She pulled on a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and some flip-flops and made it to the elevator just before her time ran out.

Twenty-Seven

He held the gun steady in two gloved hands and sighted his own image in the mirror. An old Ruger Standard .22. Abby’s daddy’s own gun. Taken from her house, where he’d found it, ready and waiting, fully loaded, the night he killed Goff. The night he realized he’d have to kill Abby as well.

He turned off the lights, walked to the living room window, and looked out on the street below. Empty save for a lone dog walker. A woman. A stranger. He sighted the gun. Slipped off the safety. Slid his finger along the curve of the trigger. He felt a tremor of excitement. His breathing quickened. The power of life and death. He’d never realized how intoxicating it could be.

It was time to go. He closed the blinds, tucked the Ruger under his belt, and checked himself out in the mirror. He put on his glasses with the heavy black frames and smiled and winked. First with one eye. Then the other. Then he went to the closet and put on his heavy coat with the oversized hood. He went out the door and walked to his car.

Twenty-Eight

Even with the covers pulled over her head and her eyes squeezed shut, Abby knew Death was near. She could feel his presence. Smell it. Like ozone in the air before a summer lightning strike. The cold knot of fear she’d been living with since Tuesday had relaxed last night when Leanna opened her arms and welcomed Abby in. Now it was back, bigger and tighter than ever before. Abby reached a hand across the bed, seeking comfort from Leanna’s bulk, but, finding none, pulled away. Her friend’s body shifted in restless sleep, unaware of the danger lurking close by.

Abby wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep or, for that matter, how long she’d even been here. She remembered arriving with the big guy in the pickup. She thought that was last night. Or, more accurately, early this morning. This morning and not yesterday morning or the morning before. But to be truthful, she really wasn’t sure which morning it was.

She remembered the big guy’s goofy grin and the microwave containers of Chef Boyardee in his arms. She also remembered the gun under his jacket. Even so, she found herself wishing he were here now. She thought about the card he gave her. JOSEPH L. VODNICK, it said. PORTLAND POLICE DEPARTMENT. There was a phone number. She could call him, except he wasn’t at the number. He was up in some dumb-ass lean-to at the bottom of Mt Katahdin. Camping or ice climbing or whatever the hell he was doing on his two days off. When they arrived last night she just wanted him to go away. Hadn’t even wanted him to get out of the truck. He insisted on walking her to the door. Said he wanted to make sure her friend was home and she could get in okay. It took a couple of minutes of ringing and banging before Leanna heard them and opened up. All that time they were just standing on the steps looking everywhere else except at each other. Abby was afraid the guy might try to kiss her good night. How goofy was that? He didn’t, though. He just reminded her of the card. Told her again to call if she was in any trouble. Then he got back in his truck and left.

Leanna asked who he was.

She looked down at the card. ‘Joseph L. Vodnick.’

‘Who?’

‘Some guy I met at the Mini Mart. He gave me a ride over.’

Leanna pulled Abby inside and shut the door against the still swirling snow.

All Abby remembered after that was taking off her clothes and climbing into the shower and letting hot water course over her until her body was bright pink and all the freeze was out of her bones. After that she checked her Zyprexa. They were all gone. She thought she had some left, but she didn’t. Must have been taking more than she thought. Or maybe she dropped some out there in the storm last time she opened the bottle. Maybe it didn’t matter. They didn’t seem to be helping a whole lot anyway. Leanna gave her a couple of pills from her own stash. Blue ones. Not Zyprexa. Something else. Leanna said the pills would help her sleep, and, boy, did they ever – but now she was wide awake and Death was coming.

The smell had become stronger, and Abby wondered if he was in the room. She pulled back the sheet and blanket enough to allow one eye to peer out of her warm cocoon. Enough dim light from the winter moon filtered through the gauzy curtains to make out the shapes of things. But not enough to penetrate the shadows where she knew Death would hide. She scanned the wall and corners on this side of the room. She saw nothing. She knew she’d have to pull the blankets all the way off her head and sit up if she was going to look over Leanna’s body and check the other side. She had to do it, she told herself. The only alternative was to lie here and wait for him to stick his knife into the back of her neck. She remembered how the woman at the Markhams’ house dropped. A puppet with her strings cut.

