by James Hayman
She looked at him as if he’d said something stupid, then looked back at Bunny.
They didn’t say anything else for a while. Finally he got up and knelt in front of her chair. He took both her hands in his. ‘Casey, I know how hard this is after three years. Really. I do. I think one of the reasons your mother wants to see you is because she realizes how much she’s missed by not being part of your life and how sorry she is about that. I also think maybe you’re feeling that by spending time with Sandy you’re being disloyal to me. You’re not. I think it’ll be good for you to get to know your mother again. When I say I hope you have a good time, I’m not talking about staying at a fancy hotel or going to shows or any of that stuff. I want you to have a good time being with your mother. Not because I love her – that’s way over – but because I love you. Does that make sense?’
McCabe kissed his daughter. Then he went back to the sofa and sat down. After a couple of minutes she got up and climbed into his lap and hugged him. They sat together like that until, at five minutes after four, the doorbell rang.
‘Hello, McCabe.’
‘Hello, Sandy.’ She looked as gorgeous as ever. Wealth agreed with her. He felt his heart beating hard in his chest. He breathed deeply to try to slow it down.
‘May I come in? Or are we just going to stand here in the hallway?’ He moved to one side, and she walked into the apartment. ‘Hello, Casey,’ she said. ‘I’m glad to see you again.’
Sandy offered Casey her hand. Casey took it, and they shook. ‘Are you all ready?’
‘I just have to go to the bathroom.’
‘Okay. Off you go.’ Casey went down the hall. McCabe figured she needed a minute to adjust.
‘Nice view,’ said Sandy, gazing out at the boats in the bay.
‘That’s one of the nice things about living in Portland. The water’s never far away. You’re staying at the Four Seasons?’
‘Yes, the suite’s booked under Peter’s name. Ingram.’
‘I remember. Will he be there?’
‘No. He’s in Europe on business. It will just be us girls.’
‘Casey will have her cell phone with her, but why don’t you give me yours just in case.’ She recited the number.
‘Here’s mine,’ he said. He handed her a slip of paper with the number on it. ‘Call if there’s any problem. Any problem at all. You should get her back by five on Sunday. She’ll need Sunday night for her homework.’
‘That’s fine.’
Casey returned, unzipped her bag, and stuffed Bunny inside. McCabe looked at his daughter. ‘Remember what I said about having a good time.’
For the first time, she smiled. She was trying to reassure him. ‘I will,’ she said.
He watched them from the window as they got into Sandy’s rental car. A Chevy Impala. He’d been expecting her to turn up in something fancier. A Mercedes. Or a Jag. Or a Lincoln at the very least. They pulled out of the visitors’ parking space and drove off. McCabe went to the kitchen and poured himself a Scotch. Still a little early, but fuck it. He didn’t go out for cigarettes.
49
Friday. 4:30 P.M.
He called Maggie. After leaving his place, she’d driven to Spencer’s office, retrieved the Denali picture, and taken it back to Middle Street, where Starbucks produced a high-res scan of Kane’s face, then aged it by ten years. Maggie e-mailed the resulting image to John Bell, to MSP, and to every sheriff’s department and local jurisdiction in the state. Shockley’s office released it to the TV stations and newspapers. Kane was long gone, but at least the searchers would know what he looked like. Aside from that they knew nothing. Not what kind of car he was driving or what direction he was headed in. He could be driving back to Florida for all they knew. McCabe asked Maggie to e-mail the picture to Aaron Cahill in Orlando along with an update.
Next he called Tasco, who was still at 24 Trinity Street. Jacobi and an additional team of techs from the state crime lab in Augusta were going over the place. So far they’d found nothing of significance except Hattie Spencer’s cell phone, turned off, in a kitchen drawer under the toaster. Terri Mirabito came on the line, her voice weary. ‘I’ve got one Spencer scheduled for tomorrow morning, one for the afternoon. A two-for-one special. No extra charge. I’ll e-mail you the particulars.’
