Darkness First

by James Hayman

  But it wasn’t to be. The man grabbed Tiff’s wrist before the blade could reach him. Twisted it hard, back against itself. She felt an explosion of pain as the bone snapped. The knife fell to the ground.

  Pushing back against the pain, she went for the knife again, this time with her left hand. But again he was too quick. In one swift motion he swept it up and pushed her back again against the car.

  ‘You’re already dead, you cunt, you just don’t know it yet.’

  He was wrong about that. She definitely knew it.

  ‘Where are the pills?’ he snarled.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she hissed back.

  ‘Cunt.’ He slipped the tip of the blade under her lip, its point pressing against the top of her gum. ‘Where are they?’

  She closed her eyes, her broken wrist pulsing with pain. ‘Fuck you,’ she said again, hoping to goad him into finishing it fast.

  He pulled the blade smoothly through the soft flesh of her lip.

  Tiff’s mouth filled with blood. She spat it into his face.

  He smacked her in punishment. Then he cut open her shirt and sliced through the front of her bra, so that it fell away and hung from her shoulders by its straps. He pulled down her jeans and her thong till they bunched up at her ankles. He took the knife and cut her breasts.

  This time she screamed.

  ‘Where are they?’

  Her screams diminished to a whimper. She wept. ‘I’m carrying your baby,’ she gasped, hoping desperately he would care. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Bullshit. Where are they?’

  ‘The doctor’s got them. I left them with the doctor.’

  ‘Why?’ he snarled.

  ‘She called the cops.’ One last desperate attempt she hoped might save her life. ‘They’re on their way here now.’

  For an instant she saw uncertainty in his eyes.

  Then it was gone and he pushed the knife in. This time lower. This time deeper. Much much deeper. Again and again.

  Dying, Tiff was only dimly aware of a piercing sound that came from the road.

  Another woman’s scream. The single word, ‘Stop!’ shouted over and over again.

  The man turned and saw a tall figure in white sprinting toward them screaming like a bloody banshee for the killer to stop what he was doing.

  The man pulled the knife from between Tiff’s legs. Pushed back her head and exposed her neck. He yanked off the gold chain and pendant she wore and slashed a single deep stroke across the whiteness of her throat.

  He raced for his car. Started the engine. Pulled out of the lot.

  The doctor’s got them. I left them with the doctor. Had Tiff been telling the truth?

  In the distance, the man could hear the urgent cry of a police siren growing louder by the second. He didn’t have much time. He had to get out of here.

  Less than twenty yards away, the doctor stood in the middle of the road, waving her arms back and forth, in a desperate effort to get him to stop.

  The man stomped on the accelerator and headed straight for her.

  5

  2:22 A.M., Saturday, August 22, 2009

  Portland, Maine

  It was too damned hot to sleep. After a couple of hours tossing and turning, Maggie Savage found herself wide awake, sheets kicked off, body soaked in sweat. Like most Mainers, she’d never considered installing AC and the air in her apartment on Vesper Street felt as dank and steamy as it had in the interview room at 109. But it wasn’t just the heat that was keeping her awake. It was the evening she’d just spent with Billy Webb. At least the last part of it.

  I really like you, Maggie. I’d really like this to go somewhere.

  She’d met Billy back in early June when he arrived in town to take up duties as the replacement pitching coach for the Portland Sea Dogs, his predecessor in the job having keeled over with a massive and subsequently fatal coronary in a bar in Altoona, Pennsylvania, home of the Altoona Curve. Billy had been pursuing Maggie enthusiastically, if unsuccessfully, ever since. The pursuit was, of necessity, intermittent since he was ‘a travelin’ man’, as he put it, available for dates and other social engagements only when the Sea Dogs were playing at home and not off visiting one Eastern League competitor or another. The Binghamton Mets. The Trenton Thunder. The Akron Aeros. All towns and teams Maggie had never been to and had no desire to see.

