Текст книги "The Chill of Night"

Автор книги: James Hayman

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

She took her mittens off and clipped them to her belt. She took another deep breath, waited a few seconds, then began to climb the stairs, one by one, as silently as possible. She was clutching the skillet so tightly her right hand began to hurt. She stepped onto the landing floor. A thick carpet muffled her steps. The wordless cry came again, soft and utterly without hope. It seemed to Abby the saddest sound she’d ever heard. Was it real or was it the Voices? She had no way of knowing. The door at the end of the dark hall was ajar. Dim, flickering light shone through an opening of an inch or maybe less. Abby pushed herself against the jamb and, with one eye, peered in. For a moment she stood transfixed, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to comprehend the scene before her.

The room was lit only by a few candles scattered around. A naked woman knelt on the bed. Her wrists and ankles were bound to the bedposts with what looked like silk scarves. Another scarf was tied around her mouth. Her head was down. Dark hair hid her face. At the side of the bed a man stood, facing the woman, his back to Abby. He, too, was naked with a slender, muscular body. He held a thin-bladed knife in his right hand. As Abby watched, he lifted the woman’s hair with his left hand, raised the knife with his right. He brought the knife downward in an arc. Stopped. Positioned it carefully in the center of the woman’s neck. Then pushed. The blade penetrated flesh. The woman slumped. Abby’s brain exploded in a cacophony of Voices. She screamed. The man turned; he had no face, just a fiery mane with icy eyes peering at Abby through the flames. Shocked by Abby’s scream, the man with the face of fire pulled the knife from the woman’s neck, tore open the door, and slashed at Abby’s throat. She leapt back. The blade missed. He raised his arm to strike again. Abby swung the skillet. Missed. The Voices screamed. Abby ran. The man, still naked, ran after her. Abby’s head filled with horrible sounds. A chorus screaming for her death. She took the stairs two at a time and raced for the front door. It was locked. The man closed in. Abby swung the skillet and missed again. Flames flew from his bestial eyes. The Voices laughed hysterically. Abby flipped the bolt. Death touched her arm, his hand burning like the devil’s own. She turned, crouched, and swung the skillet in a low arc like the field hockey player she once was going for a goal. This time it connected. He went down, choking, gasping for air, clutching his injured testicles. Abby spun and ran through the open door and down the steps, tossing the skillet into the shrubs at the side of the house. She raced across the frozen yard. Glancing back, she saw his naked form charging down the porch stairs and out into the frozen night. She leapt the icy slope down onto the road. Her cleats somehow held on the slick surface. Looking back again, she saw him slip, feet flying out from under him in a kind of circus pantomime. A naked clown with a head of fire slipping on a frozen banana peel. His momentum took him up into the air, then down again, hard on his back. He lay still. Abby ran off into the night. She ran blindly, certain he would follow, determined to outrun not just her own death but also the Voices shrieking inside her head.

She ran for nearly a mile, expecting at each step to feel Death’s hand touch her shoulder, expecting his blade to plunge into her neck as it had the woman’s. Finally, winded, she paused. Behind her there was nothing. Just moonlit ice shining off the empty road. He was gone. Abby stared into the darkness, catching her breath. Still nothing. Had she imagined it all? Would her doctor tell her it was nothing but her illness creating visions that didn’t exist except in her mind? She didn’t know. Maybe that’s all it was.

Five minutes passed before Abby saw reflections of the headlights coming in her direction from Seal Point. She cursed herself for stupidity. Of course. The car in the Markhams’ garage. It was only a half mile, maybe less, behind her and was closing fast. She looked left. She looked right. Not thinking, just reacting. The Voices screamed, Turn left! Turn left! The rocks, the ocean. Dive in the ocean. The water will save you from the knife. No, she screamed back, I’m not ready to die. She turned right, away from the rocks and onto a narrow trail that wound its way through a salt marsh toward the island’s interior. Frozen tracks carved into the ice by cross-country skiers slowed her down. They made the way treacherous, too easy to twist an ankle, even with the cleats.

