Текст книги "The Chill of Night"

Автор книги: James Hayman

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Thirty-Eight

McCabe called Winter Haven. Abby Quinn was in a room on the third floor. Room 317 North. He told the operator to connect him with the unit nursing station.

While the phone rang on the other end, he scribbled Wolfe’s home and office addresses and all three of his phone numbers. ‘Call in an ATL,’ McCabe said, handing the note to Fraser. ‘He drives a black Lexus IS 350.’ McCabe closed his eyes, reconstructing the precise image of the car parked by the building on Union Wharf. ‘Maine plates. 4351LN. He’s probably still got the .22, and remember, he’s already killed three people. Right now he doesn’t know we know it’s him, but once he figures it out, he’ll have nothing to lose.’ Fraser nodded and picked up the conference room phone.

The nursing station phone was still ringing. McCabe handed Maggie another Post-it. ‘Here’s his cell. See if the Call Center can triangulate current location.’

‘If he’s got it turned on,’ she said. ‘He’s not dumb.’

‘Like I said, he doesn’t know anything about Andy Barker’s videos. Doesn’t know we’re after him.’ She took the Post-it and flipped open her cell.

‘Three North. Amanda Moehler.’ The voice of a middle-aged woman. Probably an experienced nurse. That was good.

‘Ms. Moehler. This is Detective McCabe. Portland police. I need you to check on your patient Abby Quinn.’

‘What? Why?’ Moehler sounded puzzled. ‘She’s fine. She’s resting. We just gave her –’

‘Ms. Moehler, please. Quinn may be in danger.’ McCabe spoke quietly but added an unmistakable urgency to his voice. ‘Please go to room 317 right now and check on Abby Quinn.’

There was a moment’s hesitation on the other end of the line; then Moehler said, ‘Hold on.’

Thirty seconds later she was back on the line. ‘She’s not there. I don’t understand how she could’ve just disa –’

McCabe cut her off. ‘Have you seen Dr Wolfe?’

‘Yes. He was with her about an hour ago, but he left. I haven’t seen him since.’

Shit. A whole hour since Wolfe had left. And McCabe himself had told the bastard to try hypnotherapy. Abby could be anywhere wandering around in a hypnotic trance. Even worse, she could be with Wolfe. ‘Ms. Moehler,’ McCabe said, ‘transfer me to hospital security now.’

While he waited for Security to answer, he told Cleary to get Gorham PD on the phone. Chief John Sax.

‘Winter Haven Security. Garth Andersen speaking.’

‘Andersen, this is Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland PD.’

‘How can I help you?’

‘I need you to organize an immediate search of the building and the grounds.’

‘Alright. Who or what am I looking for?’

‘A patient named Abby Quinn. Brought in last night. Female schizophrenic. Twenty-five years old. Reddish brown hair. She may be wearing civilian clothes, and she may be with Dr Richard Wolfe.’

‘Wolfe? I know Wolfe. I can just page him.’

‘Don’t do that. Tell your people not to say anything to Wolfe.’ The last thing McCabe needed was some unarmed security guard alerting Wolfe they were after him and getting his ass shot off in the process. ‘Just find Quinn and take her into custody. If Wolfe’s with her, tell him you’re under orders and call us immediately. If he objects, don’t interfere. Just keep an eye on him and call me.’ He gave Andersen his number. ‘Gorham police will be there to back you up in a few minutes.’

‘I’ll need some kind of authorization on this.’

‘Call Portland PD. Chief Shockley’s office.’ McCabe looked over at Shockley. ‘He’ll confirm what I’ve told you.’

Shockley went back to his office to take the call.

‘I’ve got Chief Sax from Gorham on line one.’ Cleary held out the phone. McCabe took it. ‘Hey, McCabe, John Sax here.’

‘John, we need your help,’ said McCabe. He gave Sax a quick rundown on the situation. Sax said he’d scramble all available units and head them to the hospital. He’d go over there himself and take over from Security.

‘Tell your people to be careful, John,’ said McCabe. ‘Wolfe’s armed and very dangerous. He doesn’t know we’re after him yet. Let’s keep it that way as long as we can. We’ll e-mail you photos of both Quinn and Wolfe.’

He nodded at Starbucks, who nodded back and left to make it happen.

