At The Stroke Of Madness Part 14

"What's this about, Maggie?"

"The rock quarry killer has been taking...pieces from his victims. Imperfections. Deformities."

"Like what?"

"One woman's breast implants were missing. There's what looks to be a crippled leg bone missing from another. And a man's brain with an inoperable tumor was also taken. But if Joan didn't have any physical deformities or any disease, I don't think we need to worry that she was taken by this killer."

She pulled the envelope from her notebook, fumbled with the index card and double-checked the address. How could she not find this place? Gwen still hadn't responded.

"Gwen?"

"There may be something, Maggie. Joan's lost a lot of weight in the last two years, but when she talks about it she sometimes tells people her weight problems were due to a hormone deficiency."

"What do you mean, a hormone deficiency? You mean a problem with her thyroid?"

"Yes."

"Okay, it may be time to worry. I'll call Sheriff Watermeier as soon as I get back to Meriden."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm sort of taking care of some personal business."

"You're finally going to see him?"

"No, I'm not in Boston, Gwen. I'm not seeing Nick Morrelli. I'm not sure I'll be seeing him ever again."

"Actually, I didn't mean Boston. I meant West Haven."

Maggie almost tripped over the curb. She had never told Gwen about her brother. "How did you know?"

"Your mother asked for my advice before she gave you his name and address last December."

"You've known all along? Why didn't you say anything?"

"I was waiting for you to tell me. Why didn't you tell me, Maggie?"

"I suppose I was waiting, too."

"Waiting for what?"

"Courage."

"Courage? I don't think I understand. You're one of the most courageous people I know, Margaret O'Dell."

"We'll see how courageous I am. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

She dropped the phone into her pocket and was ready to give up-so much for courage when she couldn't even find the place. Then she saw the sign pointing to Durham Hall. She stared at the building, hesitating. What the h.e.l.l. She was here. It was silly to not go in.

She stopped at the front desk where a brunette with a nose piercing and pink eye shadow held an open textbook in her lap, a phone in one hand and a bottled water in the other.

"I know it'll be on the exam. He only mentioned it about a thousand times." She looked up at Maggie and without putting down the phone, asked, "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Patrick Murphy."

The girl glanced at a sign-out sheet on the corner of the desk. "He's out until late this evening, but umm...You know, I think he's working. You might be able to catch him there." She pointed across the street.

At first Maggie wasn't certain where she meant. Then she saw it, Champs Grill. A job to work his way through college, of course. It was one of the details she didn't have in any of her files.

Champs Grill smelled of greasy fries, was dark and noisy and smoky with tall-backed booths, all packed with students. Maggie found a stool at the bar and began her search, looking out into the dining area and watching the waiters, wondering if she would be able to recognize him. And if she did, what would she say? How did you tell someone you'd never met before that you were his big sister? Maybe she should have sent a Hallmark card first. Didn't Hallmark have a card for every occasion?

She saw a tall, dark-haired waiter at the corner table, laughing with the group as he took their order. Did his profile look familiar? He seemed to be the one making them all laugh and Maggie smiled, remembering how her father had been able to make her laugh so hard it hurt. She hadn't laughed as hard since. So many of her memories of her father were overshadowed by his death. Instead of remembering his jokes and his hugs, she woke up in the middle of the night able to smell the scorched scent of his flesh, despite all the efforts the funeral home had made. Instead of remembering that medallion he had given her to wear for protection, one that matched his, all she could think about was that his hadn't protected him when he ran into the inferno, only to be carried out a hero.

She fingered her own medallion now, though she kept it under her blouse. There were memories she needed to allow, reminders that didn't need to be painful. She watched the waiter in the corner and she wondered if Patrick even knew who his father was. Had his mother shared that with him? Or had that been part of the bargain Maggie's mother had made with his mother after their father's death?

"Can I get you something to drink, ma'am?" she heard the bartender ask.

"A Diet Pepsi, please," she said, when what she really wanted was a Scotch. She turned just enough to glance at him.

"Would you like that with a twist of lemon?"

"No, I really don't-" She stopped in midsentence, staring at the bartender as if she were seeing a ghost. She was was seeing a ghost. It was as if she were looking at her father, the exact same brown eyes, the same dimpled chin. seeing a ghost. It was as if she were looking at her father, the exact same brown eyes, the same dimpled chin.

"No lemon?" he asked, smiling at her with her father's smile.

"No, thanks."

She tried not to stare while he tossed ice into a gla.s.s and poured her soda, setting it in front of her.

