At The Stroke Of Madness Part 9

Lillian sat quietly, listening in disbelief as Henry told her and Rosie about the bodies they had found so far. Of course, it was all confidential, and she knew there were things he wasn't telling them, couldn't tell them. When he came in earlier, his distraught and exhausted demeanor had been enough for Rosie to suggest they close the store early, something Lillian thought she would never hear her partner suggest. Now they sat, sipping decaf among thousands of the best stories captured in print, and yet Lillian couldn't help thinking Henry's story had them all beat. Forget Deaver and Cornwell, this was something only Stephen King or Dean Koontz could concoct.

"Sweetie," Rosie said to her husband, keeping her small hand on top of his large one. "Maybe it's some drifter. Maybe this has scared him off."

"No, O'Dell says he has a paranoid personality. Usually those guys stick to familiar territory because they are paranoid. I've been trying to think of everyone I know who lives alone out on acreages in this area. But those I can think of don't seem like the type."

"The profiler says he lives close by?" Lillian wasn't sure why that made her heart skip a beat. Perhaps it made it all too real. She liked thinking about this case in terms of fiction.

"He's probably watching the news coverage every day, getting his kicks."

"But if he's paranoid, Henry, he's not getting kicks," Rosie said. "Wouldn't he be devastated that you discovered his hiding place? Maybe even ticked off?"

Henry looked at his wife, surprised, as if he hadn't expected her to hit the nail right on the head. But it seemed like common sense. You didn't need to be a rocket scientist or Sherlock Holmes to know this guy would be upset. Lillian added to Rosie's thesis, "Yes, very upset. Are you concerned that he might come after one of you?"

"That's what O'Dell suggested." He didn't look happy that someone else would suggest the same. "She said the guy might panic, but I don't think he would risk s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up."

Lillian couldn't help feeling elated that she could have come up with the same idea the profiler had come up with. Maybe she was good at this. Who said you had to have life experiences to figure these things out, when all she had done was read about it.

"I'm guessing the profiler says he's a loner, a plain sort of man who goes about his business without much notice." She liked playing this game. She tried to remember some of her favorite serial killer novels. "Perhaps he's someone who doesn't draw much attention to himself in public," she continued while Henry and Rosie listened, sipping their coffee, "but ordinarily, he seems to be a nice enough guy. He works with his hands, a skilled worker who has access to a variety of tools. And, of course, his penchant for killing will most likely be somehow tracked to the volatile relations.h.i.+p he probably had with his mother, who no doubt was a very controlling person."

Now the pair was looking at her with what she interpreted as admiration or maybe amazement. Lillian liked to think it was admiration.

"How do you know so much about him?" Henry asked, but Lillian had been wrong about his look of admiration. It appeared instead to be laced with a hint of suspicion.

"I read a lot. Novels. Crime novels. Suspense thrillers."

"She does read a lot," Rosie said, as if she needed to vouch for her partner.

Lillian looked from Rosie back to Henry, who seemed to be studying her now. It caught her off guard and she felt a blush starting at her neck. She gave a nervous shove to her gla.s.ses and tucked her hair behind her ears. Did he really think she knew something about this case, about this killer?

"Maybe I should read more," he finally said with a smile. "I could probably crack this case faster. But I have to tell you, for a minute there you sounded like you were describing someone, someone you knew fairly well."

"Really?" she said, and tried to think of a character who might fit the bill. And suddenly her stomach did a somersault. She did know someone who fit her description, but it wasn't anyone in a novel. The person she had described could very easily be her own brother, Wally.

CHAPTER 29.

It was late by the time Maggie got to the Ramada Plaza Hotel. She started to feel the exhaustion of the day. A tight knot throbbed between her shoulder blades. Her eyes begged for sleep. And she wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. In the parking lot, while she unloaded her bags, she felt someone watching her. She had looked around but saw no one.

As she waited for the desk clerk-or rather, according to Cindy's plastic clip-on badge, "desk clerk in training"-Maggie tried to decide what she'd tell Gwen. After everything that had happened today, she wasn't any closer to knowing where Joan Begley was. For all she knew the woman was still here at the Ramada Plaza Hotel, lying low and simply escaping.