  The two of them had spent the early part of the evening drinking margaritas and eating a steak they’d grilled over a charcoal fire out on Ferry Beach in Scarborough, where the air was marginally less oppressive than it was here in town. Afterward, he’d driven her home and for the fifth time in five dates she turned down his earnest and ardent pleas to allow him into her bed.

  I really like you, Maggie. I’d really like this to go somewhere.

  Thinking she ought to level with him, she told Billy she didn’t think things were going to work out between them. That they probably shouldn’t see each other again. He didn’t argue. Or even want to talk about why. Just told her he’d call her in two weeks after he got back from the next road trip and drove off into the night.

  And now she was lying here by herself. Feeling more than a little lonely and more than a little depressed about the prospect of starting all over again.

  Still, she was sure Billy wasn’t right for her. Yes, he was a nice guy. Certainly attractive enough. He had a decent sense of humor. But he wasn’t what she was looking for. Billy had been married and divorced twice. He was the father of a twenty-year-old son he hadn’t seen or spoken to in eight years. And next season he could just as easily be coaching pitchers in Greenville, South Carolina as in Portland, Maine. Maggie was thirty-six. She wanted to get married and have at least one or maybe even a couple of kids before it was too late. A guy who bounced from city to city year after year wasn’t a good prospect either as a husband or a dad. However, all of these considerations paled against what was, by far, the single most important entry on the negative side of Billy’s ledger. The simple fact that he wasn’t the man she wanted to spend her life with and she knew he never would be. Hanging on now, letting it go any further, would be too much like an admission she was getting desperate. Grasping at straws. And she was damned if she was ready to admit that. Not to herself. Not to anyone else either. At least not yet. Maggie was mulling the implications of that when the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony rang out. Da-da-da-dum!

  She grabbed her phone from the nightstand. Caller ID said ‘Savage, John’. Why was her father calling in the middle of the night?

  ‘Okay, what’s going on?’ Maggie asked. She walked into the living room, turned on a single lamp and sat down on the couch. There was a lot of noise and interference on the other end of the line. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Machiasport,’ her father shouted into the phone. ‘In the parking area by the state park. We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm so if we get cut off I’ll call you back.’

  Maggie’s mind cleared instantly. The phone line crackled. There was a sound like thunder exploding in the background.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ her father shouted.

  ‘Yes, I can hear you.’

  ‘You may want to get up here a little earlier than planned.’

  ‘Really? Why’s that?’

  ‘We’ve got ourselves kind of a mess. A double mess actually.’

  ‘What kind of mess?’

  ‘A murder mess. A young woman had her throat cut just a few hours ago. The killer damn near took her head off. Among other things. She must’ve bled out in minutes.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that but what’s it got to do with me? Call the staties. It’s their jurisdiction.’

  ‘I’m calling you because Emily was nearly killed at the same time.’

  Maggie felt her gut tighten. Nearly killed he’d said. That meant Em was still alive. ‘How bad?’

  ‘Bad.’

  ‘Is she going to die?’ Maggie held her breath and waited for the answer. Emily Kaplan had been Maggie’s be
st friend since pre-school. Her fellow star and alter-ego on the Machias Memorial High School state championship basketball team. Em was the closest thing Maggie had to a sister. A twin sister, except Em was three inches taller and a much better athlete. If Emily died a big part of Maggie would die along with her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ John Savage told her.

  Maggie exhaled long and slow. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Best we can tell, Em was hit by a car near where the murder victim was found. Cracked her head pretty hard going down. My theory is after the killer sliced up the victim he jumped in his car and literally ran into Emily on the way out. She’s been lying in a ditch by the side of the road ever since. Three or four hours at least. Getting rained on for the last hour or so. If a pair of teenagers hadn’t pulled into the parking area for a little late-night kiss and giggle, both of them could’ve been lying there all night. A Life-Flight chopper’s on its way now. They’ll fly her down to Eastern Maine.’

  ‘Staties there yet?’ asked Maggie. The Maine State Police, the MSP, were responsible for investigating all murders in the state of Maine outside the cities of Portland or Bangor. Sometimes they enlisted the support of the county Sheriff’s Department and/or local police. Sometimes not.

