James Hayman - The Cutting

McCabe booted up Casey’s computer. He went to the Web site for the Town of Blue Hill. On it he found a phone number for Priscilla Pepper, Town Clerk, Tax Collector, and Registrar of Voters.

‘Town of Blue Hill.’ An older woman’s voice. Her accent pure Downeast.

‘Priscilla Pepper, please.’

‘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.’

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.