There was a moment’s hesitation on the other end of the line; then Moehler said, ‘Hold on.’

Thirty seconds later she was back on the line. ‘She’s not there. I don’t understand how she could’ve just disa –’

McCabe cut her off. ‘Have you seen Dr Wolfe?’

‘Yes. He was with her about an hour ago, but he left. I haven’t seen him since.’

Shit. A whole hour since Wolfe had left. And McCabe himself had told the bastard to try hypnotherapy. Abby could be anywhere wandering around in a hypnotic trance. Even worse, she could be with Wolfe. ‘Ms. Moehler,’ McCabe said, ‘transfer me to hospital security now.’

While he waited for Security to answer, he told Cleary to get Gorham PD on the phone. Chief John Sax.

‘Winter Haven Security. Garth Andersen speaking.’

‘Andersen, this is Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland PD.’

‘How can I help you?’

‘I need you to organize an immediate search of the building and the grounds.’

‘Alright. Who or what am I looking for?’

‘A patient named Abby Quinn. Brought in last night. Female schizophrenic. Twenty-five years old. Reddish brown hair. She may be wearing civilian clothes, and she may be with Dr Richard Wolfe.’

‘Wolfe? I know Wolfe. I can just page him.’

‘Don’t do that. Tell your people not to say anything to Wolfe.’ The last thing McCabe needed was some unarmed security guard alerting Wolfe they were after him and getting his ass shot off in the process. ‘Just find Quinn and take her into custody. If Wolfe’s with her, tell him you’re under orders and call us immediately. If he objects, don’t interfere. Just keep an eye on him and call me.’ He gave Andersen his number. ‘Gorham police will be there to back you up in a few minutes.’

‘I’ll need some kind of authorization on this.’

‘Call Portland PD. Chief Shockley’s office.’ McCabe looked over at Shockley. ‘He’ll confirm what I’ve told you.’

Shockley went back to his office to take the call.

‘I’ve got Chief Sax from Gorham on line one.’ Cleary held out the phone. McCabe took it. ‘Hey, McCabe, John Sax here.’

‘John, we need your help,’ said McCabe. He gave Sax a quick rundown on the situation. Sax said he’d scramble all available units and head them to the hospital. He’d go over there himself and take over from Security.

‘Tell your people to be careful, John,’ said McCabe. ‘Wolfe’s armed and very dangerous. He doesn’t know we’re after him yet. Let’s keep it that way as long as we can. We’ll e-mail you photos of both Quinn and Wolfe.’

He nodded at Starbucks, who nodded back and left to make it happen.

He looked around the table. ‘Tom, you and Carl get over to Sanctuary House and turn the place upside down. If Wolfe doesn’t have her, Quinn may be hiding there.’

The conference room phone rang. Fraser picked it up, then held it out to McCabe. ‘It’s Nurse Moehler from Winter Haven.’

‘Yes, what is it?’ asked McCabe.

‘I just found some things in Quinn’s room that may be important.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Her hospital gown was balled up next to the toilet. She didn’t have any other clothes when she came in last night, and nobody’s been to see her. Dr Wolfe must have brought her some clothes.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. A note. On the table next to her bed.’ He could hear Moehler take a deep breath. ‘She may be suicidal.’

‘What’s it say?’

‘It’s kind of, I don’t know, a poem or something.’

‘What’s it say?’

Moehler began reading.

I smell Death all around me.

My beginning and my end.

I’ll go back to my heart

where I first saw his blue, blue eyes.

I long to embrace Death again.

For the very first time.

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

He didn’t know if Abby wrote poetry. But he hoped she did. Because if she didn’t, Richard Wolfe did, and that was bad news. I long to embrace Death again. ‘Let’s go, Tonto,’ he said, pulling Maggie out of her chair. ‘We’re out of here.’

‘Where to?’

‘Harts Island.’ On the way out he asked Cleary to make sure the Mangini was waiting for them.

McCabe drove. Lights. No siren. They were at the pier in less than two minutes. Maggie was on the line to the Harts Island cop shop when they climbed aboard. A cop named Bob Fane took the call.

She put Fane on speaker and told him to get a search party together. Quinn was on her way back to the island. Probably suicidal. ‘You guys need to check any and all boats coming in. Not just the ferries but lobster boats, fishing boats. Anything that floats. She’s already tried jumping from the rocks twice. She may try again.’

‘Jesus, Mag, there are a hundred places on this island she could jump from.’

‘Well, round up as many people as you can and check them all. Also check her house. If you find her, hold her. If she’s with a man, it’ll be Richard Wolfe. Arrest him – but be careful. He’s armed and definitely dangerous.’

‘Got it.’

‘One more thing. McCabe and I are on the Mangini now. Should be on the island in five to seven. We’re heading to Kelly’s. We need wheels.’

‘Tell the skipper to drop you at the sailing club dock. That’s closer to Kelly’s than the landing. Someone will meet you there with a four-by.’

Maggie’s last call was to Casco Bay Lines. She left word for the ferry crews to be on the lookout for Abby Quinn and for Richard Wolfe.

Thirty-Nine

Harts Island, Maine

An attractive woman in her forties with short blond hair and a trim figure was leaning on a Ford F-150 pickup when the Mangini pulled in.

‘Hi, I’m Lori Sparks.’ McCabe recognized the name as the owner of the Crow’s Nest. ‘Bob Fane said you guys needed wheels.’ She waved at the truck. ‘Keys are in the ignition. Just leave it outside the Nest when you’re done.’

They thanked her and climbed in.

‘Hope you find her,’ Sparks shouted as they pulled out. ‘She’s a good kid. She deserves a break.’

McCabe drove as fast as the twisty and narrow island lanes would allow. He felt certain Quinn was here on Harts Island, certain she was at Kelly’s. Back to my heart. Where I first saw his blue, blue eyes. Casco Bay and the Portland skyline flashed by to their left. The distinctive shapes of office buildings and the twin spires of the Observatory and the Catholic Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception stood out, graceful silhouettes against an orange Hollywood sunset. Portland’s native son director, John Ford, would’ve loved it. At the end of the paved road McCabe bumped the big Ford onto the same rutted dirt trail he’d followed last night, the truck nearly too wide for the space. Maggie tilted her body to avoid putting weight on the exit wound. The bumps hurt.

‘Just a couple of minutes more,’ said McCabe.

His phone vibrated. Art Astarita in New York. McCabe stopped to take the call.

‘We’re in the bank,’ said Astarita. ‘Archer’s just opening her box now.’ Pause. ‘Okay, we’ve got the envelope. We’re opening it.’

McCabe resisted the urge to tell Astarita to hurry.

‘Jesus, McCabe, you got some real cuties up there in Portland. This stuff’s gross. Some older guy doing weird shit to a girl who looks like she’s about twelve. Bondage. Maybe torture.’

‘She’s supposed to be sixteen.’

‘Sure as hell doesn’t look it.’

‘Can you see the guy’s face?’

‘Yeah. Front face. Side face. Everything else, too. I’ll e-mail you the stack soon as I get ’em scanned. You got a real charmer there. Hope you cut his balls off.’

McCabe thanked him, the gratitude genuine, the circle closed. Would the photos be enough to send Wolfe to prison? Lainie didn’t think so, but that was before she was murdered.

He pulled the truck into the turnaround. No other vehicles. If Abby was here, she hadn’t driven. If Wolfe was here, he hadn’t either. They could see no signs of life by the shack. Maybe McCabe was wrong about the poem. Maybe they were somewhere else.