At The Stroke Of Madness Part 2

O'Dell shuffled through the pages. "She left the District last Monday, so it's been a week."

"How did she get involved with a man in less than a week? And you said she was there for a funeral? Who meets someone at a funeral? I can't even pick up a woman at the Laundromat."

She smiled at him, quite an accomplishment. O'Dell hardly ever smiled at his attempts at humor. Which meant the good mood lurked close to the surface.

"Let me know if you need any help, okay?" he offered, and now she looked at him with suspicion and he wondered, not for the first time, if Dr. Patterson had confided in O'Dell about their Boston tryst. Geez, tryst wasn't right. That made it sound...tawdry. Tawdry wasn't right, either. That made it sound...O'Dell was smiling at him again. "What?"

"Nothing."

He got up to leave. Wanting her to believe his offer had been genuine, he added, "I'm serious, O'Dell. Let me know if you need any help. I mean with any of your cases, not with the backyard digging. Bad knee, remember?"

"Thanks," she said, but there was still a bit of a smile.

Oh, yeah, she knew. She knew something.

CHAPTER 6.

Wallingford, Connecticut.

Lillian Hobbs loved her Mondays. It was the one time she left Rosie alone during the busy rush hours, steaming milk for lattes, collecting sticky quarters for cheese Danishes and the New York Times. New York Times. Not a problem. According to Rosie, the busier, the better. After all, it had been Rosie's idea to add a coffee bar to their little bookstore. Not a problem. According to Rosie, the busier, the better. After all, it had been Rosie's idea to add a coffee bar to their little bookstore.

"It'll bring in business," Rosie had promised. "Foot traffic we might not get otherwise."

Foot traffic was just the thing Lillian had dreaded. And so at first she had revolted. Well, maybe revolted revolted was too strong a word. Lillian Hobbs had never really revolted against anything in her forty-six years of life. She simply hadn't seen the wisdom in Rosie's side enterprise. In fact, she worried that the coffee bar would be a distraction. That it would bring in the gossipmongers who would rather make up their own stories than purchase one off their shelves. was too strong a word. Lillian Hobbs had never really revolted against anything in her forty-six years of life. She simply hadn't seen the wisdom in Rosie's side enterprise. In fact, she worried that the coffee bar would be a distraction. That it would bring in the gossipmongers who would rather make up their own stories than purchase one off their shelves.

But Rosie had been right. Again. The coffee crowd had been good for business. It wasn't just that they cleaned them out of the daily New York Times New York Times and and USA TODAY. USA TODAY. There were the magazine sales, and the occasional paperbacks that got picked up on impulse. Soon the regular coffee drinkers-even the mocha lattes with extra whipped cream and the espresso addicts-were browsing the shelves and wandering back into the store after work and on the weekends. Sometimes bringing their families or their friends. Okay, so foot traffic hadn't been such a bad thing, after all. There were the magazine sales, and the occasional paperbacks that got picked up on impulse. Soon the regular coffee drinkers-even the mocha lattes with extra whipped cream and the espresso addicts-were browsing the shelves and wandering back into the store after work and on the weekends. Sometimes bringing their families or their friends. Okay, so foot traffic hadn't been such a bad thing, after all.

Yes, Rosie had been right.

Actually, Lillian didn't mind admitting that. She knew Rosie was the one with a head for business. Business was Rosie's forte and books were Lillian's. That's why they made such excellent partners. She didn't even mind Rosie rubbing her nose in it every once in a while. How could she mind when she was allowed to revel in her own pa.s.sion every single day of the week? But Mondays were the best, like having Christmas once a week. Christmas sitting in a crammed, dark storage room, soothed by her cup of hazelnut coffee and armed with a box cutter.

Opening each box was like ripping into a precious gift. At least that's what it felt like for Lillian, opening each new s.h.i.+pment of books, pus.h.i.+ng back the cardboard flaps and taking in that aroma of ink and paper and binding that could so easily transport her to a whole different world. Whether it was a s.h.i.+pment of eighteenth-century history books or a boxful of Harlequin romances or the latest New York Times New York Times bestseller, it didn't matter. She simply loved the feel, the smell, the sight of a box of books. What could be more heavenly? bestseller, it didn't matter. She simply loved the feel, the smell, the sight of a box of books. What could be more heavenly?

