McCabe watched, sure Lucinda would start screaming and thrashing, as Maggie pulled away the duct tape and untied the restraints. She didn’t. She let Maggie take her in her arms and help her to a sitting position. Then Maggie hugged and stroked her and told her over and over that she was safe. That she would be okay. That the nightmare was over. To McCabe’s surprise, Cassidy simply closed her eyes, laid her head on Maggie’s shoulder, and quietly wept. She babbled a little, the babbles mostly incoherent, except for the word ‘Mommy,’ repeated a number of times. For Lucinda it was going to be a long road back. McCabe put the light on the autopsy table next to Maggie and went downstairs.
In nearly complete darkness, he felt his way to the back utility room and flipped on the main power switch. The lights came back on. The Goldberg Variations picked up where they’d left off. In the hallway, Lucas Kane lay in the middle of the floor. Dead once. Now, dead again. This time for good. It was over.
McCabe could hear sirens. He walked to the front door and opened it in time to see three Maine State Police cars and a MedCU unit scream into the compound. Maggie must have called Ellsworth after all. Good for Maggie.
Troopers poured out of the cars dressed for combat. McCabe walked out of the house, hands in the air, holding his shield high over his head for the troopers to see.
‘McCabe?’ one of them called. A sergeant. Apparently in charge.
‘Yes,’ McCabe shouted and went to join them by the cars.
‘Sergeant Bill Dickinson, Ellsworth Barracks.’ He held out his hand.
McCabe shook it. ‘Katie Dubois’s murderer is inside the big house. He’s dead. My partner’s upstairs caring for a female hostage.’
‘The Cassidy woman?’
‘Yeah.’ He turned to the EMTs, one of whom was bandaging his cut hand. ‘The woman upstairs – she’ll need to be sedated. Otherwise she seems okay. Third floor.’ They nodded and both of them headed for the building.
‘What else?’ asked Dickinson.
‘Some people are holed up in a large basement area under the cottage over there. A doctor. Some nurses. An old man with a serious heart condition. He’ll need medical attention, too.’
‘Armed? Fortified?’
‘No. They’re using it as an operating room. Just let them know you’re here. My guess is they’ll come out without a peep.’
Two heavily armed troopers rushed the building and tried the door. Unlocked. They slipped inside.
McCabe watched them go, then turned and started walking back toward the house.
‘Where are you going?’ Sergeant Dickinson’s voice boomed out behind him.
McCabe looked back. ‘Me? I’m getting my partner and going home.’
52
Saturday. 1:00 A.M.
They started back to Portland the same way they’d come. Maggie was at the wheel. McCabe stared silently out the window, thinking about nothing, thinking about everything. The road was nearly empty now, and Maggie drove fast, easily overtaking the few cars they encountered along the way. Temperatures had fallen down near the freezing mark, but the promised flurries hadn’t materialized. ‘Get some sleep,’ she said. ‘We can trade over in an hour or so.’ He nodded and closed his eyes, but they wouldn’t stay closed. Instead they focused on the center stripe, reflected in the headlights, rushing toward them, then disappearing under the hood of the car.
In the warmth generated by the heater, McCabe’s weary brain played and replayed the final seconds of Lucas Kane’s life, watching from another vantage point as he and Kane engaged in their slow, final dance of death. He saw Kane, already bleeding from two bullet wounds, lunge forward. Saw himself duck beneath the arc of Kane’s slashing blade. Then from his crouching position he saw himself drive forward, his shoulder striking Kane just below the waist. Finally he watched himself as he rose and, using Kane’s own forward momentum, lifted the bigger man up and over the railing. He watched the fall. The flapping of the arms. The fatal impact.
Each time he watched, McCabe came to the same conclusion. If he hadn’t risen, if, instead, he’d moved straight forward, or angled left or right, Kane wouldn’t have gone over the rail. He would have just been knocked to the floor. In all probability, he would have died from the gunshot wounds anyway. Either way, the question McCabe had no answer for was a simple one. Had he flipped Kane over the rail on purpose? Had he, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, wanted to make absolutely sure that there would be no trial? That there would be no Sheldon Thomas finding some slick way to get the killer off? He wasn’t certain of the answer – and if truth be told, he finally realized, he didn’t really care. Just as he’d told Kyra about TwoTimes, the man was vermin and he deserved to die. Ambiguity. McCabe was comfortable with that.
‘Are you alright?’ Maggie asked, glancing over at him.
‘Yes,’ he said finally, after thinking about it a little longer. ‘Yes. I’m fine.’ He gazed out the driver’s side window. They were crossing the Penobscot River east of Bucksport on the old Waldo-Hancock Bridge. The skeleton of the new bridge, still under construction, rose out of the darkness just south of them.