The Cutting mm-1

by James Hayman

  ‘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 only 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.

  Dying embers glowed in the stone fireplace. Above the mantel, a pair of crossed oars from a racing shell were hung to form a large X. Lettered in paint on one of the oars were the words THE HALEY SCHOOL, HENLEY REGATTA, 1980. Underneath were eight names. One of them, L.KANE,STOKE.

  Maurice Kane, the great man himself, dozed in a leather chair in front of the fire, a blanket over his legs. A standing lamp beside the chair outlined his face in a mosaic of light and shadow. His skin looked old, worn, paper thin. His mouth hung open in fitful sleep. He needed a shave.

  McCabe crossed to the other side of the window. A concert grand piano dominated the far side of the room. He heard music from inside. Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Kane’s younger, more vital self, playing with what McCabe assumed was the witty, apparently effortless muscularity he’d read about. Hearing the music, he felt a quiet anger he couldn’t name, a sense of mourning, of loss building within. Feelings he knew he couldn’t afford. He shook them away.

  He walked around the porch, staying in the shadows, keeping quiet, avoiding the detritus of summers past. Wicker chairs and tables, the wicker coming unraveled. A porch swing. An antique two-man logger’s saw propped in a corner. McCabe continued around to the back of the house, where a door opened onto what appeared to be a small utility room. He tried the door. Unlocked. No picks needed. ‘I’m going in,’ he whispered into the headset. He opened the door and entered.

  Maggie’s voice in his ear said, ‘McCabe, what the hell do you — ’

  He interrupted, whispering back, ‘Be quiet or I’ll flip you off.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, her tone making it clear she didn’t think it fine at all.

  He stepped inside and flicked on the Maglite. A small room leading to a large open kitchen. He moved the beam of light around the space. Bilious green walls. An electric control panel painted shut. A linoleum floor in a black-and-white checkered pattern. Packing cartons piled in one corner, each marked UNITED VAN LINES. A. JACKMAN AND SONS, MOVERS. 622 EAST 88TH STREET, NEW YORK, NY 10022. McCabe flicked off the flashlight and walked through the darkened kitchen toward the light and the room where the old man dozed.

  In the hall, photographs lined the walls. McCabe could make out images of the famed pianist posing with people even more famous than he was. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Henry Kissinger. Ronald and Nancy Reagan. There were also several family shots, most in woodsy settings, probably taken here. Two caught McCabe’s eye. One showed the elder Kane and his wife with their two sons, one clearly Lucas, one considerably younger. One of the great man’s hands rested on each of the boys’ shoulders. McCabe wondered briefly what had happened to the younger son. The second shot was of Lucas alone, eight or nine years old, standing on the porch of this house, a serious, unsmiling expression on his face, a cone-shaped birthday party hat perched on his head. His dark intense eyes stared into the camera. In his arms he cradled a small rabbit, perhaps a birthday gift.

  McCabe moved into the living room. The old man still slept, his breathing ragged. A droplet of spittle hung at the corner of his mouth. McCabe stood in the shadows, close enough to Kane’s chair to be seen and h
eard but partially hidden from the entrance to the room.

  Maurice Kane swatted at something in his sleep, then said something McCabe couldn’t understand.

  ‘Mr. Kane? Mr. Kane, wake up. I need to talk to you.’

  The old man squinted into the shadows, trying to locate the voice. ‘Who are you? What are you doing in my house?’ His voice the rasping whisper of a dying man, the accent more British than American.

  ‘Where is Lucas?’

  ‘Lucas? Lucas is dead. Who are you?’

  ‘No, Lucas is alive, Mr. Kane. I’m a policeman. Detective Michael McCabe. Portland police. I need to know where Lucas is.’

  ‘A policeman,’ Kane repeated. ‘How did you get in my house?’

  ‘Please, Mr. Kane. Lucas. Where is he?’

  The old man looked at him blankly. This was taking too long, McCabe thought. Lucinda’s chances of survival were draining away with each passing moment. The hell with it. He’d search the house first. Find out what he could from the old man later.

