The Bone House

by Brian Freeman

  It had happened when Delia was sixteen. The same age as Glory.

  The boy's name was Palmer Ford. That was the kind of name your parents gave you when money was your birthright, when every school you would attend in your life was private and privileged. He was from Kenilworth, one of those rich Chicago enclaves with the gilded estates and the lakeside lots. He was the same age as Delia. That summer, his parents rented a house on Mansion Row in Fish Creek for the last two weeks of July. Palmer had his own car; he was on his own while his parents shopped for art and antiques.

  He did what rich boys do in places like Door County. He went to the local kids to buy drugs. Delia met him at a Friday night party on Clark Lake, where stoned teenagers lashed fishing boats together and lay on their backs and watched the stars. Delia and Palmer wound up next to each other, mixing beer and pot and dangling their feet in the cool water. They talked. They laughed. They kissed.

  He was tall and handsome, with tight black curly hair, a hooked nose, and a muscular physique. An athlete. He played high school football, and college scouts were already jotting down his name in their rosters. He dressed well, in Izod shirts, khakis, and boat shoes without socks. He threw money around. It was impossible not to like someone who always picked up the check for everyone else. That was what fibs did; they floated in and out of town, skimming the cream, making friends with kids who wouldn't fit in back home.

  After that first night, Palmer and Delia spent every evening together. They played miniature golf. They got ice cream. They kissed more, and she let him inside her blouse, where he rubbed her nipples with chapped hands. Delia wasn't a virgin. She'd done it before with a couple boys, one a year since she was fourteen. Later, the lawyers made it out like she was a slut who threw it around, but that was a lie. Most of her friends went from boy to boy all summer. Not Delia.

  Palmer was a gentleman. That was what she thought. He didn't push her; he stopped when she told him to stop, even though she could feel his erection through his pants like steel against her thigh. On the last night, the night before he would leave her forever and go back to Chicago - which was always how those relationships went - she figured she would give in. Spread her legs, give him his prize for all the money he'd spent on her. She didn't have any illusions that he loved her or that he'd invite her back to Mansion Row to meet his parents. She was summer candy. You unwrapped it, you ate it, and it was gone. That was OK. She didn't expect more.

  Delia never got the chance to wait until the last night. Palmer ran out of patience with her. Four nights before the end of his vacation, he pulled on to a deserted side road as he was taking her home at one in the morning. He wasn't satisfied with feeling her breasts; he pushed up her T-shirt and exposed them. His fingers went for the buckle on her jeans, then the zipper. It should have felt right, but it was all wrong, and Delia found herself feeling terrified and claustrophobic as the weight of his athlete's body held her down. She told him to stop. He didn't.

  Twenty-five years later, she could still close her eyes and feel it. The pressure of his chest, making it hard to breathe. His tight hands locked around her wrists, leaving bruises. Her head wedged sideways between the leather seat and the metal car door, her hair across her face. His panting in her ear. The pain, sweat, blood, saliva, and discharge.

  The next day, in hushed tones, she'd told the police every detail about the rape. They'd arrested Palmer. Felix Reich, who was a deputy then, not the sheriff, had sworn to her and her mother that the boy would pay for what he'd done. He was young; he was wrong. Palmer didn't pay; his parents did. They bought a lawyer. They bought the politicians and the county attorney. Delia made it as far as the deposition, in which a middle-aged female attorney asked in a horrifying monotone about her sexual history, her period, her drug use, her grades in school, her preference in birth control devices, her experience in oral sex, and how often she masturbated. By the end of that ninety minutes, she felt as if she had been raped a second time. She had a panic attack leaving the attorney's office. She wound up in the hospital.

  Palmer Ford was never charged. She never saw him again. Felix Reich came to their house and apologized to her personally, but she knew it wasn't his fault. You can't fight a system greased with money and power. Rich boys, spoiled athletes, can do what they want. She'd learned a lesson that would be proved again and again in her life.

  There was no justice.