Except that this Monday the stacks of ready and waiting cartons couldn't keep Lillian's mind from wandering. Roy Morgan, who owned the antique store next door, had raced in about an hour ago, breathless, ranting and raving and talking crazy. With his face flushed red-Lillian had noticed even his earlobes had been blazing-and his eyes wild, Roy looked as though he would have a stroke. Either that, or he was having a mental breakdown. Only Roy was probably the sanest person Lillian knew.

He kept stumbling over his words, too. Talking too fast and too choppy. Like a man panicked or in a frenzy. Yes, like a man who was losing his mind. And what he was saying certainly sounded like he had gone mad.

"A woman in a barrel," he said more than once. "They found her stuffed in a barrel. A fifty-five-gallon drum. Just east of McKenzie Reservoir. Buried under a pile of brownstone in the old McCarty rock quarry."

It sounded like something out of a suspense thriller. Something only Patricia Cornwell or Jeffery Deaver would create.

"Lillian," Rosie called from the door of the storage room, making Lillian jump. "They have something on the news. Come see."

She came out to find them all crowded around a thirteen-inch TV set that she had never seen before. Someone had slid it in between the display of pastries and the napkin dispenser. Even Rosie's coveted antique jar that she used for the pink packages of Sweet'n Low had been shoved aside. As soon as Lillian saw the TV, she knew. First a coffee bar, now a TV. She knew that whatever was happening would change everything. Not for the better. She could feel it, like a storm brewing. Could feel it coming on like when she was a child, and she had been able to predict her mother's temper tantrums before they started.

On the small TV screen she saw Calvin Vargus, her brother's business partner, standing in front of the pet.i.te news reporter. Calvin looked like a plaid railroad tie, solid and stiff and bulky but with a silly boyish grin as if he had discovered some hidden treasure.

Lillian listened to Calvin Vargus describe-although they were getting his bleeped version-how his machine had dug up the barrel out of the rocks.

"I dropped it. Bam! Just like that. And its (bleep) (bleep) lid sort of popped off when it hit the ground. And lid sort of popped off when it hit the ground. And (bleep) (bleep) if it wasn't a if it wasn't a (bleep bleep) (bleep bleep) dead body." dead body."

Lillian checked the huddled crowd-about a dozen of their regulars-and looked for her brother. Had he come in yet for his daily bear claw and gla.s.s of milk? And his opportunity to complain about today's aches and pains. Sometimes it was his back, other times it was the bursitis in his shoulder or his ultrasensitive stomach. She wondered what he would think about his partner's discovery.

Finally, she saw Walter Hobbs sipping his milk as he sat at the end of the counter, three empty stools away from the frenzy. Lillian took the long way around and sat on the stool next to him. He glanced at her and went back to his copy of Newsweek Newsweek opened in front of him, more interested in the headlines about dead Al Qaeda members found a world away than the dead body in their own back yard. opened in front of him, more interested in the headlines about dead Al Qaeda members found a world away than the dead body in their own back yard.

Without looking up at her and without waiting for her question, Walter Hobbs shook his head and mumbled, "Why the h.e.l.l couldn't he have stayed away and left that f.u.c.king quarry alone?"

CHAPTER 7.

Luc Racine felt sick to his stomach. And embarra.s.sed-because the dead body hadn't made him as nauseated as the TV camera did. He had been fine before they turned the camera on him, before the girl reporter had simply asked him questions. He had been more fascinated by the way her eyes bulged behind the thick gla.s.ses. Huge and blue, they reminded him of some exotic fish eyes stuck behind a gla.s.s tank. But then the gla.s.ses came off and the camera went on and it was pointed right at him, right at him like a high-powered rifle sight.

