The Bone House (19 page)

    Instincts.

    Amy
thought about sending Hilary a message on Facebook, to let her know that she
was thinking about her and Mark. She wondered if she should mention her
suspicions, but she didn't. Instead, she closed her computer and picked up her
cell phone from the desk. She hesitated before dialing. Her breathing came
faster. She felt the way she did before stepping out on to the floor of the
arena for a performance.

    'Amy,
what the hell are you doing?' she asked herself aloud.

    Rather
than answer herself, she punched the buttons on the phone and waited. When he
answered, she heard the slippery charm in his voice, and her skin crawled.

    It
was Glory Fischer I saw you with. I know it was.

    'Gary?
It's Amy Leigh.'

    Gary
Jensen had no problem picturing Amy's face and body when she called. She was one
of the girls he most enjoyed watching during her workouts in the gym. He liked
it when her face glowed with the sweat of her routines and her legs and arms
bulged with strength. She had full breasts, which were usually the enemy of a
dancer, and even a tight bra couldn't stop them from swaying seductively. Her
blonde hair would grow damp and paste itself to her skin. She was very
attractive.

    He
knew she didn't like him. She'd never made a secret of it. She listened to him
and followed his instructions as a coach, but she was cold whenever he talked
to her. Most of the girls played the game with him and flirted back at him when
he made his advances, but Amy never did. He was surprised and curious to get
her call.

    'Hello,
Amy,' he said. 'What's up?'

    'I
have some ideas for new moves,' she told him. 'Some really hot stuff. I figure
we're going to have to take it up a notch to win next year, right?'

    'That's
true,' he said, listening to the pitch of her voice. She spoke haltingly, which
was unusual for Amy. She was typically among the most confident girls on his
team.

    'I
was thinking, maybe I could talk to you about it,' she went on. 'Maybe we could
get together.'

    'Of
course,' Gary said. 'I'd like that.'

    'Could
we meet somewhere tomorrow?'

    'I
wish I could, but tomorrow's not good for me. I have a meeting outside the
city. What about Thursday night? I'm going to be reviewing videotapes of the
dance performances from the competition. Why don't you come by my house, and
we'll look at them together? I'd like your input.'

    He
heard hesitation on the other end of the line. Then she said, 'Yeah, all right.
I'll do that.'

    'You
know where I live, don't you? It's near the end of Bay Settlement across from
the county park.'

    'I
know it.' He expected her to hang up, but she added after a long pause, 'Hey,
Gary, I know I should have asked this before, but how are you?'

    'What
do you mean?'

    'Well,
it hasn't been very long since you - you know, since you lost your wife, and I
know how hard that was. I felt really bad for you. I just wanted to make sure
you're OK.'

    'That's
kind of you to say, Amy. I wouldn't say I'm OK, but I'm dealing with it.'

    'Good.'

    'I'll
see you on Thursday.'

    He
hung up the phone. He stroked his chin with two fingers, thinking about the
girl's nervous manner and wondering about her real agenda. Part of him was
suspicious at the timing, coming so soon after Florida. She'd mentioned his
wife, too. He didn't like that.

    He
was in the master bedroom of his turn-of-the-century house, which he had bought
five years ago when he moved to Green Bay. The wallpaper was a heavy pattern of
burgundy and gold. The bedroom set, which came with the house, was made of
walnut, with imposing four-poster columns on the queen bed and a matching
ornate bureau that stood beside the window like a grim soldier. Michelle had
nagged him to sell the furniture, so they could redecorate the room and make it
lighter and happier. They'd never had the chance.

    Gary
peered out through the floor-to-ceiling curtains at the empty road beyond the
yard.

    He
still had flashbacks of Michelle falling. He could see the terror in her eyes
as she screamed. He'd cried, seeing it happen, watching her die. At that
moment, he'd thought about throwing himself after her. There were still days
when the pain and loss were almost impossible to bear.

    If
only there had been another way. If only she hadn't learned the truth.

    Gary
dialed his phone and watched the road, which grew darker as dusk fell. When he
heard the familiar voice, he said, 'It's me. We may have a problem.'

    Mark
Bradley wore a white mask as he repaired the damage done to their house by the
vandals. He wished the cowards had come while he was home and given him a chance
to fight. On Tuesday, while Hilary was back at school, he'd swept up the glass
and debris, hauled the broken furniture out to the street, and scraped down the
walls. By late Wednesday, he had torn out the carpet and covered the living
room in two coats of fresh paint. At least he no longer had the word staring
him in the face.

    
KILLER
.

    While the
paint dried, he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and took it out to the
screened three-season porch at the rear of the house. He sat down in the wrought-iron
chaise, which squealed under his weight. Before he drank, he realized he was
still wearing the white painter's mask. He peeled it from his face. He tilted
the bottle and took a long swallow. His neck was tired and sore, and he rubbed
it with his fingers.

    That
was when he felt the small bump of two scabs on his skin. Scratches.

    Mark
closed his eyes and felt a cold sweat of fear form on his body. 'Son of a
bitch,' he murmured.