  ‘Detective named Emmett Ganzer and an evidence team got here about ten minutes ago. Before that it was just me, one of my deputies and a couple of troopers. Now that he’s here, Ganzer’s marching around like some oversized drill sergeant telling everybody what to do.’

  Maggie knew Ganzer from the Academy and didn’t much like him. He was a good detective. Smart but overly aggressive and difficult to get along with, especially for the female students.

  ‘Two other things you might want to know.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘About quarter to nine this evening, Emily called both my phones from her office. Left one message to call her back. Another to get down to her place. Said it was urgent.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I was taking a shower and Anya was out of the house. I called her back but she didn’t answer. So I jumped in the car and headed for her house, lights and siren. By the time I got there she was gone. I was still looking for her when we got the call from the kids.’

  ‘She didn’t call 911?’

  ‘There’s no record of that.’

  ‘What else can you tell me?’

  Savage sighed before answering. ‘I’m 100 percent certain the hit and run was no accident. Guy was going at least fifty and from tire marks on the road it’s pretty clear he swerved to make sure he hit her.’

  ‘Taking out a witness?’

  ‘That’s my reading.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Em must’ve been working. Had on a white lab coat with a stethoscope stuffed in one pocket and a ziplock bag in the other. Bag had over 150 Oxycontin tablets in it. Maybe more. Eighty megs. Canadian manufacture.’

  ‘What the hell was she doing with them?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. We’ll talk about that when you get here.’

  ‘All right.’ Maggie’s mind was racing. ‘I’ll get there as soon as I can. But I’m gonna stop at the hospital on the way up.’

  Maggie took a one-minute shower, towel-dried her hair and threw on some clothes. She strapped on her Glock 17, and slipped into a lightweight jacket long enough to conceal the weapon. She shoved her laptop into her canvas computer case and stuffed a duffle with enough clothes for a week. Nothing fancy. Just jeans, t-shirts and underwear. A couple of sweaters in case it got cold. As an afterthought, she threw in two spare magazines for the Glock. As a second afterthought, she added her backup weapon. A lightweight Kimber Solo 9 mm automatic, an ankle holster and a six-round magazine for that. She sincerely hoped she wouldn’t need body armor.

  6

  Maggie headed north on the 295/95 combination out of Portland. It was not only the fastest way to get to Machiasport, it also took her past Bangor and Eastern Maine Medical Center.

  At three in the morning the interstate was nearly empty and Maggie pushed her TrailBlazer’s big V-8 engine to the max, hoping a brand-new murder investigation and her Portland PD creds would convince any trailing troopers to forget about issuing speeding tickets. Happily, no troopers materialized.

  Her father called before she hit the tolls at Augusta.

  ‘Got a call from the hospital. CAT scan showed some bleeding on the brain. But they said it wasn’t too bad. She ought to be in post-op by the time you get there.’

  ‘Post-op?’

  ‘Yeah, surgeon drilled a hole in her head to relieve the pressure.’

  A hole in her head? Jesus.

  Maggie hit the entrance to Eastern Maine on State Street in Bangor less than an hour and a half after leaving Vesper Street. She pulled into a no-parking zone near the emergency entrance, tossed an Official Police Business sign on the dashboard and ran in. Typical Friday-night, Saturday-morning crowd in the ER but at least someone was manning the desk.

  ‘Are you a relative?’ the woman asked.

  Maggie hesitated, unsure if being a relative or a cop would get her information faster. ‘Actually, I’m a police officer,’ she said, producing her gold shield. ‘Detective Margaret Savage. Dr Kaplan was the victim of a crime. I need to talk to her doctor.’

  The woman at the desk hit some keys on her computer, muttering to herself, ‘Kaplan, let’s see, Kaplan. Here she is.’ She picked up a phone and asked some questions. ‘Uh, huh. Okay. I have a police officer here. A detective.’ Pause. ‘Okay, I’ll send her up.’ She hung up. ‘Dr Kaplan’s just out of surgery but Dr Collins said he can talk to you. Take that elevator over there to the second floor ICU. He’ll meet you there.’

