by James Hayman
‘This is she.’
‘Ms. Pepper, this is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland Police Department.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m conducting an important investigation. I wonder if I could trouble you for some tax information about a couple of properties in or near Blue Hill.’
‘Well, I can help you if the property’s in Blue Hill. Not if it’s near.’ Priscilla Pepper spoke in clipped, measured tones. McCabe realized she couldn’t be hurried.
‘Do you have any record of a property belonging to a man named Maurice Kane? K-A-N-E.’
‘Just a minute.’ No reaction to the name. Maybe she wasn’t a classical music fan. More likely, Ms. Pepper didn’t think it seemly to comment on a neighbor’s fame.
She returned after a couple of minutes. ‘I have the record. Mr. Kane owns about twenty-five acres, eight miles north of town off Range Road.’
‘Not on the water?’
‘No. Just a small pond.’
‘Is there a house on the property?’
‘Two structures. One big one. Over three thousand square feet. Also a secondary structure. Supposed to be a guest cottage. Eight hundred square feet. Primarily a summer property. Mr. Kane’s not registered to vote here.’
‘Is it winterized?’ Kane would have a tough time transplanting hearts in an unheated building during a Maine winter.
‘Nothing in the assessment says anything about either house being seasonal.’
‘Could you give me directions to the Kane place?’
‘Know how to get to Blue Hill?’
‘I can find it.’
‘Take Pleasant Street north out of town. That’s Route 15. After about three miles, fork right onto Range Road. Go two, maybe three miles. You’ll pass a big farm on your right. After another mile, make a right onto a dirt road. Follow it about two miles and you’ll see a mailbox. Says 113. No name on it. Drive another mile or so down a private road to the house. Never been down there myself, but the tax map says the road’s unimproved. Turns into a long driveway for Kane. Don’t think you’ll find any people there this time of year. Folks like that usually clear out right after Labor Day.’
‘Thanks for your help, Ms. Pepper.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Oh. One last thing. Could you check one more record for me?’
‘Well, Detective, I was about to leave. It is after five o’clock, you know.’
‘Last favor, I promise. Any permits for construction anywhere on the property in, say, the last five years?’
‘Just a moment.’
McCabe waited again.
‘Detective?’
‘Yes?’
‘I do see one thing. Strikes me as kinda funny, though.’
‘Funny in what way?’
‘Why would anyone want to put a finished basement under a small summer guest cottage? Seems like a big waste of money, if you ask me.’
*
Using the satellite imagery available on Google, McCabe pinpointed the location. He couldn’t see any house, but the area appeared heavily wooded. The house might be hidden.
Next he Googled Maurice Kane. Over a million hits. Most focused on Kane’s career. Dozens of biographies but no obituaries. The maestro was apparently still alive. McCabe scanned some of the documents. Kane was born in Bath, England, in 1919, which made him eighty-five or eighty-six today. A certifiable prodigy, he played his first public concert when he was seven and studied under some of the most celebrated musicians in Europe. In September of ’39, Kane joined British intelligence, working as a translator and interpreter for the duration of the war. For six years, he performed only occasionally, mostly in London. After the war his career blossomed. Critics raved about ‘the witty, apparently effortless muscularity’ of his style. Others extolled his ‘supreme virtuosity.’ He moved to New York in 1961. McCabe found dozens of recordings, but no new albums released since the late nineties. Concert tours stopped around then as well. A European tour in 1997 was canceled due to a mild heart attack. Another was canceled two years later, the reason given as ‘nervous exhaustion.’ McCabe probed further. Kane was hospitalized early in 2000 for ‘chest pains.’ A reference to congestive heart failure. There was no mention of surgery. No mention of anything after 2001.
The phone rang. Maggie. Calling from Trinity Street. ‘Thought you were coming back here?’
‘How’s the search going?’
‘Still going.’
‘Find anything interesting?’
‘Not a whole lot.’
‘Lucas leave any prints?’
‘Not that anyone’s found yet. Back to my original question. You joining us?’
‘No. You and Tasco and Jacobi can finish the search. I’m driving up to Blue Hill.’
‘What’s in Blue Hill?’
‘Lucas Kane’s boyhood home.’
‘You think that’s where he went?’
‘I think maybe it’s where he goes to cut up people.’
‘And you intend to go alone?’
‘That was my plan.’
‘A pretty dumb plan, if you don’t mind my saying so. You already got your ass in a sling for meeting Sophie in Gray without backup. Why don’t you call out the troopers? There’s a barracks nearby in Ellsworth.’
‘For what? So they can come storming in on a possibly empty house with flak jackets and combat gear? Based on what? A hunch? A gut instinct?’
‘Based on this being a dangerous guy who’s already killed more people than I care to count. Shit, McCabe, you always think you can do everything alone – and you call Kane a risk-taker. Even the Lone Ranger never went anywhere without Tonto.’
‘Mag, all I know at this point is this is where Kane spent summers as a kid. Absolutely nothing says he’s there now. He could be anywhere. If I need help, then I can call in the troopers.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Not necessary, Maggie.’
‘Bullshit. Look what happened the last time you said that. You need some kind of backup, and I guess it’ll have to be me. I’m coming with you.’
‘Suit yourself. Be here in ten minutes.’
‘I’ll stop in at 109. Just to make sure we have everything we need.’
50
Friday. 7:00 P.M.
McCabe drove, following the route he’d constructed on the map. They left the turnpike at Augusta and headed east in slow traffic along Route 3. On a Friday night in September, the roads were still crowded with weekenders, in spite of predictions from the cheery voice on NPR of cool, overcast fall weather. They stayed on 3 through South China and Belfast. NPR was right about cool. The temperature was dropping, and Maggie flipped on the heater. They went through Bucksport, then turned south, leaving 3 and continuing on 15 toward Blue Hill. Nearly four hours after leaving Portland, McCabe found the turnoff from 15 onto Range Road. Five minutes later they passed the dirt road Priscilla Pepper had told McCabe would be there. The night was dark now, and cold, with temperatures in the upper thirties. They passed a mailbox on the left. McCabe stopped, reversed, saw the numbers 113, reversed again, and found a place to leave the car where it wouldn’t be seen. He planned to approach the place on foot. They got out of the car into an inky black night without a moon. Too damned cold for the light jacket he was wearing.
‘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 someth
ing 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, STROKE.
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 heard 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 repe
ated. ‘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.
