The Chill of Night

by James Hayman

  The guy was wearing the same dark hooded coat as before, only this time the hood was down. Now you could see the top of his head but not his face. Still, it was enough to tell them it wasn’t John Kelly. This guy had neatly cut gray hair, parted on the left and combed across to the right. It looked like Henry Ogden’s hair. Like Wallace Stevens Albright’s hair. Even kind of like Kyle Lanahan’s, only a little shorter. In fact, it could have been any number of parties both known and unknown. Mr Gray Hair looked nervously around the room, then moved to the white couch and sat down. He was sitting almost directly under the lens, head down. Lainie sat across from him in one of the white chairs.

  ‘You enjoy inflicting pain, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘Especially on girls who are young and defenseless.’ McCabe could hear better now. Not great but better. Her voice was distorted, and when she had her head down you could barely make out the words. Barker was obviously more interested in the quality of the video than the audio. Maggie and McCabe exchanged glances, a silent communication perfectly clear to both of them.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the man answered. At least that’s what McCabe thought he said. He hoped Starbucks could improve the sound.

  ‘Yes, you do, you bastard. There’s proof. There are pictures.’

  ‘What kind of pictures?’

  ‘Dirty pictures.’

  ‘How could there be pictures?’

  ‘Remote control mini camera. Amazing technology. Fit right inside her box of Camels. She just pointed it at the bed. Shoots in low light. Any light. Almost undetectable. Of course, you were so into your fun and games you never would have noticed anyway.’

  A deep sigh was audible even on the lousy mike. ‘I need to see them,’ he said.

  ‘No. They’re in a safe place.’

  Not safe enough, thought McCabe. Not safe at all, stuck in some book in her bookcase. She should have known that wasn’t safe. Goddammit, she would have known that. She couldn’t have been that careless. Maybe she hadn’t been. He hit STOP, and the image froze.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ asked Shockley.

  ‘Making a phone call.’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Yes. Right now.’ He punched in Janie Archer’s cell number. This time she answered.

  ‘What we talked about is cool?’ he said.

  ‘McCabe?’ said Archer.

  ‘We found your message on Lainie’s cell phone. When you thought she was in Aruba. You said, “What we talked about is cool.” ’

  ‘Yeah. I guess. So?’

  ‘What was cool?’

  ‘She sent me an envelope. FedExed it the day before she was supposed to leave. She asked me to put it in a safe place.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this Friday night?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was kinda wasted Friday. I didn’t think about it.’

  ‘Have you opened it?’

  ‘No. I was gonna look at it tomorrow. Then, if it seemed pertinent, call you.’

  ‘Why not look today?’

  ‘I can’t. Today’s Sunday. It’s in my safe deposit box. You know, like Lainie said? A safe place?’

  ‘What bank?’

  ‘Chase.’

  ‘What branch?’

  ‘Around the corner from here. First Ave and Seventy-second Street.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Home. My apartment. East Seventy-first. Between First and York.’

  ‘Alright. Stay there. I’m going to call a friend of mine on the NYPD. Lieutenant Art Astarita. He may be able to get you into the bank today. If he can, he’ll call you back, and you and he can go there together.’

  Archer agreed to stay put. McCabe called Astarita, who said he’d try to track down the branch manager and see what they could do. McCabe gave Astarita Janie Archer’s number. Then he hit PLAY. The video picked up where it left off.

  ‘But you’ve seen them?’ asked the man.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve seen them.’

  ‘Graphic, I suppose.’

  ‘Extremely graphic. Disgusting, in fact.’

  ‘There’s nothing illegal. The girl was sixteen. The age of consent.’

  ‘Some of the others weren’t.’

  ‘You know about the others?’

  ‘Yes. She told me.’

  ‘But you don’t have pictures of the others, do you? Or any other kind of proof.’

  Lainie said nothing.

  ‘Where are the pictures?’

  ‘I told you. In a safe place.’

  The man got up and walked around the room, head down, face away from the camera. If they were going to arrest, if they were going to convict, they needed to see his face.

  The man sat down again. ‘You’re bluffing. There are no pictures.’

  ‘You think so?’ Now there was a hard, mocking tone to Lainie’s voice. ‘Then call my bluff.’