He looked around the table. ‘Tom, you and Carl get over to Sanctuary House and turn the place upside down. If Wolfe doesn’t have her, Quinn may be hiding there.’

The conference room phone rang. Fraser picked it up, then held it out to McCabe. ‘It’s Nurse Moehler from Winter Haven.’

‘Yes, what is it?’ asked McCabe.

‘I just found some things in Quinn’s room that may be important.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Her hospital gown was balled up next to the toilet. She didn’t have any other clothes when she came in last night, and nobody’s been to see her. Dr Wolfe must have brought her some clothes.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. A note. On the table next to her bed.’ He could hear Moehler take a deep breath. ‘She may be suicidal.’

‘What’s it say?’

‘It’s kind of, I don’t know, a poem or something.’

‘What’s it say?’

Moehler began reading.

I smell Death all around me.

My beginning and my end.

I’ll go back to my heart

where I first saw his blue, blue eyes.

I long to embrace Death again.

For the very first time.

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

He didn’t know if Abby wrote poetry. But he hoped she did. Because if she didn’t, Richard Wolfe did, and that was bad news. I long to embrace Death again. ‘Let’s go, Tonto,’ he said, pulling Maggie out of her chair. ‘We’re out of here.’

‘Where to?’

‘Harts Island.’ On the way out he asked Cleary to make sure the Mangini was waiting for them.

McCabe drove. Lights. No siren. They were at the pier in less than two minutes. Maggie was on the line to the Harts Island cop shop when they climbed aboard. A cop named Bob Fane took the call.

She put Fane on speaker and told him to get a search party together. Quinn was on her way back to the island. Probably suicidal. ‘You guys need to check any and all boats coming in. Not just the ferries but lobster boats, fishing boats. Anything that floats. She’s already tried jumping from the rocks twice. She may try again.’

‘Jesus, Mag, there are a hundred places on this island she could jump from.’

‘Well, round up as many people as you can and check them all. Also check her house. If you find her, hold her. If she’s with a man, it’ll be Richard Wolfe. Arrest him – but be careful. He’s armed and definitely dangerous.’

‘Got it.’

‘One more thing. McCabe and I are on the Mangini now. Should be on the island in five to seven. We’re heading to Kelly’s. We need wheels.’

‘Tell the skipper to drop you at the sailing club dock. That’s closer to Kelly’s than the landing. Someone will meet you there with a four-by.’

Maggie’s last call was to Casco Bay Lines. She left word for the ferry crews to be on the lookout for Abby Quinn and for Richard Wolfe.

Thirty-Nine

Harts Island, Maine

An attractive woman in her forties with short blond hair and a trim figure was leaning on a Ford F-150 pickup when the Mangini pulled in.

‘Hi, I’m Lori Sparks.’ McCabe recognized the name as the owner of the Crow’s Nest. ‘Bob Fane said you guys needed wheels.’ She waved at the truck. ‘Keys are in the ignition. Just leave it outside the Nest when you’re done.’

They thanked her and climbed in.

‘Hope you find her,’ Sparks shouted as they pulled out. ‘She’s a good kid. She deserves a break.’

McCabe drove as fast as the twisty and narrow island lanes would allow. He felt certain Quinn was here on Harts Island, certain she was at Kelly’s. Back to my heart. Where I first saw his blue, blue eyes. Casco Bay and the Portland skyline flashed by to their left. The distinctive shapes of office buildings and the twin spires of the Observatory and the Catholic Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception stood out, graceful silhouettes against an orange Hollywood sunset. Portland’s native son director, John Ford, would’ve loved it. At the end of the paved road McCabe bumped the big Ford onto the same rutted dirt trail he’d followed last night, the truck nearly too wide for the space. Maggie tilted her body to avoid putting weight on the exit wound. The bumps hurt.

‘Just a couple of minutes more,’ said McCabe.

His phone vibrated. Art Astarita in New York. McCabe stopped to take the call.

‘We’re in the bank,’ said Astarita. ‘Archer’s just opening her box now.’ Pause. ‘Okay, we’ve got the envelope. We’re opening it.’

McCabe resisted the urge to tell Astarita to hurry.

‘Jesus, McCabe, you got some real cuties up there in Portland. This stuff’s gross. Some older guy doing weird shit to a girl who looks like she’s about twelve. Bondage. Maybe torture.’

