6:28 A.M., Monday, August 24, 2009
Machias, Maine
Maggie took the key from under the geranium and let herself in. She double-locked the front door.
She checked to make sure the downstairs windows and the kitchen door were locked as well. She went upstairs. A note from her father was folded over and scotch-taped to her bedroom door. She pulled it off and read the message written in his familiar scrawl.
Maggie,
Didn’t want to wake you. Anya and I left early for Bangor. Going down for my next round of chemo. We’ll probably be there overnight but we’ll let you know about that. We’ll also check in with Emily. See if she’s ready to come home. If so, we’ll bring her.
Mostly, I want to apologize for my behavior last night. I was up most of the night feeling bad about it. The notion that my own son might have been involved in that girl’s murder was making me crazy, and I suppose my feelings were also mixed up with the anger that’s been stewing inside me ever since your mother died.
Regarding the evidence they found at Harlan’s place, we’ll talk about that when I get back.
I love you. And someplace deep down inside I hope I still have some love left for Harlan. I just have to find that place.
The note was unsigned. Maggie opened the door, hung her jacket and holster belt on the back of the chair, kicked off her shoes and lay down on her bed. A few seconds later she got up, pulled out her Glock and put it by her side on the bed.
She closed her eyes. Things were coming to a head and she figured she ought to at least try to get a few hours’ sleep before Detective Emmett J. Ganzer showed up to confront her about her accusations. But sleep wouldn’t come. She couldn’t erase the image of the plump little girl peeking out at her from the staircase. She couldn’t stop thinking about the phrase like a hog in a slaughterhouse and how it must have affected Tabitha. She pulled the drawing from her pocket, unfolded it and studied it. And noticed something she’d totally missed before. Too busy feeling guilty about hogs and slaughterhouses to notice what should have been right in front of her eyes. Could it have been an accident? Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not. She didn’t know. It was just a kid’s drawing after all. She refolded the sheet of paper and put it back in her pocket and felt a sadness well up inside of her. As she drifted off to sleep, she found herself wondering when, if ever, things would get better.
At 8:30 she was awakened by a call from the State Crime Lab in Augusta.
‘Hey, Maggie, Joe Pines.’
‘What do you have for me, Joe?’
‘The preliminary reads on those saliva samples you sent me. Terri said put ’em on the fast track, so I did.’
‘What’s the verdict?’
‘Neither one’s a match for fetal.’
‘You’re sure.’
‘Positive. Whoever spit in those cups wasn’t the father of the kid.’
The results wouldn’t necessarily clear Harlan of the charges against him. Or, for that matter, Sam. All they proved was someone else, as yet unknown, had sex with Tiff Stoddard. What Maggie had to do was figure out how to get a sample of Ganzer’s DNA. If Riordan really was Ganzer, a DNA match would go a long way toward proving it.
‘Joe, do me a favor and keep those results to yourself for a couple of days. Don’t even tell Terri.’
‘Gee, Maggie, I don’t know …’
‘Joe, trust me on this. It could make a difference whether we get this guy or not.’
‘Okay,’ he said reluctantly, ‘I guess I can stall. But only for a day or so.’
‘Thanks, Joe. Meantime, I’ve got another question for you.’
‘Shoot.’
‘How long would a tranquilizer drug remain detectable in the blood of a large dog after it’s been injected?’
‘You sure know how to come up with them, Savage.’
‘How long, Joe? This is for real. And it’s important.’
‘It’d depend on what drug was used. How big a dose the animal took. But, for most drugs, we should be able to find some sign if the blood was pulled in the first twelve hours after injection. Tox report could take some time, though. They always do.’
Maggie thanked Pines. Told him Frank Boucher, the Eastport police chief, would get the blood sample down to him ASAP.
She lay back down on the bed, wondering if she should try to get any more sleep. The decision was made for her. Through the open bedroom window she heard a car pull up in front of the house. An engine turn off. She went to the window, lifted a slat in the blind and saw Emmett Ganzer parked directly across the street. He was looking up at the house.
She’d meant to provoke a reaction with her accusations but hadn’t thought it would come this fast. Or here in this house. In broad daylight. She let the slat drop. Ganzer glanced up, perhaps catching the movement in the window. She speed-dialed McCabe, hoping he hadn’t checked out of the B&B yet. Hoping he hadn’t left for Portland. His phone rang once. Then twice. Then four times.
Ganzer emerged from the car, looked both ways before crossing the street.
McCabe’s message kicked in.
Ganzer walked towards the house.
‘McCabe,’ she said into the phone, ‘if you get this message and you’re still in Machias, please get your tail over to the house. I may need some backup.’
She clicked off. The doorbell rang. She strapped her gunbelt around her waist. Picked up the Glock from where she’d left it on the bed, chambered a round and slid it back into the holster. Put on her jacket. Took a small digital recording device from her drawer, put it in record mode and slipped it into her breast pocket.
The doorbell rang again. Maggie started down the stairs. The front door came into view. An antique lace curtain covered the door’s beveled glass oval. Through the lace she could see Ganzer’s face leaning in, hands on either side of his eyes to block out the light. She knew from a lifetime’s experience he’d be able to detect motion through the curtain but not be able to tell who was moving.
The bell rang again. And then again. The knob turned. Ganzer testing the lock. Maggie’s right hand pushed the flap of her jacket back and rested on the grip of her weapon. If McCabe came, he came. Otherwise she’d handle this herself. She crossed to the side of the door, ready to take care of business.