*
McCabe found a Maine road map, a ruler, a piece of string, a red marker, and a yellow highlighter. He spread them all out on the kitchen table and began reconstructing Sophie’s ride to the surgery site. From her description, McCabe was certain Pollock headed north on 95. Through the first tollbooth at York. Then another thirty-five miles to Portland, where he could have stayed on 95 or diverted to 295. Slightly shorter that way, but it didn’t much matter. Both were four-lane interstates, and they came together again a little south of Augusta. Three tolls either way. Based on Sophie’s estimates of time, locations of tollbooths, and the assumption that Pollock was careful to stay at or just slightly above the speed limit, it still made sense that he exited at Augusta and drove maybe forty to sixty miles on local roads.
McCabe lined up the string with the scale of the map and marked it at forty and again at sixty miles. He drew a red semicircle on the map in an arc, west to east, forty miles from the exit and another parallel arc at sixty. He colored the area between the two red lines with yellow highlighter. Hundreds of square miles.
Lucas Kane was someone I knew a long time ago, Harriet Spencer said. His parents had a summer place not far from ours.
In Blue Hill?
Near there.
Blue Hill was inside the yellow zone.
McCabe booted up Casey’s computer. He went to the Web site for the Town of Blue Hill. On it he found a phone number for Priscilla Pepper, Town Clerk, Tax Collector, and Registrar of Voters.
‘Town of Blue Hill.’ An older woman’s voice. Her accent pure Downeast.
‘Priscilla Pepper, please.’
‘This is she.’
‘Ms. Pepper, this is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland Police Department.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m conducting an important investigation. I wonder if I could trouble you for some tax information about a couple of properties in or near Blue Hill.’
‘Well, I can help you if the property’s in Blue Hill. Not if it’s near.’ Priscilla Pepper spoke in clipped, measured tones. McCabe realized she couldn’t be hurried.
‘Do you have any record of a property belonging to a man named Maurice Kane? K-A-N-E.’
‘Just a minute.’ No reaction to the name. Maybe she wasn’t a classical music fan. More likely, Ms. Pepper didn’t think it seemly to comment on a neighbor’s fame.
She returned after a couple of minutes. ‘I have the record. Mr. Kane owns about twenty-five acres, eight miles north of town off Range Road.’
‘Not on the water?’
‘No. Just a small pond.’
‘Is there a house on the property?’
‘Two structures. One big one. Over three thousand square feet. Also a secondary structure. Supposed to be a guest cottage. Eight hundred square feet. Primarily a summer property. Mr. Kane’s not registered to vote here.’
‘Is it winterized?’ Kane would have a tough time transplanting hearts in an unheated building during a Maine winter.
‘Nothing in the assessment says anything about either house being seasonal.’
‘Could you give me directions to the Kane place?’
‘Know how to get to Blue Hill?’
‘I can find it.’
‘Take Pleasant Street north out of town. That’s Route 15. After about three miles, fork right onto Range Road. Go two, maybe three miles. You’ll pass a big farm on your right. After another mile, make a right onto a dirt road. Follow it about two miles and you’ll see a mailbox. Says 113. No name on it. Drive another mile or so down a private road to the house. Never been down t
here myself, but the tax map says the road’s unimproved. Turns into a long driveway for Kane. Don’t think you’ll find any people there this time of year. Folks like that usually clear out right after Labor Day.’
‘Thanks for your help, Ms. Pepper.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Oh. One last thing. Could you check one more record for me?’
‘Well, Detective, I was about to leave. It is after five o’clock, you know.’
‘Last favor, I promise. Any permits for construction anywhere on the property in, say, the last five years?’
‘Just a moment.’
McCabe waited again.
‘Detective?’
‘Yes?’
‘I do see one thing. Strikes me as kinda funny, though.’
‘Funny in what way?’
‘Why would anyone want to put a finished basement under a small summer guest cottage? Seems like a big waste of money, if you ask me.’
*
Using the satellite imagery available on Google, McCabe pinpointed the location. He couldn’t see any house, but the area appeared heavily wooded. The house might be hidden.
