Part 29 (2/2)

Chapter Thirty-Five.

The house was dead still, the way it always was.

Peter Hoffman sat at the butcher block table in his kitchen and drank whiskey straight from the bottle as he listened to the silence. His need for quiet was a holdover that he'd never been able to shake from his days in the war. He never played music. He rarely watched television. He wanted to hear exactly what was happening outside so that he could detect anything out of place. His ears were attuned to every sound that the house made, every trill of every bird, every shriek of wind, hiss of snow, and drumbeat of rain. There were times when his wife had insisted on playing symphonies on the stereo, but he'd found that he couldn't stay in the room with the noise. Since she'd died, he'd lived in silence, listening and waiting.

Forty years had pa.s.sed, the war was long gone, and he still expected an enemy to come from somewhere. If they did, he'd hear them.

Hoffman had a map of Door County laid out in front of him. Next to it was the metal ring on which he kept his bulky set of keys. He held on to keys long after he didn't need them anymore, but he couldn't bring himself to remove them from the ring and throw them away. He still knew the lock a.s.sociated with each one. His 1982 Cutla.s.s. The strongbox where he'd kept his insurance and mortgage doc.u.ments, when he still had a mortgage. Nettie's house, Nettie's garage, before the fire.

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 s.h.i.+ny 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 s.h.i.+ver 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 gla.s.s. He punched the copy b.u.t.ton, 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 gla.s.s. 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 against the wall, keeping his foot off the ground, he slid along the walnut paneling to the front door. He twisted the k.n.o.b and nudged it open. Outside, on the porch, he smelled dead leaves. The forest was alive, twisting and knocking bare branches together. The dirt driveway was damp with mud. He looked for fresh footprints from the road and saw none.

Where was he?

Hoffman gripped the door frame and hung on as he cradled the shotgun under his other arm. He studied the forest, just as he'd done years earlier, through the misery of drowning rain and voracious insects. He didn't have to see anyone, or hear them, or smell them, to know he wasn't alone.

'I know you're here,' he called into the woods.

There was no answer. The wind roared. He tasted the damp mist on his lips.

'It's time to end this,' he shouted, but no one replied. The trees cackled as if they were taunting him. We know what scares you, old man. We know what scares you, old man. He should have listened to their warning. He should have listened to their warning.

Hoffman heard a noise inside the house. He'd forgotten the cardinal rule: always watch your back. The footsteps on the wooden floor were so close that he expected to feel breath on his neck. He tried to turn, to wheel the gun around, but he didn't have enough strength or time. Strong hands took hold of his s.h.i.+rt collar and yanked him backward into the foyer. He fell like a stone drops, his leg caving under him. As he collapsed, the shotgun was peeled from his hands. He hit his head on the floor. He squirmed like an insect on his back, unable to get up.

In every battle, there was a winner and a loser, and he had lost.

'Close your eyes,' the voice said above him. the voice said above him.

Hoffman didn't. Not now, not ever. The twin barrels of his own gun dug into his forehead, and he left his eyes wide open to see the end when it came.

Hilary's car smelled of freshly ground coffee. She'd emptied their supply with the last pot of the morning, and so she decided to make a pilgrimage to the small shop by the harbor before Mark arrived home. As she drove back, she heard her phone ringing. She pulled off the road rather than navigate with her phone wedged at her shoulder.

'Is this Hilary Bradley?' It was an unfamiliar girl's voice.

'Yes, who is this?'

'My name is Katie Monroe. I think you know my roommate, Amy Leigh.'

Hilary heard Amy's name, and her stomach turned over with anxiety, is something wrong? Is Amy OK? I've been trying to reach her.'

'You have?'

'Yes, Amy called me last night. It was a strange call. I've called her several times since then, but she's not answering her phone. I'm worried.'

Hilary heard the girl breathing into the line.

'She didn't come back to our room last night.'

'Is that unlike her?'

'Some girls stay out all night, but not Ames.'

Hilary yanked off her gla.s.ses and closed her eyes as she thought about Amy's call. 'Listen, Katie, Amy mentioned the name of her coach when she called. Gary Jensen. Does that mean anything to you?'

The girl paused. 'Son of a b.i.t.c.h!' she exclaimed.

'Did she tell you anything about him?'

'Amy told me she was going to talk to Gary last night. She was meeting him at his house. I haven't been able to reach her since then.'

'Did you call the police?'

'I called campus security, but they blew me off. They all know Gary. They told me I was crazy. A college girl not coming home overnight isn't a big deal to them.'

'You should go to the police,' Hilary repeated.

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