The Chill of Night

by James Hayman

  One other time Abby saw a light flickering from one of the bedrooms at the Callahans’ place. She went in and found Marie Lopat and Annie Carle, stark naked and going at it hot and heavy on the Callahans’ bed. She told them to get dressed and go home before she called their parents. Abby never figured Annie and Marie for lesbos, but hey, whatever turns you on.

  She emerged from the woods and turned left onto Seashore Avenue. A cold wind from the northeast smacked her right in the face, but thanks to her Blue Lightning mask she barely felt it. Big breakers slammed into the rocks below the road, creating plumes of spray twenty feet high. The full moon glittered on the water. There were now even more stars than before. Abby felt good. She was running. She was laying off the beer. She was on the meds. The Voices were mostly quiet. She was even starting to feel good about herself as a woman again, the way she did seven years ago at Portland High and for two years after that at USM. That was before the Voices invaded her head. Before she tried to shut them up by jumping off the rocks at Christmas Cove. Not once but twice. That was before the two years locked up at Winter Haven, and a chunk of another year living with a bunch of runaways and druggies at John Kelly’s halfway house in town. Now she was home, but not home free. Abby knew from experience she had to be vigilant. The Voices lived. Meds or no meds, it could all come crashing down.

  She picked up her pace on the paved, nearly level surface. Most of the houses were newer and bigger on this side of the island, none of them owned by island families. About half belonged to rich retirees from away. They mostly left for four months in Florida right after New Year’s. The other half belonged to even richer summer people who spent most of the year in places like New York or Dallas or L.A. One couple even came over from London and built a McMansion right on the water near Seal Point. Probably cost two million bucks. More money than most islanders made their whole lives. And they used the place all of four weeks a year. The other forty-eight weeks it was locked up and empty. There had always been summer people on Harts Island, but never people rich enough to live like that. The island was changing, and Abby was sorry about that. She liked it better the way it was when she was little. She wished the Londoners would just go home to London and take their big fat house with them. Or let it float out to sea. Yes, they paid her to watch the place, and yes, she liked getting the money. Still, she wished they weren’t here.

  A hundred years ago, most islanders would never have dreamed of building anything more than a fishing shack out here on the open ocean. Even twenty years ago when Abby was a little girl there were only a few houses on the backshore, and most of those were pretty modest. It was too damned cold and the nor’easters too punishing. People today had no problem coming to the island, changing the place, pushing real estate prices and taxes ever higher and challenging nature in ways that seemed to Abby arrogant and wrong.

  If Abby had been running a step or two faster, if she’d rounded the bend at Seal Point a second or two sooner, or if she’d just been looking out to sea when the match flared in the second-floor window, she never would have seen it. In this, however, as in so much else in her life, luck didn’t fall Abby’s way. The match flared. She saw it. Then it was gone. It happened so fast, she wasn’t sure it happened at all. She stopped running, then stood and looked at the window where it had been. Todd and Isabella Markham’s house was a large, gray-shingled, neo-Victorian designed in what Isabella liked to call ‘the island vernacular.’ It was built high up on about ten truckloads of fill to give it an even more commanding view of the ocean. It had a triangular front roofline with a rounded turret on the right. A dozen steps led up to a large, open wrap-around porch. Abby stood in the shadows, gazing at the window and wondering if she’d just imagined the whole thing. Then, just as she decided that maybe she had and was about to resume her run, another match flared. Whoever lit it must have used it to light a lantern or a candle, because this time the light stayed on, flickering dimly.

  Abby wondered if the Markhams might be on the island. They lived in Boston, and they sometimes came up in winter, but Isabella always called a day or two ahead and asked Abby to open the house, turn up the heat, and leave a few lights on. They wanted everything warm and cozy when they arrived. Besides, if it was the Markhams, why didn’t they just turn on the electric lights? Why bother with candles?

