At the Stroke of Madness

by Alex Kava

  “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 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 Saturday, 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.

  Saturday, 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 nightshirt 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 shore 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 hell 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, God! 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, embarrassed to admit that it had only been a lack of self-discipline. Oh, dear God. 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 shiny 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 God.

  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.

  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. 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 scraped the mayonnaise from inside the jar, the clank-clank of the knife against glass 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.

  Perfect, perfect, perfect.

  He wrapped his creation in white wax paper, putting it on a tray that already included a can of Coke, an individual-size bag of potato chips and a Snickers candy bar. It was the exact lunch his mother had packed for him every day of his childhood, or at least, every day for as long back as he could remember. The perfect lunch. Rarely a substitution. It always made him feel better, but this lunch wasn’t for him. It was for his guest.

  He smiled at that—his guest. He had never had a guest before. Especially not an overnight one. His mother would never allow it. And despite this being an accident, a mistake, a mess…Well, perhaps, yes, just perhaps, he liked the idea of having a guest. He liked having someone he could control for a change. At least for a little while. At least until he decided how to dispose of the parts he didn’t need.

  That was when he remembered. He might be able to use one of the freezers. Yes, maybe there was room for her in the freezer.

  CHAPTER 32

  Luc Racine sat in the second row of folding chairs. The first row was reserved but remained empty, so Luc had a perfect view of the coffin at the front of the room. Too perfect a view. He could see the woman’s makeup-caked face with cheeks too rosy. He wondered if she had ever worn lipstick that deep a shade of red. It almost made her look as if she wore a mask.

  Luc pulled out the small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket, flipped it open and jotted down the date. Then he wrote, “No makeup. Absolutely no makeup,” and he underlined “absolutely.” He kept the notebook out and glanced around.

  Marley stood by the door waiting for someone coming down the hallway. Perhaps it was that girl reporter. Luc had seen her in the reception area when he came in. Thank goodness she didn’t recognize him, but then she probably couldn’t see without her glasses.

  Marley was in what Luc called his funeral director position, shoulders squared, back straight, his hands coming together below his waist, folded almost reverently as if in prayer, but his chin was up, showing an amazing amount of strength and authority. And there was the look that went with the posture.

  Luc had observed Jake Marley so many times that he could catch the transition process though it happened quickly, within a blink of an eye. The man was an expert. He could go from any range of facial expressions, whether it be anger with an employee, sarcasm or even boredom, then within seconds the man could transform his entire face into an expression of complete compassion and sympathy. Complete, but Luc knew complete didn’t necessarily mean genuine. In fact, he knew Jake Marley’s expression wasn’t genuine. It was just a part of his job, a skill honed and perfected. One necessary for his profession, like a fine craftsman’s eye for detail, or in Luc’s case, like a mail carrier’s ability to memorize strings of numbers. But there was something about this skill of Marley’s that seemed…hmm…Luc couldn’t remember the word. Sometimes he had trouble remembering the right words. He scratched his jaw, trying to remember.

  Holy crap! He had forgotten to shave.

  Then he glanced down at his feet—dad blasted! He still had his slippers on.

  He looked back at Marley to see if the funeral director had noticed him. Maybe he could slip out the back. He twisted around in his seat. Shoot! This room didn’t have another door. And now Marley was escorting two women in, directing them to the coffin. He gave Luc a slight nod of acknowledgment but nothing more. Marley’s attention was, instead, on the two mourners, and Luc knew he didn’t have to worry about Marley paying any more attention to him.

  The elderly woman had artificial silver hair and big red-framed glasses that swallowed her small pigeonlike face. She leaned on her companion with every step. It was the companion who assured Luc he didn’t have to worry about Marley. The woman wore a tight-fitting blue suit that accentuated her full figure in all the right places. She wore her long dark hair pulled back to reveal creamy, flawless skin.

  Yes, she would have Jake Marley’s full attention. She already had his hand on her lower back as he escorted them to the front of the room. Luc wondered if Marley was imagining his hand a few inches lower. Of course, he’d never slip. He was one smooth operator. Luc had observed him many times. Just as he had caught the sudden subtle face transformations, Luc had also watched Marley smooth talk and literally handle the pretty ones with a touch on the arm, the half pat, half stroke of the shoulder, the hand on the lower back. Luc had seen all of Marley’s moves.

  Maybe the women found it comforting, Luc told himself. Marley wasn’t obnoxious about it. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, either. Sort of plain, but put him i
n one of his five hundred dollar black suits and the guy seemed to ooze strength, comfort and yes, authority. And women seemed to love guys with authority, especially when they were at their most vulnerable.

  Luc watched the two women now at the casket, gazing at their loved one, whispering to each other as if not to wake her.

  “Her hair looks beautiful,” the older woman said, then added, “She wouldn’t have worn that color of lipstick.”

  Luc smiled. See, he knew it wasn’t her shade. He flipped his notebook open again and jotted down, “No whispering. Make people talk in normal tones.”

  The young woman glanced back at Luc and smiled. Her eyes were puffy, though she wasn’t crying anymore. He smiled back and gave her a nod. In his notebook he wrote, “No crying allowed. And maybe some cheerful music. None of this…this funeral home music.”

  He tried to remember what kind of music he liked and drew a blank. Surely he could remember a particular song or maybe a singer. How could he not remember music?

  Just then he noticed the two women whispering again, only this time the older woman was looking back over her shoulder at him as the young woman said something to Marley. There were talking about him. Wondering who he was. Why they didn’t recognize him.

  Time to leave.

  He got up and took his time shuffling through the long second row of chairs. By the time he got to the door he heard one of them say something about bedroom slippers and realized that yes, they were talking about him.

  Luc made it to the end of the hallway, out the door and down the street. Still no Marley. Of course, he wouldn’t leave that beautiful brunette. So Luc took a moment to catch his breath and scratch in his notebook, “Bedroom slippers. Bury me in my bedroom slippers. The blue ones, not the brown ones.”