The Bone House

by Brian Freeman

  'So he's got reason to be pissed off.'

  'Yes, but I'm not seeing any motive for him to kill Glory,' Lala pointed out. 'No one accused them of having an affair.'

  'That doesn't mean they weren't.'

  'You're pretty cynical, Cab. For what it's worth, the sheriff had some things to tell me about Glory, too.'

  Cab raised an eyebrow. 'Such as?'

  'She was a troubled kid. Multiple arrests going back several years.' 'Several years? She's only sixteen.'

  'Yeah, her first drug possession bust was at age twelve, and it wasn't her last. The local cops think she may have done some selling, too, although she was never actually charged. She was involved in vandalism, shoplifting, breaking and entering. It's not a happy picture.'

  'Have there been any problems reported at the hotel this week?'

  'The usual minor stuff. Glory's name didn't come up.'

  'If we can pin this on someone, the defense is going to say Glory got involved with the local drug scene or hooked up with the wrong crowd.'

  'That may be what happened,' Lala told him.

  'Yeah, I know. Maybe. Let's keep talking to everyone we can, but put an emphasis on girls who were at the event center on Friday. I want to see if we can find someone who saw Glory before she went running toward Ronnie Trask. I want to know who she recognized.'

  'The Bradleys are the only other people in the hotel from Door County,' Lala said.

  'I know, but it sounds like Door County is a tourist area in Wisconsin. If Glory saw someone who visited the area but doesn't live there, that opens up a lot more possibilities. Particularly with a bunch of college kids staying at the hotel.'

  'We're looking for a needle, and the haystack just got a lot bigger,' Lala said.

  'There were a lot of people at that competition. Someone other than Ronnie Trask is bound to remember a girl running through the hall crying.'

  Lala shrugged. 'Teenage girls do that all the time.'

  'Yeah? I don't picture you doing that, Mosquito.'

  'I was tougher than most,' she replied. After a moment, she added, 'You have a nickname, too, you know.'

  'Catch-a-Cab Bolton,' he said, nodding.

  'You know about it?'

  'Sure. I know about the betting pool, too. When will Cab quit and move on? It's been two years. The welcome mat is wearing thin.'

  'It's nothing to be proud of, Cab.'

  'Did I say I was?' he asked.

  'You never say anything.'

  Cab opened his mouth to fire off a sarcastic reply, but for once he let it go. Then he asked, 'So what week do you have in the pool?'

  'Next week, actually,' she said, without smiling.

  'That soon?'

  'I know you better than the others.'

  It was as if she'd given him a terminal diagnosis. 'Well, if anyone's going to make money on me, I'd like it to be you.'

  Lala didn't answer. Behind Cab's shoulder, someone gestured to her, and she climbed out of the chair and chatted with a uniformed officer in the doorway of the investigation division. When she returned, she was all business again. There wasn't time for anything personal between them, and he wondered if she was relieved by the interruption.

  'You've got a visitor in the interview room,' Lala told him.

  'Delia Fischer?' Cab asked, checking his watch. 'She's right on time.'

  Lala shook her head. 'It's not her. It's Mark Bradley. And his attorney. They want to talk.'

  * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  Hilary Bradley emerged out of the Naples Police headquarters building into the bright sunshine. She slipped sunglasses on to her face. She stopped on the circular brick walkway and hesitated, unsure where to go. Mark was upstairs, and she assumed the police would interview him for an hour or more. At least he wasn't alone in facing their questions. She liked the attorney they'd hired; he was a bulldog, according to her father. It was the smart thing to do to get help, but she knew Mark was right about perceptions. The police would see him with a lawyer, and one word would jump into their heads.

  Guilty.

  She'd heard it in her father's voice, too. Her parents had stood behind Mark last year, because Hilary had convinced them he was innocent. Now she'd gone back to the well, and this time, there was an unspoken doubt in their reactions. They didn't know what to believe anymore. They probably wondered what she believed and whether she was being honest about her suspicions. But they had stayed silent.

  Hilary stood in front of the pink stone building and saw a police cruiser glide up to the curb twenty feet away. The front passenger door opened, and she stiffened with dismay as she recognized the woman climbing out.