‘She’s supposed to be sixteen.’

‘Sure as hell doesn’t look it.’

‘Can you see the guy’s face?’

‘Yeah. Front face. Side face. Everything else, too. I’ll e-mail you the stack soon as I get ’em scanned. You got a real charmer there. Hope you cut his balls off.’

McCabe thanked him, the gratitude genuine, the circle closed. Would the photos be enough to send Wolfe to prison? Lainie didn’t think so, but that was before she was murdered.

He pulled the truck into the turnaround. No other vehicles. If Abby was here, she hadn’t driven. If Wolfe was here, he hadn’t either. They could see no signs of life by the shack. Maybe McCabe was wrong about the poem. Maybe they were somewhere else.

They moved silently through the woods, Maggie using the cane for balance and to probe the snow in front of her. The last thing she needed was to fall on her ass. They stopped where the clearing began, maybe a hundred feet from the house. They could see Abby now, standing alone, with her back to them on the edge of the cliff. She was looking down at the rocks below, bare feet toeing the icy edge of a large overhanging rock that jutted out into open space. It made a nearly perfect diving platform. There was no sign of Richard Wolfe.

Abby was dressed in a floaty white summer dress. The kind of thing she might have worn for her high school graduation. Portland High. Class of ’99. Incongruous both for the season and the place. Her hands were down at her sides. It looked like she was holding something. Whatever it was was lost within the soft folds of fabric that swayed in rhythm with the wind that blew in from the sea. Abby’s reddish brown hair was pinned back, a garland of white flowers arranged in a band across the top of her head. No, it wasn’t her graduation, McCabe decided. Abby was dressed for a wedding. A bride awaiting her groom’s arrival. I long to embrace Death again. For the very first time. All that was missing was a bouquet and a veil. The wind was picking up now, and, January thaw or not, McCabe figured she had to be freezing. He wondered if just seeing them approach would be enough to cause her to jump.

‘Keep an eye on our friend,’ he said to Maggie. ‘I’m going to check out the cottage.’ He slipped his .45 from its holster and into the deep pocket of his coat and started toward the house. He moved across the open clearing as fast and silently as he could, Bill Fortier’s L.L. Bean boots giving him better, though not perfect, traction on the icy ledge.

He reached the cottage and pushed himself up against one wall. He peered through the window. The main room looked dark and empty. He pushed in through the front door. Nothing.

‘Richard? Are you here?’ He kept his voice friendly, collegial.

No answer. He quickly checked the other rooms. Nothing. Through the window he could see Abby still perched on her rock. Maggie had moved closer. She was now only about fifty feet away.

Suddenly there was movement at the end of the cliff, and Richard Wolfe’s head appeared above the rocks, followed by his shoulders. Wolfe was climbing up the rickety wooden steps that rose from the rocky beach below. He was still wearing the same dark hooded coat as before, but in the warmer air the hood was down. Wolfe walked toward Maggie. If he still had the .22 it wasn’t in his hand. McCabe drew the .45 from his pocket. He felt his cell phone vibrate. Caller ID said M. SAVAGE. He knew it wasn’t because Maggie wanted to talk to him. She was just telling him to stay put and listen in. He put the phone to his ear and watched through the window.

‘You must be Dr Wolfe?’ Maggie said when he was about five feet away.

‘Yes. Who are you, and what are you doing here?’

‘I’m with the police,’ she said. ‘Detective Margaret Savage, Portland PD.’ She held up her badge wallet. He glanced at it. ‘We’ve been looking for Abby.’

Maybe it was because she heard her name or perhaps because she simply sensed their presence behind her, but Abby turned and looked. First at Wolfe. Then at Maggie. McCabe could see her eyes, but in the failing light of a late January afternoon it was hard to tell if what he saw in them was madness or merely despair. Behind her, weather clouds were closing in. The wind was rising. Waves of white fabric rippled against a darkening sky. He still couldn’t see what was in her hand.

‘Abby, my name is Margaret Savage,’ Maggie called to her. ‘I’m a friend. I’m here to help you. I’d like you please to step away from the edge.’

Abby seemed nervous, distracted. McCabe wasn’t sure she had even heard Maggie’s calm request. Perhaps with the wind blowing she was too far away. Maggie probed the snow in front of her with her cane, making sure her next step, if she took one, would find firm footing. ‘I’m coming to talk to you,’ she called.