  The man hesitated as if he were thinking about doing just that. ‘Alright. What do you want?’ he finally asked.

  ‘I want you to leave Portland. I want you to leave Maine. I want you to have nothing more to do with kids, girls, boys, anyone, wherever you go. And wherever it is you do go, trust me, I’ll be watching. I’ll know.’

  ‘If I ignore you?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think I have enough to send you to jail. As you said, she’s sixteen.’

  McCabe wondered if the girl they were talking about was Tara, the one with the fluffy white jacket on the porch at Sanctuary House. Kelly said she was sixteen. He could ask her. If she was still alive. If the guy hadn’t killed her like he killed Lainie Goff. And Callie Connor. And Leanna Barnes. McCabe wondered how long the list of victims might be. He took a deep breath and held it.

  ‘So what will you do?’ the man asked.

  ‘You know, it’s funny,’ Lainie said. ‘I’ve been dealing with self-righteous, hypocritical creeps like you all my life. My mother was married to one.’

  Scratch Albright, thought McCabe.

  ‘What I only recently realized is that what you fear most is exposure. You know that, and now I know that. So here’s the deal. You disappear like I said, and I’ll keep the pictures to myself.’

  ‘If I don’t?’

  ‘Then you’ll be famous. I’ll publish them everywhere I can. On the Internet. In the newspapers. Maybe even Dateline will be interested. I’m a damned good lawyer, and if I bend my mind to it I may even figure out a way to send you to prison after all.’

  ‘I’m not going to prison, and you’re not going to publish anything.’

  ‘No. Because you’re going to go away quietly. Knowing your type, practically nothing would be as painful to you as public humiliation. I’m leaving Saturday for two weeks’ vacation. When I get back I expect you to be gone. I also expect you to let me know where you are and what you’re doing. If both those things don’t happen, I go public. Now get out of here before I puke. You’re stinking up my apartment.’

  The guy made a guttural sound. Somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Barely loud enough to be picked up by Andy Barker’s lousy mike. He closed his eyes. Laid his head back on the back of the chair. And there he was.

  McCabe froze the frame and stared at the image. It wasn’t full face, and the lighting was bad. But it was enough. McCabe knew they had to find Richard Wolfe and find him fast. He just hoped they weren’t too late.

  Thirty-Eight

  McCabe called Winter Haven. Abby Quinn was in a room on the third floor. Room 317 North. He told the operator to connect him with the unit nursing station.

  While the phone rang on the other end, he scribbled Wolfe’s home and office addresses and all three of his phone numbers. ‘Call in an ATL,’ McCabe said, handing the note to Fraser. ‘He drives a black Lexus IS 350.’ McCabe closed his eyes, reconstructing the precise image of the car parked by the building on Union Wharf. ‘Maine plates. 4351LN. He’s probably still got the .22, and remember, he’s already killed three people. Right now he doesn’t know we know it’s him, but once
he figures it out, he’ll have nothing to lose.’ Fraser nodded and picked up the conference room phone.

  The nursing station phone was still ringing. McCabe handed Maggie another Post-it. ‘Here’s his cell. See if the Call Center can triangulate current location.’

  ‘If he’s got it turned on,’ she said. ‘He’s not dumb.’

  ‘Like I said, he doesn’t know anything about Andy Barker’s videos. Doesn’t know we’re after him.’ She took the Post-it and flipped open her cell.

  ‘Three North. Amanda Moehler.’ The voice of a middle-aged woman. Probably an experienced nurse. That was good.

  ‘Ms. Moehler. This is Detective McCabe. Portland police. I need you to check on your patient Abby Quinn.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Moehler sounded puzzled. ‘She’s fine. She’s resting. We just gave her –’

  ‘Ms. Moehler, please. Quinn may be in danger.’ McCabe spoke quietly but added an unmistakable urgency to his voice. ‘Please go to room 317 right now and check on Abby Quinn.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation on the other end of the line; then Moehler said, ‘Hold on.’

  Thirty seconds later she was back on the line. ‘She’s not there. I don’t understand how she could’ve just disa –’

  McCabe cut her off. ‘Have you seen Dr Wolfe?’

  ‘Yes. He was with her about an hour ago, but he left. I haven’t seen him since.’