The girl reporter's questions came faster now. Already he couldn't remember her name, though she had just introduced herself to the camera lens. Maybe it was Jennifer...or Jessica...no, it was Jennifer. Maybe. He needed to pay closer attention. He couldn't think and answer as fast as she could ask. And if he didn't answer quick enough, would she turn her attention to Calvin again?

"I live right over there," Luc told her, his arm waving high over his shoulder. "And no, I didn't smell anything unusual," he added, almost spitting on her. "Not a thing." She stared at him instead of asking another question. Oh, c.r.a.p! He had spit spit on her. He could see it-a little glistening spot on her forehead. "The trees sorta block this area off." He waved again in the other direction. Maybe she hadn't noticed the spit. Why did his arm go up so high? "All this area is very secluded." on her. He could see it-a little glistening spot on her forehead. "The trees sorta block this area off." He waved again in the other direction. Maybe she hadn't noticed the spit. Why did his arm go up so high? "All this area is very secluded."

"Very remote," Calvin said, and Luc glanced at him in time to catch the scowl meant especially for Luc, though hidden from the camera by the girl reporter's back.

But Calvin's comment caught her attention and now she was turning in his direction again, reaching the microphone up to him. It was a stretch. Calvin Vargus stood well over six feet. Earlier inside the big earthmoving machine, Luc thought Calvin looked like part of the machine-thick, heavy, strong and durable like a giant chunk of steel. Yeah, a chunk of metal with few defining marks, like a neck or waist.

She looked like a dwarf next to Calvin, practically standing on tiptoes to reach the microphone up to his fleshy lips, but content to give Calvin her full attention now, despite his earlier colorful description of the morning's discovery. Of course she preferred Calvin's version, especially since he would only say it and not spray it. Who wouldn't prefer a giant no-neck to an arm-waving spitter?

Luc watched. What else could he do? He'd had his chance and he blew it. And this wasn't even his first time. He had been on TV before. Once during the anthrax scare. A woman on his route had gotten sick, and Luc had delivered the letter. For a week they closed down the postal station in Wallingford, tested all facilities and grilled the carriers about precautions they should take. Luc had been interviewed on TV, though he hadn't been allowed to say much. That woman died. What was her name? How long ago was that? Last year? The year before? Certainly it hadn't been long enough ago that he couldn't remember her name.

Now he would be on TV again because some other woman was dead. And he didn't know her name, either. He looked back. They were a safe distance from the crime-scene tape and the deputy who screamed at them anytime they ventured an inch or two closer. Yet Luc could still see the barrel toppled over, its side dented in. One big chunk of brownstone kept it from rolling down the pile of rocks. A blue plastic tarp now covered her, but he could still see the image of that gray-blue arm flung out of the barrel, protruding halfway, as if the body were trying to crawl out. That was all he had been able to see-all he needed to see-that arm and a hunk of matted hair.

Luc felt a nudge at the back of his leg and, without looking, he reached down for the dog to lick his hand. Only there was no lick. He glanced at Sc.r.a.pple, who immediately went into his defensive stance, gripping harder on the prize he had brought to show his owner. Another bone. Luc ignored him, and his attention went back to the excitement beyond the trees.

Suddenly, it hit Luc. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He looked back at the dog working his paws to hold his large treat as he chewed on the fleshy end and tried to get his teeth around the perimeter. Luc's knees went weak.

"Holy c.r.a.p, Sc.r.a.pple. Where in the world did you get that?" he said to the Jack Russell, but now everyone around him went silent as they twisted and turned to see.

Luc glanced at the girl reporter and asked, "You think that's what it looks like?"

Instead of answering-or as if confirming it-she began vomiting on Calvin Vargus's size-thirteen boots. Her hand went up to block the camera and in between gags she yelled, "Shut it off. For G.o.d's sake, shut off the camera."

CHAPTER 8.

Sheriff Henry Watermeier didn't need a forensic expert to tell him what he was looking at. The larger bone Luc Racine held out to him had enough tissue to keep the smaller bones attached. And although some of the smaller bones were missing and the flesh was now black and deteriorated, there was no question as to what the Jack Russell terrier had dug up. What Luc Racine held out in shaking hands-his palms faceup as if making an offering-was definitely a human foot.

