‘I have the right to remain silent,’ Barker said again. ‘Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. I have the right to have an attorney present during questioning –’

‘Yes you do, Mr Barker, but you’re not under arrest or anything like that. We’re just having a friendly little chat. Guy talk, that’s all.’

‘I have the right to remain silent,’ Barker repeated.

‘I’m just trying to figure out what you were doing wandering around up here with a flashlight and a bunch of tools at four o’clock in the morning.’

‘I’d like you to leave my house now,’ Barker said.

‘What were you looking for, Barker?’

‘I want you to leave my house. Or get yourself a warrant and come back later.’

This was a murder victim’s apartment, and McCabe didn’t need a warrant to be here. On the other hand, it was pretty clear he wasn’t going to get anything else out of Andy Barker. He needed to find out what, if anything, the evidence techs had found here and what they’d found in the house on the island. More than either of those things, he needed some sleep.

In the end McCabe told Barker to go back down to his apartment but not to leave town and to make himself available if he was needed for further questioning. Then he called 109 and told Dispatch to send over an evidence tech to see if the searcher had left behind any fingerprints or other evidence and then padlock the place and make sure nobody else snuck in. When the tech got there, McCabe left.

The snow was still coming down at 5:00 A.M. when McCabe got back to his own place on the Eastern Prom. The light in the living room was still on; Kyra was in the bedroom still asleep. He stripped down and slid into bed next to her. He had that ten o’clock meeting but still had time for a few hours’ sleep. With Casey at Sunday River, he wouldn’t have to wake up until about nine thirty to make it downtown by ten. Trying not to disturb Kyra, but feeling a need for her warmth, he pressed his body, spoon fashion, against the bend of her back. He rested one arm along the curve of her hip.

‘I’m glad you’re back,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to worry.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘You didn’t. I’ve been awake pretty much all night. Anyway, welcome home.’

He pushed himself even more tightly against her. ‘It’s good to be home,’ he said. He meant it. He was glad he did.

Fifteen

Portland, Maine

Saturday, January 7

4:00 A.M.

Abby moved, mask on, head down, Spider-Man trudging through a fog of silence. The snow, whipped by gusting winds, was blinding. Forced by drifts to walk on the road, she could barely see the houses behind the mounds of snow, let alone make out their shapes or colors. Not even the ones on the near side of the street. The ones on the far side were totally invisible. She’d been walking for hours, or was it days? She was sure she was going around in circles. She couldn’t concentrate on where she was or where she was headed. She was just too tired. All she knew was that there were no people and there were no cars. There was only the snow and the wind and the endless empty streets. She’d never felt so alone in her life.

At least the Voices were quiet. The meds were doing what they were supposed to do, keeping the crazies locked in their box where they couldn’t jump out and torment her. Even so, all it would take was a little bit of bad shit and, boom, there they’d be, popping up like jack-in-the-box clowns, loud and vindictive. On top of that, the extra pills were making her dopey. Forcing her to fight for every clear thought through a fuzziness that seeped in and around and through her brain. Screw it. She didn’t have to think right now. She just had to keep walking. Street to street. Block to block. Don’t think. Just walk.

As she walked she repeated a low rhythmic chant. Gotta find Leanna’s house. Gotta find Leanna’s house. Gotta find Leanna’s house. Leanna Barnes, her friend from Winter Haven. Leanna would take her in. Abby knew she would. Bury her in the big extravagant folds of her flesh. Keep her safe. Leanna wouldn’t tell anyone she was there, either. Except Abby couldn’t find the right house or even the right street. She’d only been to the house a couple of times before, and then always in the summer when everything was green and gold and you could see where you were going. Not this blinding white, this emptiness where even the street signs were impossible to read. She was too tired and too cold to walk much farther. She was starting to go numb.

All she really wanted to do was lie down on top of the snowbank at the side of the road and drift off to sleep. She’d be covered up in no time. The plows’d dump more snow on top of her and that’d be that. The trash collectors wouldn’t find her body till spring. Trash. That’s all she’d be in the end. Frozen trash. She remembered seeing on the Discovery Channel how people who freeze to death feel warm before they die. They just slowly go to sleep and never wake up. It seemed a pleasant idea. Burning to death would be a lot more painful. One time, when she was off her meds, the Voices tried to get her to pour gasoline over her head and set herself on fire. Gonna turn you into a crispy critter, they told her. She went and found the gas can in the shed next to the house and a box of matches and almost did what they said. She remembered their mocking voices. Crispy critter. Fried golden brown. Crispy critter. She thought the fire would purify her, exorcise the evil, rid her of the Voices. At least she hoped it would. She unscrewed the top of the gas can and held it over her head. In the end, though, she chickened out. The idea of burning up scared her too much, and she put the can away. She wasn’t that crazy. But the Voices kept spewing their filth and ugliness. How they hated her. She must deserve it.

Abby looked up and saw a low dark thing moving toward her. A black form, now visible through the whipping snow, now obliterated by it. With each step it grew clearer and bigger. At twenty feet it began to take shape. Animal. Not human. A large dog, gray fur glistening under crystals of snow, cruel icy eyes shining through the night, more wolf than dog. She stopped, but the animal kept coming. She could hear its rumbling growl. Low. Menacing. Commanding. Her heart beat against the walls of her chest so hard she was certain it would break through. She knew what the creature wanted. She knelt on her hands and knees. It bared a fang long enough and sharp enough to penetrate the soft flesh at the back of her neck. She lowered her head and waited for release . . . but release didn’t come. Finally, after a minute or two, she looked up, and it was gone. She could see nothing in front of her but the snow-covered street and the windswept flakes still hurtling down through the night sky. She stayed where she was, kneeling in the snow. She could hear a child crying. She listened. After a bit she realized the sound was coming from her. She got up and started walking again.

She wrapped her arms around her body and rubbed to warm herself. She was still wearing the running clothes from four nights ago. After the cop dropped her off, she hadn’t taken the time to change or brush her teeth or even to wash. She didn’t know when Death was going to come walking in through the door. So she just stuffed the seventeen dollars and sixty-three cents she had in the desk drawer into one pocket, her wallet with her license and nearly maxed-out Visa card into the other, and took off. She had her cell in her fanny pack, along with the bottle of Zyprexa, but the phone was dead and the charger was in her bedroom back on the island. Dumb. She couldn’t worry about that now. All she knew was that she had to get to Leanna’s house. If only she could find it. She thought about a hot shower. God, that would be heaven. She’d take a hot shower at Leanna’s.