Friday. 12:30 P.M.
McCabe’s eyes darted back and forth between Spencer’s body and the bloody writing on the wall. In his mind’s eye, he saw Lucas Kane standing triumphant atop Denali. Lucas Kane. Spencer’s lover. Spencer’s betrayer. Spencer’s killer. How do I love thee, Kane had asked. The only truthful answer was the one Browning had written. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach. Assuming, of course, Kane’s soul was, as Melody Bollinger described, vicious and voracious, sex defining nearly everything Lucas Kane did. McCabe was sure Bollinger was right about these things. He was now also certain she was right about Kane being alive – and deep down inside himself, in a place of which he was only dimly aware, he knew that was something he was going to have to change.
He heard steps in the corridor. Maggie’s long figure appeared in the door. She saw the bloody sheets on the bed. He held up a hand to stop her. Ignoring it, she crossed the room and looked down. She closed her eyes, opened them, looked around, walked to the master bathroom, bent over Harriet Spencer’s fancy French bidet, and threw up.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said.
‘Not a problem.’
He took out his cell and hit Tasco’s number. Just as it rang, they heard the steel basement hatch, outside the back door, clang shut. McCabe moved to the bathroom window. A tall figure, dressed in black and wearing cowboy boots, walked quickly but calmly to the side door of the garage. Then the man turned, looked up, and, for an instant, smiled at McCabe in the window. Before McCabe could get a shot off, Lucas Kane disappeared.
‘Mike, Mike, answer me. Dammit.’ Tasco’s voice, shouting from the cell.
‘The garage, Tom. He’s in the garage. Get him.’
‘Spencer?’
‘No, Spencer’s dead. The murderer.’
From his right, McCabe saw Tasco and Fraser sprinting up the driveway, weapons drawn.
‘Careful, Tommy,’ he shouted into the cell. Tasco wasn’t listening.
An engine roared to life. Garage doors slid open. Tires squealed. Philip Spencer’s black Porsche Boxster hurtled down the driveway, spraying gravel. Tasco leapt out of the way. Eddie Fraser stood his ground and fired twice. The car sideswiped Fraser, tossing him into the air. He landed hard on the lawn. The small Porsche just made it past Tasco’s blocking vehicle. It turned left and screamed away. Tasco squeezed off two rounds. Both missed. He ran to the radio in his Crown Vic. ‘This is seven-two-two. Detective down. I need an ambulance at 24 Trinity Street. Hit-and-run suspect vehicle heading west toward Vaughan. Black Porsche Boxster. Maine registration Two-Eight-Zero-One-Victor-Romeo. Repeat Two-Eight-Zero-One-Victor-Romeo. One male subject in vehicle. Consider armed and very dangerous. Over.’
‘Roger, seven-two-two. MedCU en route, 24 Trinity. We’ll be right there. Out.’ This was followed by the loud electronic signal that would alert all units that a priority transmission was about to be broadcast.
The two patrol units that had been parked around the corner roared by in pursuit, lights flashing, sirens screaming. McCabe and Tasco reached Fraser simultaneously. Eddie was clutching his side, trying to sit up. Blood poured from a gash on his forehead. ‘Stay down. Ambulance’ll be here in a second,’ said McCabe.
Tasco opened a first-aid kit, tore the paper wrapping from a bandage, and pressed it onto Fraser’s bleeding forehead. McCabe rose, walked toward the house, and stopped, reconstructing the scene in his mind. Had someone been in the car with Kane? Yes. A woman. A blonde. Hunched over in a strange position. Maybe shot. He walked back to Fraser. ‘Eddie? How many people did you see in the car?’
Fraser held up two fingers.
‘You’re sure?’ asked McCabe.
Fraser nodded and spoke through the pain. ‘A guy driving. A woman next to him.’
‘Did you hit either one?’
He shook his head. ‘Shitty shooting, huh?’
McCabe radioed from Tasco’s car. Two people in the suspect car. A dark-haired man and a blond woman, possibly Harriet Spencer, possibly Lucinda Cassidy, either a possible hostage.
He wondered where Kane was heading and if the blonde was, in fact, Hattie Spencer. He’d only seen the woman for a split second as the Porsche sped down the driveway. Had she been restrained in any way? He backed his mind up to the single frame in which her image appeared just as he would a video editing machine. The frame was blurry. It flashed by so fast he couldn’t be sure.
He returned to the house.
Upstairs, he gazed at Spencer’s mutilated corpse. The sirens faded in the distance. The crime scene techs were on their way. He had to figure out what to do next. For the moment, he didn’t have a clue.
Maggie appeared at his side. ‘McCabe, what in hell is this all about?’
‘It’s about Lucas Kane.’
‘I thought Kane was dead.’
‘Kane faked his own death.’
‘Why?’
‘Lots of reasons. Probably figured being dead would keep the cops from watching his new business venture too closely. Probably thought disappearing into the grave was cool.’
‘Cool like Harry Lime in The Third Man?’
‘ Cool like that.’
‘Why’d he have to castrate Spencer? Why couldn’t he just kill him… well… normally?’
‘I think it’s about power.’ Sex defined nearly everything Lucas Kane did. ‘In Kane’s mind, cutting off the genitals might have been a way of symbolically neutralizing an enemy’s power.’
Maggie looked dubious.
‘That’s not a new idea. Balls have been a metaphor for bravery and power for a long, long time.’
‘Sick.’
‘Very.’
‘You’re sure it was Kane you saw down there?’
‘You know me. I never forget a face.’
‘Jesus, McCabe, doesn’t this creep ever take a vacation?’ Bill Jacobi called from the door. ‘My guys can’t keep up with the corpses.’ He looked down at the mutilated body. ‘Cute. What did he do with the guy’s schwantz? Keep it for a souvenir? Terri here yet?’
‘Not yet. We’ll get out of your way so you can do your job.’
Outside, the scene had changed dramatically. An ambulance and half a dozen patrol units were pulled up, plus a couple more unmarked Crown Vics. Crime scene tape surrounded the property. Neighbors and passersby gawked from the street. Rumors of Philip Spencer’s violent death brought the media out in force. Flies to honey. News Center 6’s Josie Tenant once again in the lead. McCabe had no doubt her reports would go directly into NBC’s national feed. He owed Melody Bollinger a call, but that’d have to wait.
A pair of EMTs lifted Eddie Fraser into the ambulance for the short ride to Cumberland. ‘Three or four broken ribs and a concussion,’ Tasco told them. ‘Maybe some other broken bones as well.’
McCabe and Maggie walked over to Shockley and Fortier. ‘Anybody get the Porsche?’
‘Not yet.’ Shockley spoke first. ‘Nobody’s seen it since it left the West End.’
‘We’ll find him,’ said Fortier. ‘If he’s still in it.’
‘He won’t be.’ McCabe told his bosses about Lucas Kane.
‘You’re sure it was Kane?’ asked Fortier.
‘I’m sure.’
‘He’s got a hostage?’ asked the chief.
‘Maybe. Maybe not. We spotted a blond female in the car.’
‘Harriet Spencer? Lucinda Cassidy?’
‘My money’s on Hattie.’
The call came less than a minute later. A female shopper pulling into a space on the upper level of a garage off Monument Square noticed a blond woman slumped in the Porsche parked next to her. She thought the woman might be sick, so she looked closer. Then she called