by James Hayman
The man rushed for Sophie’s bed, driving the knife toward her comatose body. McCabe’s bullet struck the moving target high, hitting the right shoulder, shattering a bone, driving the shooter backward. Blood spurted out. Like an enraged bull, he turned toward McCabe, managing somehow to hold on to the knife.
McCabe slammed into him, grabbing the wounded arm and twisting it, pushing it back, away from Sophie and toward the wall. The man bellowed in pain. Even wounded, he was as strong as an ox. He turned his body into McCabe and chopped his left elbow hard into McCabe’s kidney once and then again. There was a startling explosion of pain and McCabe went down, unable to breathe. The man advanced, now sure of his prey. McCabe raised his arm to fire again and was surprised to find his gun hand empty. Somehow he’d dropped the. 45 going down.
He looked around frantically. Left. Right. There. By the bed. He reached for the gun. The shooter was too fast. He kicked it away, turned, and with his good hand grabbed McCabe by the hair. He pulled his head back hard, exposing his throat to the blade. He raised the knife, barely able to hold it with the wounded hand. McCabe made a desperate grab and missed. He was sure he was going to die. Then a sudden explosion, deafening in the confined space, and, to McCabe’s amazement, a small black hole, like a ragged ink spot in a Rorschach test, appeared in the shooter’s forehead where there had been none an instant before. In the split second it took the shooter to die, a look of utter disbelief spread across his broad face.
A nurse and two white-coated residents ran into the room and began working frantically, kneeling by the still-breathing, bloody form of Kevin Comisky. McCabe’s eyes moved to the door, where Maggie was still standing, like Grace Kelly in High Noon, still holding her weapon in a two-handed stance, still pointing at the dead man sprawled in the middle of the floor, ready to fire again, as if she couldn’t quite believe he was really dead. McCabe fought off waves of pain.
As the medics worked, he felt a tremor of hope that Kevin Comisky might make it. That the doctors might have gotten to him in time. He even found himself praying for it — but his prayers weren’t answered. It only took a minute or two for the doctor, who looked to McCabe like he was fourteen years old, to look up, shake his head, and announce, ‘He’s gone.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Shit.’
Sophie still lay silently on the bed, breathing evenly. She’d missed the whole thing. McCabe looked back at the body of the shooter. ‘Too bad we couldn’t have taken him alive,’ he said, as much to himself as to Maggie.
‘Fuck you,’ said Maggie, who’d finally lowered her outstretched arms. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘If you have anything at all to say right now, McCabe, just make it a simple thank-you.’ The words came out tight and controlled. He knew she’d never fired her weapon at a human being before. He knew it wasn’t easy.
‘Thank you.’
35
Outside there would be cars, trees, people, music, but for Lucinda, outside no longer existed. In the beginning she tried singing. College songs, camp songs, rock and roll. Anything she could remember, belted out as loudly as she could. The sound of her own voice was comforting, reminding her she was still alive, she still existed. I sing, therefore I am. Back then she hoped the singing might irritate her captor. It did. He hurt her for it. Once he burned her thighs and breasts. Little round burns that scarred and still hurt. He told her that the next time she made so much noise he would burn her face.
Now she lay silent, using memories, vainly, to drive back the numbing fear, to keep the silence from destroying all reason. She concentrated on reliving her childhood day by day, on remembering every detail. Today was a Sunday in summer. She was four, Patti was seven. They sat at the kitchen table in the white frame house on Keepers Lane in North Berwick. They moved from that house two years later, but that was later. Today, Poppy, always up before Mommy on Sunday mornings, was making blueberry pancakes for breakfast. She loved blueberry pancakes. Saliva formed in her mouth at the thought.
The eternal cigarette dangled from Poppy’s lips, an impossibly long ash hanging over the batter, the scent of burning tobacco filling the room. Patti warned Poppy she wouldn’t eat the pancakes if the ash fell in. He cupped his hand under it and walked to the sink, plucked it from his mouth, and held the tiny butt under the water to wash away the ash and extinguish the burning tip. The cigarettes would kill him a few years later, but not yet.