"It's a buck fifty, but no hurry. There's free refills on soda."

She seemed to have been rendered speechless and could only smile and nod. He left her to serve others and she watched, feeling like a voyeur, studying his every move, mesmerized by his hands, the long fingers. He wore his hair the same, a p.r.o.nounced cowlick giving him few choices.

After three refills and a detailed rundown of the weather she finally left, needing to get back to Meriden to meet Bonzado for dinner. She hadn't had the guts to introduce herself. Hadn't been able to come close, and yet as she got into her rental car she couldn't help feeling like she had found something, something she had lost a long time ago and didn't realize was missing until now. And she knew she would be back.

CHAPTER 44.

Luc stared at the pot on the stove. He couldn't have left it there. He had stopped cooking after he set fire to a skillet of sausages and hash browns, left on and forgotten until he smelled the smoke. From then on, he ate cold stuff, cereal and milk, sandwiches.

The pot's lid was still hot. He couldn't remember bringing out the huge roasting pot. He glanced around the kitchen. Nothing else seemed out of place. He checked the back door-closed. Kitchen windows were closed. Was it possible someone had been in here? Maybe he hadn't imagined someone following him. There had been someone hiding in between the trees. Someone watching. And the footsteps. He had heard footsteps. And the reflection in the old butcher shop window of a man across the street, watching one minute and gone the next. Had that not been his imagination playing tricks on him?

He stared at the pot again. He would never have used such a huge pot. He could fit a small pig in the thing. It overlapped onto two burners. He didn't even remember owning a pot that big. Why would he need one that large?

Someone had to have left it. Why would they leave it on the stove? Why would they do that? Unless someone wanted to confuse him. Freak him out. Unless...someone wanted to scare him.

Suddenly, Luc broke out in a cold sweat. His shirt stuck to his back. His heart began to pound against his rib cage. He glanced around the room again. Panic grabbed hold of him. His head jerked back and forth as he searched. His pace quickened. He moved into the living room, stumbling and rushing and searching.

And then the panic broke loose and he began to yell, "Sc.r.a.pple. Sc.r.a.pple, come here, buddy. Come, Sc.r.a.pple. Where are you?"

Hot tears streaked down his face and he wiped at them with his shirtsleeve. He felt like he'd throw up. He could barely stand as he climbed the stairs, his knees going out halfway up. He fell and slid down several steps, smashing into the wall with a shoulder. He tried yelling again but his throat seemed clogged. A whine was all that came out, startling and panicking him even more because he didn't recognize the sound that came from within him. It sounded like a wounded animal.

He lay on the steps, unable to stand on knees that refused to hold him up. His cheek lay against the cold wooden step. His body shook. He couldn't control the convulsions. Was this part of the disease? He wrapped his arms around himself, hugging himself as best he could in the stairwell. He brought his knees up to his chest and buried his face, trying desperately to stop the nausea and chill. He could still hear the screech, the whine, that awful cry coming out of his mouth.

Then suddenly he felt a nudge. A cold nudge. Slowly he lifted his head. Slowly he forced his cheek off the step. Immediately, he was met by a wet tongue in his face.

"Sc.r.a.pple. Sc.r.a.pple, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, why don't you come when I call you?" He grabbed the dog around the neck and pulled him against him and held him so tight the dog began to wiggle and whine. But Luc only held on tighter.

CHAPTER 45.

Maggie watched Sheriff Watermeier stomp around Luc Racine's small kitchen, examining the calendar on the wall, the ratty towel hanging from the drawer handle, the dirty dishes in the sink. Watermeier seemed to be interested in anything and everything other than the human skull submerged in its own broth. The large pot on the stove still felt warm to the touch.

Adam Bonzado suggested Luc come with him outside for some fresh air, but not before Bonzado poured a gla.s.s of water and gulped it down. Then he poured another gla.s.sful, this time, Maggie knew, for Racine, and followed the old man out the back door.

"He's really shaken up by this," Maggie said.

"Of course he's shaken up," Watermeier answered with almost a snort. "I'd be shaken up, too, if I had a chunk of someone simmering on my stove and couldn't remember putting it there."

"You think he did this and just can't remember?"

"His d.a.m.n dog has been digging up pieces for months now. Who knows what Racine has kept for souvenirs and what might be under the f.u.c.king front porch." He noticed Maggie's skepticism. "What other explanation is there?"

"Wasn't Racine one of the men who found the first body?"

"Sure was. And he didn't waste any time getting on TV to talk about it. This is probably another attention-getter for the sorry son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"He claims someone's been following him."