"Where the h.e.l.l did he find it?"

"Don't know," Luc said, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving Henry's as if willing himself not to look at the dog's discovery any more than necessary. "He brought it to me. But I don't know where he found it."

Henry waved over one of the mobile-crime guys, a tall, skinny Asian man with a name tag reading "Carl" on his blue uniform. He reminded himself that it wasn't a bad thing he didn't know all the mobile-crime guys by name, even if they were from up the road at Meriden's Police Crime Lab. Just meant the really sick b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were committing their crimes somewhere outside the boundaries of New Haven County. For the second time today, Henry found himself hoping this sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't seriously f.u.c.k up his own retirement plans. He had come this far with a perfect record-no unsolved mysteries during his reign-and he'd sure as h.e.l.l like to keep it that way.

"That didn't fall out of the barrel, did it?" Carl asked as he shook open a paper evidence bag, then held it under Luc's outstretched hands, positioning it for Luc to drop the bones into the bag.

But Luc, who had seemed anxious to get rid of the thing, now only stared at Henry. He nodded at Luc to put it into the bag, and like a sleepwalker waking suddenly, Luc jerked-almost as if snapping back to reality-and he dropped the bone.

Henry kept an eye on him, studying him. Luc Racine had been one of the first people Henry had met when he and Rosie moved here. h.e.l.l, everyone knew Luc. He was the best, friendliest postal carrier in the area, making it a habit to remember his customers by name. Henry remembered a package that Luc had delivered when Henry wasn't home, wrapping it in plastic and leaving it on Henry's front portico with a note explaining that it had looked like rain. That wasn't so long ago, and now Luc Racine had taken early retirement. Word was he had early-onset Alzheimer's disease.

How was that possible? The man looked younger than Henry. Though his hair was silver-gray, he had a full head of it, not like Henry's, which seemed to get thinner and thinner and receded away from his forehead more each day. Racine looked fit and trim, too, arms tanned and twisted with muscles from lifting and carrying years' worth of junk mail. Although Henry had a bit of a paunch around the middle, he prided himself on the fact that he could still fit into his NYPD police uniform that he had worn...G.o.d, had it been thirty-some years ago?

As Henry a.s.sessed the man standing in front of him, he couldn't help thinking that Luc Racine appeared the picture of health for a man in his sixties. Except for that blank stare, the one that came out of nowhere. The one staring back at him right now that looked lost, gone, miles away.

"I think there are others," Luc said, reaching under his trademark black beret and scratching his head, his fingers digging into the s.h.a.ggy hair as if penetrating his scalp would help him remember.

"Others?" Henry checked Luc's eyes. Was this part of the disease? What was he talking about? Did he forget where he was? Did he forget what had just happened? "Other what?"

"Bones," Luc said. "I think ole Sc.r.a.p maybe brought me some others. He's always bringing me stuff, sc.r.a.ps, bones, old shoes. But the bones...I just thought he found leftovers from the coyotes' kill. You know, from down by the pond."

"Do you still have any of them?"

"I don't."

"d.a.m.n."

"But Sc.r.a.pple probably does. I'm sure he's got some of them buried around our place somewhere."

"We'll need to look. You don't mind us doing that, do you, Luc?"

"No, no. Not at all. Do you think the bones belong to that lady in the barrel?"

Before Henry could answer, one of his deputies, Charlie Newhouse, yelled for everyone's attention. Charlie and two of the crime lab guys had been trying to carefully lift the barrel with the woman still inside down off the rocks. All the photos had been taken, the evidence gathered, and the a.s.sistant M.E. had made his initial examination. It was time for the transport, but Charlie seemed all excited about something. Charlie Newhouse, the one guy Henry remembered never getting excited except after a few beers and then only when the Yankees managed to make a triple play.

"Okay, you got our attention." Henry joined the others and looked up at Charlie, putting his hand to his forehead to block out the sun. "What the h.e.l.l is it, Charlie?"

