The Bone House

by Brian Freeman

  He didn't mind that Cana was the most over-photographed, over- painted landmark in Door County. What he created never looked much like the original subject. His work was dark, with swirls of primary colors and blurry images of angels against black skies. He wasn't a religious man, unlike Hilary, and he didn't know why his brain told him to paint angels. Even so, he didn't question it.

  His family and friends had never understood his art. He was an athlete, and that meant his interests should have ground to a halt at the last page of the daily sports section. One of the qualities that drew him to Hilary was that she didn't put him in a box or maintain a preconceived notion of who he was. She'd never believed he could be one thing and not another.

  Mark turned his head, and his neck stabbed with pain. His left shoulder was tender where the seat belt had locked against his torso in the accident. The doctor at the island's medical clinic had suggested that he and Hilary take a day off to recover, but with no serious injuries, they'd both declined. Mark had replaced the tires on his Explorer and taken the two of them across the passage on a mid- morning ferry. Their friend Terri Duecker had offered to lend them a car.

  Hilary drove to school in Terri's Taurus. Mark drove to Cana.

  He realized he was hungry. He'd packed a lunch in his backpack. He covered up his canvas and carried his materials up the beach to the open lawn surrounding the lighthouse. It was immediately much quieter and warmer in the sun. He sat on a red picnic bench on the far side of the lawn, where he took out a turkey sandwich and a bag of grapes. He put up his canvas near the bench and studied his latest painting as he ate.

  His sandwich was almost gone when a shadow fell across the brown grass from the trail that led to the causeway. He turned and saw a teenage girl watching him.

  It was Tresa Fischer.

  Mark tensed. 'Tresa, you shouldn't be here.'

  'I know.'

  The girl came closer anyway. The bench faced the lighthouse tower, and she sat down on the same side, inches away from him. She rubbed the red paint on the bench nervously with the pads of her fingers. She wore a loose-fitting purple sweatshirt over her skinny frame, and her wrists looked like matchsticks jutting out of the cuffs. Her shiny red hair covered most of her face in profile.

  'No one's around,' she murmured. 'It's just us.'

  Mark felt a cloud of mixed emotions. Part of him wanted to get up and leave. Part of him wanted to be angry, but he had no anger against this girl. They'd barely spoken a word to each other since the previous year, when Delia Fischer had forbidden her daughter from seeing him. The most he'd heard from Tresa was an apology by phone, and he'd told her what he felt - that she had no reason to apologize.

  He really liked her. So did Hilary. She was a sweet, smart, sensitive, lonely girl. It was just complicated to realize that she'd done so much to destroy his life. She was still toxic to him, still a danger.

  'I'm sorry, Tresa, I have to go,' he said.

  She turned toward him urgently. Her blue eyes were frantic. She reached out her hands toward him and pulled them back. It was obvious that she was still in love with him, which made it even more important for him to walk away.

  'Please. Don't go. I'm not going to cause any trouble for you.'

  'What do you want?' he asked her.

  Tresa stuttered. 'I don't know. I heard what happened last night. I'm so glad you guys are OK. It made me feel like - I mean, I just needed to see you, you know? With everything going on.'

  'I know.'

  'I told the police in Florida they were wrong. I said you could never, ever hurt Glory. Not you.'

  'Thanks.'

  'I'm not sure they believed me. It's like last year. No one believes me.'

  'It doesn't matter.'

  'You must really hate me,' Tresa said.

  'I don't hate you. You shouldn't ever think that, because it's not true.' His instinct was to reach out and touch her, but he didn't. He added, 'How are you? This must be a terrible time. I'm sorry.'

  'Yeah, Mom's a wreck. Me, I don't know. Sometimes I cry, and sometimes I get pissed off at Glory.' She ducked her head and changed the subject, as if she couldn't bear to talk about her sister. 'I like coming out to the lighthouse. It's cool when there's nobody around.'

  'Me, too.'

  'Do you ever wonder what it was like?' Tresa pointed at the home attached to the lighthouse tower. 'The keeper and his wife and their kids all alone out here. I think I would have liked it.'

