‘Anything else?’

‘The phone’s connected,’ said Tasco. ‘Dial tone’s beeping like there’s a voice mail message on it.’

‘You haven’t listened to it?’

‘Can’t. Not till we get Kelly’s password. One oh nine is supposed to be checking with Verizon. I would’ve thought we’d have something by now.’

‘Can I help with the files?’

‘Sure. Just wear these and don’t smear.’ Jacobi tossed him a pair of gloves. ‘I’ll want to check all this stuff for prints later.’ Looked like a big job.

The boxes contained a potpourri of Kelly’s life. Letters, photos, postcards from vacationing friends. Also a lot of notes and papers from college and seminary. A number of photos showed a younger Kelly with the same young man. Teddy Childs? Or maybe an earlier partner. In a couple he was dressed as a priest, but mostly not. One photo showed a young Kelly with an older woman who stared at the camera with the same intense blue eyes. Presumably his mother.

Jacobi and the two detectives kept at it for an hour, none of them speaking, each of them glancing at each piece of paper, then placing it in one of several neat piles arranged by type of document. The room was silent save for the sound of men breathing, hands shuffling paper, and an occasional creak from the house moving on its precarious foundation. McCabe imagined the whole thing tumbling off the cliff and into the ocean with the three of them still in it. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night sailed off in a wooden shoe. There was no wind. No roar from the dead-calm sea. Not even the ticking of a clock. Just the creaks.

‘This what you’re looking for?’ The sudden sound of Jacobi’s voice made McCabe jump. Jacobi was holding out a spiral-bound booklet with a clear plastic cover. McCabe took it. The first page contained only title, author, and date. ‘An Examination of the Prophetic Tradition in the Old Testament. John Kelly, TOR. May 2, 1994.’

He opened it and began reading. At the top of page 21 he found exactly what he was looking for. An italicized quote, All the sinners of my people shall die by the sword, which say, The evil shall not overtake nor prevent us. Beneath it was what appeared to be a lengthy and scholarly discussion of how and why a vengeful God would deal with those who ignored his precepts. McCabe stared at the quote. Seeing it on paper seemed to seal the deal. Kelly was guilty. McCabe just needed a motive and some hard evidence that would convince a jury. Jacobi got up from his chair and stood looking over McCabe’s shoulder.

‘So Kelly’s your pither, huh?’

‘Looks that way.’

The quiet in the room was broken by the William Tell Overture, the part that used to be the theme music from The Lone Ranger on TV. Tasco hit a button on his phone. The music stopped. ‘Tasco,’ he said. ‘Yeah? Okay. Good. Let me write that down.’ He removed a small notebook and pen from his coat pocket and made a notation. ‘Thanks, Andrea. Yeah, you, too.’ He looked at McCabe. ‘That was Verizon.’

‘Kelly’s password?’

‘Yup.’

‘What is it?’

‘Bunch of numbers.’ He read from the note. ‘726288279.’

‘It spells “sanctuary.”’

‘What?’

‘The numbers. They spell out the word ‘sanctuary’ on a telephone keypad. Should’ve guessed that one an hour ago. I must be losing it.’

They went into the bedroom. McCabe picked up the receiver and dialed the number for Verizon voice mail. ‘John Kelly,’ said a male voice.

Then a computerized female voice came on. ‘Please enter your password.’

McCabe entered the letters S-A-N-C-T-U-A-R-Y.

‘You have one new message. To listen to your messages now, press one.’

McCabe pressed one.

‘First new message. From unknown caller. Received Tuesday, December twentieth, at 6:44 P.M.’

‘I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole, and you’re not going to get away with it. We need to talk. And don’t try ignoring me. I’ll try your other line.’ McCabe realized he’d never heard Lainie Goff’s voice before. Still, he was sure it was her.

‘To hear the message again, press one.’

He pressed one. ‘I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole, and you’re not going to get away with it. We need to talk. And don’t try ignoring me. I’ll try your other line.’ I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole. What exactly was Kelly doing? Was it the motive McCabe was searching for? He handed the phone to Tasco and let him listen.

The front door opened and closed. Bowman’s voice called out, ‘Hey! McCabe! Where are you?’

‘In here.’

Bowman appeared in the door of the bedroom. ‘Get your coats on,’ he said. ‘You guys better come see what we found.’

It was still dark, and McCabe didn’t see it at first. Not until Bowman positioned the beam of his flashlight right on the spot. A human hand, sticking up out of melting snow and attached to about six inches of skinny arm that was covered in a solid mass of blue tattoos. Young and almost certainly male. Both hand and arm looked frozen. The same waxy sheen he’d seen on Lainie Goff’s body. McCabe looked around to position himself. They were standing in a wooded area a couple of hundred feet southwest of the house. ‘This still Kelly’s property?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Bowman. ‘It goes back another fifty feet about to that big pine tree over there.’

Two of Jacobi’s techs, Jeff Feeney and Carla Morrisey, had already started stringing yellow crime scene tape in a wide perimeter around the spot, shooing away a couple of the local searchers. They retreated to the far side of the tape.

I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole, and you’re not going to get away with it. Goff’s accusation played over and over in McCabe’s head. Was this what Kelly was doing? Abusing teenaged boys from Sanctuary House? Just like the priest who had abused him? Had Goff found out about it and accused him? Had he killed Goff, and this boy as well, to keep her from going public? To keep her from calling the cops and, in the process, destroying him and his life’s work, Sanctuary House? McCabe shined his own light on the hand and arm sticking out of the snow. He was sure he’d found a motive that, for John Kelly, would have been far more powerful than mere money.

When the area was circled in tape, Feeney and Morrisey hauled a small generator and a couple of powerful floods out of the back of their van. Feeney began setting them up on top of steel tripods. Morrisey unrolled heavy black cable from the generator to the lights. She plugged it in and flicked a switch, and suddenly the burial site was lit up like center field at Yankee Stadium.

McCabe called Terri Mirabito at home again.

‘Jesus, McCabe, don’t you ever sleep? What is it now?’

‘We found another body.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

‘Frozen.’

‘Pithed?’

‘Don’t know yet.’ McCabe watched as Feeney began shooting the crime scene photos with a high-end digital camera. Morrisey was taking measurements to precisely position the spot where they found the arm on a location diagram. ‘All we can see so far is an arm. Looks like a boy’s. The rest of the body, assuming there is a rest of the body, is still buried in a couple of feet of snow and ice. If the weather hadn’t warmed up and melted a bunch, we wouldn’t have found it at all.’

‘Okay. I’m getting dressed. Where do I go this time?’

‘Head on down to Casco Bay Lines. I’ll make sure the fireboat’s waiting for you.’

‘Harts Island?’

‘Yeah. There’ll be a car waiting on this side. I’m calling Fortier, too, so don’t take off without him.’

It was nearly six o’clock, and Fortier was already awake sipping coffee. He said he’d throw some clothes on and be at the dock in fifteen minutes. Before he hung up McCabe asked him to bring along some dry socks and, if he had them, an extra pair of waterproof boots, size eleven or thereabouts, and, oh yeah, if he didn’t mind terribly, maybe a hair dryer. Fortier said he’d see what he could rustle up.