At The Stroke Of Madness Part 10

Perfect, perfect, perfect.

He wrapped his creation in white wax paper, putting it on a tray that already included a can of c.o.ke, an individual-size bag of potato chips and a Snickers candy bar. It was the exact lunch his mother had packed for him every day of his childhood, or at least, every day for as long back as he could remember. The perfect lunch. Rarely a subst.i.tution. It always made him feel better, but this lunch wasn't for him. It was for his guest.

He smiled at that-his guest. He had never had a guest before. Especially not an overnight one. His mother would never allow it. And despite this being an accident, a mistake, a mess...Well, perhaps, yes, just perhaps, he liked the idea of having a guest. He liked having someone he could control for a change. At least for a little while. At least until he decided how to dispose of the parts he didn't need.

That was when he remembered. He might be able to use one of the freezers. Yes, maybe there was room for her in the freezer.

CHAPTER 32.

Luc Racine sat in the second row of folding chairs. The first row was reserved but remained empty, so Luc had a perfect view of the coffin at the front of the room. Too perfect a view. He could see the woman's makeup-caked face with cheeks too rosy. He wondered if she had ever worn lipstick that deep a shade of red. It almost made her look as if she wore a mask.

Luc pulled out the small notebook and pen from his s.h.i.+rt pocket, flipped it open and jotted down the date. Then he wrote, "No makeup. Absolutely no makeup," and he underlined "absolutely." He kept the notebook out and glanced around.

Marley stood by the door waiting for someone coming down the hallway. Perhaps it was that girl reporter. Luc had seen her in the reception area when he came in. Thank goodness she didn't recognize him, but then she probably couldn't see without her gla.s.ses.

Marley was in what Luc called his funeral director position, shoulders squared, back straight, his hands coming together below his waist, folded almost reverently as if in prayer, but his chin was up, showing an amazing amount of strength and authority. And there was the look that went with the posture.

Luc had observed Jake Marley so many times that he could catch the transition process though it happened quickly, within a blink of an eye. The man was an expert. He could go from any range of facial expressions, whether it be anger with an employee, sarcasm or even boredom, then within seconds the man could transform his entire face into an expression of complete complete compa.s.sion and sympathy. Complete, but Luc knew complete didn't necessarily mean compa.s.sion and sympathy. Complete, but Luc knew complete didn't necessarily mean genuine. genuine. In fact, he knew Jake Marley's expression wasn't genuine. It was just a part of his job, a skill honed and perfected. One necessary for his profession, like a fine craftsman's eye for detail, or in Luc's case, like a mail carrier's ability to memorize strings of numbers. But there was something about this skill of Marley's that seemed...hmm...Luc couldn't remember the word. Sometimes he had trouble remembering the right words. He scratched his jaw, trying to remember. In fact, he knew Jake Marley's expression wasn't genuine. It was just a part of his job, a skill honed and perfected. One necessary for his profession, like a fine craftsman's eye for detail, or in Luc's case, like a mail carrier's ability to memorize strings of numbers. But there was something about this skill of Marley's that seemed...hmm...Luc couldn't remember the word. Sometimes he had trouble remembering the right words. He scratched his jaw, trying to remember.

Holy c.r.a.p! He had forgotten to shave.

Then he glanced down at his feet-dad blasted! He still had his slippers on.

He looked back at Marley to see if the funeral director had noticed him. Maybe he could slip out the back. He twisted around in his seat. Shoot! This room didn't have another door. And now Marley was escorting two women in, directing them to the coffin. He gave Luc a slight nod of acknowledgment but nothing more. Marley's attention was, instead, on the two mourners, and Luc knew he didn't have to worry about Marley paying any more attention to him.

The elderly woman had artificial silver hair and big red-framed gla.s.ses that swallowed her small pigeonlike face. She leaned on her companion with every step. It was the companion who a.s.sured Luc he didn't have to worry about Marley. The woman wore a tight-fitting blue suit that accentuated her full figure in all the right places. She wore her long dark hair pulled back to reveal creamy, flawless skin.

Yes, she would have Jake Marley's full attention. She already had his hand on her lower back as he escorted them to the front of the room. Luc wondered if Marley was imagining his hand a few inches lower. Of course, he'd never slip. He was one smooth operator. Luc had observed him many times. Just as he had caught the sudden subtle face transformations, Luc had also watched Marley smooth talk and literally handle the pretty ones with a touch on the arm, the half pat, half stroke of the shoulder, the hand on the lower back. Luc had seen all of Marley's moves.

Maybe the women found it comforting, Luc told himself. Marley wasn't obnoxious about it. He wasn't a bad-looking guy, either. Sort of plain, but put him in one of his five hundred dollar black suits and the guy seemed to ooze strength, comfort and yes, authority. And women seemed to love guys with authority, especially when they were at their most vulnerable.

Luc watched the two women now at the casket, gazing at their loved one, whispering to each other as if not to wake her.

"Her hair looks beautiful," the older woman said, then added, "She wouldn't have worn that color of lipstick."

