The Bone House - Brian Freeman [101]
He picked up the ring and found the key he was looking for. It was a small silver key, the kind that opened a heavy padlock. It was in good condition, but the lock to which it belonged was dirty and rust- covered where it lay in the dirt, exposed to the fierce elements. In the early days, he'd gone there every few months to check on it, but he'd never opened the lock. He'd tugged on it to make sure it held good, and then he had left. Eventually, he'd realized there was no reason to keep coming back. All he was doing was torturing himself.
Hoffman separated the key from the others on the ring. He undid the latch and extracted the key and dropped the ring back on the table. He held the key and rubbed it until it was warm between his fingers. It was horrifying, the vivid memories you could find in a shiny piece of metal. When he couldn't stare at it anymore, he slid the key inside his pocket.
It was next to Mark Bradley's phone.
He pushed himself up from his chair. As he did, a shiver of pain coursed down his leg like ice. His bad leg, where he'd taken a bullet for Felix Reich in a fetid jungle, had stiffened since the fall at the store, and now it was almost immovable. His calf was swollen and purple and tender to the touch. He suspected he had broken a bone. They'd wanted to call an ambulance for him, but he'd refused, even though now he could barely walk. It didn't matter. He had other things to do.
Cab Bolton would be here soon.
Hoffman clung to the kitchen counter and grabbed his cane. He leaned into it, supporting his weight. With his other hand, he picked up the map from the table and slid it under his arm. Step by step, he limped from the kitchen into his bedroom, where he kept his desk and a printer that doubled as a copy machine. He fumbled with the map, unfolding it and laying it on the glass. He punched the copy button, but when he saw the page that printed, he realized that he had misaligned the map. He moved the paper, tried again, and decided that the image was too small. He set the machine to enlarge.
It would have been easier to drive along with Cab Bolton to show him the way, but Hoffman knew he couldn't walk that far in the cold and rain. He didn't want to go back there anyway. He had faced evil things in the past, but some evil was too much to bear.
He made several more copies before he was satisfied with the result. He crumpled the other pages and dropped them in the trash basket next to the desk. He left the map where it was on the glass. With the copy in his hand, he staggered back to the kitchen, biting his lip at the shooting pains running up his leg. He lowered himself into the chair with a groan. He searched on the desk for a pen and squinted at the copy of the map.
He listened.
Outside the house, above the tremors of wind, he heard a sharp snap, like the crack of a bullet. Someone's footfall had broken a branch. He had a visitor approaching his house through the woods, someone who was trying not to be heard.
Hoffman wasn't surprised.
He folded the copy of the map and slid the paper into his pocket along with the key and the phone. He pushed himself up with both hands flat on the glossy wood of the table. This time, he didn't bother with the cane, and the weight on his calf nearly made him collapse with his first step. He dragged his leg behind him, making stutter steps toward the closet near the front door. The short distance felt endless. At the closet, he reached inside to find his shotgun, which he always kept oiled and ready. He reached up for a box of shells from the closet shelf and spilled them like marbles as he loaded the gun.
He closed the door and sagged against it, breathing heavily, almost weeping as pain knifed his leg. Leaning his shoulders