Had he seen her turn off the road? She didn’t know. If he did, he’d follow on foot. The trail was way too narrow for the car. Head down, arms pumping, Abby charged ahead. Behind her she heard the engine stop, the car’s door open, then slam shut.

She ran as hard and as fast as she ever had, praying her foot wouldn’t catch in one of the ski tracks. Praying she wouldn’t fall and break an ankle. Every third or fourth step a foot broke through the icy surface to crusty snow below, slowing her further. How long before he caught up? However fast she was going, she knew it wasn’t fast enough. If she couldn’t outrun him, maybe she could lose him. She’d played on this maze of trails all her life. She knew how they looped around through dense piney woods, randomly crossing back on each other. Easy to get lost. Hard to follow someone, especially in the dark. Even on a moonlit night. Or so she hoped. That was her only advantage. Ahead of her the trail forked. The wider fork, the one to the left, led to the back end of the island dump and from there to a paved road that led down front. The fork to the right was narrower and trickier to negotiate. It would take her through a random series of trails and icy ledges where her cleats and knowledge of the terrain would give her more of an advantage. She veered right.

It was nearly 1:00 A.M. before Abby emerged from the edge of the woods. She worked her way through the dark streets down front to the small police station where two Portland PD cops were, no doubt, snoozing. She tried the door. Locked. Of course. She rang the bell. Nobody came. She looked around. Island Avenue in each direction lay dark and empty. Finally exhausted, Abby leaned against the bell and held it down. She wouldn’t let go until one of them let her in or until Death pushed his thin-bladed knife into the back of her neck. Whichever came first. She tried to organize the frantic succession of images in her mind. She had to be coherent or the cops would never believe her. Still no one came. She lowered her head. A low, keening whimper escaped her lips. Almost like the cry of the woman on the bed. The Voices taunted her. She pretended not to hear. Dark visions closed in from every side. Finally the big cop with the black mustache peered around the drawn shade. He looked annoyed to have been woken up. He opened the door and let her in.

That was Tuesday. This was Friday. It was 11:52 P.M. Time to run for the ferry.

Nine

Portland, Maine

11:20 P.M.

By the time McCabe signed out at Randall Jackson’s security desk, he was pretty much running on empty. All he really wanted was to go home, take another hot shower, and climb into bed. With Kyra if possible, alone if necessary. Unfortunately, at the moment, neither was an option. Instead, he parked himself in a corner of the lobby and tapped in Janie Archer’s number in New York. He needed to find out for sure whether or not Lainie Goff had a next of kin. If she did, he’d have to arrange for a police officer to visit their home and break the news if they hadn’t heard it already. There were a few other things he wanted to question Archer about as well. Like Goff’s relationship with Henry Ogden. Maybe she’d know if it extended beyond the purely professional. Jackson told him Lainie left the office looking pissed. Ogden left ten minutes later. Had they been together? If so, McCabe wanted to know why. He also wanted to know why an ambitious young woman like Lainie Goff would leave nearly two hundred thousand dollars to a tiny, practically unknown charity dedicated to helping runaway teens. It didn’t seem to fit with her persona, and he didn’t like things that didn’t fit.

After four rings a young woman’s cheery voice came on. ‘Hi, this is Janie. Leave a message and I’ll call ya back.’ At least Archer was still in New York and still had the same number. ‘Ms. Archer. This is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe of the Portland, Maine, Police Department. It’s important that you call me back as soon as you get this message. It concerns your friend Elaine Goff.’ He left both his office number and his cell. Then he called the PPD Call Center and asked whoever was on duty to please track down a cell number for Janie Archer in New York City and, sorry, no, he didn’t know who the service provider was.

Before he could try Henry Ogden’s number, Maggie called. ‘Yeah, Mag, what’s up? You still at Goff’s apartment?’

‘No. I just left. I’m on my way to the ferry terminal. Can you meet me there? Like right away? The fireboat’s waiting for us. We’re taking a little trip over to Harts Island.’

