James Hayman - The Cutting

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 something 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,STOKE.

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.