  Lights from a car swept through the windows, its beams crossed the far wall, finally lighting the dark corner where McCabe stood. He went to the window, peered through. He couldn’t see anything.

  ‘McCabe?’ Maggie’s voice whispered in his ear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘An ambulance just pulled up behind the guest cottage. I’m watching it through the binocs. I’m gonna move closer.’

  McCabe could hear some rustling sounds and Maggie’s breathing. He waited.

  ‘Okay, I can see better now. Guess what? Dr. Wilcox is jumping out the back. Now a woman. Now the driver’s getting out. He’s unlocking a back door to the cottage.’

  ‘Is Kane there?’

  ‘No. Just the three of them. They’re pulling a stretcher out of the back.’ There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘There’s an old man on the stretcher. They’re heading into the cottage.’

  McCabe figured it had to be transplant time. Lucinda’s heart was nearby, but where? In the cottage? Maybe here in the house? Was it still beating, still in her body? He didn’t know.

  ‘I’m calling Ellsworth for backup.’ Maggie’s voice again. ‘Uh-oh.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Another light just went on. Directly above you in the main house. Third-floor window.’

  Squinting into the sudden brightness, Lucy saw the man standing by the door, dressed in blue-green surgical scrubs. He locked the dead bolt and walked toward her. In his right hand, he carried a small red-and-white picnic cooler.

  Lucinda’s eyes darted around. Yes. This was a different room. It looked like a child’s attic playroom with a single high dormer window. Toys and games lay stacked in the corner. Three low painted bookcases against the wall were filled with children’s books. Beside the window, a large stuffed bear sat upright inside an open cardboard box, its black button eyes peering directly at her. Reflected in the light, she saw a perfect spider’s web connecting the bear’s arm with the wall. On the other side of the web, a Pinocchio marionette hung, an idiot’s smile plastered on its pink painted face.

  Closer to the steel platform on which she lay, Lucy could see a large electrical saw, its articulated arm hanging at a strange angle. Even closer, a tray of gleaming stainless steel instruments. The platform itself rose at a slight angle so that her head was higher than her feet. Near the bottom, between her ankles, she could see a round drain. For what? Water? Blood? The terror rose within her. Suddenly the bear and the marionette burst into hysterical laughter, pointing their arms directly at her, laughing at her because she was going to die. The laughter went on and on. She had to stop it. She had to shut it out. She tried to cover her ears, but her hands wouldn’t move. She closed her eyes and screamed.

  McCabe ran into the open central hall, where the stairs rose up in a broad spiral toward the third-floor landing. He looked up and saw a heavy oak door blocking the entrance to the room where Maggie must have seen the light. His mind was racing. He could rush up the stairs, but the door would be locked. If he tried to break it down or shoot his way in, Kane, armed with a scalpel, if not a gun or a knife, would use Lucinda as a shield or, worse, simply cut her throat. He thought he heard a scream. Sharp. Short. Quickly cut off.

  He ran back to the utility room just as Maggie burst in through the back door. He found the circuit breaker box. Removing a heart was easy, Spencer told him — but not in the dark. Not without power. Kane couldn’t see where to cut. The surgical saw wouldn’t work. He’d have to come out of the room to find out what was happening, to reset the breaker. That might give them the chance they needed. Maybe.

  The scream barely escaped her lips. Moving with astonishing speed, the man slapped a strip of silver duct tape against her mouth and pulled it tight, cutting off the sound. She opened her eyes. His face was close to hers, his deep-set eyes shining brightly. She could hear his breathing, feel the breath on her skin. Short, shallow, rapid. He untied and removed her gown, then pulled on a pair of latex surgical gloves. He selected a scalpel from the tray and placed it flat on her chest, between her breasts. He turned on a bright light clipped to a tall silver-colored metal stand, the kind she’d seen in photographers’ studios. He adjusted the light until it shone right at her. He picked up the scalpel and, using a sponge, washed her chest with something that felt cold and smelled antiseptic. He smiled at her. Then he leaned over and gently kissed her cheek. ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed our time together, Lucinda,’ he said.