‘Harts? What’s on Harts?’

‘A possible witness.’

He began to ask questions. She cut him off. ‘I’ll tell you more about it when I see you.’

‘Don’t hang up,’ said McCabe. He exited the building and walked over to the unmarked Crown Vic. ‘Tell me what you know about Sanctuary House.’ He got in and started the engine.

‘Well, I’ve certainly heard of it. I’m a cop’s kid from Machias, and Sanctuary House is kind of controversial, even famous, up there. Or at least it was when it first opened, which was, I don’t know, maybe seven or eight years ago. John Kelly, the guy who started it, was standing next to Goff in that party picture Tom gave us. You find some connection?’

McCabe’s windshield was coated with a solid layer of ice. He could scrape and talk to Maggie later or let the defroster do the work and talk now. He opted for now. ‘I’m not sure yet exactly what the connection is, but it looks like Sanctuary House is about to get a healthy chunk of change.’ He flipped the defroster blower to high. ‘Lainie Goff had company-paid life insurance, a hundred and eighty thousand dollars’ worth, and Sanctuary House is the sole beneficiary.’

‘Hmm,’ Maggie snorted. ‘Now isn’t that interesting? Here’s what I know. Sanctuary House is a shelter for runaway kids. A lot of them are from my folks’ neck of the woods.’

‘How old are the kids?’

‘Mostly teenagers. Both girls and boys. Most are victims of sexual abuse. That was the original mission. But they also take in drug addicts, kids convicted of petty crimes, some with mental or emotional problems, basically any young person in need of a safe haven and adult support. Father Jack – that’s what all the kids call Kelly – he’s an ex-priest, and he makes them all go for counseling. Therapy if they need it. Tries to help them clean up their acts, help them find jobs.’

‘You said it was controversial. What’s the controversy?’

‘The place was set up a year or so after word was beginning to spread about the priest abuse scandals. Father Jack was a young Franciscan at the time, and when he told the diocese he wanted to work with sexually abused teens, the bishop went ape-shit, figured Kelly was going to stir up a hornets’ nest when the Church was hoping the whole thing would just simmer down and go away. The bishop put a lot of pressure on Kelly to back off. He said no. The bishop said yes. Kelly said fuck you and turned in his collar.’

‘Left the priesthood?’

‘Yeah, and it was too bad, because he’s just the kind of young idealistic guy they desperately need. Instead he went out on his own, raised enough money to get started, and bought a big old house on one of the side streets off Longfellow Square. I’ve never met Kelly personally, but from what I hear he’s a hell of a charismatic guy. A real charmer.’

Charismatic fit with the face they’d seen in the picture. Charismatic and intense. The windshield was clear now, and he slipped the car into gear. What Maggie told him was interesting, but it still didn’t explain Goff’s interest in Sanctuary House. ‘Anything else I should know?’

‘Just a rumor that John Kelly was abused by a priest himself when he was a teenager.’

‘Unsubstantiated?’

‘I don’t know, but the story goes that’s what made him so determined to help other kids, church or no church.’

The Casco Bay Lines ferry terminal sat on the edge of the Old Port between Commercial Street and the water, less than a five-minute drive from Ten Monument Square. By the time McCabe clicked off the phone he was already there. The Bay Lines’ half-dozen ferries provided frequent and regular service to the handful of out-islands that fell within the city limits of Portland. Harts, with a year-round population of just under a thousand, was the biggest. McCabe left the unmarked Crown Vic in a five-minute parking space at the side of the terminal building, its PPD plates protecting it from the packs of contract towers that circled the place. He got out and headed toward the dock where the PFD fireboat, the Francis R. Mangini, was tied up. At midnight on a Friday, McCabe could hear loud Irish music spilling across the water from the bar that occupied the adjacent pier.