‘I wouldn’t go any closer,’ Wolfe said. ‘She’ll jump, you know. I’ve been trying to get her to step in from the edge for nearly an hour now. Without success. If you go any closer, I think she’ll go over.’

McCabe thought about pulling the window up a couple of inches and using the sill as a firing platform. A tough shot from this distance. Too easy to miss. Besides, the shot might cause Abby to jump. No, it wasn’t a good idea.

‘I can try talking her out of it,’ he heard Maggie say to Wolfe. She was keeping her voice too low for Abby to hear. She took another step toward Abby and then another. At the same time, she began moving sideways, crossing in front of Wolfe to his other side, forcing him to turn away from the cottage in order to watch her. Forcing him to keep his back to McCabe.

‘Where are you going?’ Wolfe asked. ‘What are you doing?’ There was anxiety in his voice now.

‘I need to get closer or she won’t hear me,’ said Maggie, her tone calm, matter-of-fact.

McCabe slipped out the cottage door as she spoke.

‘Talking her down won’t work if I have to shout,’ Maggie continued.

‘It won’t work anyway,’ said Wolfe. ‘I want you to go away. Abby doesn’t know you. She knows me. I’m her doctor. She trusts me. Just leave, and I’ll get her to come in.’

McCabe flipped the phone off and stuck it in his pocket. He was close enough now to hear without it.

‘Did you hypnotize her?’ Maggie asked.

‘Yes, I hypnotized her.’

‘How’d it work?’

Wolfe didn’t hear McCabe approaching. Now less than ten feet from Wolfe’s back. Too close to miss. Maggie didn’t alert Wolfe by glancing up.

‘She went under quite easily. In fact, she’s still in a hypnotic trance. She’ll do anything I ask.’

‘Really? Anything?’

‘Yes.’

‘Including asking her to walk in from the edge of that cliff?’ asked Maggie.

‘Yes,’ said Wolfe.

‘Well, why is it you’re not doing that?’ asked McCabe.

Wolfe turned. His eyes widened at the sight of the .45 leveled at his chest.

‘Is it because you want her to jump?’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘There were hidden cameras in Goff’s apartment the night she told you about the pictures. You know, the dirty pictures. We have the whole conversation on video. We know it was you. You’re under arrest.’

If Wolfe was surprised he didn’t show it. A thin, ugly smile passed his lips. ‘There’s only one problem with that,’ he said. ‘You were right a minute ago. I do want her to jump. And all I have to do to make it happen is say one word . . . let’s call it the magic word . . . and, poof, over she goes.’

McCabe didn’t know whether Wolfe was bluffing. Maybe there was a magic word, maybe there wasn’t. He considered his options. One was simply pulling the trigger. That would end it – but the shot might also drive Abby over the edge. An unacceptable risk.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Abby turn back and look the other way, down at the rocks and at the sea below. Then she turned her gaze back to the three of them. Was she in a hypnotic trance? McCabe didn’t know. All he saw on her face was fear. Afraid to move forward to her death. Afraid to move back toward them.

‘I have a question for you, Richard,’ said McCabe. ‘If Detective Savage and I do what you ask and leave, what happens next? You take Abby with you as your hostage?’

‘That’s my plan, yes. Plan B, actually. My backup. My dinghy’s on the beach at the bottom of the stairs. My boat’s anchored nearby. You leave. Abby and I sail away. When I feel it’s safe, I’ll drop her off on the coast. If you or the Coast Guard or some down-market Galahad in a lobster boat follows me . . .’ Wolfe shrugged.

‘You’ll say your magic word, and she’ll jump overboard.’

Wolf smiled. ‘No, actually, at that point, I’ll just shoot her. I keep a small revolver on board. A Smith & Wesson Airweight .38.’

McCabe was familiar with the Airweight. It was light. Easily concealed. Deadly at close quarters.

‘Out of curiosity, Richard, what was Plan A?’

‘Oh, Plan A was much simpler. There would have been no video. Kelly would have gone to jail for the murder.’

‘Murders plural.’

‘Yes, murders plural. Abby, not needed as a hostage, would have jumped off the cliff, her third and final try at suicide tragically successful. I would have sailed back to my office in Portland. And, of course, we all would have mourned her loss in the morning.’