  'It was a hard life.'

  'Yeah, but you always said alone could be a good thing.'

  'Sometimes, sure.'

  'It would have been romantic. Sort of like you and Hilary on the island.'

  She was still an idealistic teenager, and Mark liked that about Tresa. He didn't want to tell her the truth. Reality had a way of eroding romance day by day, and if you wanted to keep it, you had to cling to it with your fingernails and put on blinders to the tragedy of life.

  'I really need to go,' he said.

  Tresa reached out and covered his hand. Her skin was warm. 'Please, not yet.'

  He gently took his hand away. 'Tresa.'

  'I know.' She twisted strands of her red hair between her fingers and pulled them through her lips. She pointed at his painting. 'I like that one.'

  'Thanks.'

  'One of the angels, the one near the tower, she looks really, really sad.'

  'I think you're right,' he said.

  'I wish I could paint like that.'

  'You're a writer. I wish I could write like you.'

  Her face brightened. 'Really?'

  'Yes. You're very talented. You have a great future.'

  'Wow. That's really nice.' She stared at the bench and murmured, 'But those things I wrote about us.'

  'Let's not talk about it.'

  Tresa nodded and didn't look at him. 'Can I ask you something?'

  'Sure.'

  'You never slept with Glory, did you?'

  Mark recoiled. 'No.'

  'Good,' she said, looking satisfied. 'I didn't think you would, but I know how she could be. Glory had a way of getting what she wanted. She read my diary, and I thought she'd want you just because I wanted you. I'm glad you didn't.'

  He wanted to steer her far away from the subject of her diary. The explicit descriptions were still vivid, erotic, and horrifying in his mind. 'Why did you never tell me about the fire?' he asked.

  Tresa cringed. 'The fire? I don't know. I wanted to forget it. We all acted as if it never happened.'

  'You can't forget things like that.'

  'You can try,' Tresa said. 'Sometimes you just have to put on blinders, you know? Everybody lost things that day, but nobody ever cared what I lost. I know that sounds selfish.'

  'What did you lose?' Mark asked.

  'You name it. Glory was never the same. Mom kept trying to rescue her, so she forgot about me. Mr Hoffman shipped Jen out to live with his daughter in Minneapolis, so I lost my best friend. I never really had anybody again. Not until you and Hilary showed up here. Then I went and screwed that up too.' Tresa blinked and wiped tears away from her eyes.

  'I'm sorry.'

  'It's not your fault.'

  'It must have been a bad night,' he said.

  'Oh, yeah. We didn't know Glory was there until Sheriff Reich came and told us. Mom freaked. Glory was just - well, in the hospital, she was all confused, thinking it was our house that had burned down, wanting to make sure we were all OK. She blocked it out, but my mom never forgot.'

  'And your friend Jen lost her family.'

  Tresa looked away, as if the pain was fresh. 'Yeah.'

  'Did she hate her father?'

  'Jen? I think it was harder to lose Mr Bone the way she did. She loved him. I know that sounds crazy, but the boys sided with their mom, and she always sided with her dad.'

  'Except if she'd been home, she would have been killed too,' Mark reminded her.

  'No, Mr Bone would never hurt Jen,' Tresa insisted. 'He knew she was staying wi
th us that night. He talked to my mom.'

  'Harris talked to Delia?' Mark asked.

  'Yes, he was over at our place all the time. I think he wanted to get away from home. You don't know what that family was like. You don't know how bad it was in their house.'

  'It sounds like you knew him pretty well,' Mark said.

  'Yeah, I guess.'

  'Did Glory?'

  'Sure.'

  Mark hesitated. 'Do you think she'd know Harris if she saw him today?'

  Tresa cocked her head in confusion. 'What are you saying?' Then she almost leaped across the bench, taking Mark's shoulders. He winced at the pressure. 'Oh, my God, do you think he could have been there?'

  Mark watched her hopeful blue eyes. It was as if she was looking for an answer, an explanation, anything to replace the doubt in her brain. He understood. Even Tresa wondered if he'd killed her sister. No matter how much she loved him, or how much she defended him, her heart of hearts told her that he was guilty.

