The Bone House (46 page)

    Cab
walked up to the door and exposed the interior of the ruins to his light,
scattering red-eyed mice. He saw an old stove, its door hanging open, with a
rusted grate still inside. Two wooden chairs lay in broken slats on the floor,
and bricks from the chimney had crumbled forward into scattered rubble. Rain
splattered into puddles through the open roof, and he saw black pellets of
feces. Old spiderwebs hung like lace across the windows. Other than the animal
presence, the cabin had been unoccupied for many seasons, left to fend for
itself in a losing battle against the elements.

    Peter
Hoffman had been planning to send Cab here to this spot with the section of map
in his pocket. Cab was sure of it.

    Why?

    He
followed the damaged walls of the ruins. When he'd made a complete circle, he
took a cautious step inside. Debris sprinkled from the gaps in the roof. His
foot sank through a rotting beam, trapping his ankle between jagged spikes until
he bent down and pushed aside the splintered wood to free himself. He cast his
light upward into the rafters, where he saw deserted bird's nests and wasp
hives.

    Cab
backed out of the cabin. He studied the trail, which petered out amid a solid
grove of pines. In the cone of light, he spotted the empty bottle of Jameson's
again, and he made his way there to stand where Peter Hoffman would have stood.
Near the bottle, he spotted a small square of dirt where nothing grew. It was
almost invisible among the tall weeds. He pushed through the grass into the
bare space, and when he kicked at the mud with his toe, he found that the
ground at his feet was actually metal. He bent down and scraped aside the dirt
until his fingers were black and found a corrugated metal door, two feet by two
feet, built into the earth inside a concrete border. It was a tornado shelter.

    He
saw thick hinges where the door was secured to the concrete foundation.
Opposite the hinges, he saw a heavy padlock that kept the hasp of the steel
door clamped shut.

    The
padlock needed a key.

    Cab
dug in his pocket. He extracted the key he'd taken from Peter Hoffman's body
and got down on all fours. He didn't care about the knees of his suit getting
sodden and dirty. He balanced the flashlight on the ground and took hold of the
lock and used his thumb to clean the key slot, which was caked with grime. When
he saw the opening, he inserted the key and twisted.

    The
lock snapped open.

    'I'll
be damned,' he said aloud.

    Cab
crouched there, breathing heavily, not daring to move. His wet hair was pasted
to his forehead. He turned the shackle sideways and squeezed it out of the
staple and put it aside on the ground. With the edge of his fingers, he pried
at the hasp, but it had rusted shut with disuse and wouldn't move. He grimaced,
tugging harder. When it resisted, he dug out his own keys and wedged one of
them under the hasp and yanked again. This time, it sprang open with a bang,
scraping Cab's fingers and drawing blood.

    He
forced his nails under the edge of the metal door. He lifted, but it was
heavier than he expected, and it slipped out of his wet grasp and clanged shut.
He tried again. The hinges, which hadn't moved in years, groaned and refused to
turn. He worked his palm under the narrow opening and pushed, winning a few
more inches. This time he used both hands, breaking through the accumulated
rust bonding the steel together and forcing the lid open. It fell backward, and
Cab fell with it, nearly tumbling down into the shelter.

    He
righted himself and stared into the blackness of the square opening. A metal
ladder disappeared below. Pent-up smells of must and decay bloomed out of the
hole. When he pointed his flashlight downward, he saw a dirty concrete floor
ten feet below him, where the shelter opened into a larger space. He couldn't
see anything beyond the tunnel leading into the cellar.

    Cab
laid his flashlight on the ground. He took hold of the metal ladder and tested
his weight on it. The braces clamping it to the concrete wall wobbled but held.
The steps felt secure. He turned off the light and shoved it in his pocket, and
he was blind as he took the next step down into the hole. It was dark above
him, around him, and below him.

    He
descended into the belly where Peter Hoffman kept his secrets.

    He
supposed everyone had such a place, real or imagined, a black cave where you
buried the things you wanted to forget.

    His
feet landed on the concrete floor of the storm cellar. Spider- webs clung with
sticky fingers to his skin and his hair, and he spat strands from his mouth. He
felt the dampness of the earth in the porous walls and rain dropping through
the hole into a pool where he stood. The opening at the top of the ladder
looked small above him.

    He
switched on his flashlight.

    The
space was tight. No more than ten feet separated him from the opposite wall. As
he shifted the beam of light, he saw metal shelves lined with canned goods
buried in thick dust and plastic jugs of water. Bottles of beer, too, cloudy
and stale. Black mold covered the wall like burnt eggs. He saw hundreds of
worms, most of them dead on the floor. More cobwebs sagged from the ceiling,
clinging to the corpses of bugs like treasure.

    He saw
a single wooden chair in the middle of the room, as if someone would come here
to do nothing but sit and think about his life passing. He tried to imagine why
Peter Hoffman came here.

    Cab
shifted his light and illuminated the last dark corner of the shelter.

    'Son
of a bitch,' he said.

    'We have
to do something right now,' Katie said. Her breath, when she exhaled, reeked of
nicotine. The window beside her was open, and rain sprayed across the girl's
arm.

    'There's
someone I can call,' Hilary said.

    'Who?'

    'His
name's Cab Bolton. He's the Florida detective who's investigating Glory's
disappearance. The local police will listen to him. They'll send a car out
here, and we can talk to them.'

    Katie
wiped steam from the glass with her elbow. 'They'll ring Gary's doorbell, and
he'll give them a song and dance, just like he did for me at the dorm. Amy
needs us
now.
You said you'd help me.'