  The idea of candles suggested romance. Were Marie and Annie playing house again? Or some other island teenagers? Abby tried to remember if she’d ever seen Kahlúa in the Markhams’ liquor cabinet. She hoped she wouldn’t find dirty pictures painted on the walls. Either way, the Markhams paid her to watch the place, so she’d have to check. They didn’t pay her much, but she took the money, and they trusted her to do the job.

  If she’d brought her cell phone, she could have called the police. Or maybe Travis. But cell phone service was hit or miss out here at Seal Point, and the police would just give her a hard time. As for Travis, if he wasn’t home sleeping, he was probably busy trying to get into some other girl’s pants. He’d see Abby’s name on caller ID and not pick up.

  She tried to remember the layout of the Markhams’ place. The only time she’d been upstairs was when Isabella showed her around and gave her the key. She was pretty sure the candlelight was coming from the master bedroom. It was a big room on this side of the house with a wall of windows that looked out over the open ocean. She remembered thinking how glorious it would be to wake up warm and cozy in the Markhams’ king-sized bed and watch the sun come up over the horizon. How wonderful to have someone to make love to in a setting like that.

  Abby moved toward the house, trying to stay in the shadows like a TV detective. She had a feeling that whoever or whatever was inside, it wasn’t Annie or Marie or any of the other island kids – and if not them, who? Her anxiety rose. She reached the house and climbed the twelve steps up to the porch. Then she pressed herself against the front of the house and crept sideways to the front door. She pushed her ear against the door and realized instantly how dumb that was. Between the blowing of the wind and the crashing of the waves against the rocks, there was no way in hell she’d hear anyone inside even if they were screaming at the top of their lungs.

  But then she did. Someone talking quietly. Then someone else. Then a chorus whispering. The Voices were waking from their slumber. Go on, stupid bitch, go inside. Go, you fat slug. Go inside and get yourself killed. That’s what you really want, isn’t it? Ignore them, she told herself. Don’t respond. Answering back just encourages them. She pushed herself forward. She had to do this. If she couldn’t ignore the Voices and do her job, she might just as well leap off the rocks. That’s what the Voices wanted her to do. This time they’d make sure there were no lobstermen around to fish her out.

  Abby felt wetness under the mask and realized she was crying. The Voices were getting louder. She had to shut them up. She pulled off her gloves, reached into her fanny pack, and found her Zyprexa. Pulled off the mask and dry-swallowed a 20 mg tablet, her second of the day. Twice what she was supposed to have. She didn’t know how long it would take to work or even if it would work, but she hoped it would. It was her only weapon.

  She put her mask and gloves back on and crept around to the back of the house. She peered in the window of the garage. There was more than enough moonlight to tell the car inside wasn’t the Markhams’ Escalade. It was something smaller, sleeker.

  Abby riffled through her keys until she found the one marked I.M. She opened the back door and stepped inside, closed it, and listened again. She stood stock-still. Moonlight poured through the big front windows, lighting the whole ground floor, which consisted of one big room, a kitchen area that led seamlessly into open dining and living spaces. Outside, foamy explosions of moonlit waves crashed into the rocks. The house was so solidly built, she could barely hear them. She didn’t think the extra pill could have worked that fast, but the Voices seemed quieter. Reduced to a grousing and grumbling like restless sleepers turning in their beds. Otherwise there was silenc
e.

  The room felt warm. Abby knelt down and placed a bare hand flat on the hardwood floor. The underfloor heating was on. She looked around for coats or boots or other signs of winter intruders. Nothing. To Abby’s right a staircase led up to the second floor and whoever or whatever awaited her there. She stood by the bottom step and listened. From upstairs, she heard a long, low mournful cry. Her heart beat faster. Was it the Voices? She didn’t think so, but she told them to shut up anyway. She stood for a minute, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. If she could do this one thing and do it right, maybe she could silence the Voices forever. Besides, it was her job. She had to try. She looked around the kitchen for a possible weapon. She spotted a nine-inch chef’s knife. Lethal – but the thought of actually stabbing anyone, even in self-defense, frightened her too much. She settled instead for a small cast-iron skillet. The notion of fracturing a skull was somehow more appealing.

