The Bone House - Brian Freeman [99]
Impatiently, Mark got out of his truck. His Explorer was the second vehicle in line for the ferry, and no one had pulled up behind him. It would be a quiet ride back to the island. He walked with his hands in his pockets down to the end of the pier, where he stared out at the white boulders of the breakwater and the choppy waves in the passage. The island wasn't even five miles away, but it was invisible on the mist-shrouded horizon. The afternoon sky was threatening and black. It mirrored his mood. The bright spirit in which he'd started the day, in Hilary's arms, had descended into a storm of depression.
He realized that he hadn't called Hilary yet to tell her what had happened between him and Peter Hoffman, but he wondered if she already knew. Their friend Terri in Fish Creek was a lightning rod for gossip, and if word of the fight had reached her, her first call would have been to Hilary. On the other hand, if his wife knew, she would have called him. His phone hadn't rung all day.
Things were going from bad to worse. Their lives were spinning out of control. He didn't know how to stop it.
Mark reached into the pocket of his jacket but discovered that his phone wasn't where he usually kept it. He patted all of his other pockets and couldn't find it. Thinking that he had left it on the passenger seat of the truck, he tramped back from the shore to his Explorer. He checked the front seat and the glove compartment and then under the seats, but his phone was missing.
He remembered that he'd dropped it in the farmers' market when Hoffman hit him. In the confusion, he'd never picked it up again. He cursed and shook his head. There was no time to drive back to Sister Bay. If he skipped the three o'clock ferry, the last ferry of the day wasn't for two more hours. He'd have to let his phone go until tomorrow.
He walked twenty yards to the ticket booth for the ferry. The crews on the boats and at the pier all knew him. In the old days, they'd shared jokes and talked sports with him while he waited, but not anymore. They were like everyone else now, believing the rumors. The fat man in the booth, Bobby Larch, slid open the customer window when Mark tapped on it. He was reading a copy of Playboy, eating fries from a styrofoam box, and drinking a bottle of Baumeister's cherry soda. His daughter Karen had been in Mark's English class during his first year teaching in Fish Creek, and Bobby had told Mark back then how much Karen had raved about his class. He was her favorite teacher.
None of that mattered now. In the days since Tresa, every parent looked at him as a predator.
'Hey, Bobby,' Mark said.
The man barely looked away from his magazine. 'What do you want?'
'Can I borrow your phone?'
'Why?'
'I lost mine,' Mark told him. 'Come on, Bobby, I want to call my wife.'
Bobby shrugged and dug in the pocket of his dirty jeans. He handed a Samsung flip-phone to Mark. It was warm and greasy.
'Thanks,' Mark said. He added without thinking, 'How's Karen doing? Is she in college now?'
Bobby didn't answer and slid the booth window shut with a bang.
Mark dialed his home number. The phone rang over on the island, but after four rings, the answering machine took the call. He left a message: 'It's me. I lost my phone if you've been trying to reach me. I'll be on the three o'clock. I'll see you soon.'
He decided to dial his own mobile number to see if someone had found his phone and turned it in at the market. He wasn't anxious to be showing his face in there again after what had happened.
Mark dialed.
A man answered on the second ring and said in a gravelly voice, 'Who is this?'
'This is Mark Bradley. I think you've got my phone.'