James Hayman - The Cutting

She ran along Vaughan for a mile or so, climbing the gentle rise of Bramhall Hill, before turning west across the old section of the hospital toward the path that lined the western edge of the Prom. The fog was thicker now, and she could see even less, but her body felt good. The training was paying off, and she felt certain she’d be ready for the race, now ten days away.

Suddenly Fritz darted past and disappeared into the mist, barking furiously at what Lucy figured was either an animal or another runner coming up the path in her direction. Then she saw Fritz run out of the fog, turn, and stand his ground, angry barks lifting his small body in an uncharacteristic rage. Instantly alert, Lucy wondered who or what could be getting him so agitated. Usually he just wagged his stub of a tail at strangers.

Seconds later a runner emerged from the fog about fifteen feet in front of her. He was a tall man with a lean, well-muscled body. Had she seen him jogging here before? She didn’t think so. He was unusually good-looking with dark, deep-set eyes that would be hard to forget. Late thirties or early forties, she thought. Fritz backed away but kept barking.

‘Quiet down,’ Lucy commanded. ‘It’s okay.’ She smiled at the man. ‘He isn’t usually so noisy.’

The tall man stopped and knelt down. He extended his left hand for Fritz to sniff, then scratched him behind the ears. He smiled up at Lucy. ‘What’s his name?’

Lucy registered the absence of a wedding band. ‘Fritz,’ she said.

‘Hey, Fritz, are you a good boy? Sure you are.’ He scratched Fritz again. The dog’s stubby tail offered a tentative wag or two. He looked up. ‘I’ve seen you running here before. I’m sure I have.’

‘You may have,’ she said, though she was sure she would have noticed him. ‘I’m here most mornings. I’m training for a 10K.’

‘Good for you. Mind if I run along? I’d enjoy the company.’

She hesitated, surprised at the man’s directness. Finally she said, ‘I guess not. Not as long as you can keep up. I’m Lucy.’

‘Harry,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Harry Potter.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘No, I was christened long before the first book came out, and I wasn’t about to change my name.’

They took off, chatting easily, laughing about the name. Fritz, no longer barking, kept pace.

‘You live in Portland?’ she asked.

‘No, I’m here on business. Medical equipment. The hospital’s one of my biggest clients.’

‘So you’re here quite often?’

‘At least once a month.’

They picked up the pace and turned south down the western edge of the Prom.

‘Normally there’s a great view from up here. Can’t see a damned thing today.’

A dark green SUV sat parked at the curb just ahead of them. ‘Could you excuse me for a minute?’ Harry pointed and clicked a key ring. The car’s lights blinked; its doors unlocked. ‘I need to get something.’

He leaned in, rummaged in a small canvas bag, and then emerged from the car holding a hypodermic and a small bottle. ‘I’m a diabetic,’ he explained. ‘I have to take my insulin on schedule.’ Harry carefully inserted the needle into the bottle and extracted a clear liquid. ‘Only take a second.’ Lucy smiled. Feeling it was rude to watch, she turned away and looked out over the Prom. The fog wasn’t dissipating. If anything it seemed to be getting thicker. She performed a few stretches to keep her muscles warm while they waited.

She sensed more than saw the sudden movement behind her. Before she could react, Harry Potter’s left arm was around her neck, pulling her sharply back and up in a classic choke hold. Her windpipe constricted in the crook of his elbow. She couldn’t move. She wanted to scream but could draw only enough breath to emit a thin, strangled cry.

Frantic and confused, Lucy dug her nails into the man’s flesh, wishing she’d let them grow longer and more lethal. She felt a sharp prick. She looked down and saw the man’s free hand squeezing whatever was in the hypodermic into her arm. He continued holding her, immobile. She tried to struggle, but he was too strong, his grip too tight. Within seconds wooziness began to overtake her. She felt his hands on the back of her head and her butt, pushing her, headfirst, facedown, into the backseat of the car.

Turning her head, Lucy could still see out through the open door, but everything had taken on a hazy, distant quality, like a slow-motion film growing darker frame by frame and seeming to make no sense. She saw an enraged Fritz growling and digging his teeth into the man’s leg. She heard a shout, ‘Shit!’ Two large hands picked the small dog up. She tried to rise but couldn’t. The last thing Lucinda Cassidy saw was the good-looking man with the dark eyes. He smiled at her. The slow-motion film faded to black.

Friday. 7:30 P.M.

The summer crowds in the Old Port had thinned now that Labor Day had come and gone, but the air was warm, and Exchange Street bustled with energy. Shops and restaurants were open late and busy. Packs of teenagers in varying states of grunge — some with piercings and tattoos and some without — spread themselves across the sidewalks, forcing middle-aged tourists out onto the narrow streets.

Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe and Kyra Erikson walked in step, side by side, holding hands. Seeing them absorbed in each other’s company, chatting happily, it would have been easy for a passerby to conclude, correctly, that they were lovers.

Tonight they were heading for Arno, the city’s latest northern Italian hot spot. As usual, it was Kyra’s choice. McCabe’s restaurant habits were as predictable as they were unadventurous. He pretty much always ordered the same thing: a rare New York strip steak, preceded by a single malt Scotch — no ice — and accompanied by a couple of bottles of cold Shipyard Ale.

Kyra, on the other hand, was a real foodie. She was looking forward to one of Arno’s specialties, ‘duck-meat ravioli, served,’ she recited, practically drooling, ‘in a light brown sauce with thin slices of rare grilled duck.’

McCabe considered their differing approaches to dining a minor incompatibility. He had no problem indulging her passion for haute cuisine. After dinner they planned to go back to his apartment and watch a movie, John Schlesinger’s Billy Liar, with Tom Courtenay and a young, very sexy Julie Christie. An old favorite from McCabe’s former life in film school at NYU. He’d never told Kyra she reminded him of Christie in this role. She had the same curly blond hair, the same liquid eyes, the same full, almost pouty lips, except, thank God, Kyra almost never pouted. The resemblance was one of the things that first attracted him to her. He wondered if she’d appreciate the comparison.

They paused by a young street musician seated on the pavement, his back against the brick wall of a small jewelry shop. He was playing a beautifully polished violin. A hand-lettered cardboard sign, propped against the wall, identified him as a JUILLIARD DROPOUT. They listened for twenty or thirty seconds. Then, before walking on, McCabe dropped a couple of dollar bills into the man’s open violin case.

‘You’re in a good mood.’

‘Why not? It’s a beautiful night. I’m with a beautiful woman. He’s a good player and I like the piece. Mozart. Violin Concerto.’ McCabe paused, but only for a second, searching his memory. ‘Number Three.’

It wasn’t that he knew a lot about classical music. He didn’t. He knew nothing of music theory or the styles of various composers. He only occasionally listened to it. It was just this weird mind of his. Once he had seen or heard something — anything — he almost never forgot it. They walked on, the silken, sensuous notes of the violin fading behind them.