This was the year Poppy bought them the pony. She and Patti. ‘A small thing,’ he told them, though he looked big enough to Lucy. ‘Only thirteen hands high. Fifteen years old.’
Thirteen of whose hands, she’d wondered. Surely not hers, which were so small compared to his own. Not Patti’s, which were only a little bigger.
They named the pony Keener. Poppy said it was because he was always keener to go for a ride than any other pony he had ever known. Patti, who was wise in these things, said it was really because Poppy bought the pony from a farm near Keene in New Hampshire and considered him a Keener, just as they called people from Maine Mainers.
Keener was a leopard Appaloosa, gray with dark spots all over him. As the youngest, Lucinda got to ride him first. Poppy hoisted her up onto the shiny brown leather saddle. English. Not western. No pommel to hold on to, he told her, just the reins. He adjusted the stirrups so her legs would reach. Put a foot in each. Then off they went. Poppy held the pony’s harness. He walked alongside as she rode, talking gently all the while, telling her to hold her back straight, telling her to let Keener know who was in charge. After a bit, without her noticing it, he let go of the harness and she rode on her own for the first time. ‘Nothing to be afraid of,’ Poppy said. ‘Nothing to be afraid of.’
Nothing to be afraid of.
Only the blackness and the man who came to do things to her body and sometimes to hurt her. No food. Just some disgusting chocolate stuff in a can that gave her diarrhea. For the thousandth time she took an inventory of the things in the room. Things she couldn’t see but knew were there. The most important, the bottle of Gatorade on the wooden table by the bed. He told her where to find it. She’d knocked it over once, feeling for it and missing. She’d had to wash the sticky stuff from the floor. He hit her for that.
The only other thing she could find was the bucket in the corner she used as a toilet, and the roll of paper next to it. She supposed he emptied it when he came. The room didn’t seem to smell.
He’d led her to it, the first time. Held her hand while she squatted down and peed. So strange, peeing in the dark, her jailer clutching her hand to keep her from falling. He led her hand to the paper, showing her where it was so she could clean herself. The bottle and the bucket, the bed and the chair. All there was. Her entire universe. Beyond them, just the darkness, the memories, and visits from the man.
‘When will you come again?’ she wondered, longing for sensation. ‘Perhaps if I do the sex well enough, perhaps if I please you well enough, perhaps you won’t, so quickly, quickly, quickly, quickly, quickly, quickly…’ She repeated the single word over and over again — but couldn’t give voice to the word that followed.
36
Wednesday. 11:00 A.M.
‘They’re restricting me to desk duty pending the investigation.’ Maggie emerged from Al Blanchard’s office, closing the door behind her. Blanchard was the PPD’s only full-time Internal Affairs officer. He was assisted by a sergeant McCabe didn’t know, someone rotated on a temp basis out of Community Affairs. ‘I’m not supposed to work on the case.’
‘Shit,’ McCabe said, more to himself than to Maggie. He was seated outside, waiting his turn with Internal Affairs.
Maggie sat down next to him. ‘That’s the regs,’ she said. ‘I fired my weapon. IA gets to say if the use of force was appropriate, if I really needed to kill him.’
‘You did.’
‘I didn’t announce myself. I didn’t yell freeze. I just saw him swinging that knife toward your neck and
I pulled the trigger.’
‘If you hadn’t killed him, he would’ve killed me,’ said McCabe. ‘He already killed Comisky.’
‘I could have wounded him.’
‘You had to go for a head shot. Any lower and you would have hit me. You did the right thing. The guy was pure fucking evil.’
She considered this. ‘You’re right.’ She nodded uncertainly. ‘Blanchard said it wouldn’t take long. The investigation, I mean.’
He supposed she was looking for absolution. A remission of sins. He couldn’t offer it. Neither could IA. If she felt any guilt, she’d just have to live with it. He put his arm around her shoulder. ‘You saved my life,’ he said. ‘In Chinese philosophy, that means you’re responsible for it.’
She turned and looked directly into his eyes, forcing a smile. ‘I guess I should have let him kill you.’
