By the time all the crime scene photos were shot and the measurements taken, a thin strip of orange was beginning to appear over a mostly green and gray eastern horizon. Feeney and Morrisey had started gently digging away the snow from around the arm. They worked carefully, like archeologists uncovering a precious artifact. McCabe looked up and saw Terri trudging through the snow toward him, carrying her little black doctor’s bag. Fortier walked behind her, holding a white shopping bag with MACY’s printed on both sides. He handed the bag to McCabe, who took it and headed for the cottage, forcing himself not to look back at the smirk he was sure was planted on Bowman’s face.

Inside the white bag McCabe found a pair of dark blue crew socks rolled in a ball, a pair of size eleven L.L. Bean trademark boots – green rubber on the bottom, tan leather on top – and a small portable hair dryer. He located an electric outlet, one of only two in the room, and dragged over a wooden chair. He removed his shoes and socks. His toes were totally numb, but they didn’t look as frozen as the kid’s arm. He took that as a good sign. He plugged in the dryer and started blowing warm air over his feet. It didn’t feel good. After only a few seconds his toes started hurting like a bitch. He wondered if PPD regs said anything about a detective’s fitness for duty if he happened to be missing a toe or two. It was time, he told himself, to start dressing properly for Maine winters. Manhattan was a long time ago and a long way away.

It took about half an hour of careful scraping before the frozen corpse of a teenaged boy began to emerge. He was lying on one side and was naked except for the tattoos that covered both arms and the rows of silver rings that were pierced into the skin above his right eye and along the curve of his lower lip. Even in death he had the sweet angelic face of a child, one that reminded McCabe of the face of Edward Mullaney, the abused altar boy he’d known so many years ago. The altar boy who was now a convicted pedophile and rapist. And so the cycle of sin continues, McCabe mused to himself, transmitted like a virus from abuser to abused, down through the generations and back again.

Judging by the layers of crusting ice around his body, McCabe figured the boy had been buried three snowfalls ago. He stood between Fortier and Terri and watched the techs take pictures of the uncovered corpse. ‘We’ve managed to move Goff’s limbs enough to straighten her out,’ Terri said.

‘And?’

‘I think she was sexually tortured. There are burn marks in and around the opening of her vagina.’

McCabe closed his eyes and sighed deeply, wondering why Kelly had had to do that. It was so hard to think of the man as a sadist. The minute anyone starts thinking they know who or what John Kelly is, it’s time to think again.

‘What about the bruising we saw in the trunk of the car?’

‘My guess is those bruises are old. She probably fought back when he grabbed her. Then he drugged her and kept her drugged, except maybe for the torture sessions. I have a hunch when we finally get the tox reports, we’ll find she was heavily sedated at the time of death.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No. Nothing under her nails, and other than the burns, the body is as clean as a whistle. I think he may have bathed her just before he killed her.’

Maybe that’s why he took her to Markham’s house, thought McCabe. No heat or water here. Plenty of both there – and, as Markham himself said, half the island knew where the key was hidden.

When the techs had finished, Terri knelt down next to the body in the hole they’d made and began her preliminary examination with gloved hands. ‘Yep. He’s been pithed, alright,’ she said. ‘There’s also considerable bruising and what looks like bleeding and torn skin around the rectum.’

‘Rough sex?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Either that or . . .’

Terri paused. She didn’t look happy.

‘Or what?’

‘I think our friend may have enjoyed pushing sharp objects into places they didn’t belong.’

McCabe winced again. Lainie Goff’s words came screaming back to him one more time. I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole, and you’re not going to get away with it. Unfortunately, Kelly got her before she got him. At least she was right about one thing. He wasn’t going to get away with it.

Thirty-Four

Portland, Maine

At exactly 8:30 A.M. Sunday, McCabe dropped Maggie’s keys off with Kyra. Half an hour later he strode into 109. In spite of the fact that he’d had about six hours’ sleep in the last forty-eight, he felt good. Better than good. Thanks to the adrenaline rush of uncovering Lainie Goff’s killer, combined with four large cups of coffee, he felt locked and loaded. Primed for confrontation. Ready to rock and roll. Coffee number five was warming his hand. Tanzanian Peaberry Fair Trade Dark Roast from the Coffee by Design on India Street.

A handwritten note from Shockley greeted him at his desk. Come see me ASAP. I’m in my office. P.S. Congratulations!!!

McCabe headed down the hall for the chief’s office on the southeast corner of the floor. He could hear the reporters buzzing from fifty feet away. He spotted Shockley standing at the door, jacket off, tie loosened, arms folded, sleeves rolled up. A textbook image of the hard-charging leader who’d been up all night leading his troops in the apprehension of a vicious killer.

At the moment the GO had the ear of Luke McGuire of the Press Herald. The rest of the sizable room was crammed with just about every other crime reporter in the state plus a few stringers from the Boston and New York papers. McCabe scanned the room and found Shockley’s girlfriend, Josie Tenant. She was in the corner writing some notes, no doubt preparing to broadcast good news to the world as soon as Shockley gave the go sign. Cameras were pointed toward Shockley’s desk, awaiting the chief’s reassuring message to an anxious and waiting city.

‘Mike! Come on in.’ The chief leapt up, grabbed his elbow, and steered him through the throng to his desk. He smiled expansively. ‘Thought I’d make the announcement from right here in my office. Kind of give the viewers an inside look at the department. What d’ya think? Nice touch, huh?’

It wasn’t exactly the way it was supposed to be done. That’s what the pressroom on the ground floor was for. McCabe knew Shockley didn’t care. He probably figured announcing Kelly’s arrest from his office, perhaps sitting casually on the corner of his desk, would let the public know that they could credit him personally with catching the bad guy.

McCabe didn’t care about that either. With Kelly in custody and Quinn safely in Winter Haven, today was a good day, and Shockley’s bullshit couldn’t screw it up. After all the darkness, the sun was finally beginning to shine. They’d caught Lainie Goff’s killer less than sixty hours after finding her body at the end of the Fish Pier. Maggie was okay and getting out of the hospital. Casey was coming home. And, best of all, so was Kyra. They’d have a good dinner. They’d make love. Maybe he’d get a little sleep – and he wouldn’t have any ugly dreams about his ex-wife.

‘Sure, Chief, that’s great. You enjoy yourself. Just do me a favor. Let me see what I can get out of Kelly before you make any major announcements.’

‘Hold on, McCabe,’ Shockley said in a lower, more private voice. ‘We need a conviction on this.’ The smile was gone. ‘Are you telling me you’re not sure you’ve got enough?’

‘Just let me interview him.’

‘What more do you need?’

‘A confession would help. We’re also waiting on DNA results from Augusta. Joe Pines promised the matches for this morning. The last thing you need is to make a big announcement and then have to take it back.’