    He
remembered Glory on the beach and felt the girl hanging on to him as she
wrapped her hands around his neck. Her long nails drove into his skin, hurting
him. Leaving a mark.

    He
knew what that meant.

    The
police in Florida had gathered skin cells from inside his mouth with a cotton
swab and bagged the sample and labeled it. They would hunt under Glory's dead
fingernails and find skin there, and analyze the tissue, and match it. One name
would come out: Mark Bradley.

    They'd
know he had been there. On the beach. With Glory.

    Mark
put the bottle down. His taste for beer was gone. He stared through the dormant
trees at the gray water of the harbor a hundred yards away. In two months, when
the leaves unfurled, the beach would be invisible behind the birches. He
couldn't help but wonder if he would be here to see it, or if they would have
arrested him by then.

    They
can prove you were there. They can't prove you killed her.

    He
wasn't convinced the distinction would sway a jury if it came to that. When a
teenage girl died, everyone wanted to see someone pay the price.

    Mark
felt a wave of anger. It was happening to him more and more now. Moments of
rage. He was naturally claustrophobic, and when the walls began to close in, he
beat on them and tried to fight his way out. If he couldn't find an escape, he
wanted to punish the ones who had put him there.

    His
phone rang on the table beside him. It was Hilary, and he relaxed when he heard
her voice. Sometimes she had a sixth sense for when he needed her.

    'I'm
in Northport waiting for the ferry,' she told him. 'I'll be home in an hour or
so.'

    'Good.'

    'How's
it going?' she asked.

    'Better.
The house is looking better.'

    She
listened to his voice. He could feel her divining his mood. 'You OK?'

    'Not
really.'

    'What's
up?'

    'Not
on the phone,' he said. He was already paranoid, wondering if the police were
listening in on their calls.

    'Let's
go out for dinner tonight,' she suggested.

    'Are
you sure? You know what it'll be like.'

    He
was reluctant to go out anymore in the midst of other people from the island.
He was sick of the dark stares and muttered hostility from people around them.

    'Screw
everybody else,' Hilary told him. 'We can't let them stop us from living our
lives.'

    He
smiled. 'Damn right.'

    'See you
soon.'

    She
hung up. He picked up his beer again and continued drinking. He reminded
himself, as he did on most days, how lucky he had been to find Hilary Semper.
Some men weren't secure enough to marry a woman who was smarter than they were,
but he'd had plenty of experience with women who only wanted him to show him
off to their friends. He'd even married one when he was twenty-five, a bubbly
brunette who had stalked him on the pro tour and seduced him into bed and then
into the courthouse. He was young; she was young. She talked a good game about
loving all the same things he did, when all she really wanted was a ring and a
husband who made her girlfriends jealous.

    It
had lasted two long years. When he divorced her, he'd sworn to himself: never
again.

    Not
long after the split, he'd had ten beers too many and driven his car into a
median on the Kennedy Expressway. Stupid. He could have died. Instead, surgery
gave him back his life, but not his career. After rehab, he had ninety per cent
range of motion in his left shoulder, but a pro golfer needed about a hundred
and ten per cent. A hundred and twenty if you're Tiger. He wasn't going to play
professionally again. Golf was dead to him.

    What
seemed like a curse at the time turned out to be a blessing. He was insanely
competitive when he stepped on to a playing field, but he learned that he was
something more than a golfer, a competitor, and an athlete. He went back to
something he hadn't done since he was a teenager. Painting. He took up reading
again and devoured the classics. He found himself attracted to teaching because
it was so unlike his prior life and because it gave him time to become someone
he liked a lot better than Mark Bradley, pro golfer.

    It
made him poor, too. That was the downside.

    As
the money dried up, he assumed the come-ons would vanish, but he discovered
that looks were enough for plenty of women of all ages. He could have slept his
way to a comfortable lifestyle, but he'd already been through one loveless
marriage. He said yes to the occasional fling, but nothing that ever felt
serious for either of them. Not until Hilary. Hilary, who was sexy and didn't
even have a clue about it. Hilary, who blew him away because everything she
said was so damn interesting, and because she didn't seem to care about what
anyone else thought about her.

    Hilary.
It took his breath away sometimes to think that
she
married
him.

    That
was why the anger kept coming back. It was the fear that he might lose
everything he had. He had already lost his job, and now he worried that he
would lose his house, his freedom, and the one woman he'd ever really wanted.

    All
because he took a walk on the beach. All because of Glory Fischer.

    Mark
went back into the house, where the sickly sweet air freshener covered the
stench of the filth that had been thrown against the walls. He decided to take
a run to offload his frustrations. For the first time, he took a key with him
and locked the front door as he left the house. This was Washington Island. No
one locked their doors. There was no one to fear, because the rest of the world
was half an hour away across Death's Door.

    Not
anymore.

    He
stretched among the dead leaves in their dirt driveway, loosening his muscles.
The forest around him was still. As he bent and touched his fingers to his
toes, he noticed his Ford Explorer sagging at a queer angle in the clearing
among the trees. When he looked closely, he saw that two of the tires were
flat. The rubber had been slashed, and the rusty ax that had done the damage
lay next to the truck in the weeds.