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.’