  Delia thought about Palmer as she stood on the concrete pier that jutted into the rippling waters of Lake Michigan near Cave Point Park. He'd become an attorney, representing victims of sexual harassment in the workplace. That was rich. She wondered what his clients would think if they knew the truth.

  She found herself crying. Not for herself, but for Glory. And for Tresa, too. All these years later, it was no different. There was still no justice.

  Delia heard footsteps behind her. She turned and saw Troy Geier. She hadn't even heard him arrive in his 1980s-era Grand Am, which was parked next to her car in the huge open lot at the end of Schauer Road. She'd been too caught up in her own thoughts. He came and stood beside her, and she was annoyed by his presence. She'd never thought there was any substance to Troy. He was slow and naive, just as his father said. She'd never believed for a moment that Glory had any serious feelings for him.

  They stood silently by the lake. The water was nearly black beyond the land. Close in, by the shore, she saw white seashells and slimy colonies of emerald-green algae. Waves slurped against the rubber tires fastened to the pier. Her eyes fell on the T-shaped boat ties dotting the concrete, which looked like tiny crosses. It made her think of a graveyard. Delia shivered and grew impatient.

  'OK, I'm here, Troy,' she snapped. 'What do you want? Why did we have to meet out here?'

  Troy glanced nervously behind him, making sure they were alone. 'I just didn't think anyone should see us talking.'

  'Oh, for God's sake. We work in the same bar every damn day.'

  'I know, but this is different.'

  'I'm tired. I want to go home and have a drink, OK? Tell me what's so important.'

  Troy shifted on his feet and adjusted himself in his jeans. She felt guilty about treating him badly, but everyone treated Troy badly. He just made you want to yell at him because he was such a pussy.

  'I'm sorry, Troy,' she went on. 'I'm just mad at the world. I'm sorry about the things I said in Florida, too. What happened to Glory wasn't your fault.'

  'No, you were right,' he said. 'I should have been there for her. I should have protected her.'

  'Just tell me what you want, so we can both go home.'

  'I've been thinking about things,' Troy murmured. 'Nothing's going right, you know? I don't like this detective. He's acting like I did this, which is nuts.'

  'Cops treat everyone like they're guilty,' Delia said, it doesn't mean anything.'

  'Yeah, but is he ever going to arrest Mark Bradley? Is that bastard going to pay for what he did?'

  Delia thought about Palmer Ford. Harris Bone. People who never paid. 'I have no idea, Troy. There's a different set of rules for people like them and people like us.'

  Troy punched his hand with a plump fist. 'Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of. I think he's going to get away with it.'

  'I hope you're wrong, but there's nothing we can do but wait and pray,' Delia told him with a sigh. She felt frustrated. Helpless. 'Maybe this time God will come through.'

  'There is something we can do,' Troy insisted.

  'What?'

  'We can take matters into our own hands.'

  Delia turned from the lake and stared at the boy, whose round face had a childish violence about it that she'd never seen in him before. Her heart pounded. 'What do you mean by that?'

  Troy's eyes darted around the vacant parking lot again. 'All we need is one night where he's alone on the island. I have a buddy who works on the ferry. He'll let me know if Bradley's wife leaves. I can sail over there and take care of it myself. I'd just need an alibi, someone to say I was
with them that night.'

  Delia thought of all the things she should say to him. You're crazy. This is wrong. Don't ever bring this up again. She knew she had to cut this off now before it went too far. Before everything got out of control. She had to stop this boy before he made a terrible mistake.

  The truth was that she didn't want to stop him.

  'When you say you'll take care of it,' Delia murmured, 'exactly what do you plan to do?'

  Troy opened his jacket and showed her. 'I have a gun,' he said.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The downtown street past the White Gull Inn in Fish Creek ended at a beach overlooking the waters of Green Bay. Cab bought a sandwich of brie, sprouts, and focaccia bread and found a bench where he could watch the sun set. He'd finally bought a gray wool overcoat that was intended to reach to his ankles, but only draped as low as his knees. He was warm for the first time since he'd arrived.