Maggie watched the desk clerk as she plugged in her credit card information. Hotel policy wouldn't allow them to give out Joan's room number. And Maggie didn't want to draw attention to herself or cause alarm by whipping out her FBI badge. So instead she said, "A friend of mine is staying here, too. Could I leave a note for her?"

"Sure," Cindy said, and handed her a pen, folded note card and envelope with the hotel's emblem.

Maggie jotted down her name and cell phone number, slipped the card into the envelope, tucked in the flap and wrote "Joan Begley" on the outside. She handed it to Cindy, who glanced at the name, checked the computer and then scratched some numbers under the name before putting it aside.

"Here's your key card, Ms. O'Dell. Your room number is written on the inside flap. The elevators are around the corner and to your right. Would you like some help with your luggage?"

"No thanks, I've got them." She slung her garment bag's strap over her shoulder and picked up her computer case, taking several steps before turning back. "Oh, you know what? I forgot to tell my friend what time we're supposed to meet tomorrow. Could I just jot it down quickly?"

"Oh, sure," Cindy said, grabbing the note and sliding it across the counter to Maggie.

She opened the envelope and pretended to write down a time before slipping the card back in, this time sealing the envelope and handing it back to Cindy. "Thanks so much."

"No problem." And Cindy put the card aside, not realizing she had just shown Maggie Joan Begley's room number.

Maggie threw her bags onto the bed in her own room. She kicked off her shoes, took off her jacket and untucked her blouse. Then she found the ice bucket, grabbed her key card and headed up to room 624. As soon as she got off the elevator, she stopped at the ice machine to fill the plastic bucket, and she padded down the hall in stocking feet to find Joan's room. Then she waited.

She popped an ice cube into her mouth, only now realizing she hadn't eaten since the sandwich at the quarry. Maybe she would order some room service. And as if by magic she heard the elevator ding from around the corner. Sure enough a young man clad in white jacket and black trousers with a tray lifted over his head turned the corner, walking away from her to deliver to the room at the far corner. She waited until he came back and saw her, before she slipped her key card into the slot.

"Darn it," she said loud enough for him to hear.

"Is there a problem, miss?"

"I can't get this key card to work again. This is the second time tonight."

"Let me try."

He took her card and slipped it into the slot, only to get the same red-dotted results. He tried again, sliding it slower. "You'll probably need to have them give you a new card down at the front desk."

"Look, I'm beat, Ricardo," she said, glancing at his name badge. "All I want to do is watch a little Fox News and crash. Could you let me in, so I don't have to go all the way back down tonight?"

"Sure, hold on a minute." He dug through his pockets and pulled out a master. In seconds he was holding the door open for her.

"Thanks so much," she told him. She was getting good at this. She stood in the doorway and waved to him, waiting for him to round the corner. Then she went inside.

Maggie's first thought was that Joan Begley must do quite well as an artist. She had a suite, and from first glance Maggie guessed that she hadn't been here for at least the last two days. Three complimentary USA Today's USA Today's were stacked on the coffee table. On the desk was a punch card for a week's worth of complimentary continental breakfasts. Every day was punched except for Sunday. There was also an express checkout bill dated Sunday, September 14, with a revised copy for Monday and another for Tuesday. were stacked on the coffee table. On the desk was a punch card for a week's worth of complimentary continental breakfasts. Every day was punched except for Sunday. There was also an express checkout bill dated Sunday, September 14, with a revised copy for Monday and another for Tuesday.

Several suits and blouses were hung in the closet by the door. A jacket remained thrown over the back of the bedroom chair. Maggie patted down the jacket pockets and found a leather checkbook. She flipped it open, pleased to find Joan Begley kept track of her transactions. There were few since she had arrived in Connecticut. The first was to Marley and Marley for $1,000, listed as a "funeral down payment." There was one at the Stop & Shop with the notation, "snacks." Another at DB Mart, "gas."

The last entry was on Sat.u.r.day, September 13. At first she thought nothing of it. The check had been made out to Fellini's Pizzeria with a notation, "dinner with Marley." She glanced at the earlier notation. Dinner with one of the funeral directors? Would they meet for dinner to discuss funeral business? Yes, that was possible. If it were something else, a date, perhaps, Mr. Marley probably would have paid.

