28
Tuesday. 8:45 P.M.
There wasn’t much traffic on the Gray Road, but McCabe checked the rearview periodically to make sure no one was following him. He found the turnoff onto Holder’s Farm Road right where it was supposed to be. He clocked 1.3 miles and pulled off onto the shoulder. He flashed his lights on and off twice, as instructed. Even without them he could see well. The sky was cloudless and the moon nearly full. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the land to his right was open meadow, probably part of a farm. Holder’s Farm? He removed the. 45 from the seat holster and placed it on the seat next to him, safety on. Then he waited. Five minutes passed. Ten. Apparently the mystery woman was going to keep him waiting. She said as much in the note. He lowered his window and leaned back. It might be a while. The September night air felt cool and fresh on his face. He could smell the composty scent of farmland. He kind of liked it.
That’s what he was thinking about when another notion invaded his mind and hung there, refusing to be dismissed. It should have occurred to him earlier, but he’d missed it, and now he couldn’t push it away — the idea that the note hadn’t been delivered to set up a meeting. It was intended to draw him away. To leave Casey unprotected. He damned himself for not covering his rear. A little paranoia wasn’t always a bad thing. Portland was making him feel too safe, too comfortable. That kind of feeling could be dangerous. He grabbed his phone and hit his own number, the fingers on his left hand drumming on the steering wheel as he waited for the line to connect, for Casey to pick up. One ring. Two. C’mon, Casey, answer the goddamned phone. Three rings. Four. Then Casey’s voice. ‘You have reached the McCabes. Leave a message…’ Shit. He clicked off. Images of dark strangers filled his mind, watching and waiting from hidden places, looking up at Casey’s lighted windows, invading his home.
He hit redial. The rings started again. One. Two. C’mon, baby, pick up the phone. ‘Did you forget something?’ Casey’s voice again, this time live. McCabe exhaled as silently as he could.
‘Where were you?’ he asked.
‘Where was I?’
‘A minute ago. I called. Nobody answered.’
‘I was in the bathroom.’
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ she said, her voice puzzled.
‘Has anyone called or rung the buzzer?’
‘No.’
‘Any strange noises?’
‘Dad, you’re freaking me out.’
‘I’m sorry. Look, I’m going to ask Maggie to come over.’
‘Why?’
‘Just because I’m being silly. Humor me. I’ll call you back if she can’t come. Make sure it’s Maggie before you let her in.’
‘Alright,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I’ll make sure.’ She hung up.
Of all the women McCabe knew and trusted, Maggie was the only one who carried a gun. The only one who knew how to tag a stakeout. He speed-dialed her number.
‘Hello.’ Her voice sounded softer, more sensual than the Maggie he was used to. Was he interrupting a moment of passion? Probably. ‘Hello?’ she said again.
‘Maggie?’
‘McCabe? What is it?’ Instantly alert, Maggie the lover morphed into Maggie the cop.
‘Listen. I’m up here in hell and gone, and Casey’s down there on her own. I think the note may have been designed to draw me away.’
‘Okay. Any reason you think that?’
‘Other than the fact she’s unprotected, no, and our friend hasn’t turned up yet. I’m sorry. I know you have a date. My mind’s playing games with me. I just need to have Casey covered. I’ll make it up to you.’
A long sigh, then, ‘I understand. It’s okay. You’re right. Call Casey. Tell her I’ll be there in five.’
‘Apologize to Einar for me. I’m really sorry.’
‘It’s alright. I’m a big girl. Just remember you owe me.’ She hung up.
McCabe’s anxiety faded. He decided to wait another ten minutes. If the note writer didn’t show, he’d head back to Portland and let Maggie get on with her life. The night outside was dead quiet. Not even the chirp of cicadas disturbed the calm — but the sound of a shoe scraping on gravel did. It was coming from the right and rear of the Bird, along the shoulder of the road. So soft that in the city he wouldn’t have heard it. McCabe sat still. Moving only his right hand and wrist, he disengaged the safety on the. 45 and rotated it so that when the door of the Bird swung open, it was pointed right at the woman’s face.
It was a face he knew. The face of the woman he chased down Exchange Street. The woman he spoke to in the cathedral. She was dressed differently, more casually, in jeans and a black cotton shirt, but it was definitely the same face.
‘Pulling a door open like that is a good way to get yourself killed,’ said McCabe. ‘Get in. Generally speaking, I’d recommend not sneaking up on armed men in the dark.’
She ignored both his words and the gun pointed at her and slipped into the seat beside him. She closed the door. ‘Drive,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk as we go.’
‘Where’s your car?’
‘Hidden. About a mile from here.’
He started the engine and pulled out onto the road. ‘Anywhere in particular you want to go?’
‘Just drive. These country roads go on for miles.’ The accent was French and the woman attractive. McCabe noticed a more than passing resemblance to the actress Jeanne Moreau in Francois Truffaut’s 1962 classic Jules et Jim. A little older than Moreau was then. Maybe forty or forty-five.
‘You’re not wearing a wire, are you?’ she asked.
He pulled back onto the road. ‘No. There’s a small digital recorder in the glove box, but it’s not turned on.’
She opened the box, examined the device, saw he was telling the truth, and put it back. She picked up the extra magazine and some shotgun shells. ‘Are you planning a war?’
‘You never know these days, do you?’
She put the mag and the shells back and closed the door.
‘Quebecoise?’ he asked.
‘Non. Francaise. Je suis de Montpellier. Pres du Mediterranee.’
McCabe didn’t respond.
‘You speak French?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Okay. We’ll speak English.’ Her English seemed good, though accented.
‘You’re the note writer?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘I didn’t think anyone was going to show up.’
‘I had to be sure you weren’t followed.’
‘Why would I be followed?’
‘Because of me.’
McCabe checked the rearview again. No lights. He drove faster, turning from one small country road onto another, occasionally doubling back, using the map in his mind to track every twist and turn. The Bird wasn’t a Porsche, but with its 312 V8 and a three-speed stick, it had plenty of kick and was more than passably agile. If anyone was attempting to follow, he’d either lose them or they’d reveal themselves soon enough. Unless, of course, they were attempting to follow with lights turned off. Treacherous on these roads. Especially at high speeds, even on a moon-filled night.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘My name is Sophie Gauthier. As I told you, I’m French. French-Algerian, actually. Born in Algiers. My father was in the colonial army. My mother was Algerian. Like most of the colonials, we left after independence in 1962