As he approached, he speed-dialed Kyra’s number to let her know she wouldn’t be seeing him for a while. She didn’t answer. He left a message and put the phone away. He spotted Maggie and a couple of firefighters waiting for him in the stern of the Mangini. A pair of twin diesels was already churning up the water behind the sixty-five-foot steel-hulled vessel. McCabe eased himself down an icy aluminum gangway and climbed aboard. As soon as he was safely on, one of the firefighters unhitched the lines, and the boat pulled out. He led McCabe and Maggie to a small galley behind and below the wheelhouse where they could stay warm and have some privacy. Then he went up and joined his buddy and the officer piloting the boat. Inside the galley, McCabe noticed a pot of hot coffee. He held it up. Maggie shook her head no. He poured a mug for himself, dropped a buck in the can, and sat across from her at the dining table.

‘Okay, what’s going on?’ he asked.

‘Like I said, we may have a witness.’

‘On Harts?’

‘Yeah. While I was at Goff’s apartment I got a call from one of the uniforms assigned to the island. Guy named Scotty Bowman? You may not know him. He used to work in town, but he’s been out on the island for a while now. Always been kind of a pain in the ass. Perpetually pissed off because his career never took off like he thought it ought to. Sees himself as one of the best and the brightest.’

‘And he’s not?’

‘Scotty’s smart enough, but he tends to be a whiner and a malcontent. Also a chauvinist. He likes patting fannies.’

‘Ever pat yours?’

‘Only once. I cured him of that affliction in a hurry.’

McCabe smiled. Knowing Maggie, he imagined the cure must have been painful.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I get this call from Bowman, and he tells me he’s not sure how significant it is, but a woman named Abby Quinn came charging into the station on the island Tuesday night claiming to have witnessed a murder.’

‘Four nights ago?’

‘Four nights ago.’

‘Did you ask what took him so long to report it?’

‘I asked. The short answer is he didn’t believe her.’

McCabe frowned. ‘What’s the long answer?’

‘It seems Abby Quinn has a history of mental illness. She’s been in and out of Winter Haven at least a couple of times. Diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. She’s given to delusions and hallucinations. Sees things that aren’t there and hears voices nobody else can hear. She’s tried to kill herself more than once.’

Not exactly an ideal witness. If the cops on the island didn’t believe what Abby Quinn was telling them, why would any jury? Beyond that, if Goff really was killed on Harts, why and how had the killer transported her body across the bay to the Fish Pier? It didn’t make a whole lot of sense. He guessed they’d cross those bridges when they got to them.

‘Quinn lives with her mother in a cottage on the island,’ Maggie went on. ‘Bowman says she’s okay as long as she stays on her meds. He also says this wasn’t the first time she’s come barging into the station spouting some craziness or other. Last time it was aliens from outer space taking over our bodies.’

Scenes from the fifties sci-fi classic Invasion of the Body Snatchers flashed through McCabe’s mind. Walter Wanger and Don Siegel’s black-and-white original. Not the remakes from ’78 or ’93. He wondered if Abby Quinn had seen any or all of them.

‘So he didn’t bother checking her story out?’

‘No. Not at the time. Just figured she’d gone off her meds again.’ Maggie helped herself to a sip of McCabe’s coffee. ‘Figured she was having a psychotic episode.’

‘Did he do anything at all?’

‘Not really. He says he thought about bringing her in to the emergency room, but when he told her that’s what he was thinking, she quieted right down. Apparently the idea of going to the hospital scared her more than any murderer. First she pleaded with Bowman not to take her, then told him he was right, it was a hallucination, but it was over now and she was okay. She must’ve convinced him, because, quote, against his better judgment, unquote, he took her home. Back to her mother’s house. After that he took a quick run by the alleged crime scene.’

‘Which is?’

‘An empty summer house on the backshore.’

‘Where he doesn’t find a body?’

‘Where he doesn’t find anything. Inside or out. Just some tracks in the snow between the road and the porch, which he figured were Abby’s. No body, no weapon, no murder. The only thing remotely questionable was a frying pan he spotted lying in the snow under some shrubbery.’