Abby pushed the image away. She wasn’t ready for Death. Not today. Maybe not ever. She pulled herself into a sitting position. Leanna’s breathing continued slow and steady. She looked across. Nothing there either. Just a chair piled high with clothes. A table that was really a box with a cloth thrown over it and a lamp on top. He wasn’t there. Still the smell lingered.

The insistent ringing of the phone woke McCabe from his fitful sleep. Why didn’t the damned thing stop ringing? He glanced at caller ID. J. VODNICK. He pressed TALK. ‘This is McCabe.’

Too late. Vodnick had hung up. McCabe debated whether to call him back or not. It wasn’t much of a debate. If Joe Vodnick was calling his cell, it had to have something to do with the case. He called.

‘Sergeant, this is Officer Vodnick. Joe Vodnick? From last night at the pier?’

‘I remember, Joe. What’s up?’

‘It’s about that girl. That woman you guys put out the ATL on.’

McCabe sat up, instantly alert. ‘Yeah? What about her?’

‘Well, I didn’t see the ATL when it came out because I went off duty at midnight Friday.’

‘Okay. Keep going.’

‘I’m up at Katahdin. I’ve got a couple of days off, and I’m doing a little ice climbing and winter camping.’

‘Get to the point, Joe.’

‘I think I saw her. I think I know where she is.’

‘Katahdin? You saw her at Katahdin? You sure it’s her?’

‘No. Not at Katahdin. Let me back up. I was just talking to a pal of mine in Community Policing? My girlfriend, actually. She saw the ATL and was telling me about it. From what she said I’m pretty sure it’s the woman I saw –’

‘Joe, Joe, slow down,’ McCabe interrupted. ‘Just tell me where you saw this woman and why you think she’s our witness.’

‘I dropped her off about five this morning at 131 Summer Street.’

‘In Portland?’

‘Yeah. In Portland. She seemed disturbed, and she fits the description of the woman in the ATL. Right age. Right hair color. Right clothes.’

‘Did you get her name?’

‘Just her first name.’

‘Which is?’

‘Abby. She told me her name was Abby.’

Twenty-Nine

Abby looked around the room for a weapon. She didn’t see anything. She knew she could find something in the kitchen, but she didn’t want to go to the kitchen. Death might be waiting for her between here and there. So she looked harder and found something she thought might do. In a corner propped against a wall where she hadn’t noticed it just a minute ago was Uncle Willis’s old wooden tennis racket. Least it looked like Willis’s racket. Most of its strings still broken just the way she remembered it.

She slipped out of bed, lifting the hem of Leanna’s big flannel nightgown and gathering it around her so she wouldn’t trip, and went to the corner, where she examined the racket more closely. Looked just the same. She picked it up, took a practice swing or two. It felt just the same. She heard the Voices cackling quietly. She swung harder. The Voices cackled louder. She didn’t care. Maybe Willis’s racket wasn’t a frying pan, but the sonofabitch Death would sure as hell feel it if she whacked him in the balls with it. She cackled back at the Voices, but that didn’t shut them up. She swung the racket as hard as she could. Forehand. Backhand. Once. Twice. Again. Again. She sailed across the room, holding up the hem of the nightgown with her left hand and swinging Willis’s racket with her right. The Voices cackled louder. Suddenly Death was there in the room. Now in front of her. Now behind. She whirled and swung. The side of the racket connected with his head. She whirled and swung again. This time he went down. Just as he had on the ice. She stood over him and swung again. Chopping down at his head as if she were splitting logs for the stove. Wham! She chopped and kept chopping. He was spurting blood. Wham! More blood. Wham! Wham! Wham! Stupid nightgown with its stupid pink flowers kept getting in the way, but she kept swinging anyway. Swinging and swinging. Clubbing Death to death. Clubbing him into a bloody, bloodied pulp. The Voices were screaming. She’d never heard them sound so fucking happy before.