James Hayman - The Cutting

‘Yeah, that’s what I heard.’ He hugged her hard. ‘I love you.’ He didn’t want to let her go. Not to Boston. Not, at the moment, even to school.

‘Dad, I gotta go.’

‘I know. Go break a leg.’

‘I love you, too,’ she said and turned and ran down the stairs.

He called Sandy’s number in New York.

‘Hello, McCabe. Casey ready for my visit?’

He wasn’t sure ready was the operative word. Still, he said, ‘You can pick her up Friday after school.’

‘I’ll be there at four o’clock. I’ve reserved a suite at the Four Seasons. She should bring a nice outfit she can wear to some good restaurants and maybe the theater. She does have something decent to put on, doesn’t she?’

He let the sarcasm pass. ‘She’ll pack something nice.’

‘Anything in particular she’d like to see?’

‘She’ll like anything you choose. Or better yet, give her the choice. She doesn’t get to go much. You know where we live?’

‘I do indeed.’

‘She’ll need to be back early enough Sunday to do her homework. No later than four or five o’clock.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Sandy?’

‘What?’

‘Take good care of her.’

McCabe kicked off his shoes and lay on the unmade bed, thinking about Casey and what he might have said to her. Kyra’s scent lingered on the sheets. He was exhausted but knew he didn’t have time for sleep. He had to go back to the hospital, talk to Sophie as soon as she was compos mentis, but first he needed to sort things out. The list of loose ends was long and getting longer, a Pandora’s box of probablys, might bes and what ifs.

He stripped down, got in the shower, and thought about things as the hot water coursed over him. Sophie said they were doing illegal transplants. Most likely somewhere inside a fifty-mile band north or east of Augusta. Unless, of course, they cut south again. He thought about that and rejected it. It’d waste too much time doubling back and forth.

Okay. There were five or six people involved besides Sophie. A transplant surgeon and a second surgeon. One of them Spencer? Probably. Anybody else? Maybe one of Spencer’s buddies from the Denali picture. Wilcox or Holland. Who else? A nurse-anesthetist. Identity unknown. Two or three OR nurses. Also unknown. A perfusionist. Sophie.

Sophie said she hadn’t known they were killing people to obtain the hearts. Did the others? For sure, at least one of them did. What about the goon Maggie killed last night? Was he part of the surgical team? Unlikely. Finally, there was the fact that Sophie said there’d been at least two other transplants. Jack Batchelder was supposed to be tracking down possible victims. He’d have to find out how much progress Jack had made. Yes, a lot of loose ends. Even so, he felt he was getting closer. What he needed to tie the loose ends around Spencer’s neck in a neat little bow might be waiting in the Lexus. They should have searched it already. Unfortunately, events kind of got out of hand. They’d search it today. They’d also bring Philip Spencer down to 109 for a chat.

Wednesday. 1:30 P.M.

The third floor at Cumberland Medical Center was an armed camp. Dick Cheney’s undisclosed secure location couldn’t have been closed down any tighter. Uniformed cops were stationed at each of the elevator banks and at the stairwell doors, checking IDs of anyone coming or going including staff. Two additional patrol officers sat at Sophie’s door, and a third was in the room. All doctors, nurses, and aides going in or out of her room were checked against an approved list of caregivers. Anyone not on the list didn’t go in. Period. Medications and food were double-checked against orders by the floor nurse and the chief resident. Security was as tight as it could be if the hospital was going to function at all. Some comedian put up a sign opposite the elevators, WELCOME TO THE GREEN ZONE. The cops didn’t bother taking it down.

Sophie was awake but glum when McCabe entered. Her arm was bandaged and immobilized, an IV inserted in her hand. She didn’t look up when he sat in the chair next to her bed. She seemed to be absorbed in an old issue of Cosmo.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. No answer.

‘You’re not talking to me, is that it?’ Still no answer.

‘Listen, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.’

She looked at him and then turned back to the magazine.

‘The guy who shot you is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore — but there are others who can. I need you to talk to me. If you don’t, it’s very likely another woman will die. It’s just as likely they’ll come after you again.’

‘You swore to me you weren’t followed.’ She didn’t look up from the magazine as she spoke.

‘I wasn’t. They attached a global positioning transmitter under your car. Another under mine. That’s how they knew where we were. Sophie, the only safety for you is if we catch the people responsible for all this. The only way we can do that is for you to tell me everything you know.’

‘I’m going home,’ she said. ‘Back to France. As soon as they let me out of here.’

‘You won’t be any safer there than you are here. The man you called Spencer knows where you live. He knows you can identify him. He knows you’ve been talking to the police, and for all he knows, you’ve already told us everything you know. For all he knows, you’re ready to testify against him in court.

‘I spoke to the prosecutor about getting you immunity in return for your testimony. He said he’d do what he can, but I can’t promise you that. All I can promise you is that if you don’t help us stop him here and now, he will follow you to France, or wherever else you may go — and when he finds you he’ll surely kill you.’

Sophie sat in her bed staring straight ahead. McCabe saw that she was quietly crying, and it made him feel like a shit. What he told her was the truth of the matter, though, and there was no changing that.

Finally she turned to him. ‘Alright, what do you want to know?’

He turned on his recorder and spoke into it. ‘This is an interview between Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland Police Department, and Sophie Gauthier, a French citizen, recorded at Cumberland Medical Center, Portland, Maine, at 1:30 P.M. on Wednesday, September 21, 2005. Ms. Gauthier, you are participating in this interview freely and of your own volition, is that correct?’

‘Yes, it is.’

With only a little prompting, Sophie repeated into the recorder everything she had told McCabe the night before on the quiet road in Gray.

When she finished, he handed her half a dozen photographs, including a picture of Philip Spencer he’d printed off Casey’s computer. ‘I am showing Ms. Gauthier six photographs of men who fit the description of the man who contacted her in France. Ms. Gauthier, have you ever seen any of these men before?’

She took the photos and looked at each of them for a minute or two. She finally shook her head. ‘No.’

‘None of these photos are of the man who called himself Philip Spencer?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Imagine each of them with beards.’

‘This one looks like him a little.’ She picked up the picture of Philip Spencer. ‘More when I imagine him, as you say, with a beard, but really not so much when you look closely.’

He showed her another photo of Spencer, shot from a slightly different angle. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I told you. This is not the man I spoke to.’

Okay, so Spencer wasn’t the recruiter. He could still be the cutter. The killer. McCabe slid another series of pictures in front of her. ‘Have you seen any of these men before?’