  She took her mittens off and clipped them to her belt. She took another deep breath, waited a few seconds, then began to climb the stairs, one by one, as silently as possible. She was clutching the skillet so tightly her right hand began to hurt. She stepped onto the landing floor. A thick carpet muffled her steps. The wordless cry came again, soft and utterly without hope. It seemed to Abby the saddest sound she’d ever heard. Was it real or was it the Voices? She had no way of knowing. The door at the end of the dark hall was ajar. Dim, flickering light shone through an opening of an inch or maybe less. Abby pushed herself against the jamb and, with one eye, peered in. For a moment she stood transfixed, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to comprehend the scene before her.

  The room was lit only by a few candles scattered around. A naked woman knelt on the bed. Her wrists and ankles were bound to the bedposts with what looked like silk scarves. Another scarf was tied around her mouth. Her head was down. Dark hair hid her face. At the side of the bed a man stood, facing the woman, his back to Abby. He, too, was naked with a slender, muscular body. He held a thin-bladed knife in his right hand. As Abby watched, he lifted the woman’s hair with his left hand, raised the knife with his right. He brought the knife downward in an arc. Stopped. Positioned it carefully in the center of the woman’s neck. Then pushed. The blade penetrated flesh. The woman slumped. Abby’s brain exploded in a cacophony of Voices. She screamed. The man turned; he had no face, just a fiery mane with icy eyes peering at Abby through the flames. Shocked by Abby’s scream, the man with the face of fire pulled the knife from the woman’s neck, tore open the door, and slashed at Abby’s throat. She leapt back. The blade missed. He raised his arm to strike again. Abby swung the skillet. Missed. The Voices screamed. Abby ran. The man, still naked, ran after her. Abby’s head filled with horrible sounds. A chorus screaming for her death. She took the stairs two at a time and raced for the front door. It was locked. The man closed in. Abby swung the skillet and missed again. Flames flew from his bestial eyes. The Voices laughed hysterically. Abby flipped the bolt. Death touched her arm, his hand burning like the devil’s own. She turned, crouched, and swung the skillet in a low arc like the field hockey player she once was going for a goal. This time it connected. He went down, choking, gasping for air, clutching his injured testicles. Abby spun and ran through the open door and down the steps, tossing the skillet into the shrubs at the side of the house. She raced across the frozen yard. Glancing back, she saw his naked form charging down the porch stairs and out into the frozen night. She leapt the icy slope down onto the road. Her cleats somehow held on the slick surface. Looking back again, she saw him slip, feet flying out from under him in a kind of circus pantomime. A naked clown with a head of fire slipping on a frozen banana peel. His momentum took him up into the air, then down again, hard on his back. He lay still. Abby ran off into the night. She ran blindly, certain he would follow, determined to outrun not just her own death but also the Voices shrieking inside her head.

  She ran for nearly a mile, expecting at each step to feel Death’s hand touch her shoulder, expecting his blade to plunge into her neck as it had the woman’s. Finally, winded, she paused. Behind her there was nothing. Just moonlit ice shining off the empty road. He was gone. Abby stared into the darkness, catching her breath. Still nothing. Had she imagined it all? Would her doctor tell her it was nothing but her illness creating visions that didn’t exist except in her mind? She didn’t know. Maybe that’s all it was.

  Five minutes passed before Abby saw reflections of the headlights coming in her direction from Seal Point. She cursed herself for stupidity. Of course. The car in the Markhams’ garage. It was only a half mile, maybe less, behind her and was closing fast. She looked left. She looked right. Not thinking, just reacting. The Voices screamed, Turn left! Turn left! The rocks, the ocean. Dive in the ocean. The water will save you from the knife. No, she screamed back, I’m not ready to die. She turned right, away from the rocks and onto a narrow trail that wound its way through a salt marsh toward the island’s interior. Frozen tracks carved into the ice by cross-country skiers slowed her down. They made the way treacherous, too easy to twist an ankle, even with the cleats.