  The beach was nothing like the beaches he knew in Florida or Spain, where sun gods lay topless on towels beside water that was still and clear. Instead of flat sand, the wind created a dune of peaks and valleys. Jagged driftwood littered the shore. The water tussled with itself, and waves landed in angry slaps. The disappearing sun looked impotent here, and when it was gone entirely, there was nothing left but a long stretch of melancholy gray.

  He felt his phone buzz as a text arrived. When he flipped it open, he saw that his mother had written to him from London, where it was past midnight. His dark mood brightened, thinking of her.

  Hello, darling. In a taxi, thought of you, ha ha. When will I see you? We're overdue. Love, T. P.S. Beautiful place you're in, but does anyone live there?

  Tarla always had a way of reading his mind. It was disorienting to imagine himself on one corner of the planet, in this solitary place, and to picture his mother across the ocean in the urban lights and noise of London. She was right. He felt as if no one at all lived here. The loneliness was crushing, maybe because the empty land reflected what he was feeling inside. He'd always assumed that seclusion like this was what he wanted, but he had begun to realize that it wasn't healthy. It spread like a virus. He missed his mother in London. He missed Lala in Florida. He wasn't as much of an island as he'd always believed.

  'Hello, Detective.'

  Cab looked over his shoulder in surprise and saw someone who did live here. Someone who claimed to thrive on the isolation that he wanted to escape.

  'Mrs Bradley,' he said. He checked his watch. 'Shouldn't you be back home by now?'

  'I missed the last ferry,' she told him. 'I have a friend with a rental cottage near here. She lets me stay there.'

  'How did you find me?'

  'I saw you driving through town. Your Corvette is hard to miss. Everyone already knows who you are.'

  'So it seems.'

  'Welcome to life in a small town.'

  'I heard about your accident on the island,' Cab told her.

  'It wasn't an accident.'

  'I understand. I'm glad to see you're OK.'

  'I hurt like hell. I'm staying in bed tomorrow.'

  'Good for you. Are you hungry? Would you like half of a vegetarian sandwich?'

  'Do I look like I eat girly food?' Hilary asked. 'You should come back when Stillwater's opens for the season and get yourself the world's best cheeseburger.'

  'I'll take your word for it.'

  Hilary Bradley sat down next to him on top of the bench. She stared at the horizon, where the blue sky deepened into night. She took off her glasses and brushed a wisp of her blond hair from her eyes, a simple gesture that Cab found oddly erotic. He was uncomfortably aware that he found this woman attractive. He knew what Mark Bradley saw in her. Strength. Determination. Depth.

  Even so, her face was troubled. Something was bothering her.

  'Are you all right?' he asked.

  She gave him a look that said: Why do you care?

  'I'm fine,' she replied. 'Why do you ask?' 'I assume I would be about the last person on earth you'd want to talk to,' he said.

  'Sometimes when you live out here, you just find yourself wanting to talk to someone, no matter who it is.'

  'You have a gift for flattery.'

  She realized what she'd said. 'Sorry.'

  'Don't worry about it.'

  Hilary looked as if she was grasping for something innocuous to say. He suspected that was because she didn't want to say whatever was really in her head. 'What do you use in your hair?' she asked.

  He was amused, it's a molding gel. My mother sends it to me from London.'

  'I like it.'

  'Thank you.'

  'You're not exactly a typical cop, are you?'

  'Not exactly,' Cab acknowledged.

  'Speaking of your mother,' Hilary said, 'I didn't realize at first who she was. It took me a while to put together the name. I don't think I've ever seen any of her movies. I go for chick flicks.'

  Cab cocked an eyebrow. 'You?'

  'No,' Hilary said, smiling. 'I already told you, I'm not the girly type.'

  He was almost willing to believe she was flirting with him.

  'It's an artificial life, isn't it?' she asked. 'Hollywood, I mean.'

  'Very.'

  'Is that why you're not in it?'

  'Yes.'

  'You don't like to talk about yourself, do you?'

  'No.'

  She nodded. 'Me neither. I apologize for that crack I made on the island. About a woman messing with you. It's none of my business.'