Next he Googled Maurice Kane. Over a million hits. Most focused on Kane’s career. Dozens of biographies but no obituaries. The maestro was apparently still alive. McCabe scanned some of the documents. Kane was born in Bath, England, in 1919, which made him eighty-five or eighty-six today. A certifiable prodigy, he played his first public concert when he was seven and studied under some of the most celebrated musicians in Europe. In September of ’39, Kane joined British intelligence, working as a translator and interpreter for the duration of the war. For six years, he performed only occasionally, mostly in London. After the war his career blossomed. Critics raved about ‘the witty, apparently effortless muscularity’ of his style. Others extolled his ‘supreme virtuosity.’ He moved to New York in 1961. McCabe found dozens of recordings, but no new albums released since the late nineties. Concert tours stopped around then as well. A European tour in 1997 was canceled due to a mild heart attack. Another was canceled two years later, the reason given as ‘nervous exhaustion.’ McCabe probed further. Kane was hospitalized early in 2000 for ‘chest pains.’ A reference to congestive heart failure. There was no mention of surgery. No mention of anything after 2001.
The phone rang. Maggie. Calling from Trinity Street. ‘Thought you were coming back here?’
‘How’s the search going?’
‘Still going.’
‘Find anything interesting?’
‘Not a whole lot.’
‘Lucas leave any prints?’
‘Not that anyone’s found yet. Back to my original question. You joining us?’
‘No. You and Tasco and Jacobi can finish the search. I’m driving up to Blue Hill.’
‘What’s in Blue Hill?’
‘Lucas Kane’s boyhood home.’
‘You think that’s where he went?’
‘I think maybe it’s where he goes to cut up people.’
‘And you intend to go alone?’
‘That was my plan.’
‘A pretty dumb plan, if you don’t mind my saying so. You already got your ass in a sling for meeting Sophie in Gray without backup. Why don’t you call out the troopers? There’s a barracks nearby in Ellsworth.’
‘For what? So they can come storming in on a possibly empty house with flak jackets and combat gear? Based on what? A hunch? A gut instinct?’
‘Based on this being a dangerous guy who’s already killed more people than I care to count. Shit, McCabe, you always think you can do everything alone – and you call Kane a risk-taker. Even the Lone Ranger never went anywhere without Tonto.’
‘Mag, all I know at this point is this is where Kane spent summers as a kid. Absolutely nothing says he’s there now. He could be anywhere. If I need help, then I can call in the troopers.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Not necessary, Maggie.’
‘Bullshit. Look what happened the last time you said that. You need some kind of backup, and I guess it’ll have to be me. I’m coming with you.’
‘Suit yourself. Be here in ten minutes.’
‘I’ll stop in at 109. Just to make sure we have everything we need.’
50
Friday. 7:00 P.M.
McCabe drove, following the route he’d constructed on the map. They left the turnpike at Augusta and headed east in slow traffic along Route 3. On a Friday night in September, the roads were still crowded with weekenders, in spite of predictions from the cheery voice on NPR of cool, overcast fall weather. They stayed on 3 through South China and Belfast. NPR was right about cool. The temperature was dropping, and Maggie flipped on the heater. They went through Bucksport, then turned south, leaving 3 and continuing on 15 toward Blue Hill. Nearly four hours after leaving Portland, McCabe found the turnoff from 15 onto Range Road. Five minutes later they passed the dirt road Priscilla Pepper had told McCabe would be there. The night was dark now, and cold, with temperatures in the upper thirties. They passed a mailbox on the left. McCabe stopped, reversed, saw the numbers 113, reversed again, and found a place to leave the car where it wouldn’t be seen. He planned to approach the place on foot. They got out of the car into an inky black night without a moon. Too damned cold for the light jacket he was wearing.
‘Might get some flurries,’ said Maggie. She didn’t sound unpleased. McCabe believed that Maggie, like a lot of Mainers, took pride in nasty weather the way some New Yorkers take pride in rudeness and aggressive driving. She pulled two sets of ultralight body armor from the trunk and flipped one to McCabe. He wondered if the Kevlar would help keep him warm. They donned voice-activated headsets, established communication, and left the line open. McCabe stuck a pair of folding binoculars and a digital recorder in his pocket.
