McCabe drove, following the route he’d constructed on the map. They left the turnpike at Augusta and headed east in slow traffic along Route 3. On a Friday night in September, the roads were still crowded with weekenders, in spite of predictions from the cheery voice on NPR of cool, overcast fall weather. They stayed on 3 through South China and Belfast. NPR was right about cool. The temperature was dropping, and Maggie flipped on the heater. They went through Bucksport, then turned south, leaving 3 and continuing on 15 toward Blue Hill. Nearly four hours after leaving Portland, McCabe found the turnoff from 15 onto Range Road. Five minutes later they passed the dirt road Priscilla Pepper had told McCabe would be there. The night was dark now, and cold, with temperatures in the upper thirties. They passed a mailbox on the left. McCabe stopped, reversed, saw the numbers 113, reversed again, and found a place to leave the car where it wouldn’t be seen. He planned to approach the place on foot. They got out of the car into an inky black night without a moon. Too damned cold for the light jacket he was wearing.
‘Might get some flurries,’ said Maggie. She didn’t sound unpleased. McCabe believed that Maggie, like a lot of Mainers, took pride in nasty weather the way some New Yorkers take pride in rudeness and aggressive driving. She pulled two sets of ultralight body armor from the trunk and flipped one to McCabe. He wondered if the Kevlar would help keep him warm. They donned voice-activated headsets, established communication, and left the line open. McCabe stuck a pair of folding binoculars and a digital recorder in his pocket.
They walked without speaking through the darkness. Priscilla Pepper had called it a private road. A dirt track, actually. Road was too grand a word. A mostly quiet night. An owl hooted. Later something bigger crashed through the woods. A deer? McCabe wasn’t sure if deer crashed around in the middle of the night. Maybe a bear? He didn’t know much about their habits either. A city kid, he’d rather chase bad guys through Manhattan alleyways anytime than through these woods. A low-hanging branch scratched his face, just missed his eye. He swore privately; an accidental injury was the last thing he needed. After that, he flicked the flashlight on and off every ten feet or so to check for more branches at eye level, or branches or holes on the ground that might trip him up. The light revealed fresh tire tracks. A car had passed this way not too long ago.
A hundred yards out, they saw lights from the main house. They moved up another fifty yards and knelt behind a rock outcropping just off the track that gave them a good view of the place. McCabe didn’t see any signs of surveillance cameras. Not even an alarm system. Two cars were parked on one side of the house, a gray Chevy Blazer and a black Toyota Land Cruiser. He focused the binoculars on the main building. A large, rustic, Adirondack-style hunting lodge, a log cabin times ten. The porch seemed to go all the way around, its railings crafted from birch limbs. McCabe guessed it had been built in the twenties, maybe earlier. A single dim light shone from an upstairs window. Downstairs, flickering firelight added to the electric illumination. He smelled wood smoke. He couldn’t see anyone moving inside. He shifted the binoculars to the guest cottage, which stood in front of a good-sized pond. Dark and quiet. It looked locked up. He searched for an entrance to the ‘finished basement’ and couldn’t find one. He decided to check the house first.
McCabe handed Maggie the binoculars and asked her to stay down and cover him. She looked like she was about to argue but instead crouched down and put her pistol and the flashlight on the rock in front of her. Good line of fire to cut off someone fleeing the house, either on foot or by car. It was pretty far out for a handgun, though – and she could only see someone fleeing toward the road, not back into the woods.
Lucinda Cassidy woke up in bed at home, in her room in North Berwick, shivering from the cold. Her quilt, the one Grammy made, must have fallen to the floor. Mommy shook her arm, waking her for school.
‘C’mon, Lucy, get up or you’ll be late. The bus will be here in half an hour, and I don’t want you skipping breakfast again. Get up now.’