Sat.u.r.day, September 13. If Gwen was right, Joan Begley may have disappeared later that night. But obviously she had come back to the room or the checkbook wouldn't be here. Had she come back to change? Was Marley the man she was meeting again when she called Gwen?

She started to replace the checkbook when she thought about the autopsy. Whoever the poor woman was from barrel number one, she had been murdered shortly after having pizza, maybe at Fellini's. Maybe shortly after meeting someone, perhaps even the killer for pizza. Maggie slipped the checkbook into her own trouser's pocket.

She continued to survey the suite. A Pullman was spread open on the valet table. Two pairs of shoes lay tipped underneath where they had been kicked off. In the bathroom, various cosmetics and toiletries were scattered. A nights.h.i.+rt hung on the back of the bathroom door.

Maggie stood in the middle of the suite, rubbing at her tired eyes. There was no doubt that Joan Begley hadn't just picked up and escaped to the sh.o.r.e or somewhere. Even if she had run off with some new man in her life, she wouldn't have left her things. No, it looked as if Joan had intended to come back to her suite. Yet it was obvious that she hadn't done so for several days. So what happened?

She looked around the two rooms again for any clues, and this time she remembered to check the notepad alongside the phone. Bingo! She could see some indentations on the top page. It was an old trick, but she found a pencil in the drawer and with its side, shaded over the top page of the notepad. Like magic the indentations in the page turned into white lines, forming letters and numbers. Soon she had an address and a time: Hubbard Park, Percival Park Road, West Peak, 11:30 p.m.

Maggie ripped off the page and pocketed it. She stopped at the door for one last look. And before she turned out the light, she said to the empty room, "Where the h.e.l.l are you, Joan Begley?"

CHAPTER 30.

"Tell me about your illness," he said while sitting on the edge of the bed.

Joan had been asleep. It had to be the middle of the night. But when the light snapped on she woke with a jerk. And there he was. She had to squint to see him, sitting at the foot of the bed, watching her. Staring at her.

She could smell him, a combination of wet dirt and human sweat, as if he had just come in after digging in the woods. Oh, G.o.d! Had he been digging her grave?

"What did you say?" She tried to wipe at the sleep from her eyes, only then remembering the leather restraints. Alarm spread through her body. Her muscles ached. She strained to reach her face, to push the strands of hair from her mouth, noticing how very dry her skin had gotten, almost crusty at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Perhaps there were no more tears, was no more saliva inside her. Was that possible? Could a person cry herself dry?

She felt the fear already clawing at her. Felt his eyes examining her. Her stomach growled and for a brief moment she realized she was hungry. "What time is it?" She tried to stay calm. If she didn't panic maybe it wouldn't trigger the madman in him.

"Tell me about your disease, your hormone deficiency."

"What?"

"You know, the hormone deficiency. Which hormone is it?"

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," she lied, but she knew exactly what he was talking about. She had told him that a hormone deficiency was the cause of her struggle with her weight. She had lied, embarra.s.sed to admit that it had only been a lack of self-discipline. Oh, dear G.o.d. What had her lies gotten her into? She glanced around the room, at the containers and the skulls above her. Is that what he wanted from her?

"Tell me what gland. Is it the pituitary? Or did you say the thyroid?" He continued in almost a singsong tone, as if trying to coax her into sharing. "You know the hormone that makes you fat? Or I guess it's the lack of a hormone, right? You told me about it. Remember? I think you said it had something to do with your thyroid, but I can't remember. Is it the thyroid?"

She looked over his shoulder at the jars that lined the shelves. There were a variety of shapes and sizes: mason jars and pickle jars with the labels scratched out and taped over with new labels. From a distance she could see only globs, but after recognizing the breast implants, she now realized these containers must hold other specimens, bits and pieces of human tissue. And now he was asking about her thyroid. Oh, Jesus! Was that why he had always been interested? Did he have a jar ready to plop it into?

"I don't know," she managed to say over the lump in her throat. "I mean, they don't know." Her lips quivered and she pulled the covers up over her shoulders as best she could, pretending it was because of the cold and not the fear.