A uniformed sergeant named Toomey appeared. ‘Okay, McCabe, it’s your turn.’
Al Blanchard was seated behind his desk. Toomey took a seat to Blanchard’s right. Bill Fortier stood leaning against the wall behind Blanchard. McCabe hadn’t expected him to be there.
Fortier made the introductions. ‘Mike McCabe. Sergeant Pat Toomey.’ Each of the men nodded; neither extended a hand. ‘Pat’s been assigned to IA for this inquiry.’
McCabe had heard Toomey’s name before. He had a reputation for being Tom Shockley’s eyes and ears in the department. Most cops watched what they said in his presence, knowing it would eventually get back to the chief. McCabe ignored Toomey and addressed Fortier. ‘Maggie said you’re pulling her out of the investigation, Bill. With one killer still on the loose and Lucinda Cassidy still missing, I think that’s crazy. It’s obvious she shot him to save me.’
Blanchard spoke first. ‘Sergeant, regulations say we restrict an officer any time a firearm is discharged in the line of duty. Anyway, it shouldn’t be for long. The facts seem clear that Detective Savage was justified in using deadly force. We’ve just got to be sure.’
‘Alright, Mike,’ said Fortier. ‘I want you to tell us everything that happened from the moment you first saw that woman, Sophie Gauthier, right up until Maggie killed that guy in the hospital.’
McCabe told it all. They asked questions. He answered them. It took close to an hour. In the end he said, ‘That’s where we are. You want me on desk duty, too?’
‘No,’ said Blanchard.
‘Really? Why’s that? Hell, I discharged two firearms. Both in the same night. Maggie only fired one.’
Blanchard was silent.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ McCabe was feeling tired, angry. ‘We’ll just put the case on hold for a couple of days. Hell, I can use the rest. I’ve got issues at home. Maybe,’ he said bitterly, ‘maybe we can get the bad guys to postpone killing Cassidy until the good guys get their ducks in a row. On the other hand’ — he shrugged — ‘maybe we can’t.’
‘You know, McCabe, you’re pretty damned arrogant.’ It was Toomey who spoke. ‘I heard that about you, strutting around like a New York big shot. Now I see it’s true.’
McCabe looked at him. ‘Fuck you, Toomey.’ The man stiffened.
‘Alright, just hold it right there.’ Blanchard, conciliatory, held up both his hands, the good cop to Toomey’s bad cop. ‘Relax, Pat — and keep personal remarks to yourself. McCabe, you go back to work. You’re not being sidelined.’
‘Really? I thought the regs say we do desk duty any time a firearm is discharged.’
‘Let’s say you’ve been investigated,’ said Blanchard, ‘and cleared. You just didn’t notice it ’cause it happened so fast.’
‘We’re stretching the rules in your case, Mike, not breaking them,’ said Fortier. ‘For one thing, you didn’t kill anyone. Maggie did. For another, we need you right now. When you say we can’t count on the bad guys waiting, you’re right.’
‘Are you looking for a thank-you for that, Bill?’
‘Stretching the regs wasn’t Bill’s decision,’ said Toomey. ‘If you want to thank anyone, thank Shockley. It was his call. He’s the one who’ll have to take the heat. “For the good of the community,” he said.’
Blanchard added, ‘I just hope the department doesn’t end up paying for this down the road.’
‘Does Maggie know about any of this?’
‘No.’
‘When do I get her back?’
‘Shouldn’t be more than a day or so, maybe less,’ said Blanchard.
‘Personally,’ said Toomey, ‘in your case, McCabe, I would’ve gone by the book. I believe by your actions last night, going to meet that woman alone, without backup, you not only willfully ignored the rules of this department, you also set this whole clusterfuck in motion. It ended in the death of a fellow officer, the killing of one civilian, the wounding of another, and, last but not least, it looks like the guy in the elevator may be permanently paralyzed. But hey, I guess that’s how they do things in New York. Bill Bacon could have taken over this case from the beginning and, in my view, should have. Oh, by the way, in case you didn’t know it, Kevin Comisky left a wife and three children. The youngest’s only two years old.’