  It was Delia Fischer. Glory and Tresa's mother.

  Delia's head swiveled as she looked up at the two-story building, and her eyes were vacant, as if she was lost and overwhelmed. Her stare passed over Hilary without recognition, and then, slowly, horribly, it came back and landed on her and froze there. They confronted each other across the sidewalk. Hilary took off her sunglasses and nodded at Delia. There was no point in pretending.

  Glory's mother approached without saying a word. She was several inches shorter than Hilary. She looked beaten and exhausted, with deep worry lines furrowed in her brow and around her mouth. Her cheaply colored blond hair was tied in a ponytail. She was rail-thin, a woman in her mid-forties who looked ten years older than she was. She wore spiral earrings made from aluminum cans; that was one of the eBay businesses she used to earn extra money in the off season. If you weren't rich in Door County, you always had something going on the side to make ends meet. Hilary had bought some of Delia's jewelry as a gesture of friendship the previous year, before everything erupted over Tresa.

  Despite their history with her, Hilary had never been able to hate Delia. She understood the emotions that drove her. Delia was a single mother struggling with two teenage girls, fiercely proud and protective. Hilary could easily imagine the stunned fury Delia had felt in reading Tresa's diary, believing that her child had been exploited and abused by a man she trusted. All of that anger had landed on Mark's head, regardless of Tresa's denials. If Hilary had been in her shoes, she probably would have done exactly what Delia did - launch a crusade to destroy the man who had stolen her daughter's innocence.

  Hilary didn't think that Delia had ever suffered a pang of doubt. She was convinced she was right and would never believe otherwise. In her eyes, Mark was a child molester who deserved the ostracism he'd received. Now, like a bad dream, he was back in her life, violating her family again in an even more terrible way than before.

  'Mrs Fischer, I'm so sorry,' Hilary began. 'Mark and I—'

  'Don't you dare.'' Delia cut her off in a voice hoarse with bitterness. 'Don't you dare defend him. Don't you dare speak his name in front of me.'

  'Mrs Fischer, please. I understand your grief.'

  Delia's cheeks flushed. 'You don't know the first thing about my grief, so don't pretend that you do. Everyone says how smart and attractive you are, and all I see is a woman who's a fool. You're married to a monster, and you won't admit it to yourself. Maybe if you'd opened your eyes last year, my daughter would still be alive.'

  'Mark didn't do this,' Hilary told her, but she knew her words were useless, and she almost regretted saying them.

  Delia flinched, as if she might slap Hilary's face, but then she closed her eyes and breathed heavily. When she opened her eyes again, Hilary felt a wave of violence breaching the small space between them. The policeman coughed, like a gentle warning to draw their attention, but Delia ignored him.

  'I almost feel sorry for you,' Delia said, 'trying to convince yourself that he's not evil. But then I think, you must know, and you just don't care. Because you're not a fool, are you? You really are as smart as everyone says. So I guess you've just decided you'll protect him regardless of what he's done.'

  Hilary noticed that other people coming and going from the police building had begun to stop and watch them. She felt a
burn of embarrassment. It was familiar; she'd learned to expect stares from strangers. She knew that Delia was lashing out in pain and desperation, and she knew that there was no way for her to bridge the divide between them. If anyone could comfort Delia, it wasn't her. Her presence just made it worse.

  'I should go,' Hilary told her. 'You may not believe me, and it doesn't matter, but I'm very sorry about Glory. You're right, I can't understand your grief. I can't imagine losing your daughter. It may mean nothing coming from me, but I'm hurting for you. I really am.'

  Delia's face was impassive. Hilary hadn't expected to reach her. The policeman approached Delia and touched her elbow in order to guide her toward the door of the building. Delia allowed herself to be led, but she pulled away abruptly and jabbed a finger at Hilary's face.

  'Do you have any idea what he took from me?' she shouted. 'Glory was my baby! I almost lost her once, and I thought I got a second chance. But now I've lost her all over again because of you and your husband. He took her away from me. It wasn't enough what he did to Tresa. He had to go after my baby, too.'

