her and they made love, slowly, sweetly, silently, for what seemed like a long time. Then he fell asleep, watching the horizontal patterns of light and shadow play against both floor and walls as the new morning sun shone through the slats of the wooden blinds.
He woke around seven thirty. His bruises hurt, and he was disappointed that the other side of the bed was empty. Kyra must have gotten up early and gone off to her studio. He wanted her here. He hadn’t yet had his fill of her. He pushed the sheets back. He was still naked, and with the windows open the morning air coming through the blinds felt soothingly cool on his scraped skin. He grabbed a pair of ancient red sweatpants that lay in a heap on the floor behind the bentwood rocker and pulled them on. The words ST. BARNABAS TRACK running down one leg represented the last remnant of Mike McCabe’s less than heroic career as a middle distance runner on his high school squad. He walked to the window and pulled the cord to open the blinds further. He stood, looking out at Casco Bay and the islands. That view and the fact that it was less than a mile’s walk to police headquarters were the primary reasons he’d paid more than he could afford for the three-bedroom condo when he signed on, three years earlier, as chief of the PPD’s Crimes Against People unit.
It was one of those golden September mornings. Not the kind he would have chosen either for investigating a murder or attending an autopsy. Cool air and a good breeze. He watched the down-bay ferry chug toward Portland and a small sailboat, its yellow-and-red-striped spinnaker billowing, move left to right across his field of vision. Absentmindedly he fingered the old scar that ran seven inches across his abdomen, a souvenir from his days as a newbie, still wearing a uniform. He’d been careless making a collar, and a drugged-out teenager slashed him with a four-inch switchblade. He hadn’t seen it coming, but he didn’t shoot the boy. He was proud of that. He brought the kid in. He was proud of that, too, but he’d vowed never to be so careless again.
There was a knock at the bedroom door. ‘Yeah,’ he called.
Casey came in and flopped down on the bed. ‘You looked pretty beat up when you came in last night.’
‘I was pretty beat up.’
She positioned the tattered remains of Bunny, a stuffed animal she’d had since she was a baby, on her lap. It was now little more than a fuzzy rag with ears, but she refused to give it up.
McCabe lay down next to her. ‘Did you have a good night?’ he asked.
‘It was okay. Gretchen and Whitney were here till about eleven. We just messed around till Whitney’s mom came and got them. Kyra came in about ten thirty. She’s gone?’
‘I think she went to her studio.’
‘Are you going to marry Kyra?’ Casey asked, a serious expression on her face. She was fiddling with Bunny’s ears.
‘I don’t know. Maybe, but not right now.’ He had no idea where this conversation was going. ‘How would you feel about that?’
‘Is that important?’
‘How you feel? Yeah. It’s real important.’
‘I dunno. I like Kyra. Would that make her my mom?’
‘Your stepmother.’
‘You think I look like Mom? I mean my real mom?’
‘Yes, you do. Your mother’s a beautiful woman. You will be, too.’
He looked down and was surprised to see that Casey was holding a picture of Sandy. In the picture, Sandy was wearing cutoffs and a bikini top and leaning against the T-Bird. The black hair. The ice blue eyes. The face the camera loved.
‘Where did you find that?’ He hadn’t seen the picture in years.
‘I’ve had it,’ she said. ‘I brought it with me from New York.’
‘Really?’ This was news to McCabe. ‘Do you have any others?’
‘A couple. This is the best one.’ They sat quietly for a moment, neither quite knowing what to say next.
‘Do you want to see your mother?’ he finally asked with more than a little reluctance.
There was another
He woke around seven thirty. His bruises hurt, and he was disappointed that the other side of the bed was empty. Kyra must have gotten up early and gone off to her studio. He wanted her here. He hadn’t yet had his fill of her. He pushed the sheets back. He was still naked, and with the windows open the morning air coming through the blinds felt soothingly cool on his scraped skin. He grabbed a pair of ancient red sweatpants that lay in a heap on the floor behind the bentwood rocker and pulled them on. The words ST. BARNABAS TRACK running down one leg represented the last remnant of Mike McCabe’s less than heroic career as a middle distance runner on his high school squad. He walked to the window and pulled the cord to open the blinds further. He stood, looking out at Casco Bay and the islands. That view and the fact that it was less than a mile’s walk to police headquarters were the primary reasons he’d paid more than he could afford for the three-bedroom condo when he signed on, three years earlier, as chief of the PPD’s Crimes Against People unit.
It was one of those golden September mornings. Not the kind he would have chosen either for investigating a murder or attending an autopsy. Cool air and a good breeze. He watched the down-bay ferry chug toward Portland and a small sailboat, its yellow-and-red-striped spinnaker billowing, move left to right across his field of vision. Absentmindedly he fingered the old scar that ran seven inches across his abdomen, a souvenir from his days as a newbie, still wearing a uniform. He’d been careless making a collar, and a drugged-out teenager slashed him with a four-inch switchblade. He hadn’t seen it coming, but he didn’t shoot the boy. He was proud of that. He brought the kid in. He was proud of that, too, but he’d vowed never to be so careless again.
There was a knock at the bedroom door. ‘Yeah,’ he called.
Casey came in and flopped down on the bed. ‘You looked pretty beat up when you came in last night.’
‘I was pretty beat up.’
She positioned the tattered remains of Bunny, a stuffed animal she’d had since she was a baby, on her lap. It was now little more than a fuzzy rag with ears, but she refused to give it up.
McCabe lay down next to her. ‘Did you have a good night?’ he asked.
‘It was okay. Gretchen and Whitney were here till about eleven. We just messed around till Whitney’s mom came and got them. Kyra came in about ten thirty. She’s gone?’
‘I think she went to her studio.’
‘Are you going to marry Kyra?’ Casey asked, a serious expression on her face. She was fiddling with Bunny’s ears.
‘I don’t know. Maybe, but not right now.’ He had no idea where this conversation was going. ‘How would you feel about that?’
‘Is that important?’
‘How you feel? Yeah. It’s real important.’
‘I dunno. I like Kyra. Would that make her my mom?’
‘Your stepmother.’
‘You think I look like Mom? I mean my real mom?’
‘Yes, you do. Your mother’s a beautiful woman. You will be, too.’
He looked down and was surprised to see that Casey was holding a picture of Sandy. In the picture, Sandy was wearing cutoffs and a bikini top and leaning against the T-Bird. The black hair. The ice blue eyes. The face the camera loved.
‘Where did you find that?’ He hadn’t seen the picture in years.
‘I’ve had it,’ she said. ‘I brought it with me from New York.’
‘Really?’ This was news to McCabe. ‘Do you have any others?’
‘A couple. This is the best one.’ They sat quietly for a moment, neither quite knowing what to say next.
‘Do you want to see your mother?’ he finally asked with more than a little reluctance.
There was another
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