If Toomey’s intention was to induce guilt, he succeeded. ‘What’s the wife’s name?’
‘Carol.’
Carol. McCabe nodded. He’d have to call on Carol Comisky as soon as he could. Beyond that, he knew Toomey might be right about his decision to meet Sophie alone. That would haunt him. He was also surprised Shockley had gone out on a limb for him. Still, he said nothing about it.
‘Okay, that’s it,’ said Fortier. ‘You can go, Mike.’
‘Try real hard not to shoot anyone else,’ added Toomey. McCabe let the gibe pass.
37
Wednesday. 12:30 P.M.
Maggie dropped McCabe at his condo before heading home herself to shower and change. Jane Devaney met him at the door, index finger pressed against her lips in a shushing gesture.
‘What’s the matter?’ he whispered. She pushed him out onto the landing and quietly closed the door.
‘Casey’s here. I kept her home from school.’
‘Why? Is she sick?’
‘Not exactly, but she was awake pretty much all night. Crying a little. Worrying a lot. She crawled into my bed around two, but it was after seven before she finally dropped off. I let her sleep in.’
‘Was it about Sandy’s visit?’ He started for the door.
Jane put out a hand to block his way. ‘That’s in the mix somewhere, I suppose, but last night it was mostly about you.’
‘About me?’
‘Yeah. You. Last night she sees you leave here carrying a shotgun. Doesn’t know where you’re going or what you’re doing.’
‘Oh, Christ.’ McCabe sighed, another kernel of guilt starting to form.
‘A little later you call and scare her half to death. You tell her Maggie’s coming over. Later Maggie leaves and I turn up. You don’t. She asks where you are. I tell her I’m sure you’re all right. Then she tells me how her uncle was killed in a shootout when she was ten…’
‘Tommy.’
‘That’s right. Tommy. Obviously she’s worried sick about you getting killed, but she tries not to show it. Wants to be the good girl, the good cop’s daughter.’
‘I suppose me getting killed would mean I was abandoning her in a way, too. Just like her mother did. Was that part of it?’
‘Maybe, but I’m not sure it got that far.’
‘I’d better talk to her — ’
‘Yes. You’d better. Right now may not be the best time. She’s got it under control for now.’
‘So what do I say?’
‘Just be sensitive to how she feels. Make sure she knows you’re okay and that you care. You can talk to her a little more deeply when things calm down. Anyway, I’ll take her to school in a little while. Let me just grab a shower. I’ve been up all night, too.’
He found Casey in the kitchen eating a bowl of Cheerios. He slipped into the chair opposite
her.
‘New scrunchie?’ McCabe asked, noticing the band of orange fabric holding her hair back.
‘Yeah, Sarah and I made them. Her mom showed us how. I’ve got two more.’
‘Good job.’
‘It’s easy. You just sew the cloth into a tube and push the stretchy stuff through with a safety pin. Then you sew the ends.’ She took it off and showed him.
‘Cool.’ He slipped the band around his head. ‘How do I look?’
‘Don’t. You’ll stretch it.’ She reached over and took the scrunchie off his head. ‘You okay?’ she asked.
‘I’m okay. Did you get any sleep?’
‘Not much. Maggie left in the middle of the night. Said she had to go meet you. Jane came over.’
‘Was that okay?’
‘I kind of wanted company. I slept with Jane. Where were you?’
‘Up in Gray interviewing a witness. Then over at Cumberland Med.’
‘Somebody get hurt?’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t go into detail.
‘Where’s your shotgun?’
‘I left it down at headquarters.’
‘Okay.’
‘It was important for me to be there.’
Casey studied him for a minute. ‘Okay,’ she said.
He took her hand, the one not holding the spoon.
‘Don’t,’ she said and pulled it away.
He realized he was famished. Maggie’s doughnuts and a spoonful of lasagna were all he’d eaten in nearly twenty-four hours. He got himself a bowl and spoon and poured out some Cheerios. He added milk and started munching. ‘Have you thought any more about seeing your mother?’
‘Yeah. A lot.’