They walked without speaking through the darkness. Priscilla Pepper had called it a private road. A dirt track, actually. Road was too grand a word. A mostly quiet night. An owl hooted. Later something bigger crashed through the woods. A deer? McCabe wasn’t sure if deer crashed around in the middle of the night. Maybe a bear? He didn’t know much about their habits either. A city kid, he’d rather chase bad guys through Manhattan alleyways anytime than through these woods. A low-hanging branch scratched his face, just missed his eye. He swore privately; an accidental injury was the last thing he needed. After that, he flicked the flashlight on and off every ten feet or so to check for more branches at eye level, or branches or holes on the ground that might trip him up. The light revealed fresh tire tracks. A car had passed this way not too long ago.
A hundred yards out, they saw lights from the main house. They moved up another fifty yards and knelt behind a rock outcropping just off the track that gave them a good view of the place. McCabe didn’t see any signs of surveillance cameras. Not even an alarm system. Two cars were parked on one side of the house, a gray Chevy Blazer and a black Toyota Land Cruiser. He focused the binoculars on the main building. A large, rustic, Adirondack-style hunting lodge, a log cabin times ten. The porch seemed to go all the way around, its railings crafted from birch limbs. McCabe guessed it had been built in the twenties, maybe earlier. A single dim light shone from an upstairs window. Downstairs, flickering firelight added to the electric illumination. He smelled wood smoke. He couldn’t see anyone moving inside. He shifted the binoculars to the guest cottage, which stood in front of a good-sized pond. Dark and quiet. It looked locked up. He searched for an entrance to the ‘finished basement’ and couldn’t find one. He decided to check the house first.
McCabe handed Maggie the binoculars and asked her to stay down and cover him. She looked like she was about to argue but instead crouched down and put her pistol and the flashlight on the rock in front of her. Good line of fire to cut off someone fleeing the house, either on foot or by car. It was pretty far out for a handgun, though – and she could o
nly see someone fleeing toward the road, not back into the woods.
Lucinda Cassidy woke up in bed at home, in her room in North Berwick, shivering from the cold. Her quilt, the one Grammy made, must have fallen to the floor. Mommy shook her arm, waking her for school.
‘C’mon, Lucy, get up or you’ll be late. The bus will be here in half an hour, and I don’t want you skipping breakfast again. Get up now.’
She tried opening her eyes. No, they were already open. Why couldn’t she see? She looked around. No light. She forced her mind to focus. North Berwick was gone. North Berwick was just a dream. Not home. Not with Mommy. Still here in the cold black endless night, alone with her lover. She could feel the light cotton of the hospital gown, again covering her front, tied loosely around her neck, open at the back.
She wasn’t on a bed anymore. Beneath her she felt a hard metal table, cold against the bare skin of her back and buttocks. Listening, she heard a piano, faint and far away, playing a vaguely familiar piece. Part of the dream? No. It sounded real, though recently the dreams had become so vivid she no longer knew for sure what was real and what wasn’t. He must’ve moved her to a new place. Drugged her again with the needle and moved her. The only other sound was a white noise like in the other place. Somehow different, though, the pitch a little higher. Nearly imperceptible, but yes, definitely higher. What else? The smell. A hint of antiseptic tinged with pine. Real pine. From trees. Not chemical stuff. The pine hadn’t been there before. Maybe the worst thing, she couldn’t move her wrists or ankles. He’d put the restraints back on. Why had he done that? Something new was happening. Lucy didn’t know what. The terror that over the days, the weeks, had dulled to a constant gnawing anxiety crashed in on her again.
The door opened, the light from the hall momentarily blinding her. She closed her eyes. He shut the door. ‘I see you’ve woken from your nap,’ he said, walking toward her.
McCabe moved in a crouching run, zigzagging toward the house, his darting figure staying in the shadows, less visible, less vulnerable to anyone watching from a window. He climbed onto the porch and backed as far as he could against the wall near one of the lit windows. He drew his weapon, slowed his breathing, leaned forward, peered in. A large room with paneled walls. Bookshelves. Original oils.