  Shit. A whole hour since Wolfe had left. And McCabe himself had told the bastard to try hypnotherapy. Abby could be anywhere wandering around in a hypnotic trance. Even worse, she could be with Wolfe. ‘Ms. Moehler,’ McCabe said, ‘transfer me to hospital security now.’

  While he waited for Security to answer, he told Cleary to get Gorham PD on the phone. Chief John Sax.

  ‘Winter Haven Security. Garth Andersen speaking.’

  ‘Andersen, this is Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland PD.’

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I need you to organize an immediate search of the building and the grounds.’

  ‘Alright. Who or what am I looking for?’

  ‘A patient named Abby Quinn. Brought in last night. Female schizophrenic. Twenty-five years old. Reddish brown hair. She may be wearing civilian clothes, and she may be with Dr Richard Wolfe.’

  ‘Wolfe? I know Wolfe. I can just page him.’

  ‘Don’t do that. Tell your people not to say anything to Wolfe.’ The last thing McCabe needed was some unarmed security guard alerting Wolfe they were after him and getting his ass shot off in the process. ‘Just find Quinn and take her into custody. If Wolfe’s with her, tell him you’re under orders and call us immediately. If he objects, don’t interfere. Just keep an eye on him and call me.’ He gave Andersen his number. ‘Gorham police will be there to back you up in a few minutes.’

  ‘I’ll need some kind of authorization on this.’

  ‘Call Portland PD. Chief Shockley’s office.’ McCabe looked over at Shockley. ‘He’ll confirm what I’ve told you.’

  Shockley went back to his office to take the call.

  ‘I’ve got Chief Sax from Gorham on line one.’ Cleary held out the phone. McCabe took it.

  ‘Hey, McCabe, John Sax here.’

  ‘John, we need your help,’ said McCabe. He gave Sax a quick rundown on the situation. Sax said he’d scramble all available units and head them to the hospital. He’d go over there himself and take over from Security.

  ‘Tell your people to be careful, John,’ said McCabe. ‘Wolfe’s armed and very dangerous. He doesn’t know we’re after him yet. Let’s keep it that way as long as we can. We’ll e-mail you photos of both Quinn and Wolfe.’

  He nodded at Starbucks, who nodded back and left to make it happen.

  He looked around the table. ‘Tom, you and Carl get over to Sanctuary House and turn the place upside down. If Wolfe doesn’t have her, Quinn may be hiding there.’

  The conference room phone rang. Fraser picked it up, then held it out to McCabe. ‘It’s Nurse Moehler from Winter Haven.’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ asked McCabe.

  ‘I just found some things in Quinn’s room that may be important.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Her hospital gown was balled up next to the toilet. She didn’t have any other clothes when she came in last night, and nobody’s been to see her. Dr Wolfe must have brought her some clothes.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. A note. On the table next to her bed.’ He could hear Moehler take a deep breath. ‘She may be suicidal.’

  ‘What’s it say?’

  ‘It’s kind of, I don’t know, a poem or something.’

  ‘What’s it say?’

  Moehler began reading.

  I smell Death all around me.

  My beginning and my end.

  I’ll go back to my heart

  where I first saw his blue, blue eyes.

  I long to embrace Death again.

  For the very first time.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  He didn’t know if Abby wrote poetry. But he hoped she did. Because if she didn’t, Richard Wolfe did, and that was bad news. I long to embrace Death again. ‘Let’s go, Tonto,’ he said, pulling Maggie out of her chair. ‘We’re out of here.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Harts Island.’ On the way out he asked Cleary to make sure the Mangini was waiting for them.

  McCabe drove. Lights. No siren. They were at the pier in less than two minutes. Maggie was on the line to the Harts Island cop shop when they climbed aboard. A cop named Bob Fane took the call.

  She put Fane on speaker and told him to get a search party together. Quinn was on her way back to the island. Probably suicidal. ‘You guys need to check any and all boats coming in. Not just the ferries but lobster boats, fishing boats. Anything that floats. She’s already tried jumping from the rocks twice. She may try again.’

  ‘Jesus, Mag, there are a hundred places on this island she could jump from.’

