I'll see what I can see. Thanks, Lala.'

'Call me tomorrow, and I'll tell you what else we know about Gary Jensen.'

'Good.' He added, 'Hey, you want to know something?'

Lala didn't answer. He took her silence as an invitation.

'I miss you,' he said.

She still didn't answer. He heard nothing from her at all. He wondered if he'd crossed the line, or if she simply didn't know whether he was serious. When Lala was still silent, he glanced at the phone and realized that the wind had changed, and his signal had vanished into the frigid air. She was gone.

Chapter Forty-Three

Mark followed his headlights into the driveway and immediately realized that something was wrong. He'd switched on a lamp in the living room before he left the house, but there was no light shining behind the curtains now. The house was dark.

He climbed out of the Explorer and waited next to his truck. He couldn't see. Rain trickled through the tree branches, splattering on the dirt and covering up other noises in the woods. He ran his hands along the damp metal of the chassis, hunting for the handle of the rear door. When he found it, he opened the door and leaned inside and searched on the floor. His fingers closed over the forked head of a hammer. He grabbed the tool by its wooden handle and shut the door quietly.

Mark felt as if he was blindfolded. Night on the island was black under the hood of trees, and the thick clouds made the sky moonless and starless. He made his way with his hands, creeping toward the house. He felt flagstones under his feet, marking the path. When his outstretched fingers found the front door, he turned the handle, which twisted easily; the door was open. He shoved the door inward and clutched the hammer tightly. Squatting, staying low, he crept into the hallway of his house.

He left the lights off. Light painted him as a target. He peered around the wall that led to the living room and could make out the shapes of the furniture. The walls still smelled like fresh paint. The room was empty. He sidestepped down the hallway, his knees bent, and passed the open door to their bedroom on his left. He lingered there, watching and listening, before he continued to the kitchen and then the den. He ducked into the porch and checked the door leading outside, but it was locked and deadbolted. He began to relax, but as he did, a noise startled him. It sounded like the casters of their bed scraping across the hardwood floor, the way it did when he banged the frame with his knee.

Mark retreated toward their bedroom but stayed in the hallway. In the glow of the clock on his nightstand, he could see that their closet door was ajar, which wasn't how he'd left it. He gripped the hammer and sprang off his knees and charged. He leaped across the short space and threw himself past the door into the belly of the tiny closet. His shoulder slammed the wall, cushioned by the fabric of Hilary's dresses.

He heard running feet and twisted around in time to see someone rolling across the bed on their way from the bathroom to the bedroom door. He jumped, and the two of them collided, landing together in a heap on the floor. Something metallic skidded away into the wall. He expected a fight and didn't get one. The person in his arms was bony and fragile. He smelled girlish perfume. He held her shoulders to the ground, and she whimpered as his weight overwhelmed her.

'Don't hurt me, don't hurt me. Christ, Troy, it's me, Tresa.'

Mark couldn't see her face, but he recognized the shape of her body and her familiar long hair. 'Tresa? What the hell are you doing here?'

She almost seemed to be holding her breath as he spoke. It took her a moment to say anything. 'Mark? Is that you?'

'Of course it is.'

Tresa threw her arms around his neck. 'Oh, thank God you're OK. I've been waiting forever. Where were you?'

'I went out to dinner,' he replied. 'Tresa, what's going on?'

She breathed heavily, still holding him. When he peeled away her arms, she touched his face in the darkness with her fingertips. Her perfume filled his nose as she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.

'Tresa, stop,' he said.

She backed away. 'I'm sorry. I'm just so glad it's you.'

'I'll turn a light on,' Mark said.

Tresa grabbed his shoulder. 'No. Don't. Leave it dark.'

'Why?'

'He could be out there. We can't let him see us.'

'Who?' He thought about what she had said as he landed on her. 'Why did you think I was Troy?'

Tresa leaned against the bed. She held his hand, and her skin was moist. 'I overheard Troy talking to my mom. He has a gun, the stupid bastard. He knew Hilary was gone tonight. He said he was going to sail over here and kill you.'