Luc smiled. See, he knew it wasn't her shade. He flipped his notebook open again and jotted down, "No whispering. Make people talk in normal tones."

The young woman glanced back at Luc and smiled. Her eyes were puffy, though she wasn't crying anymore. He smiled back and gave her a nod. In his notebook he wrote, "No crying allowed. And maybe some cheerful music. None of this...this funeral home music."

He tried to remember what kind of music he liked and drew a blank. Surely he could remember a particular song or maybe a singer. How could he not remember music?

Just then he noticed the two women whispering again, only this time the older woman was looking back over her shoulder at him as the young woman said something to Marley. There were talking about him. Wondering who he was. Why they didn't recognize him.

Time to leave.

He got up and took his time shuffling through the long second row of chairs. By the time he got to the door he heard one of them say something about bedroom slippers and realized that yes, they were talking about him.

Luc made it to the end of the hallway, out the door and down the street. Still no Marley. Of course, he wouldn't leave that beautiful brunette. So Luc took a moment to catch his breath and scratch in his notebook, "Bedroom slippers. Bury me in my bedroom slippers. The blue ones, not the brown ones."

He flipped the notebook closed and put it and the pen in his pocket. In the reflection of the store window he saw a man watching him from behind, from across the street. Was it Marley? He didn't want to turn around to look. Didn't want the man to know. He stood still, pretending to look at the knickknacks in the store that used to be Ralph's Butcher Shop. He looked between the hanging wind chimes and colorful wind socks, the same area where the rows of salami used to hang. He looked for the man's reflection and couldn't see it. Luc stole a quick glance over his shoulder. The man was gone.

Luc stared at his feet, at the slippers that he couldn't remember putting on that morning. Had there even been a man following him? Or was he really just imagining things?

CHAPTER 33.

Maggie moved her room service tray aside, s.n.a.t.c.hing one last piece of toast. She glanced at her watch. She had plenty she needed to do today, places to go, people to talk to. Adam Bonzado had tracked her down first thing this morning, inviting her to his lab at the university to take a look at one of the victims. He seemed under the impression that she was officially on this case. Maybe Sheriff Watermeier had even told him so. She wasn't sure why she was considering it. Most likely it wouldn't help her find Joan Begley. Except that his lab was at the University of New Haven, the same university where Patrick was.

She glanced at her watch again and dug out her cell phone. She had been putting this off long enough. She punched in the number from memory.

Gwen answered on the second ring as if she was expecting the call.

"It's not her," Maggie said without stalling, then waited out her friend's silence, letting it sink in.

"Thank G.o.d!"

"But she is missing," Maggie said, not wanting Gwen to misunderstand. She shoved aside a file she had thrown on the hotel desk. She opened it, but only to retrieve a photo. A photo of Joan Begley that Gwen had given her last week.

"Tell me," Gwen said. "Tell me whatever you've found out."

"I was in her hotel room last night."

"They let you in?"

"Let's just say I was in her hotel room last night, okay?" She didn't have the patience this morning for a lecture from her friend, the same friend who had managed to finagle someone into telling her Joan Begley had missed her flight. "It looks like she's been gone since Sat.u.r.day. But I don't think she just left. Her things are scattered around the room like she intended to come back."

"Is it possible he may have talked her into running off without her things?"

"I don't know. All her cosmetics? And her checkbook? You tell me, Gwen. Is she the type who would do that?"

There was silence again and Maggie used it to examine the photo. The photographer had interrupted Joan Begley, making her look up from a metal sculpture, her welding hood's protective gla.s.s mask pushed up, revealing serious brown eyes and porcelain-white skin. In the background were framed prints, bright splashes of red and orange and royal blue, beautiful explosions of colors with black streaks and slashes through the middle. And in the reflection of the gla.s.s, Maggie could almost make out another image. Sort of ironic. A portrait of the artist with a self-portrait of the photographer.

"No," Gwen Patterson finally answered. "She's not the type who would run off and leave her things. No, I don't think she would do that."

"I'm going to need your help, Gwen." She hesitated again, making sure she had her friend's attention. "Now's not the time to be holding back any client-patient confidentiality."

"No, of course not. No, I wouldn't do that. Not if it was something that might help find her."

"You said you had an e-mail from her that mentioned this man she may have been meeting. You said she called him Sonny, right?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Can you forward that e-mail to me?"

"Sure, I'll do it as soon as I get off the phone with you."

"I talked to Tully earlier. He's going to see if he can get into Joan's apartment."

"Can he do that?"

"She's been gone long enough to file a missing persons report. I want him to look around her place. Maybe see if she has a computer and if he can get into her e-mail. We need to find out if there's anything more about Sonny. If possible, Tully'll be going over later today. Would you be able to go over with him?"

More silence. Maggie waited. Had Gwen even heard her? Or had she asked too much?

"Yes," she finally said, and this time her voice was strong again. "I can do that."