  Had he seen her turn off the road? She didn’t know. If he did, he’d follow on foot. The trail was way too narrow for the car. Head down, arms pumping, Abby charged ahead. Behind her she heard the engine stop, the car’s door open, then slam shut.

  She ran as hard and as fast as she ever had, praying her foot wouldn’t catch in one of the ski tracks. Praying she wouldn’t fall and break an ankle. Every third or fourth step a foot broke through the icy surface to crusty snow below, slowing her further. How long before he caught up? However fast she was going, she knew it wasn’t fast enough. If she couldn’t outrun him, maybe she could lose him. She’d played on this maze of trails all her life. She knew how they looped around through dense piney woods, randomly crossing back on each other. Easy to get lost. Hard to follow someone, especially in the dark. Even on a moonlit night. Or so she hoped. That was her only advantage. Ahead of her the trail forked. The wider fork, the one to the left, led to the back end of the island dump and from there to a paved road that led down front. The fork to the right was narrower and trickier to negotiate. It would take her through a random series of trails and icy ledges where her cleats and knowledge of the terrain would give her more of an advantage. She veered right.

  It was nearly 1:00 A.M. before Abby emerged from the edge of the woods. She worked her way through the dark streets down front to the small police station where two Portland PD cops were, no doubt, snoozing. She tried the door. Locked. Of course. She rang the bell. Nobody came. She looked around. Island Avenue in each direction lay dark and empty. Finally exhausted, Abby leaned against the bell and held it down. She wouldn’t let go until one of them let her in or until Death pushed his thin-bladed knife into the back of her neck. Whichever came first. She tried to organize the frantic succession of images in her mind. She had to be coherent or the cops would never believe her. Still no one came. She lowered her head. A low, keening whimper escaped her lips. Almost like the cry of the woman on the bed. The Voices taunted her. She pretended not to hear. Dark visions closed in from every side. Finally the big cop with the black mustache peered around the drawn shade. He looked annoyed to have been woken up. He opened the door and let her in.

  That was Tuesday. This was Friday. It was 11:52 P.M. Time to run for the ferry.

  Nine

  Portland, Maine

  11:20 P.M.

  By the time McCabe signed out at Randall Jackson’s security desk, he was pretty much running on empty. All he really wanted was to go home, take another hot shower, and climb into bed. With Kyra if possible, alone if necessary. Unfortunately, at the moment, neither was an option. Instead, he parked himself in a corner of the lobby and tapped in Janie Archer’s number in New York. He needed to find out for sure whether or not Lainie Goff had a next of kin. If she did, he’d have to arrange for a police officer to visit their home and break the news if they hadn’t heard it already. There were a fe
w other things he wanted to question Archer about as well. Like Goff’s relationship with Henry Ogden. Maybe she’d know if it extended beyond the purely professional. Jackson told him Lainie left the office looking pissed. Ogden left ten minutes later. Had they been together? If so, McCabe wanted to know why. He also wanted to know why an ambitious young woman like Lainie Goff would leave nearly two hundred thousand dollars to a tiny, practically unknown charity dedicated to helping runaway teens. It didn’t seem to fit with her persona, and he didn’t like things that didn’t fit.

  After four rings a young woman’s cheery voice came on. ‘Hi, this is Janie. Leave a message and I’ll call ya back.’ At least Archer was still in New York and still had the same number. ‘Ms. Archer. This is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe of the Portland, Maine, Police Department. It’s important that you call me back as soon as you get this message. It concerns your friend Elaine Goff.’ He left both his office number and his cell. Then he called the PPD Call Center and asked whoever was on duty to please track down a cell number for Janie Archer in New York City and, sorry, no, he didn’t know who the service provider was.

  Before he could try Henry Ogden’s number, Maggie called. ‘Yeah, Mag, what’s up? You still at Goff’s apartment?’

  ‘No. I just left. I’m on my way to the ferry terminal. Can you meet me there? Like right away? The fireboat’s waiting for us. We’re taking a little trip over to Harts Island.’

  ‘Harts? What’s on Harts?’

  ‘A possible witness.’