  McCabe tugged at the panel door. Shit. Painted shut. He pulled again. Still it wouldn’t open.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ asked Maggie, her voice a whisper, but barely.

  He ignored the question. His eyes darted around. He was losing precious seconds. He imagined Kane cutting a neat red line down the middle of Lucinda’s chest. He spotted a retractable box cutter on top of the moving cartons, grabbed it, and flipped it open. He ran the blade around the painted edges of the door. He pulled again. Still stuck. This was taking too long. He thought he could hear the whine of the Stryker surgical saw. Nearly frantic, he used the knife again and pulled even harder. The dry paint cracked. Then, finally, it gave way.

  Her lover slid a surgical mask over his mouth. He placed the point of the scalpel against her skin at the bottom of her throat. Lucy retreated into the cold steel platform that held her, trying to pull back into its impenetrable hardness. He pushed. She felt a shock of pain as the blade broke her skin. She closed her eyes and prayed to a God she’d never believed in for the peace and redemption that death would bring. The lights went out.

  The utility room went black. The Goldberg Variations ceased. McCabe flipped on his Maglite and raced for the stairs that circled the open hallway. He took them two at a time. He was breathing hard by the time he got to the third-floor landing. He could hear Maggie running close behind. Kane was nowhere in sight. Was he still in the room with Lucinda? What was he doing in there? Without power, Kane couldn’t see to cut, couldn’t use the saw. So what was he doing? The plan was for Kane to come out of the room to investigate the loss of power, to come out where McCabe could get him before he killed Lucy. Where the fuck was he?

  McCabe forced himself to calm down. He pressed his body against the wall on one side of the door, his. 45 in his hand. Maggie took up a position on the other side. He flicked the Maglite off. An unholy blackness filled the space. Okay, Kane, get your ass out here. Investigate. Don’t you want to know why the power went off?

  Finally the lock turned, the door opened, and Lucas Kane emerged into the blackness of the hall. He walked three tentative steps.

  ‘Kane,’ McCabe said. The man turned to face him. McCabe switched on the Maglite. Lucas Kane raised his left hand to shield his eyes from the light. He peered toward the detective.

  ‘Lucas Kane, you’re under arrest,’ said McCabe, his voice flat, hard, matter-of-fact. ‘Turn around slowly and put your hands behind your head.’

  Kane didn’t move.

  ‘Just so you know,
Kane, or is it Harry Lime? I’m pointing my gun right at your heart. I’m going to kill you if you don’t do exactly as I say.’

  Maggie rushed into the darkened room. McCabe could hear Cassidy’s muffled cries. She was still alive.

  ‘Lucas Kane,’ said McCabe, ‘I repeat, you’re under arrest for the murders of Katherine Dubois and Philip and Harriet Spencer. You have the right — ’

  ‘Only those three?’ Kane interrupted the recitation of his rights. ‘What about the others? What about Elyse Andersen? She was my first, you know, and in some ways, the best. We used Elyse’s heart to save dear Daddy’s life.’

  ‘Out of love for the old man?’

  ‘Love? Good God, no. It was for the money. I’d already been written out of his will. There was no love between my father and me.’

  ‘You did the surgery? Or was it Wilcox?’

  ‘Only the harvest,’ he said. ‘Matt Wilcox did the transplant. He’s done them all. A talented surgeon, Matt. Elyse’s heart is still beating, right downstairs, inside the old man’s body.’

  McCabe was growing impatient. The longer this went on, the greater the potential for a fuckup. ‘Alright, Kane. Enough. Lie down on the floor. Now. Hands behind your back.’

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Kane’s right hand slipped out of sight. A smile passed his lips. The smile of the hunter, not of the prey. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I have no intention of letting you or anybody else truss me up like a pig for the slaughter.’