James Hayman - The Cutting

PENGUIN BOOKS

James Hayman spent more than twenty years as a senior creative director at one of New Yorks largest advertising agencies. He and his wife now live in Portland, Maine. The Cutting is his debut novel.

There are many people I wish to thank for their help and encouragement in writing this book. Among them, in no particular order, are:

Detective Sergeant Tom Joyce, who once held McCabes job in the Portland Police Departments Crimes Against People unit and who now teaches Criminal Justice at Southern Maine Community College. What I got right is due to Tom. What I got wrong is entirely my own fault.

Dr. George Bud Higgins and Dr. Bob Kramer of Maine Medical Center and Dr. Bob Zeff of the Iowa Heart Center for their knowledge and insights about medical practice in general and transplant surgery in particular.

Portland attorneys Brenda Buchanan, Ron Schneider, and Elizabeth Burns for their insights on criminal and family law.

Bruce White, Transplant Co-Ordinator at Maine Med.

Jim Ferland of the Office of Chief Medical Examiner of Maine for showing me where and how autopsies are done.

Jane Hayman Abbott, Cynthia Thayer, Lewis Robinson, Kate Sullivan, Mike Kimball, Shonna Humphrey, Brenda Buchanan (again), Jane Slovan, Richard Bilodeau, and Eleanor Lincoln Morse, fine writers all, who were kind enough to read the manuscript and offer ideas and suggestions that improved it enormously.

Laima Vince, whose writing workshops helped get me started down this road, and Cevia Rosol for proofing and copyediting the early drafts.

Charlie Spicer, Yaniv Soha, and Andy Martin of Minotaur Books for their unstinting support and encouragement.

Meg Ruley, a good friend and, without question, the best agent a first- time novelist could ever hope to find, and Suzy Kane, a fellow islander, who introduced me to Meg.

Finally, my children, Kate and Ben, and my wife, Jeanne, for their love and encouragement every step of the way.

Portland, Maine

September 16, 2005

Friday. 5:30 A.M.

Fog can be a sudden thing on the Maine coast. On even the clearest mornings, swirling gray mists sometimes appear in an instant, covering the earth with an opacity that makes it hard to see even ones own feet on the ground. On this particular September morning it descended at 5:30, about the time Lucinda Cassidy and her companion Fritz, a small dog of indeterminate pedigree, arrived at the cemetery on Vaughan Street to begin their four-mile run along the streets of Portlands West End and the path that borders the citys Western Promenade.

The cemetery was one of Portlands oldest and was surrounded by a chain-link fence, now falling into disrepair. The gates on the Vaughan Street side were locked to keep out neighborhood dog walkers. The earliest gravestones dated back to the late 1700s. On most of these stones, dates and other specifics had faded to near illegibility. Those that could be read bore the names of early Portlands most prominent families, Deering, Dana, Brackett, Reed, Preble. These were old Yankee names, many of which had achieved a measure of immortality, having been bestowed upon the streets and parks of a young and growing city. More recent stones marked the graves of Irish, Italian, and French-Canadian immigrants who came to Portland to work in the citys thriving shipbuilding trades or on the railroads in the last half of the nineteenth century. Today, however, no more of the dead would be buried here, regardless of ancestry orinfluence. The place was full, the last remains having been interred and the last markers erected in the years immediately following World War II.

When the fog moved in, Lucy considered canceling her run, but only briefly. At age twenty-eight, she was preparing for her first 10K race. She had more than enough self-discipline not to let anything as transitory as a little morning fog interfere with her training schedule. It was tough enough getting the runs in, given the long hours she worked as the newest account executive at Beckman and Hawes, the citys biggest ad agency. In any case, Lucy knew her route well. The fog wouldnt be a problem as long as she took care not to trip on one of the sidewalks uneven pavers.

The air was cool on her bare legs as Lucy performed her stretches calves and quads and hamstrings. She pulled off her oversized Bates College sweatshirt, revealing a white sports bra and blue nylon shorts, and tossed it into her car, an aging Toyota Corolla.

She saw no other joggers or dog walkers and thought she and Fritz might well have the streets to themselves. She slipped off his collar to let him run free. He was well trained and wouldnt go far. She pulled a Portland Sea Dogs cap down over her blond hair, stretching the Velcro band down and under her ponytail. She draped the dogs lead around her shoulders and set off along Vaughan Street at a leisurely pace, with Fritzy first racing ahead and then stopping to leave his mark on a tree or lamppost.

Lucy liked the quiet of the early morning hours in this upscale neighborhood. Passing street after street of graceful nineteenth-century homes, she glanced in the windows and imagined herself living in one or another of them. The image pleased her. She saw herself holding elegant dinner parties. The food would be simple but perfectly prepared. The wines rare. The men handsome. The conversation witty. All terribly Masterpiece Theatre . Ah well, a pretty picture but not very likely. She was not, she knew, to the manner born. She watched Fritz scamper ahead and then turn and wait for her to follow.

Lucy moved through the damp morning air, bringing her heart rate up to an aerobic training level. She thought about the day ahead, reviewing, for at least the twentieth time, details of a TV campaign she was presenting to the marketing group at Mid-Coast Bank. Shed worked her tail off to land this new client, but they were turning out to be both difficult and demanding. After work, she planned a quick trip to Circuit City to pick up a birthday present for her soon-to-be twelve-year-old nephew Owen. Her older sister Pattis boy, Owen told her what he really really wanted was an iPod, but he wasnt optimistic. We dont have the money this year, he added in grown-up, serious tones that had Pattis imprint all over them. Well, Owen was in for a big surprise.

After that it was back to the Old Port for dinner with David at Tonys. The prospect of dinner at Tonys pleased her. The prospect of sharing it with her ex-husband didnt. He was pushing to get back together, and yes, she admitted, there were times she was briefly tempted. God knows, no one else even remotely interesting was waiting in the wings. Yet after a couple of dates, she was surer than ever that going back to David wasnt the answer for either of them. She planned to tell him so tonight.

She ran along Vaughan for a mile or so, climbing the gentle rise of Bramhall Hill, before turning west across the old section of the hospital toward the path that lined the western edge of the Prom. The fog was thicker now, and she could see even less, but her body felt good. The training was paying off, and she felt certain shed be ready for the race, now ten days away.

Suddenly Fritz darted past and disappeared into the mist, barking furiously at what Lucy figured was either an animal or another runner coming up the path in her direction. Then she saw Fritz run out of the fog, turn, and stand his ground, angry barks lifting his small body in an uncharacteristic rage. Instantly alert, Lucy wondered who or what could be getting him so agitated. Usually he just wagged his stub of a tail at strangers.

Seconds later a runner emerged from the fog about fifteen feet in front of her. He was a tall man with a lean, well-muscled body. Had she seen him jogging here before? She didnt think so. He was unusually good-looking with dark, deep-set eyes that would be hard to forget. Late thirties or early forties, she thought. Fritz backed away but kept barking.