  'What would Glory have done if she'd seen him?' he asked.

  Tresa bit her lip. 'I'm not sure. Wow, I don't know.'

  'Did you see anyone in Florida who might have been Harris Bone?'

  'No, no, I would have said something. I hung out by myself a lot. I'm not sure I would have seen anybody at all.' 'OK.'

  'I'm going to tell my mom. She's got it in her head that it was you, but you're right. Maybe it was Harris. Maybe he was there.'

  'Don't tell Delia you saw me,' Mark advised her. 'That won't help either one of us.'

  The girl nodded. 'I understand.'

  'You should go, Tresa.'

  'Yeah. OK.'

  As if swept up by an impulse she couldn't resist, Tresa wrapped her skinny arms around Mark's chest. Her cheek and red hair rested against his face, and her body pressed against him. She held him there longer than she should have, and he had to push her away. Her face glowed with passion.

  'I can still taste your lips,' she whispered to him. 'Even after all this time.'

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  At the end of the school day, Hilary drove north along County Road 42 in the Ford Taurus she'd borrowed from Terri Duecker. She'd popped Advil like candy, but her body still ached. All she wanted to do was take the ferry back to the island and slip into a hot bubble bath and stay there for about three hours.

  As she neared the Northport ferry terminal, she remembered that she needed to make one stop before going home. She checked her watch and saw that she still had one more chance to cross the passage that evening if she missed the next ferry. She turned off the highway and backtracked along Port des Morts Drive. At the end of the road, in a turnaround protected by giant evergreens, she parked outside the home of Peter Hoffman.

  Hilary wasn't sure if he would talk to her. She knew the rumors about Mark and Glory had made their way through the county grapevine, and Hoffman was close to Delia Fischer. Then again, if there was anyone who had reason to hate Harris Bone and want to see him found, it was the father and grandfather of the people Harris had killed.

  She got out of the Taurus and made her way down the muddy driveway. As she approached Hoffman's A-frame home, she saw an older man at work on the wide front porch. She smelled freshly cut wood, and she heard the banging of his hammer. He was on his knees, and he looked up when she reached the steps. He appeared to be nearly seventy years old, although his hair was jet black and appeared even blacker against his pale, deeply lined face. He got up slowly, favoring one leg. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black cargo pants with years of paint stains on the fabric. His eyes were suspicious.

  'Mr Hoffman?' she asked. 'My name is—'

  'I know who you are,' he interrupted her. 'What do you want, Mrs Bradley?'

  'I'd like to talk to you.'

  Hoffman's face tightened with discomfort. He sucked in a breath and straightened his back. He was a tall man. 'About Harris and the fire?'

  'That's right.'

  'There's nothing I can tell you,' he said.

  'That may be true, but I'd really appreciate five minutes.'

  Hoffman grunted and laid his hammer on the ledge of the front window. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the top of his toolbox and eased himself down on the front steps. Hilary sat down next to him. He unscrewed the top of the flask, and without offering her a drink, he took a long swallow. She could tell from the aroma of whiskey on his breath that he'd already been drinking before she arrived.

  'I don't talk about the fire,' he said. 'You're wasting your time.'

  'I understand.'

  'I heard what happened to you, and I'm sorry about that, but that doesn't mean I'm going to help you.'

  Hilary pulled aside the silk flap of her blouse far enough to show Hoffman the edge of the purple bruise discoloring her chest. 'This is from the accident last night. There are people around here who want to give me and my husband the death penalty, Mr Hoffman, even though Mark is guilty of nothing.'

  'You believe that, do you?'

  'I do.'

  Hoffman took another drink. 'Trust is bullshit.'

  'I know why you feel that way,' Hilary said.

  'You don't know a thing.'

  Hilary let her eyes drift around the huge, forested plot of land. The neat square of lawn and the carefully kept house felt like a tiny zone of order beating back chaos. 'Look, Mr Hoffman, I don't mean to bring up awful memories for you. All I want you to do is consider the possibility that my husband didn't kill Glory Fischer. You don't have to believe it the way I do. You don't even have to believe that

  Harris Bone was there. But if he was, if Glory saw him, we both know he'd have every incentive to kill her to protect his secret.'

