At the Stroke of Madness (13 page)

I
t was almost midnight.

He watched from the top of the ridge, crouched low and hidden in the trees. From here he could see down into the rock quarry, although most of the action was now limited to state patrol officers waving flashlights and setting up flares. Some of the media vans had left. Those that stayed had mounted glaring strobe lights atop the vans. What the hell did they think they would see?

His anger had given in to exhaustion for the time being. His stomach ached from all the retching. He hadn’t thrown up that much since he was a boy. He hated when he lost control.
He hated, hated, hated it.
Even now, as he watched his hiding place being invaded and desecrated, he couldn’t control the cramps, the slicing sensation that ripped at his guts.

And to think it was all because of one man. One man who must want to destroy him. He could see the old man’s house in the distance. Actually all he could see was the diffused yellow light through the blinds in the front room, what he knew from a closer inspection to be the living room. He had memorized where the sofa sat in the middle of the large space. How it faced the main window with a TV set on a cheap rolling cart right in front of the window, where he imagined the old man could watch the news and still catch anyone coming up the long driveway.

When he had seen Luc Racine earlier on TV he knew the old man looked familiar. He knew he had seen him around town, but still there was something that nagged at him all day. Then suddenly he remembered as if in a flash of lightning. Yes, lightning, the storm.

The old man had been there Saturday night. He had been in Hubbard Park, wandering around with that stupid little dog. Wandering around despite the dark and despite the storm. How could he have forgotten? Yes, he remembered seeing him with that strange little black hat on his silver head. He had even watched him give Joan directions to the West Peak. He had taken extra precautions so the old man wouldn’t see him. He had waited until he was gone, making him late, and he hated to be late.

Yet, despite all the precautions, the old man knew. He knew something. Had he seen him that night? Had he been hiding in the shadows? What had the old man seen? And how in the world did he find out about the rock quarry?

No, no, no.
It didn’t make sense.

If the old man knew, then why hadn’t the sheriff arrested him? What kind of game was he playing? Did he simply want to destroy him? Was that it?
Why, why, why?
Why would the old man do that?

Another mess, and he hated messes.
Hated, hated, hated them.
His mother had always made him clean up his own messes, standing over him, pushing him down into his own vomit—face first—if he wasn’t quick enough.

“You made it, you clean it.” He could still hear her screech.

He needed to start cleaning up this mess and quickly.

I
t was almost midnight.

He watched from the top of the ridge, crouched low and hidden in the trees. From here he could see down into the rock quarry, although most of the action was now limited to state patrol officers waving flashlights and setting up flares. Some of the media vans had left. Those that stayed had mounted glaring strobe lights atop the vans. What the hell did they think they would see?

His anger had given in to exhaustion for the time being. His stomach ached from all the retching. He hadn’t thrown up that much since he was a boy. He hated when he lost control.
He hated, hated, hated it.
Even now, as he watched his hiding place being invaded and desecrated, he couldn’t control the cramps, the slicing sensation that ripped at his guts.

And to think it was all because of one man. One man who must want to destroy him. He could see the old man’s house in the distance. Actually all he could see was the diffused yellow light through the blinds in the front room, what he knew from a closer inspection to be the living room. He had memorized where the sofa sat in the middle of the large space. How it faced the main window with a TV set on a cheap rolling cart right in front of the window, where he imagined the old man could watch the news and still catch anyone coming up the long driveway.

When he had seen Luc Racine earlier on TV he knew the old man looked familiar. He knew he had seen him around town, but still there was something that nagged at him all day. Then suddenly he remembered as if in a flash of lightning. Yes, lightning, the storm.

The old man had been there Saturday night. He had been in Hubbard Park, wandering around with that stupid little dog. Wandering around despite the dark and despite the storm. How could he have forgotten? Yes, he remembered seeing him with that strange little black hat on his silver head. He had even watched him give Joan directions to the West Peak. He had taken extra precautions so the old man wouldn’t see him. He had waited until he was gone, making him late, and he hated to be late.

Yet, despite all the precautions, the old man knew. He knew something. Had he seen him that night? Had he been hiding in the shadows? What had the old man seen? And how in the world did he find out about the rock quarry?

No, no, no.
It didn’t make sense.

If the old man knew, then why hadn’t the sheriff arrested him? What kind of game was he playing? Did he simply want to destroy him? Was that it?
Why, why, why?
Why would the old man do that?

Another mess, and he hated messes.
Hated, hated, hated them.
His mother had always made him clean up his own messes, standing over him, pushing him down into his own vomit—face first—if he wasn’t quick enough.

“You made it, you clean it.” He could still hear her screech.

He needed to start cleaning up this mess and quickly.

Tuesday, September 16

M
aggie picked up her keys, badge and cellular phone from the airport security conveyor belt while shoving the plastic basin aside and trying to grab her laptop off the oncoming tray all at the same time. She pushed several buttons on the cell phone and tucked it between her neck and shoulder while she slid her laptop back into its case. She should be an expert at this by now, but still she struggled with the Velcro straps that held the computer in place.

“Hello?” said a voice in her ear.

“Gwen, it’s Maggie. I’m glad I caught you.”

“Where in the world are you? It sounds like you’re calling from the bottom of the Potomac River.”

“No, no. Not the bottom of the Potomac. Worse. Airport security at National.” She smiled when she saw one of the security officers scowl at her words. The woman wasn’t amused. She waved Maggie to the side with her wand. “Oh, shoot, hold on a minute, Gwen.”

“Arms at your sides and out,” the woman barked at Maggie. She set her laptop case on a nearby chair, the cell phone on top, and followed the instructions she knew by heart. It never failed. She was always getting pulled aside. And as usual she immediately set the security wand chirping. She dug her keys and badge out of her pocket and tossed those on the case, too.

