‘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.

Ten

Harts Island, Maine

Saturday, January 7 12:10 A.M.

The fireboat slowed noticeably, and the officer at the wheel began maneuvering it alongside a wooden dock. When he had it in position, one of the firefighters leapt onto the dock and secured the boat fore and aft to a pair of steel cleats. McCabe could see a black-and-white PPD Ford Explorer waiting by the landing. The department’s slogan, painted in gold on the SUV’s rear fender, had been changed from PROTECTING A GREAT CITY TO PROTECTING A GREAT ISLAND. Two cops were keeping themselves warm inside. One was in plainclothes. McCabe guessed Bowman hadn’t bothered changing back into uniform before returning to the island.

Maggie and McCabe walked up from the dock to the car, and Bowman climbed out to greet them. He was a big man, maybe six-two, with an athlete’s stance and body. No hint of a paunch in spite of his age, which McCabe figured for just south of fifty. He had a hard face with blotchy red skin, maybe from the cold, maybe from booze, or maybe it was just blotchy. He sported a short, neatly clipped mustache. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a lined windbreaker with a fake fur collar. He had his badge pinned to the windbreaker. There was no weapon strapped around his waist, and McCabe guessed he was wearing a shoulder holster under the jacket. Probably liked playing detective.

Maggie made the introductions. ‘Scotty Bowman, Sergeant Mike McCabe.’ The two men shook hands. The officer in the SUV lowered the driver’s side window and waved. ‘Mel Daniels,’ he called out. Daniels looked too young to be a cop. He had a soft, almost feminine face and an open, eager expression. McCabe calculated backward. Since today was Friday, Daniels wouldn’t have been on duty Tuesday night. Cops assigned to the island worked fire department hours. Twenty-four hours on, twenty-four off, another twenty-four on, then five days off. McCabe and Maggie climbed into the back of the Explorer. The car felt warm enough to suggest it’d been running awhile. Maybe looking for Quinn. Daniels turned the vehicle around and started up the hill away from the landing. ‘You guys found our witness yet?’ asked McCabe.

There was a short, tense silence before Bowman sighed. ‘No. Not yet. We don’t know where she is.’

‘You don’t know where she is?’ McCabe repeated. He hadn’t realized how pissed off he was about that. ‘That’s great, Bowman. That’s just fucking great.’

The island cop turned in his seat and held up his hands, palms out. ‘Hey. We’ve been trying to find her since nine thirty when I got back to the island. But like I told Maggie on the phone –’

For the second time in ten seconds Bowman had rubbed McCabe the wrong way. ‘Just for the record, you didn’t tell “Maggie” anything on the phone. You told Detective Savage. You got that straight?’

The red-faced cop eyed McCabe cautiously. He didn’t like being corrected, especially not in front of a junior officer, but they both knew there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it. ‘Fine,’ he said, his voice flat and unfriendly. ‘I told Detective Savage we checked Quinn’s house. She wasn’t there. Her mother, a woman named Grace Quinn, said she hasn’t seen her daughter since Tuesday. However, since Gracie’s usually blind drunk, she probably hasn’t seen much of anything since Tuesday. We also talked to Lori Sparks, the owner of a restaurant called the Crow’s Nest where Abby waits tables.’

McCabe knew the place. He and Kyra and Casey had all made a mess eating lobsters out on the deck one evening last summer. Gorgeous views of the bay and the sun setting down behind the Portland skyline. ‘Quinn hasn’t been there since Tuesday either. Lori was pissed ’cause it left her shorthanded. Friday’s her busiest night.’

‘Have you tried calling her cell phone?’

‘Yeah. Half a dozen times. Message keeps kicking in right away. Like it’s turned off. Or out of power.’

McCabe took out his own phone and punched in some numbers. ‘This is McCabe,’ he said. ‘Hold on a sec.’ Then, addressing Bowman, he asked, ‘What’s Quinn’s number?’ Bowman gave it to him, and McCabe repeated it to the woman who picked up at the PPD Comm Center. He asked her to try to pinpoint the phone’s current location, and no, he didn’t know who the service provider was.

Daniels pulled the Explorer into a parking space in front of the small brick building that housed the Harts Island police and fire stations, a branch of the Portland Public Library, a community room, and the only public restrooms on the island.

‘Have you looked anywhere else?’ asked Maggie. ‘Maybe she’s hiding out with friends.’

The young cop turned to face them. ‘There aren’t a lot of people who hang out with Abby. Not the way she is now. It’s too tricky. I checked with a couple of her classmates, our classmates, from high school. The ones who are still on the island. Like me, they remember Abby the way she used to be. A totally different person.’

‘You and Quinn were in the same class?’ asked Maggie.

‘Yeah. Portland High. Class of ’99.’

‘The classmates haven’t seen her either?’

‘No. Not since Tuesday. Neither has the guy who tends bar at the Nest. Young guy, twenty-one or twenty-two, named Travis Garmin.’

‘Anybody out searching the island?’

‘Just getting started,’ said Bowman. ‘The other cop on duty tonight, a guy named Sonny Cates, is out organizing a search party. Mostly people who work city services plus some of the volunteer firefighters. Planning to round up eight or ten in all.’ The island was only a little over two square miles. McCabe figured ten locals could cover it quickly and effectively without bringing in outside resources.