  He wondered if she expected him to open up and admit the truth. You were right, he would say. Let me tell you about Vivian Frost. Instead, he didn't say anything at all. He felt it again, the old instinct to shut himself off from women. He wondered, as he had with Lala, if it was worth trying to get past it. If circumstances were different, Hilary Bradley was the kind of woman he would have enjoyed getting to know. But circumstances weren't different. Not for her. Not for him.

  'Do you mind if I make a cop-like observation?' he asked her.

  'Go ahead.'

  'You don't strike me as a woman who misses a ferry.'

  She looked uncomfortable. 'It happens all the time.'

  'If you say so.'

  He gave her a minute of silence. He knew she was tempted to get up and leave. Whatever was bothering her, it made her feel vulnerable, and she was obviously a woman who didn't enjoy that feeling.

  'I didn't miss the ferry,' she admitted. 'I decided not to go home tonight.'

  'I see.'

  Her face was haunted, which only made it prettier. He disliked women who wanted you to take care of them, and that wasn't Hilary Bradley at all. She looked as if she could barely get the words out to admit what was in her head.

  'Be honest with me,' she said. 'Do you really have a witness who saw Mark kissing Glory Fischer on the beach?'

  Cab understood. The foundation on which she'd built her life suddenly felt weak. Normally, he wouldn't have said a thing about the evidence in the case, but he found himself unable to say nothing. He hedged his words.

  'I haven't talked to the witness myself,' he said. 'I'm going to do that tomorrow. I can't tell you exactly what he saw or didn't see.'

  'It was dark on the beach. It could still be a case of misidentification.'

  'I can't say yes or no.'

  'Things aren't always what they seem,' she said forcefully, and he thought she was talking to herself as much as she was talking to him.

  'I realize that. For what it's worth, Mrs Bradley, I hope your husband is innocent. I'd like to think there are a few strong relationships left in this world.'

  'I thought you only believed in betrayal, Detective.' Her voice was cold again.

  'I do, but I'd like to be wrong now and then.'

  Hilary got off the bench and squared her shoulders. 'You're wrong now.'

  'Maybe so.'

  'Here's what I believe,' Hilary told him. 'Your witness didn't see what he thinks he saw. Either it wasn't Mar
k, or he misinterpreted what was happening between them.'

  'Forgive me, Mrs Bradley, but if you really believe that, why did you miss your ferry?'

  'Fuck you,' she snapped, surprising him with her venom. She spun on her heel, then stopped in the middle of the clearing. 'I'm sorry. Mark would never kill anyone. That's not the kind of man he is.'

  'He may not be, but that doesn't mean anything.'

  'Would you kill an innocent girl?' she asked. 'Could you ever do something like that?'

  I already did.

  'An innocent girl? Of course not.'

  'Then why do you think Mark could?'

  She didn't wait for an answer, and he wasn't going to give her one. She retreated to her car and drove away toward downtown Fish Creek with an angry roar of her motor. He was alone again with the encroaching night and the violent water of Green Bay below him. He didn't like it, no matter how beautiful it was. It felt deadly. Catch-a- Cab Bolton was ready to be anywhere else but here.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Gary Jensen lived at a hilltop intersection where five roads came together at the end of the developed area of the city. Across from his corner house, the land gave way to grass fields and farmland. Amy pulled into Gary's driveway after dark under the thick cover of giant oaks and sugar maples crowding the house. She switched off the engine. The radio, which had been playing a moody song by Adele called 'Hometown Glory', went silent on the final notes.

  She sat in her car and texted Katie. I'm here.

  Amy got out of the car. Lights glowed on both stories of the brick house, but the curtains were tightly drawn. Tree branches dangled close enough to scrape the glass on most of the windows. She hiked along the grassy shoulder to the front of the house. A street light threw her shadow down the hill behind her on the road that led to the distant bay. Ahead of her, no more than half a mile away, she heard the whine of car motors on Highway 57, speeding to and from downtown Green Bay. She saw a patch of trees diagonally across from the house, marking Wequiock Falls County Park. She'd hiked there to see the waterfall in each of the seasons, not knowing that Gary lived within shouting distance of the trail.