  Hilary said nothing. She stood there and let the woman vent her despair.

  'Mrs Fischer,' the policeman murmured. 'Let's go inside.'

  'Well, you know what?' Delia continued, screaming at Hilary now.

  'He's not going to get away with it! I promise you that. Not again. This time I'm going to make sure he pays for what he did to us!'

  Troy Geier sat on a concrete bench in the lobby of the police building. His back was slumped as he leaned forward, and his hands dangled between his thick thighs. Tresa sat next to him, as straight as a board. They both watched the altercation outside between Delia Fischer and Hilary Bradley, and the noise of Delia's screaming cut through the glass windows, clear and shrill.

  Tresa didn't look at Troy. 'You told my mom, didn't you? You told her you thought that Mark did this.'

  'What the hell was I supposed to say?' he muttered.

  'You bastard. Mark would never hurt Glory.'

  Troy blew out his breath in a disgusted sigh. 'Shit, Tresa, listen to yourself. You're more concerned with your teacher boyfriend than you are with your sister. Glory's dead, and you're still protecting him. What do you think? He's going to leave his wife for you?'

  'You don't know anything,' Tresa snapped.

  'No? Who the hell else do you think did this?'

  'It wasn't Mark.'

  Troy shook his head. 'You're actually jealous, aren't you? Jesus. The fucking pervert was stalking Glory, and all you can think about is yourself.'

  'You have no idea what you're talking about. There was nothing between Mark and Glory.'

  'Oh, come on, Bradley obviously had a hard-on for her, the son of a bitch.'

  Tresa shoved him, which was like pushing against the trunk of a tree. 'Shut up, Troy, just shut your mouth. You think Glory was so sweet? Do you have any idea how many boys she slept with?'

  'Don't talk like that!'

  'What, I'm supposed to pretend she was a princess because she's dead? Sorry, I won't do that. She probably came on to some biker on the beach, or she tried to buy drugs from the wrong person. Wake up, Troy. Glory used you like she used everyone.'

  'I loved her,' Troy murmured.

  'I loved her too, but she got a free pass for everything. Mom's probably out there right now wishing it was me that died.'

  'That's crazy.'

  'Yeah? For the last six years, I've been invisible. Everything's been about Glory. Ever since the fire.'

  'She almost died,' Troy protested.

  'I know. She almost died. Poor Glory, she's screwed up because of the fire. Well, fuck her.' Tresa bit her lip, knowing she'd gone too far.

  It had always been that way between the two sisters. Sometimes you didn't know they loved each other because of all the bitterness and jealousy. Troy watched tears slip down Tresa's face, which she wiped away with her shirt. He felt like crying too, but he hadn't been able to squeeze out any tears since he heard the news. He was just numb. And guilty.

  He saw Glory's mom storm into the foyer. When she got angry, you didn't want to be in the firing line with Mrs Fischer, because she had a temper. He cringed to see her, because he knew what she would say. Their eyes met, and he could feel all of her grief and rage unloading silently on him across the room. Before he could say anything or explain, she gestured to Tresa and opened her arms. Tresa ran to her, and the two of them embraced and sobbed together. A minute earlier, Tresa had been bitter about Glory; now, she moaned into her mother's shoulder as they shared the loss.

  Delia stroked Tresa's red hair. Troy sat there, ignored. It was probably better that way, with her not looking at him. Eventually, though, Glory's mom detached herself and told Tresa to get her a glass of water. Delia Fischer waited until Tresa was gone, and then she descended on Troy.

  He climbed to his feet, and the tears finally came. 'Mrs Fischer, listen, I—'

  'Don't make excuses with me, Troy,' Delia said, practically spitting at him. 'You promised me, didn't you? What did you say? You said you'd protect her. You said I didn't need to worry.'

  'I know, it's just that I didn't - I mean, Glory didn't come back -'

  Troy's voice cracked. He hated himself for being weak. He hated himself for having failed her.

  'You knew that pervert, that rapist, was right here at the resort, and you left Glory alone? Are you crazy?'

  'Tresa says she doesn't think that Bradley would have done this,' Troy protested meekly.

