At the Stroke of Madness Page 16

  “You can pet him,” she told Aleesha, who seemed to be waiting for permission. “Could we order a pizza later for dinner?”

  She let Harvey lick her hand while she looked up at Tully. He thought he saw something in his daughter’s eyes—a sparkle, a glint—something that he hadn’t seen in a very long time. And that was pure and unadulterated happiness.

  “Sure, sweet pea. But only if I get to have some.”

  “Well, duh, of course you get some. Especially since you’re paying for it.” She rolled her eyes but was still smiling.

  If only he had known that all it took to make his daughter’s eyes sparkle was the simple lick and wag of a dog. Who’d ever have guessed? Teenaged girls—he’d never be able to figure them out.

  Sometimes it didn’t surprise him so much that Emma was almost sixteen as much as it surprised him that he was supposed to be the father of a sixteen-year-old. What did he know about teenaged girls? He had no experience in this category. The father of a little girl, now, that he could handle. He was good at protecting, providing and admiring, but those all seemed qualities his teenaged daughter considered lame.

  “Come on, Harvey.” Emma called the dog from the hallway. “Watch him, Aleesha,” he heard Emma tell her friend as they went back to her bedroom. “This is so cool. He lies at the foot of my bed like he’s watching out for me. And those big, sad brown eyes. Aren’t they the best?”

  Tully smiled. Evidently protecting and admiring were annoying characteristics in a father, but prime qualities for a dog. Was he being replaced in his daughter’s life? Better by a dog than by a boy.

  He went back to Joan Begley’s e-mail. O’Dell had said that the rock quarry killer may be paranoid and delusional. She suggested that he hid the bodies because he didn’t want anyone to see his handiwork, unlike some serial killers who put the bodies on display to show their control, their power. So this killer, according to O’Dell, got what he wanted from something other than torturing and killing his victims. There may be no gratification in the actual kills for him. If she was correct, the killing was only a means to the end result, what O’Dell called his trophies. But if this was the same man who had taken Joan Begley, what did he want from her?

  Tully scanned the contents of one of SonnyBoy’s e-mails to Joan Begley. He sounded genuinely interested and concerned about her. Yes, it might be necessary to lure the victim, get her to trust. But this seemed more than that.

  The e-mail read, “You need to let yourself mourn. Let yourself be sad. It’s okay, you know. You don’t have to be embarrassed. No one will think of you as being weak.”

  Did SonnyBoy connect with his victims in some way, actually feel for them? Or perhaps feel sorry for them because of their imperfections? Was it part of his game? Or was Joan Begley different?

  Tully wondered if O’Dell was right. If on some level, the killer hid the bodies because he was embarrassed by what he was doing. Could that be? A killer embarrassed by his need to possess these deformities that others had? Perhaps even embarrassed that he must kill? Was that possible? It would make sense that he started out with people who were already dead. According to O’Dell, there was an old guy with a brain tumor who had been embalmed and buried. Maybe SonnyBoy started with the dead and worked up his courage. Or maybe his need to possess what they had finally overrode any qualms he may have had about murder.

  Tully sat back and stared at the computer screen, the last e-mail that SonnyBoy had sent Joan Begley still open on the screen. Just how paranoid and delusional was good ole SonnyBoy? Tully was tempted to find out.

  He probably should check out his theory with O’Dell. Probably shouldn’t do anything silly or reckless. And yet, what did he really have to lose? Maybe O’Dell was rubbing off on him. Maybe she was a bad influence on him, tempting him to stray from his by-the-book approach.

  He scooted the chair closer to the table. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. What the hell. He hit the reply icon, which brought up Joan Begley’s response screen. Before he could change his mind he typed in the message and hit the send icon. What if SonnyBoy did have Joan Begley, bound and gagged? Or what if he had already killed her? Then wouldn’t he be surprised to receive an e-mail from her, even if it was just one word:

  “Why?”

  CHAPTER 43

  Maggie left Bonzado’s lab. It had been another warm day, but crispness filled the air as the sun began setting. She walked across campus, trying to enjoy the sights and smells of fall despite her mind flipping over the puzzle pieces Bonzado had added. She pulled out her cell phone as she checked the directions she had scrawled in her notebook. The building had to be close by. As she dialed, she looked around, wondering if perhaps it was on the other side of campus.

  “Dr. Gwen Patterson.”

  “Gwen, it’s Maggie. A quick question. Does Joan have anything wrong with her, like a physical handicap of any kind?”

  “A handicap? No, not at all. Why?”

  “I’m still trying to figure out if there’s a connection between her disappearance and this rock quarry killer.”

  “But you said none of the victims matched Joan’s description.”

  “Okay, now is not the time to worry,” she said, hearing the panic in her friend’s voice. “I’m just wondering if it’s possible he may have taken her. You have to be upfront with me, Gwen. This is no time for secrets.”

  “Secrets? You think I’ve been keeping secrets about her?”

  “Maybe not secrets, but something she may have told you in confidence.”

  “I’ve told you everything that could possibly help find her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “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 hell. She w
as 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 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 glass 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 pronounced 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, “Scrapple. Scrapple, come here, buddy. Come, Scrapple. 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.

  “Scrapple. Scrapple, goddamn 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 glass of water and gulped it down. Then he poured another glassful, 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 damn dog has been digging up pieces for months now. Who knows what Racine has kept for souvenirs and what might be under the fucking front porch.” He noticed Maggie’s skepticism. “What other explanation is there?”

  “Wasn’t Racine one of the men who found the first body?”

&n
bsp; “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 bitch.”

  “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 fucking 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.”