“Sit down and remove your shoes, please.”

Maggie slipped off the leather flats and held up the soles of her feet for the wand. The entire time she still smiled at the woman, who refused to return the gesture. With only a nod of release, she left Maggie and went back to the trenches to capture the next potential terrorist or the next wiseass.

Maggie picked up the cell phone. “Gwen, are you still there?”

“You’ll never learn, will you?” her friend started the lecture. “You’re an FBI agent. You of all people know how important airport security is, and yet you insist on egging them on.”

“I don’t egg them on. I just don’t understand why I have to check my sense of humor with my luggage at the ticket counter.”

“I thought you were taking some time off. Where’s Cunningham sending you this time?”

“I’m going to Connecticut.”

Silence. Such a long silence that Maggie thought she may have lost the connection.

“Gwen?”

“You found something out about Joan?”

“No, not yet.” Maggie searched for Gate 11. Of course, it was the one with the line already boarding. “I thought I’d go check on her myself. Who knows, maybe I’ll find her at the Ramada Plaza Hotel’s pool, drinking piña coladas.”

“Maggie, I didn’t expect you to do that. I just thought you might be able to make a few phone calls. I didn’t mean for you to go to Connecticut, especially on your vacation.”

“Why not? You’re always telling me I need to get away.” Where had she put her boarding pass? Usually she slid it into her jacket pocket.

“Yes, get away and go on a real vacation. When was the last time you took a real vacation, Maggie?”

“I don’t know. I was in Kansas City last year.” She started to search her computer case’s many pockets. Somewhere she knew she had a boarding pass. Maybe Tully’s disorganization was rubbing off on her.

“Kansas City? That was two years ago and it was for a law enforcement conference. That’s not a vacation. Do you even know what a vacation is?”

“Of course, I know what it is. It’s that thing where you sit around on a beach somewhere, getting drunk on piña coladas with those little pink umbrellas and ending up with a miserable sunburn and sand in places where I really don’t like to have sand. That’s just not something that interests me.”

“And looking for a missing person on your vacation does interest you? You know, if you’re going to Connecticut, maybe you could finally look up a certain man in the vicinity?”

“Here it is,” Maggie said, relieved to find that the boarding ticket must have slipped behind her laptop when she was mastering the Velcro straps. She ignored Gwen’s comment about “a certain man,” knowing full well she meant a certain assistant D.A. in Boston. “Gwen, if there’s anything you haven’t told me about Joan Begley, now would be a good time.”

Her friend was silent again.

“Gwen?”

“I’ve faxed you everything I could.”

She noticed Gwen’s careful choice of words.

“Look, Gwen, before you hear about it on the news, there’s something you should know. Yesterday morning a woman’s body was found outside of Wallingford in a rock quarry.”

“Oh, my God! It’s Joan, isn’t it?”

She hated hearing the panic in her friend’s voice. This was a woman Maggie always looked to for strength.

“No, I don’t know that. I wouldn’t have even told you, but it’s made the national news already. They haven’t identified her yet. I’m trying to get in touch with the sheriff who’s heading the investigation. He’s supposed to be calling me back, but I’m sure I’m on the bottom of a very long list.” Maggie tucked the phone into her neck again as she prepared her ID and ticket for the attendant. “Look, my flight’s boarding, Gwen. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know something, okay?”

“Maggie, thanks for doing this. I hope it’s not Joan, but I have to tell you, I just don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“Try not to worry until it’s time to worry. I’ll talk to you later.”

She shoved the phone into her pocket just as the attendant reached for her ticket.

On board, Maggie unzipped pockets, searching—why was she suddenly so disorganized?—for the paperback she had bought in the airport bookstore: Lisa Scottoline’s latest legal thriller. Past titles had succeeded in keeping her mind off being 38,000 feet above control. With the paperback came the envelope she had shoved into the side pocket at the last minute while deciding to leave the file folders behind.

She slid her case into the overhead compartment and squeezed into the window seat. A small gray-haired woman fussed and fidgeted into the seat next to her, and Maggie opened the paperback to read but, instead, stared at the envelope.

Maggie knew Gwen had meant Nick Morrelli when she asked if she would attempt to see “a certain man in the vicinity.” And why wouldn’t she? Nick was in Boston, probably only an hour’s drive from the middle of Connecticut. Whatever had started between Nick and Maggie several years ago while they worked on a case together in Nebraska had fizzled out during Maggie’s prolonged divorce. She had refused to start a relationship before her divorce was finalized, not so much out of legalities or principles, but perhaps because she couldn’t risk the emotional drain. Quite honestly she had never trusted her feelings for Nick—too much heat and intensity. What they lacked in common interests, they made up for in chemistry. It was the exact opposite of her relationship with Greg. Maybe that’s what had attracted her to Nick in the first place.

Then last year, sometime before Thanksgiving, she had called Nick’s apartment, except a woman answered, telling Maggie Nick couldn’t come to the phone because he was in the shower. Since then, Maggie had kept the distance between them, increasing it by increments with shorter phone conversations replaced by missed phone calls and then never-returned voice messages. She hadn’t expected Nick to wait for her to be free. And, though she had been surprised—and yes, a bit hurt—to discover that he had moved on, in the days that followed, she felt an unexpected sense of relief that only galvanized her decision. It was better to be alone, she had decided. At least for a while.

The flight attendant interrupted her thoughts with preflight instructions, something Maggie politely ignored. The woman beside her seemed frantic to find the laminated guide in the seat pocket in front of her. Maggie took out her own and handed it to the woman, who thanked her quickly as she searched with an index finger to catch up.

Maggie opened her paperback again and began to read, using the envelope as a bookmark.