The Bone House - Brian Freeman [126]
Cab didn't think he had ever been happier than when the boat nudged gently against the pier. Larch saw it in his face.
'Hey, I said I'd get you here,' he said.
Cab stepped off the boat on to the dock, and his knees were wobbly as the ground stopped swaying under his feet. His skin was icy and wet. His suit and coat were thick with grime. 'Yeah.'
'So why'd you change your mind about coming over here tonight?'
'Long story,' Cab said.
A long story buried in a hole.
It was a story of vengeance and justice. Cab knew why Peter Hoffman was dead. He knew Mark Bradley would most likely be dead by morning, if he couldn't stop it. He knew things he wished he didn't know at all.
'I need a car,' Cab said. 'You know where I can get one?'
'You got a hundred bucks?'
'Yeah.'
'Then I know where you can get one.'
Cab peeled off a bill from the inside of his wallet, and Larch snapped it with a smile and strolled away from him down the dock. Cab followed as far as the parking lot. He saw Larch disappear inside the harbor restaurant, hearing the music get louder as the door opened and closed. Larch was gone for two minutes. When he returned, he flipped a set of keys through the air. Cab caught them.
'Here you go. It's a black Nissan around back. You'll have it back by morning, right?'
'Right.' Cab added, 'How much did you give your friend?'
'Fifty.'
'You're a good businessman, Bobby.'
Larch winked. 'Good luck, Detective.'
Cab had no trouble finding the Sentra parked behind the restaurant. It was old, crusted with road spray, and smelled like sweet pine thanks to a Christmas tree air freshener dangling from the mirror. He adjusted the driver's seat as far backward as it would go and shot down the harbor road. He switched on his high beams to light up the narrow lane between the trees.
The town was empty. The handful of year-round residents were down at the harbor listening to jazz, or guzzling beer at Bitters Pub. Heading north, he sped into the lonely land away from the shops. He almost missed the cemetery where he turned toward the water, and then he turned again on the dirt road toward Mark Bradley's house. He slowed to a crawl, scanning the woods for the man's driveway.
When he found it, he parked in front, blocking the way out.
Cab got out, bringing his flashlight with him. As he walked toward the house, he lit up the Ford Explorer parked diagonally on the edge of the clearing and then the ground surrounding the truck. His light glinted on something shiny, and he saw a set of keys dropped in the mud. He picked them up, shook off the dirt, and deposited them in his pocket. He saw a mess of footprints in and out of the house. When he turned the flashlight toward the front door, he saw it standing open.
'Shit,' Cab muttered.
He was too late. He reached inside his jacket pocket and slid his Glock into his hand.
He took a chance by shouting. 'Bradley!' Then a moment later, he called, 'Tresa!'
He listened, but no one answered. Water dripped through the trees, and wind rushed in whistles through the branches. He used the flashlight again, hunting on the ground and in the woods. He knew what he was looking for in the sodden earth. Bodies. He was relieved when he found none.
Cab called again. 'Bradley!'
He followed the perimeter of the house, tracking footsteps along the eastern wall. He came upon the screened porch at the rear of the house, and through the mesh, on the other wall, he saw another open door and the jagged splinters where the lock had been yanked out of the frame. He circled the porch and let himself inside through the broken door. The house was cold where the night air had been blowing through the open space. There was no smell of fresh blood. He checked the kitchen, then illuminated the hallway in the cone of light.
He spotted an open bedroom door and tightened his grip on his gun as he moved inside. He checked out the closet and saw clothes lying in piles on the floor. The bed was made, but the comforter was rumpled. On the wall, half under the bed, he spotted a cell phone, and