  'Tresa? What the hell do I care what Tresa thinks about Mark Bradley? That man brainwashed her into his bed. I know men like him. I know what they do to teenage girls. This is about you, Troy. I trusted you. I trusted you. You told me you'd protect my baby, and she's dead. You let her die.'

  For a husky kid, Troy felt himself getting smaller and smaller, until he thought he could shrink into the tiniest hole in the earth and disappear. 'I'm so sorry, Mrs Fischer,' he pleaded. 'Really.'

  Glory's mom slapped him. Her fingers clapped against his cheek so hard that he stumbled backward. His hand flew to his face, which stung like he'd been attacked by wasps. He opened his mouth to say something, to say anything, and he had nothing to say to her at all.

  'Your father's right about you,' Mrs Fischer sneered. 'You are completely fucking useless.'

  She turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving him alone and in tears. Troy sank on to the bench again and covered his face in his hands. He thought about Glory, and he realized that everyone was right. Mrs Fischer was right. His dad was right. He'd had a chance to prove himself, and he'd failed.

  He really was useless.

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  Cab found Mark Bradley inside the interview room, along with a rotund older man who sported a lion's mane of curly gray hair and a devilishly pointed goatee. He was impeccably dressed in a gray suit with a buttoned vest and a pink tie. As Cab entered, the older man jumped to his feet with a spry bounce, hopped round the wooden table, and extended a hand. Cab shook it and felt his finger bones groaning under the man's iron grip.

  'Archibald Gale,' the attorney announced. 'I don't believe we've had the pleasure before, Detective Bolton.'

  Cab sat down and studied the man's eyes, which twinkled behind tiny owlish glasses. 'Meeting a lawyer really isn't my idea of pleasure, Mr Gale.'

  'Ah, you're funny, Detective. I like that.'

  'Are you new to Florida, Mr Gale? I thought I knew all the local criminal attorneys.' Cab said the word 'criminal' with a small smile directed at Mark Bradley.

  'I've just begun wintering here. My other home is in Duluth, Minnesota.'

  'I'm not familiar with that area,' Cab admitted.

  'It's a beautiful place, but we've had an unusually high murder rate in recent years. That's a mixed blessing if you're a lawyer.' Gale put an arm around the shoulder of the well-built man seated beside him, whose face was smoky with caged anger. 'Detective Bolton, this is Mark Bradley.'
/>   'Mr Bradley, I didn't recognize you without the shower going.' Cab smiled, and Bradley shot him a look of naked resentment.

  'Detective, we're here as a courtesy,' Gale interjected. 'I hope we'll all be polite.'

  'It's just that I'm anxious to hear Mr Bradley speak,' Cab went on. 'Whenever I'm around him, he seems to have other people talking for him.'

  'This was a mistake,' Bradley said, getting out of the chair.

  Gale put a gentle hand on his shoulder and eased him back into his seat. 'Don't worry, Mark. Let's just focus on the unfortunate business at hand and provide whatever information we can.'

  Bradley didn't hide his impatience. Instinctively, as a result, Cab proceeded slowly. He pushed back his chair, crossed his long legs, and picked up a yellow pad of handwritten notes. Under the guise of reviewing them, he studied Mark Bradley over the top of the pad. Bradley wore a red, collared polo shirt and tan dress slacks. He had the easy, unconscious grace of an athlete when he moved and looked like a man who was comfortable in his own skin. He was attractive, but not in a Hollywood way like Cab or in the macho way that some athletes exuded. He was simply good-looking without thinking about it. His brown hair was cut short without much care. He wouldn't have been caught dead with an earring or a gold chain or cologne. His fore head and nose were so pink with sunburn that he may as well have said: I like the sun. Screw cancer.

  'You look familiar, Mr Bradley,' Cab told him. 'Do I know you from somewhere?'

  'I was on the PGA tour for a few years in my twenties,' Bradley replied.

  'Really? Why did you give it up?'

  'I injured ligaments in my shoulder in a car accident about eight years ago. It doesn't restrict my day-to-day activities, but I no longer have the precision I need to be a pro.'