  A middle-aged man wearing surgical scrubs and a distracted look was standing by the elevator doors talking to a nurse when Maggie stepped out.

  ‘You the detective?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Margaret Savage,’ she said, showing her badge and ID. ‘I’m also a close personal friend of the victim.’

  ‘I see. I’m Dr Collins. Stanley Collins. I’m a neurosurgeon here at the hospital.’

  Collins pointed Maggie toward some plastic chairs in a waiting area and they sat.

  ‘Is she going to make it?’ Maggie asked thinking about what happened to Mary Farrier.

  ‘Yes. I’m very optimistic she’ll soon make a full recovery.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Hard to say exactly. She’s had a bad blow to the head and is currently comatose. There was some fairly minor blood leakage. We’ve inserted a catheter through her skull to relieve and monitor any pressure on the brain. We’ve also got her intubated to help her breathing. Impact with the car also cracked a couple of ribs. Otherwise, except for some scrapes and bruises, she’s fine. Overall, considering what she’s been through, I’d say she’s doing surprisingly well. She’s a very strong woman.’

  Surprisingly well? Attagirl, Em. You surprise the bastards.

  He spun some further medical bullshit Maggie didn’t understand but which sounded generally positive. But then he finished with: ‘Unfortunately we can’t be sure she’s 100 percent out of the woods. Soon. But not just yet.’

  Just covering his ass, Maggie thought.

  ‘How long will she be unconscious?’

  ‘Hard to say. Could be just a few hours. Maybe a day. Possibly longer. We’ll know more after twelve hours.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘She won’t know you’re there.’

  ‘I’d just like to have a look.’

  The doctor shrugged. ‘No reason you shouldn’t. You can hold her hand. Talk to her. It all helps. I just suggest you don’t stay too long.’

  Maggie nodded. She didn’t intend to stay long anyway.

  7

  Out of Bangor Maggie picked up Route 9. The Airline as it was called. Sixty-five miles due east over a string of mountains on a well-maintained two-laner. Her only company the whole way half a dozen pick-ups and a pair of eighteen-wheele
rs hauling heavy loads of fresh-cut timber. All were easily passed. Best of all, the thunderstorms Savage warned her about had already gone through, leaving drying roads and cooler air. Maggie gazed into a clear eastern sky as it morphed from delicate pink to a full red to a glorious orange. As the shimmering disk of the sun poked up over the horizon, Maggie slipped on a pair of Oakley Inmates she’d splurged on after she started dating Billy. She figured they’d make it harder for friends to spot her sitting in the wives and girlfriends section at Hadlock Field during Sea Dogs games. Then she called her father.

  ‘I stopped by the hospital,’ she said.

  ‘They let you in?’

  ‘Just showed my badge.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Still in a coma.’ She told him what the doctor told her. ‘She’s going to be fine. It could have been much worse.’

  ‘Where are you now?’ he asked.

  ‘At the moment? Passing through Clifton by Parks Pond.’

  Savage started to say something, then his voice cut out. Maggie looked at her phone. A little no service message appeared in place of the bars. She put it away.

  At Wesley, Maggie turned south on to 192 and descended toward Machias and the coast, passing Northfield and the familiar dock and landing at Bog Lake where John Savage had taught all three of his children, one-on-one, each in their turn, the fine art of fishing for, and occasionally catching, the landlocked salmon that once abounded in the lake and the brown trout that still did.

  She wondered if Emmett Ganzer would be running the show and, if so, what his reaction would be when she told him she wanted to join the investigation team. There wasn’t an agency in the state that couldn’t use an extra pair of experienced hands, and working with the staties would give her access to a lot of resources she wouldn’t have working on her own. Still, she didn’t know Ganzer all that well, hadn’t seen him since they attended the Maine Criminal Justice Academy together. She remembered Emmett as someone who hated it when anyone – but especially a female student and double-especially one named Savage – came up with the answers in class before he did.