"But I thought you said it was your thyroid?" He sounded like a little boy, almost pouting.

"No, no, not the thyroid. No, not at all." She tried to sound sure of herself. She needed to convince him. "In fact, they discounted the thyroid. Discounted it altogether. You know, it may just be a lack of self-discipline."

"Self-discipline?"

His brow furrowed-puzzled, not angry-as he thought about this. Maybe it was only the tinge of blue fluorescent light from the aquarium, but he reminded her of a little boy again. Even the way he was sitting, cross-legged with one foot tucked under himself, his hands in his lap, his eyes hooded with exhaustion and his hair tousled as if he, too, had just been awakened.

She wondered if he was trying to figure out how he might bottle her self-discipline, or rather lack of self-discipline. Would he try to find another answer? Then she caught a glimpse of s.h.i.+ny metal. Her empty stomach plunged. In his folded hands that sat quietly in his lap, he held what looked like a boning knife.

Her muscles tightened. Her eyes darted around the room. The panic crawled up from her empty stomach, on the verge of becoming a scream.

He had come for her thyroid. He planned to cut it out. Would he even bother to kill her first? Oh, dear G.o.d.

Then suddenly he said, "I never thought you looked fat at all." He was looking down at his hands and glanced up at her with a smile, a shy, boyish smile. It reminded her of the way he had been when they first met, polite and quiet with interested eyes that listened and wanted to please.

"Thank you," she said, forcing herself to smile.

"Sometimes doctors make mistakes, you know." He looked sad now as he stood up, and every nerve in her body prepared itself. "They don't know everything," he told her.

And then he turned and left.

CHAPTER 31.

Wednesday, September 17

Midnight had come and gone, but the nausea had not.

He had an hour before he needed to leave. Today would be a long day. He had done these double-duty days before, hadn't minded, but not like today. Last night sleep never came, reminiscent of his childhood, when he waited for his mother to come in at midnight, administering her homemade concoction of medicine only to leave him with even more pain. Today he'd be forced to hide that same nausea, that relentless nausea that had lived with him day after day during his childhood. But he had done it before. He had survived. He could do it again.

If only he had taken care of her that first night like he had planned. He had even brought the chain saw with him, expecting to cut her up piece by piece, hoping to somehow find the prize. Instead, he had decided at the last minute to wait.

It was the wrong decision, a stupid, stupid, stupid decision. stupid, stupid, stupid decision.

He thought he could wait, thinking she'd tell him where her precious hormone deficiency resided, saving him a mess, because he hated messes. Hated, hated, hated them. Hated, hated, hated them. And the chain saw was the messiest of all to clean. But here he was with an even bigger mess on his hands. Not only did he need to worry about those who wanted to destroy him, all those digging in the quarry, but now he needed to figure out a way to dispose of her body when he was finished. And the chain saw was the messiest of all to clean. But here he was with an even bigger mess on his hands. Not only did he need to worry about those who wanted to destroy him, all those digging in the quarry, but now he needed to figure out a way to dispose of her body when he was finished.

He couldn't think about it now. He needed to get ready for the day. He needed to stop worrying or his stomach would make it impossible to get through this day.

He sc.r.a.ped the mayonnaise from inside the jar, the clank-clank of the knife against gla.s.s only frustrating him, grating on his nerves, which already felt rubbed raw. How could he function? How could he do this?

No, no, no. Of course he could. He could do this.

He spread the condiment on the soft white bread, slow strokes so he wouldn't tear it, taking time to reach each corner but deliberately not touching the crust. He unwrapped two slices of American cheese, laying them on the bread, making sure neither slice hung over the edge, again, not touching the crust, but letting them overlap in the center. Then carefully he cut the top slice of cheese exactly at the overlap and set aside the unneeded section.

He reached up into the cabinet, back behind the Pepto-Bismol and cough syrup, grabbing hold of the brown bottle his mother had kept hidden for years. He opened it, carefully sprinkled just a few of the crystals on the cheese, then replaced the bottle to its secret place.

He topped the sandwich with the other slice of bread, but not before slathering it with just the right amount of mayonnaise. Last, but most important, he cut away the crust, then cut it in two, diagonally, not down the middle. There. Perfect.