"Might not mean a thing, Sheriff," Charlie said, securing his balance as he paced from rock to rock, looking down into the pile as if trying to locate lost change. He then squatted to get a better look. "Might not mean a thing at all, but there're more barrels under here. And something sure smells to high heaven."

CHAPTER 9.

Adam Bonzado shoved aside Tom Clancy with one hand while he maneuvered the winding road with the other, twisting and pulling at the stubborn and cracked vinyl steering wheel. At each incline the old El Camino pickup groaned as if there were another gear it needed to be s.h.i.+fted into. Adam stirred up the pile of ca.s.settes strewn across the pa.s.senger seat, the pile that somewhere included the other three ca.s.settes for Tom Clancy's Red Rabbit. Red Rabbit. He searched with stray glances for something else, something that fit his mood. All he knew was that Clancy wasn't going to cut it. Not today. He searched with stray glances for something else, something that fit his mood. All he knew was that Clancy wasn't going to cut it. Not today.

Sheriff Henry Watermeier had sounded strained, may be even a bit panicked. Not that Adam knew Henry all that well. They had worked a case last winter. A skull found under an old building that was being demolished in downtown Meriden. All Adam could determine was that it was a small Caucasian man older than forty-two but younger than seventy-seven who had died about twenty-five to thirty years ago. It was difficult to tell with only the skull. The body must have been buried somewhere else. With all their digging, they had found nothing more, and so, the time of death had been a major guess, based more on architectural facts than archeological ones. Despite the lack of evidence, Watermeier seemed convinced it had been a mob hit.

Adam smiled at the idea. He couldn't imagine the mob operating in the middle of Connecticut, although Watermeier had quickly filled him in with a couple of tall tales. Or at least that's what they sounded like to Adam, who had grown up in Brooklyn and figured he knew a little something about mob hits. But he also knew Henry Watermeier had begun his career as a New York City beat cop, so maybe ole Henry knew a thing about mob hits, too.

Adam Bonzado couldn't help wondering if that was what they had on their hands this time. Dead bodies stuffed in rusted fifty-five-gallon drums and then buried under several tons of brownstone in a deserted rock quarry sounded like something the mob might come up with. But if there were bones scattered around the area, as Henry reported, somebody didn't do a very good job of disposing of the victims. The mob wasn't usually that careless.

Adam reached for the ca.s.sette caught between the door and the seat. He read the spine. Perfect. His fingers fumbled with the plastic container. He slowed down to wind around another S in the road as he pried open and freed the Dixie Chicks from their confinement. Then he gave them a gentle shove into the ca.s.sette drive and cranked up the volume.

Yes, this was exactly what he was in the mood for. Something upbeat to get the feet tapping and the blood flowing. He couldn't help it. Digging up bones got him excited. Pumped up his adrenaline. There was no better puzzle. Sure, he enjoyed teaching, but that was only to make a living. This-dead bodies in barrels and scattered bones-this was what he lived for.

Unfortunately, after ten years, his parents still didn't get it. He had a Ph.D. in forensic anthropology, was a professor and department head at the University of New Haven, and his mother still introduced him as her youngest son who was single and could play the concertina, as if those two things were his most admirable characteristics. He shook his head. When would it no longer matter? He was a grown man. He shouldn't care what his parents thought. The fact that he cared-no, not cared but worried about what they thought-he could even track back to their influence. For Adam Bonzado knew he had inherited his quiet, rebellious spirit from his Spanish father and his stubborn pride from his mother's ancestral Polish blood.

After creeping up the S in the road, it was time to come back down, and the old pickup flew. Adam didn't brake. Instead, he sat back and enjoyed the roller-coaster ride, working the rigid steering wheel, twisting, turning and pulling to the s.e.xy rhythm of the Dixie Chicks. The intersection appeared suddenly. Adam slammed on the brakes. The pickup came skidding to a halt inches in front of the stop sign and seconds before a UPS truck rolled through.

"c.r.a.p! That was close."

