At the Stroke of Madness (36 page)

M
aggie 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 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
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.

L
uc 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.

L
uc 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.