‘Why did she have to die?’ asked Maggie. ‘She couldn’t describe what you looked like.’

‘There was no guarantee of that. Her memory might have come back at any time.’

It was a no go. McCabe knew that if Abby got on Wolfe’s boat, he would kill her as soon as he didn’t need her anymore. Again he considered his options. Shooting the bastard was still number one. He couldn’t think of a second.

‘One last question, Richard.’

‘Before you go?’

‘Yes. Before we go.’ He leveled the .45 at Wolfe’s throat. Where Wolfe’s magic word would come from. If there really was a magic word. ‘It’s sort of a physics question. You know, like the ones we had in high school. If train A leaves station B at forty miles an hour. That sort of thing.’

Wolfe stared at McCabe and then at the gun and said nothing.

‘Want to know what my question is, Richard? It’s kind of an important one.’

Still Wolfe said nothing.

‘My question is, if the bullet in the chamber of my gun leaves the barrel at exactly the same instant you start to shout your magic word, will you be dead before or after the word leaves your mouth?’

‘You’re bluffing.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘That would be murder.’

It was McCabe’s turn to smile. ‘No. Murder is what you do, Dr Wolfe. What I do is called justifiable use of force against a killer threatening a hostage.’

‘McCabe,’ said Maggie.

‘What?’ he answered, his eyes still glued to Wolfe.

‘She’s off the cliff. She’s walking this way.’

McCabe glanced quickly to his right. Abby was heading toward them through the snow. Her feet were bare. Her hands still hung by her sides.

‘Well,’ said McCabe, ‘it seems Abby has solved our hostage crisis. That makes everything much simpler. I want you facedown on the ground with your hands behind your back.’

Wolfe didn’t move.

‘Now, Richard. Otherwise I may shoot you just for the hell of it. You know the headline. “Perpetrator shot and killed resisting arrest.”’

When Quinn was about ten feet from Wolfe, she stopped. ‘You’re Death,’ she said. ‘You have to die.’

She raised a small shiny revolver. Wolfe’s Airweight .38.

‘Abby! No!’ Maggie leapt, hitting Quinn’s legs just as she fired, knocking both knees out from under her and the gun from her hand. The bullet went wide. Wolfe and Maggie dove for the gun. Wolfe won.

He scooped up the revolver and, in one swift motion, rolled to his feet behind Abby. He wrapped an arm around her neck, pulling her in and pushing the short barrel of the Airweight against her throat.

She struggled to get away, but he was too strong, his grip too tight. He started pulling her back, one step at a time, looking first left at McCabe, then right at Maggie.

McCabe and Maggie followed his retreat, McCabe circling left toward the wooden stairs, Maggie circling to the right. Both working to create a wider angle that would give at least one of them a clear shot at Wolfe without hitting Abby. Wolfe looked from one side to the other. Then he looked at the stairs. McCabe was standing in front of them, blocking his escape.

‘Out of the way,’ Wolfe shouted, ‘or she’s dead.’

‘You’ll be dead, too, Richard. Death all around.’

Without warning, Abby wrenched her body violently forward and down, screaming, ‘Shut up! Shut up! I won’t listen to you anymore!’

Suddenly exposed, Wolfe fired at McCabe at precisely the same instant that McCabe fired back. McCabe was a better shot. The big .45 a better gun. McCabe’s bullet struck Wolfe high on the chest, driving him back. Maggie’s bullet hit his back a fraction of a second later, four inches lower. The impact of their two shots drove him backward over the edge of the cliff. He didn’t scream as he fell. McCabe figured that was because he was already dead.

‘Tell them to shut up,’ Abby shrieked. ‘Tell them I won’t listen to them anymore. I won’t listen.’

She tucked herself into a fetal position and wept. Maggie sat down in the snow next to her and gently stroked her back. McCabe peered over the cliff through the growing darkness. He saw a retreating wave pull Wolfe’s body away from the rocks and out into the frigid water. If the bullets hadn’t killed him, surely the fall had. If not the fall, then surely the icy cold January seas. Any way you cut it, it was over.

‘He was Death. He had to die,’ Abby told Maggie between sobs. ‘He had to die.’

McCabe called for the fireboat and an ambulance to meet them on the other side. They were taking Abby to Winter Haven. He hoped she wouldn’t have to be there long. But there was no way of knowing.