  ‘Well, round up as many people as you can and check them all. Also check her house. If you find her, hold her. If she’s with a man, it’ll be Richard Wolfe. Arrest him – but be careful. He’s armed and definitely dangerous.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘One more thing. McCabe and I are on the Mangini now. Should be on the island in five to seven. We’re heading to Kelly’s. We need wheels.’

  ‘Tell the skipper to drop you at the sailing club dock. That’s closer to Kelly’s than the landing. Someone will meet you there with a four-by.’

  Maggie’s last call was to Casco Bay Lines. She left word for the ferry crews to be on the lookout for Abby Quinn and for Richard Wolfe.

  Thirty-Nine

  Harts Island, Maine

  An attractive woman in her forties with short blond hair and a trim figure was leaning on a Ford F-150 pickup when the Mangini pulled in.

  ‘Hi, I’m Lori Sparks.’ McCabe recognized the name as the owner of the Crow’s Nest. ‘Bob Fane said you guys needed wheels.’ She waved at the truck. ‘Keys are in the ignition. Just leave it outside the Nest when you’re done.’

  They thanked her and climbed in.

  ‘Hope you find her,’ Sparks shouted as they pulled out. ‘She’s a good kid. She deserves a break.’

  McCabe drove as fast as the twisty and narrow island lanes would allow. He felt certain Quinn was here on Harts Island, certain she was at Kelly’s. Back to my heart. Where I first saw his blue, blue eyes. Casco Bay and the Portland skyline flashed by to their left. The distinctive shapes of office buildings and the twin spires of the Observatory and the Catholic Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception stood out, graceful silhouettes against an orange Hollywood sunset. Portland’s native son director, John Ford, would’ve loved it. At the end of the paved road McCabe bumped the big Ford onto the same rutted dirt trail he’d followed last night, the truck nearly too wide for the space. Maggie tilted her body to avoid putting weight on the exit
wound. The bumps hurt.

  ‘Just a couple of minutes more,’ said McCabe.

  His phone vibrated. Art Astarita in New York. McCabe stopped to take the call.

  ‘We’re in the bank,’ said Astarita. ‘Archer’s just opening her box now.’ Pause. ‘Okay, we’ve got the envelope. We’re opening it.’

  McCabe resisted the urge to tell Astarita to hurry.

  ‘Jesus, McCabe, you got some real cuties up there in Portland. This stuff’s gross. Some older guy doing weird shit to a girl who looks like she’s about twelve. Bondage. Maybe torture.’

  ‘She’s supposed to be sixteen.’

  ‘Sure as hell doesn’t look it.’

  ‘Can you see the guy’s face?’

  ‘Yeah. Front face. Side face. Everything else, too. I’ll e-mail you the stack soon as I get ’em scanned. You got a real charmer there. Hope you cut his balls off.’

  McCabe thanked him, the gratitude genuine, the circle closed. Would the photos be enough to send Wolfe to prison? Lainie didn’t think so, but that was before she was murdered.

  He pulled the truck into the turnaround. No other vehicles. If Abby was here, she hadn’t driven. If Wolfe was here, he hadn’t either. They could see no signs of life by the shack. Maybe McCabe was wrong about the poem. Maybe they were somewhere else.

  They moved silently through the woods, Maggie using the cane for balance and to probe the snow in front of her. The last thing she needed was to fall on her ass. They stopped where the clearing began, maybe a hundred feet from the house. They could see Abby now, standing alone, with her back to them on the edge of the cliff. She was looking down at the rocks below, bare feet toeing the icy edge of a large overhanging rock that jutted out into open space. It made a nearly perfect diving platform. There was no sign of Richard Wolfe.

  Abby was dressed in a floaty white summer dress. The kind of thing she might have worn for her high school graduation. Portland High. Class of ’99. Incongruous both for the season and the place. Her hands were down at her sides. It looked like she was holding something. Whatever it was was lost within the soft folds of fabric that swayed in rhythm with the wind that blew in from the sea. Abby’s reddish brown hair was pinned back, a garland of white flowers arranged in a band across the top of her head. No, it wasn’t her graduation, McCabe decided. Abby was dressed for a wedding. A bride awaiting her groom’s arrival. I long to embrace Death again. For the very first time. All that was missing was a bouquet and a veil. The wind was picking up now, and, January thaw or not, McCabe figured she had to be freezing. He wondered if just seeing them approach would be enough to cause her to jump.