  Hoffman squeezed his knees tightly with his hands. 'You're getting me angry, Mrs Bradley.'

  'I'm sorry, that's not my intention.'

  'I know exactly what your intention is. You're trying to exploit the tragedy that destroyed my family in order to protect your husband, who is most likely a murderer. I won't let you do that.'

  Hilary recoiled. 'I don't want to exploit your grief.'

  'Don't treat me like an idiot. You don't care about Harris Bone. You don't want to find him. You want him to be a mystery man, so your husband's lawyer can do a dance with a jury and get him off. Don't expect me to be a party to it. I don't need the hope of catching this man dangled in front of my face. You want the truth, Mrs Bradley? The last person I want to see again is Harris Bone. No one here wants to relive what happened six years ago.'

  'So he goes free?' Hilary asked.

  'I believe in God. Harris Bone will never be free. Not in this lifetime, not in the afterlife. I won't let you compound his crimes by using him to help your husband escape punishment for what he did.'

  'Mark didn't kill Glory.'

  Hoffman rubbed his jaw with his clenched left fist. He still wore a wedding ring on his finger. When he spoke, his voice was choked with emotion.

  'Let me explain something to you,' he told her quietly. 'Relationships run deep in this part of the world. We have roots. I don't know if someone from the city can understand that. The people who grew up here, they look after one another. If it weren't for a good woman like Delia Fischer, the only grandchild I have left would have died in that fire. To me, Delia is an angel. So when she loses her baby girl, it hurts me as much as if Glory were my own daughter. Believe me, I'm not going to let Delia suffer in vain. I'm going to make sure she gets justice.'

  'Why are you so quick to believe my husband did this?' Hilary asked in frustration.

  'The better question is, why do you believe he's innocent?'

  She shook her head and stood up. It had been a mistake to come here. 'Goodbye, Mr Hoffman. I'm sorry to have troubled you.'

  'There are no secrets around here,' he called as she retreated down the driveway. 'Felix Reich and I go back for decades. He already told me.'

  Hilary stopped. 'Told you what?'

  'That detectiv
e from Florida, he has a witness. He knows your husband was out on the beach with Glory Fischer.'

  'Whether he was or wasn't doesn't mean a thing,' she said.

  'They were kissing, Mrs Bradley.'

  The words hit her like bullets. 'That's a lie.'

  'Call the sheriff if you like.' He added, 'I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you can't live in the dark forever.'

  Hilary stalked away from the man without saying another word. She didn't want him to see her face. As she retraced her steps, she kept putting her feet wrong, because she had trouble seeing through the tears that clouded her eyes. Her breathing was fast and loud. She got back inside the Taurus, and her fingers trembled as she clung to the steering wheel. Her faith suddenly felt fragile. She thought she would lose it entirely, like a rock skittering off a cliff.

  Instead, she thought about her husband. She knew the kind of man he was. Whatever was going on, whatever this person saw, there was another explanation. He didn't touch her. He didn't kill her. Not Mark.

  Even so, something new and unwelcome attached itself to her brain and began feeding like a parasite as she drove for the ferry.

  Doubt.

  Tresa sat by herself at the end of a dead-end road near Kangaroo Lake. She wasn't ready to go home yet. Her heart was still full of Mark Bradley. She hadn't been so close to him in almost a year, and she wanted to remember his face, the feel of his body, and the sound of his voice while it was all vivid to her. The time away at school in River Falls had done nothing to change how she felt. She loved him.

  She wanted to save him.

  Tresa held her phone in her cold hand. As the sun sank lower, shadows lengthened on the water. She hesitated about dialing, because she hadn't called in almost two years. That was how life worked. People drifted apart. For all she knew, the number had changed like everything else about her friend.

  She dialed it anyway. She listened to the ringing and felt oddly anxious, as if she would be calling a stranger. She thought about hanging up, but then she heard the voice on the other end. It hadn't changed. She felt sad and ashamed. All the old guilt flooded over her. She didn't even know if she could speak.