"Gwen, one other thing." Maggie examined the photo again. "Did Joan ever mention a man named Marley?"

"Marley? No. I don't think so."

"Okay. I'm just checking. Call me if you think of anything."

"Maggie?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"Thank me when I find her. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

She barely clicked off and the phone started ringing. Gwen must have forgotten something.

"You remembered something?" Maggie said in place of a greeting.

"Agent O'Dell, why the h.e.l.l am I seeing you on TV?"

It wasn't Gwen. It was her boss, a.s.sistant Director Kyle Cunningham. d.a.m.n!

"Good morning, sir."

"It says a rock quarry in Connecticut. I thought you were supposed to be in your backyard and I see you're profiling a case in Connecticut. A case I don't remember a.s.signing you to."

"I'm here on personal business, sir. It was a mistake yesterday when Sheriff Watermeier said I was profiling this case."

"Really? A mistake? But you were there at the quarry?"

"Yes. I stopped by to check on-"

"You just stopped by? O'Dell, this isn't the first time you've just stopped by, but it better be the very last time. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. But they may actually need a profiler. This certainly has all the signs of a serial-"

"Then they need to request a profiler. Perhaps their own FBI office has someone available."

"I'm already familiar with-"

"I believe you're on vacation, Agent O'Dell. If you have personal business in the area, that's on your own time, but I better not see you on TV again. Do you understand, Agent O'Dell?"

"Yes, sir. I understand." But there was already a dial tone.

d.a.m.n!

She paced the room, stopping to watch the morning traffic down on Pomeroy Avenue and Research Parkway. She checked her watch again. There was still time for one stop. She swung on her jacket, slipping her key card into the pocket, and grabbed her notebook with directions already scrawled inside. She started out the door when she hesitated. What would it hurt? She went back to her computer case, unzipped the pockets until she found it. Then without giving it any more thought she shoved the envelope into her notebook and left.

CHAPTER 34.

Lillian did something that she had never done in all the years she had owned the bookstore-she called Rosie and told her she'd be late. Now as she sat in her car looking at the old house where she had grown up she couldn't help wondering if this was a mistake.

The entire place looked worn and run-down, from the peeling paint on the other buildings to the rusted old cars deserted in the yard like some graveyard for unwanted vehicles. There were a few she didn't recognize, added since her last visit, alongside the old panel station wagon, the one that had been first to be exiled after their mother's death. Somehow it had seemed inappropriate for either of them to use it without her permission.

Lillian stared out her own car window, her hands still on the steering wheel as she tried to decide whether to stay or leave. How in the world did her brother, Wally, live out here? Why did it not bother him to do so? That was something she had never understood. All those years growing up here and wanting, needing to escape. She couldn't imagine staying here, living here and not remembering, not being haunted by those memories. But Wally didn't seem to mind.

She tried to hold on to the courage, the determination she had started the morning with. She tried to imagine herself as one of the sleuths in the many mysteries she so enjoyed. She tried to go back to last night when she was putting pieces of the puzzle together and coming up with theories and ideas that even Henry admitted were exactly what the FBI profiler had come up with. And if all else failed, she needed to at least put to rest her nagging suspicion that Wally had anything to do with those bodies they were finding stuffed into barrels. If anything, maybe he was covering something up for Vargus. Yes, that would make sense. That was something Wally would do.

By the time she stepped up to the front door, she was having second thoughts. Yet, she reached under the nearby flowerpot for the spare keys. She wasn't sure why he bothered to lock the door. What could he possibly have that anyone would want? But that was Wally. Always suspicious of others. Always paranoid that someone was out to hurt him.

The house smelled musty, almost as if it had been closed up and unused except for the pungent smell of burnt food, quickly contradicting her initial impression. He had piles everywhere. Piles of newspapers and magazines and videotapes. But the kitchen looked spotless. No dirty dishes in the sink. No crusted pots and pans on the stove. No trash in the corner. She couldn't believe it.

She should check the refrigerator. She braced herself and opened the refrigerator's freezer, ready to wince. Henry had mentioned missing body parts but hadn't elaborated. She wasn't sure what she might find. But there was nothing unusual. Some frozen pizzas and hamburger patties. What did she expect? What in the world was wrong with her?

She shook her head and glanced into the laundry room off the side of the kitchen. This looked more familiar, piles of dirty clothes on the floor in no order of separation, such as whites from darks or delicates from heavy duty. She turned back to the kitchen when she noticed a white T-s.h.i.+rt crumpled and tossed into the corner on top a black trash bag.

This was silly, she told herself. She needed to get to the bookstore. She was getting carried away, lost in her imagination as usual. But she went to the corner and picked up the T-s.h.i.+rt, gasping as she unfolded it. It was caked and crusted and reddish-brown. And Lillian was convinced that it was blood. Her hands were shaking as her mind tried to reason it away.

Wally got nosebleeds as a child all the time. He probably still got them. He was always complaining about some ache or pain. The man was not healthy. Of course, he probably still got nosebleeds.