"Yeah, and next week he'll probably claim to be Abe Lincoln."

"Has he done this sort of thing before?" Maggie was growing impatient with Watermeier's sarcasm.

"What? Boiled up f.u.c.king skulls?"

"No. Has he done anything eccentric to get attention in the past?"

"Not that I know of. But you know the old man has Alzheimer's, right?"

"Yes, I'm well aware of that," she said calmly, but it was becoming more and more of an effort. "From what I know about Alzheimer's, it doesn't usually manifest paranoia."

"What exactly are you saying, O'Dell? You think someone's following him around, sneaking into his house and leaving him little presents like this to freak him out?" Watermeier crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter as if challenging her. He made the small kitchen seem smaller. Even his size-twelve work boots took up too much room.

"What if the killer saw Mr. Racine on TV? What if he believes he's to blame for discovering his little hiding place?" She paused for Watermeier's response, but he was waiting for more, still unconvinced. "We talked about this killer being paranoid and delusional. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember. You also said he might come after anyone he thought was out to get him, to destroy him. But why choose Racine to screw with? Why not Vargus? He's the one who really discovered the barrels."

"From what we can tell, this killer bashes in his victims' skulls from behind and then hides their bodies. We're not talking about a killer with a lot of arrogant false courage. If you were him, would you go after the strong, young burly construction worker or the old man with early-onset Alzheimer's disease?"

"You also said that he could panic. That he might kill again."

"Yes. And I think he may have taken the woman I'm looking for, Joan Begley. She may have driven to Hubbard Park to meet him Sat.u.r.day night."

"Hubbard Park?"

"I found a note in her hotel room with Hubbard Park, West Peak and 11:30 written on it. The time fits with when she was last heard from. Could you check the park?"

"For her car?"

"Yes. Or her body."

Maggie could see Watermeier's eyes narrowing. He shifted his weight and leaned against the counter again, only this time he looked like he was seriously considering what she had said.

"You know I was with the NYPD for more than thirty years?"

The question startled Maggie. Watermeier was looking somewhere over her head, out the window, maybe watching Bonzado and Racine. Maybe. And although he hesitated, she knew he wasn't waiting for an answer.

"I've seen a lot of weird c.r.a.p in my time, O'Dell." He glanced at her, then the eyes went back out the window. "It was my wife, Rosie's, idea for us to move out here. I didn't like it much at first. Her idea that I run for sheriff, too. I didn't like that at first, either. Too G.o.dd.a.m.n slow of a pace. Then 9/11 happened. I lost a lot of old buddies. In one day. Gone."

He scratched at his jaw, but this time he didn't look back at Maggie. "I could have been with them that day. And I would have been gone, too. Just like that. I ended up spending weeks there...there in that mess. Rosie hated it, but she knew it was something I had to do. I kept going back week after week. Had to. Had to help find my buddies. It was the least I could do.

"We kept searching every stinking day, as if we'd rescue them though all we'd find were sc.r.a.ps, bits and pieces. Thirty years on the force and I thought I'd seen it all. But there wasn't anything could prepare me for that mess. Faces melted off. A foot left in a laced-up boot. A severed hand still gripping the melted impression of a cell phone. I've seen a lot of c.r.a.p, O'Dell. So this," he said, nodding at the roasting pot on the stove, "doesn't shock me. Neither does anything we've found in those barrels.

"But the difference here-" and now he looked at Maggie, making sure he had her attention "-this here I'm being asked to explain. Like there is is some f.u.c.king explanation. I'm expected to figure this out. And then I'm expected to stop this a.s.shole." some f.u.c.king explanation. I'm expected to figure this out. And then I'm expected to stop this a.s.shole."

Maggie wasn't sure what he wanted her to say. Was she supposed to tell him it'd be okay? That, of course, they'd find the killer? That she already had a more detailed profile drawn up in her mind? That her profiles were always right? She wasn't even sure they could protect Luc Racine.

Adam Bonzado came in the back door, checking over his shoulder. Racine stayed seated on a bench on the stone terrace, his Jack Russell on his lap. The two of them stared out at the pond, the dog's head turning and following the geese as they flew overhead, but Racine continued to stare straight ahead.

Bonzado looked at Maggie and then Watermeier. "Mind if I take that back to the lab?"

"Help yourself. Stolz's not gonna be much help with this one. I need to get one of the techs to bag the roaster. O'Dell here thinks it might have the killer's fingerprints." There was no sarcasm in Watermeier's voice this time.

"What about the old man?" Bonzado asked the sheriff.