James Hayman - The Cutting

‘I’ll e-mail you what we have on Kane,’ said Maggie.

‘Any pictures?’ asked Bell. ‘Our guys will want to know who they’re watching for.’

‘An old one, taken maybe ten years ago,’ said McCabe. ‘Shows the four friends on top of a mountain. We’ll have our computer guy age Kane a little and send it down.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Bell. ‘You still coming down, Maggie?’

‘Yeah, but not today. How about I let you know?’

‘I’d love to see you. It’s been what? Five years?’

‘Something like that.’

Maggie switched off the phone.

‘Flame still burning?’ asked McCabe.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Maggie. ‘Anyway, like you, he’s taken. Married with a new baby.’ She smiled at him. ‘Good luck with the ex,’ she said. ‘You’ll want to spend some time with Casey, and I’ve got a lot that needs doing.’

Though a good height for her age, five-four and still growing, Casey looked small in his big chair, feet not quite reaching the floor. Her red duffel, the one for overnights, waited on the floor by her side. Bunny sat perched on her lap. Casey fiddled with the animal’s remains, mostly just ragged ears.

McCabe figured he could use something to fiddle with, too. A bunny for grow-ups. He thought how good a cigarette would taste right about now. It’d even make Sandy happy. She could report him for secondhand smoke. He pushed the urge away.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hi.’

‘Ready to go?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re taking Bunny?’

She looked up, her oval face, framed by dark hair, more like Sandy’s every day. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly, as if expecting him to object.

‘Okay.’

She had on one of her new outfits. He supposed the rest of the new clothes were packed in the bag. Sitting there she reminded him of the last kid at summer camp, the one whose parents always arrived late to pick her up. He sat opposite on the white couch. ‘It’ll be fine. You’ll have a good time.’

She looked at him as if he’d said something stupid, then looked back at Bunny.

They didn’t say anything else for a while. Finally he got up and knelt in front of her chair. He took both her hands in his. ‘Casey, I know how hard this is after three years. Really. I do. I think one of the reasons your mother wants to see you is because she realizes how much she’s missed by not being part of your life and how sorry she is about that. I also think maybe you’re feeling that by spending time with Sandy you’re being disloyal to me. You’re not. I think it’ll be good for you to get to know your mother again. When I say I hope you have a good time, I’m not talking about staying at a fancy hotel or going to shows or any of that stuff. I want you to have a good time being with your mother. Not because I love her — that’s way over — but because I love you. Does that make sense?’

McCabe kissed his daughter. Then he went back to the sofa and sat down. After a couple of minutes she got up and climbed into his lap and hugged him. They sat together like that until, at five minutes after four, the doorbell rang.

‘Hello, McCabe.’

‘Hello, Sandy.’ She looked as gorgeous as ever. Wealth agreed with her. He felt his heart beating hard in his chest. He breathed deeply to try to slow it down.

‘May I come in? Or are we just going to stand here in the hallway?’ He moved to one side, and she walked into the apartment. ‘Hello, Casey,’ she said. ‘I’m glad to see you again.’

Sandy offered Casey her hand. Casey took it, and they shook. ‘Are you all ready?’

‘I just have to go to the bathroom.’

‘Okay. Off you go.’ Casey went down the hall. McCabe figured she needed a minute to adjust.

‘Nice view,’ said Sandy, gazing out at the boats in the bay.

‘That’s one of the nice things about living in Portland. The water’s never far away. You’re staying at the Four Seasons?’

‘Yes, the suite’s booked under Peter’s name. Ingram.’

‘I remember. Will he be there?’

‘No. He’s in Europe on business. It will just be us girls.’

‘Casey will have her cell phone with her, but why don’t you give me yours just in case.’ She recited the number.

‘Here’s mine,’ he said. He handed her a slip of paper with the number on it. ‘Call if there’s any problem. Any problem at all. You should get her back by five on Sunday. She’ll need Sunday night for her homework.’

‘That’s fine.’

Casey returned, unzipped her bag, and stuffed Bunny inside. McCabe looked at his daughter. ‘Remember what I said about having a good time.’

For the first time, she smiled. She was trying to reassure him. ‘I will,’ she said.

He watched them from the window as they got into Sandy’s rental car. A Chevy Impala. He’d been expecting her to turn up in something fancier. A Mercedes. Or a Jag. Or a Lincoln at the very least. They pulled out of the visitors’ parking space and drove off. McCabe went to the kitchen and poured himself a Scotch. Still a little early, but fuck it. He didn’t go out for cigarettes.

Friday. 4:30 P.M.

He called Maggie. After leaving his place, she’d driven to Spencer’s office, retrieved the Denali picture, and taken it back to Middle Street, where Starbucks produced a high-res scan of Kane’s face, then aged it by ten years. Maggie e-mailed the resulting image to John Bell, to MSP, and to every sheriff’s department and local jurisdiction in the state. Shockley’s office released it to the TV stations and newspapers. Kane was long gone, but at least the searchers would know what he looked like. Aside from that they knew nothing. Not what kind of car he was driving or what direction he was headed in. He could be driving back to Florida for all they knew. McCabe asked Maggie to e-mail the picture to Aaron Cahill in Orlando along with an update.

Next he called Tasco, who was still at 24 Trinity Street. Jacobi and an additional team of techs from the state crime lab in Augusta were going over the place. So far they’d found nothing of significance except Hattie Spencer’s cell phone, turned off, in a kitchen drawer under the toaster. Terri Mirabito came on the line, her voice weary. ‘I’ve got one Spencer scheduled for tomorrow morning, one for the afternoon. A two-for-one special. No extra charge. I’ll e-mail you the particulars.’

McCabe found a Maine road map, a ruler, a piece of string, a red marker, and a yellow highlighter. He spread them all out on the kitchen table and began reconstructing Sophie’s ride to the surgery site. From her description, McCabe was certain Pollock headed north on 95. Through the first tollbooth at York. Then another thirty-five miles to Portland, where he could have stayed on 95 or diverted to 295. Slightly shorter that way, but it didn’t much matter. Both were four-lane interstates, and they came together again a little south of Augusta. Three tolls either way. Based on Sophie’s estimates of time, locations of tollbooths, and the assumption that Pollock was careful to stay at or just slightly above the speed limit, it still made sense that he exited at Augusta and drove maybe forty to sixty miles on local roads.

McCabe lined up the string with the scale of the map and marked it at forty and again at sixty miles. He drew a red semicircle on the map in an arc, west to east, forty miles from the exit and another parallel arc at sixty. He colored the area between the two red lines with yellow highlighter. Hundreds of square miles.

Lucas Kane was someone I knew a long time ago, Harriet Spencer said. His parents had a summer place not far from ours.

In Blue Hill?

Near there.

Blue Hill was inside the yellow zone.