‘A frying pan?’

‘Yeah. He figures it’s random junk, picks it up, and takes it back to the station and forgets about it until tonight. If you want my personal opinion, McCabe, Bowman was just too lazy to seriously investigate a story coming from a known crazy. Too lazy to even send her to the hospital and spend time writing up a report. He just took the easy way out and dropped the whole thing.’

McCabe gave her a half-smile. ‘You really like this guy.’

‘Gee, how could you tell?’

McCabe sat at the galley table, sipping his coffee, staring out the window, thinking about what Maggie had told him. His eyes followed a yellow and white island ferry chugging through the icy waters back to the Portland terminal. He checked his watch. After midnight. He didn’t realize the boats ran so late. ‘Okay,’ he finally said with a frustrated sigh, ‘so Bowman drops it. Then four days later he changes his mind and calls it in. Why? What suddenly makes him think maybe Abby Quinn wasn’t hallucinating?’

‘He heard about our murder,’ said Maggie, helping herself to another sip of his coffee.

‘Y’know, they have a whole pot of this stuff right over there. I’ll be happy to get you some of your own.’

‘No, thanks.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll just sip at yours.’ She took one more swallow and returned the mug to the table. Sometimes, he thought, she behaves more like a wife than Sandy ever did. Or Kyra for that matter.

‘Anyway,’ Maggie continued, ‘Bowman was off duty tonight, sitting at the bar at the Cross-Eyed Bear.’ The Cross-Eyed Bear, in spite of its cutesy name, was a serious drinkers’ joint on Silver Street, just down the block from 109. A lot of the cops coming off shift hung out there. So did guys who worked the waterfront. Not too many tourists or kids, though, and the few who did wander in rarely ventured beyond the front door. ‘He’s having a quiet drink by himself when a couple of his buddies come in and join him. They all start bullshitting, and they tell him how they were just working a crime scene down at the Fish Pier and how the reporters and TV crews showed up and how they’re all gonna get their faces on the eleven o’clock news. Naturally, they also tell him about our frozen stiff.’

‘And he decides to call you?’

‘Not right away. He says he still thought Abby Quinn might have been hallucinating and maybe the body turning up at the pier was just a coincidence. Says he wanted to make sure he had something worthwhile before wasting our time. So he catches the next ferry out to Harts. His idea was that he’d find Quinn and have her go over her story one more time. Maybe visit the crime scene again and have her walk him through it. If it made any more sense the second time around, then he was gonna call us. Probably thought he could score a few brownie points by insinuating himself into a big murder case.’

McCabe nodded. ‘Either that or look less like an asshole for not following up on what Quinn told him in the first place.’

‘Anyway, he gets to Harts and guess what? He can’t find her. She’s not home, and she’s not at her job. Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of her since Tuesday night.’

Great, thought McCabe, not only is the witness a nutcase, now she’s a missing nutcase. It didn’t sound promising. ‘So he finally calls you?’

‘He finally calls. Tells me what I just told you. Naturally, I question him about the details of what Abby Quinn said.’

‘Anything I need to know?’

‘Yeah. Two things. Number one, when she came into the station she was too agitated to describe what the killer actually looked like. She just went on and on about some monster with icy eyes and a head exploding in fire. Even if we do find her, there’s no guarantee she’ll describe him any better.’

Maybe Bowman had been right. Maybe it wasn’t worth following up on. ‘What’s number two?’ he asked.

‘Number two is why we’re on the fireboat. Apparently, in the middle of all her ranting, Quinn did manage to communicate that what she saw was this so-called monster, and again I quote, plunge a thin-bladed knife into the back of a woman’s neck.’ Maggie paused. ‘A naked woman with long dark hair.’

They both knew the cops drinking at the Cross-Eyed Bear wouldn’t have had access to those details. They could only have come from Quinn. McCabe found himself hoping what they’d find on Harts Island was a live witness and not just another frozen corpse.