The trail of cat’s prints led out into the hall and up the broad stairs that arched gracefully to the landing on the second floor. McCabe probably wouldn’t have noticed them against the dark wood had he not been looking for them. He touched a finger to one at the top of the stairs. Still damp. The paw prints led to a room at the end of the hall, its door open just enough for a small cat to have slipped through. McCabe walked to the end of the corridor, raised one foot, and gently pushed. Silence. He entered and scanned the room, pointing the .45 first left, then right. Sheets lay rumpled on a queen-sized four-poster bed, dark red bloodstains providing a vivid counterpoint to the white lace canopy above. Beyond the bed, McCabe saw a thickening pool still spreading slowly across the not quite level floor. He swallowed hard and walked around the end of the bed to the other side.
Philip Spencer’s naked body lay on its back, his smug arrogance gone, his once handsome face contorted in agony. An overturned chair indicated a final struggle. He’d been stabbed half a dozen times. Where Spencer’s legs met, there was now only an open wound. On the wall above the bed, written in Spencer’s blood, a line from the English poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
McCabe counted the ways and counted again. Each time, the only answer that made any sense was the one that added up to Lucas Kane.
47
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?’