    'We
can't deal with this alone. Cab's smart. He'll know why this is important.'

    Hilary
dug out her phone and hunted in her purse for the card with Cab Bolton's
number. Before she could dial, Katie covered the phone with her hand and
stopped her.

    'I've
got a better idea.'

    'What
is it?'

    'Let's
give the police a reason to go inside.'

    'I
don't understand,' Hilary said.

    Katie
pushed open the door of the Taurus and climbed out into the rain. Hilary
reached across the seat and grabbed her arm.

    'What
do you think you're doing?'

    'I'm
going to Gary's house.'

    'No
way. Get back inside.'

    Katie
pulled free. Water dripped from her face and hair, if the police knock on
Gary's door now, he can slam the door in their face, and they won't be able to
do a thing about it. But he'll let me in. He has no reason to think I know
anything.'

    'What
do you expect to accomplish?' Hilary asked.

    'I'm
going to force his hand.'

    'How?'

    'I'll
tell him the truth. Amy thought he was a murderer. I'll say I'm going to the
police.'

    'You're
not
going to do that,' Hilary insisted, if he really has Amy, all that does
is put you in danger.'

    Katie's
head bobbed. Her glasses slipped down her nose, if he grabs me, great. He
doesn't know you're out here. If I'm not back in ten minutes, then you can call
nine one one, and you've got an excuse for the police to storm the place.
Otherwise, they have nothing, and we both know it.'

    'In
the meantime, you could be dead.'

    'He
won't do anything to me that fast.'

    'You
can't take the chance.'

    'Too
late,' Katie said. 'Give me ten minutes.'

    The
girl slammed the door and ran across the wet grass of the park. Hilary got out
of the Taurus to chase her, but Katie was already too far away, running through
the driving rain. Hilary wanted to shout after her, but she bit her lip and
said nothing. As she clung to the top of the car door and watched her, the girl
dashed across the empty intersection into the glow of the street light. Katie
disappeared behind the towering maple trees that guarded the front of Gary
Jensen's house.

    Mark
heard a muffled splintering of wood as someone forced open the door leading to
the back porch. He clapped a hand over Tresa's mouth to squelch her scream. He
put his lips against her ear and whispered.

    'He's
in back. We'll go out the front. Don't make a sound.'

    He
pulled Tresa toward the hallway, and with his body shielding her, he guided
them toward the front door fifteen feet away. The distance felt long, and he
was a big target if anyone took a chance by firing a shot from behind. He kept
his hands firmly on Tresa's shoulders. The girl trembled, and he hoped she
wouldn't panic and run, giving away their location.

    The
door was ajar. When the wind blew, he could taste the rain. He winced as the
door moved an inch, its hinges making a sharp squeal. Ahead of him, Tresa froze
and sucked in a breath. He put pressure on her back and bent down so that his
face brushed her red hair.

    'Keep
going.'

    They
squeezed through the narrow gap. They were still blind, but the night air felt
like freedom. Mark guided them toward his truck, feeling his way to the end of
the wall where the living room jutted out beyond the front door. When they
reached the driveway, he let go of Tresa's hand and stopped to slide his keys
out of his pocket into his fist. He reached out to take Tresa's arm again.

    She
wasn't there.

    He
spread out both of his arms. The girl was gone.

    
'Tresa
?'
he hissed, as loud as he dared.

    Mark
heard the squish of her running footsteps. He turned, and she collided with him
hard. She bounced off his chest and stumbled backward and fell. He bent down to
reach for her, but she jumped up at the same time, and this time, she clutched
at his arm, and his keys flew from his fingers. So did the hammer.

    Twenty
feet away, the car alarm of the Explorer whooped. The headlights flashed on and
off like a strobe. The horn blared a warning. The light caught them in its
blinking glare, exposed and vulnerable. Mark scanned the ground for the keys
and didn't see them, and he didn't have time to search in the dirt. He grabbed
Tresa and pulled her toward the far side of the house.

    'Come
on, we'll head for the beach.'

    Beyond
the wall, protected by the house, the night was pitch black again. The alarm
wailed behind them. He didn't care about the noise they made. He charged
through the trees, stumbling over rocks and roots, shielding his face with an
outstretched hand as branches clawed for his skin. He clung to Tresa's hand,
dragging her in his wake. Ahead of them, he could make out the paleness where
the forest ended at the rocky beach near the half-moon bay. He burst from the
trees with Tresa on his heels. The rain and wind found them. The water lapped
at the shore.

    Running
on the rocks was loud and difficult. He turned west, and they tramped up the
beach along the edge of the woods, using the shaggy branches of the evergreens
for cover. He wrenched his ankle as he put his left foot wrong, but he didn't
slow down. Shivers of pain shot up his leg as they ran. They reached the dirt
road that led from the beach into the campground and then to the island
cemetery.

    'I
know where to hide,' he told her.

    He
followed the road into the campground. The trees were tall here, and the land
was flat, with straight narrow trunks blocking the way like soldiers. He guided
them through the darkness and nearly collided with the cinder-block wall before
he saw it. It was one of the changing rooms built for summer bathers, like a
small cottage tucked among the trees and picnic benches. He felt for the wooden
door and prayed that it was unlocked. When he tugged the wet handle, the door
slid silently open. He and Tresa crept inside, and he closed the door behind
them. Even in the winter season, the dank space smelled of sewage. He felt his
way forward on the concrete floor, and his fingers brushed the metal wall of a
toilet stall. He pulled Tresa inside, leaving the door unlatched.