His hands were fisted, his fingers red and still gripping the steering wheel. But the UPS driver simply waved, full hand, no choice fingers extended, no lips moving to the tune of "f.u.c.k you." Maybe the guy simply hadn't realized how close Adam had come to plowing into him. He reached over as an afterthought and turned down the volume on the Dixie Chicks. As he did so, he noticed the metal pry bar that had slid out from under the pa.s.senger seat.

Adam checked his rearview mirror to make sure he wasn't holding up traffic, then he leaned down, grabbed the pry bar, slid open the rear window and tossed the tool into the enclosed pickup bed. It clanked against the lining and he cringed, hoping he hadn't cracked the makes.h.i.+ft sh.e.l.l he'd just installed. It was a tough, waffle-weave polyurethane that was supposed to be easy to clean and would protect the bed from rust and corrosion, no matter how much mud and bones and blood he stuffed back there. It was just another measure he took to keep his pickup from becoming a smelly mobile morgue.

He checked the floor for more tools. He needed to remind his students to put their tools back whenever they borrowed his pickup. Maybe he shouldn't complain. At the least the pry bar was clean. That was a start.

CHAPTER 10.

Maggie juggled her briefcase in one hand, a pile of mail under her arm and a can of Diet Pepsi and a rawhide chew bone in the other hand as she followed Harvey out onto their patio. Harvey had convinced her as soon as she walked in the front door that they should spend their first afternoon of vacation in the backyard.

She had only planned on making a brief visit to her office at Quantico to finish up some paperwork. She'd had no intentions of bringing work home with her. Now, as she unloaded the files from her briefcase onto the wrought-iron patio table, she wished she had left these back on her desk, hidden under the stacks where they had been for the last several months.

She watched Harvey, nose to the ground, doing his routine patrol of the fence line. Her huge two-story, brick Tudor house sat on almost two acres, protected by the best electronic security system money could buy, as well as by a natural barrier of pine trees that made it difficult to see even her neighbors' roofs. Yet the white Labrador went into guard duty every time they stepped out of the house, not able to relax or play until he checked out every inch.

He had been this way ever since Maggie adopted him. Okay, adopted adopted wasn't quite right. She had rescued him after his owner had been kidnapped and murdered by serial killer Albert Stucky, targeted only because she happened to be Maggie's new neighbor. Of course, Maggie had rescued poor Harvey. How could she not? And yet, the ironic part was that Harvey had rescued her, too, giving her a reason to come home every evening, teaching her about unconditional love, forgiveness and loyalty. Lessons she had missed out on growing up with an alcoholic, suicidal mother. Important qualities that had also been missing from her marriage to Greg. wasn't quite right. She had rescued him after his owner had been kidnapped and murdered by serial killer Albert Stucky, targeted only because she happened to be Maggie's new neighbor. Of course, Maggie had rescued poor Harvey. How could she not? And yet, the ironic part was that Harvey had rescued her, too, giving her a reason to come home every evening, teaching her about unconditional love, forgiveness and loyalty. Lessons she had missed out on growing up with an alcoholic, suicidal mother. Important qualities that had also been missing from her marriage to Greg.

Harvey was at her side now, having performed his routine patrol and nudging her hand for his reward. She scratched behind his ears and his big head lolled to the side, leaning against her. She gave him the rawhide chew bone and he pranced off, flopping himself down into the gra.s.s, monster paws holding the bone as he chewed while he kept one ear perched, listening, and his eyes on Maggie. She shook her head and smiled. What more could a girl want? Loyalty, affection, admiration and constant protection. And Tully wondered why she was content to have her divorce settlement over with, behind her. In ten years of marriage she had never felt any of those things with Greg.

Maggie grabbed the file folders, hesitating and glancing at the can of Diet Pepsi. She hadn't gone through these before without a gla.s.s of Scotch in hand. There was a bottle in the cabinet, the seal unbroken. It was supposed to be there only as proof that she didn't need it. Proof that she wasn't like her mother. It was supposed to be proof, not temptation. She caught herself licking her lips, thinking one short drink wouldn't matter. She wouldn't have it neat. It could be on the rocks, watered down, hardly a drink at all. It would take the edge off, help her to relax.