PRAISE FOR LOVE GONE MAD
“Holy smokes, I loved, loved, loved this…. This was a thrill ride; I couldn’t put it down. I recommend it highly.”
—Abernathy Peterson, librarian, Kentucky
“With his experience as a forensic psychiatrist, Dr. Mark Rubinstein takes readers inside the mind of a man that is dangerous, delusional, insane to a point, brilliant, persistent and definitely diabolical as he manipulates lawyers, judges, doctors and an entire courtroom. Once again Mark Rubinstein pens a novel that far surpasses many others and is right up there with John Lescroart, Daniel Silva, James Patterson and Phillip Margolin.”
—Fran Lewis, Host, Book Discussion
“Excellent! Well written with strong characters and an interesting story line.”
—Joanne Carrero, educator, Puerto Rican Family Institute
“A good read. I could not put it down!”
—Sybil Huffman, librarian
“A fast-paced, exciting mystery sure to hold readers’ attention.”
—Rosemary Smith, librarian, Williams Library, Regional School Unit, Maine
PRAISE FOR MAD DOG HOUSE
“I stayed up all night to read Mad Dog House. I didn’t plan on it, but when I got into it, I couldn’t put it down. It was fantastic, riveting, suspenseful, twisting, loving, horrific—and I’ll never go into the restaurant business, ever. I just kept reading faster and faster to find out the ending.”
—Martin West, film and television actor and filmmaker
“The characters in Mad Dog House are compellingly real. It was a great read!”
—Ann Chernow, artist and writer
“In Mark Rubinstein’s Mad Dog House, the characters—all well-developed and dripping with authenticity—propel the novel along with style and edge-of-your-seat excitement. Word of caution: be prepared for an all-night, page-turning read where you will emerge exhilarated and begging for more. Rubinstein, a master at his game, introduces us to a world of glitz, glam, sex, and intrigue. Slip into a chilled martini and settle in for a literary ride you won’t soon forget.”
—Judith Marks-White, author of Seducing Harry and Bachelor Degree
“Thank you for the great adventure … made me feel like a participant. I could not put the darn thing down.”
—Rose Buzzutto, RN
“The characters are well-drawn, the dialog is real and not stilted … and the action is well-paced.
—Rochelle’s Reviews
“A gripping, harrowing, and provocative psychological thriller, featuring a plot packed with action and intrigue, staggering and brutal twists, and deeply disturbing possibilities … the author … has a gift for delivering gut-punching surprises while raising unsettling questions about the basic nature of human nature and the inescapable hold of the past. The ending is a real shocker!”
—Mysia Haight, www.pressreleasepundit.com
Other Books by Mark Rubinstein
Fiction
Mad Dog House (Thunder Lake Press)
Nonfiction
The First Encounter: The Beginnings in Psychotherapy
with Dr. William Console and Dr. Richard C. Simons (Jason Aronson)
The Complete Book of Cosmetic Surgery
with Dr. Dennis P. Cirillo (Simon & Schuster)
New Choices: The Latest Options in Treating Breast Cancer
with Dr. Dennis P. Cirillo (Dodd Mead)
Heartplan: A Complete Program for Total Fitness of Heart & Mind
with Dr. David L. Copen (McGraw-Hill)
The Growing Years: The New York Hospital-Cornell Medical Center
Guide to Your Child’s Emotional Development (Atheneum)
A Novel
MARK RUBINSTEIN
Thunder Lake Press
Copyright © 2013 by Mark Rubinstein.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
Thunder Lake Press
25602 Alicia Parkway #512
Laguna Hills, CA 92653
www.thunderlakepress.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Ordering Information
Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the “Special Sales Department” at the address above.
Orders by US trade bookstores and wholesalers. Please contact BCH: (800) 431-1579 or visit www.bookch.com for details.
Printed in the United States of America
Cataloging-in-Publication
Rubinstein, Mark, 1942-
Love gone mad : a novel / Mark Rubinstein. -- 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-9856268-6-0
1. Psychological fiction. 2. Suspense fiction.
I. Title.
PS3618.U3L68 2013
813’.6 QBI13-600077
Author photo by Philip W. Kaufman
First Edition
17 16 15 14 13 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Joshua, Vernon, and both Ediths
Contents
Part I
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Part II
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Part III
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Part IV
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Afterthought
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Preview of Mad Dog Justice
Chapter 1
Part I
One
Adrian Douglas heads for the operating room doors. He glances back at the argon beam coagulator, the hydraulic operating table, and brilliant OR lights. As sterile as the filtered air and gleaming instruments may be, the place is a thing of ineffable beauty. It signifies a kind of artistry, one he’s spent years mastering. Adrian thinks this after every successful surgery, and for the moment, the OR is the best thing in his life. He knows it’s good to be alive and in the life-saving business.
The patient had been dying—his heart barely able to pump blood. They had cracked open his chest, bypassed the clogged coronary arteries, and closed up in near-record time.
A stitch in time …
“Great job, Adrian,” Fred Bailey, the assistant surgeon,
calls across the room.
“Thanks, Fred. Thanks, everyone. Fabulous work, guys,” Adrian says, snapping off his surgical gloves.
“Hey, Adrian,” Dottie, the chief OR nurse, calls.
“Yeah?”
“Chalk another one up for the good guys.”
Though her face is masked, Adrian sees the shine in her eyes. And he hears the smile in her voice.
Still wearing surgical scrubs, Adrian dons his windbreaker and New Balance running shoes and then takes the elevator to the hospital’s main floor. He leaves through the emergency room. It’s a balmy night in early September, and a brisk breeze whips up the ambulance ramp, which is illuminated by sodium vapor lights. Though he’s been on his feet since six this morning, he feels invigorated with the postsurgical high he loves and doesn’t want to make the lonely drive back to his cottage in Simpson.
Looking up at the hospital facade, Adrian tells himself he’s glad he left ground zero of the medical universe—Yale-New Haven Hospital—and took the job at Eastport General. He’s in on the ground floor of an exciting new heart surgery program. At Yale, he’d be just another guppy darting about an aquarium of sharks cannibalizing one another.
None of that political bullshit for me. Not anymore.
It’s nearly midnight as Adrian crosses Fairfield Avenue. He passes a row of shuttered stores—a Kinko’s, a Wendy’s, and a Starbucks that’s closing for the evening; Adrian realizes that no barista will serve up a steaming latte, Frappuccino, or foamed macchiato at this hour. It’s time to go more downscale, and besides, a little alcohol would be better than some caffeine-laced brew. So he heads for King’s Corner, a watering hole two blocks away. He’s grown absurdly fond of this dated pub with its beer-stained mahogany bar, neon Schlitz signs, potted snake plants, and 1950s-style, CD-filled Wurlitzer jukebox. It’s so retro, it reminds Adrian of the old Irish bars in Manhattan he’d frequented as a medical student.
Entering the place, Adrian hears the first lines of Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven.” The acoustic guitar sends out a mournful melody; it’s joined by the soulful recorder. Then comes the plaintive vocal by lead singer Robert Plant.
The place is dimly lit and smells of malt—actually, stale beer. And there’s the faint odor of piss, or, Adrian wonders briefly, is it sweat? No matter. It’s familiar, comfortable. A muted cathode-ray television on a shelf casts an aqueous hue over the place as the Red Sox play the Yankees—it must be extra innings to be running this late. Swivel-top, vinyl-covered stools line the length of the bar, like soldiers at attention before an iron-pipe foot rail. There’s a vintage tin ceiling. The dim seediness seems welcoming after hours in a brightly lit OR with its modular orbital lighting and antiseptic tile walls.
Vinnie, the thirty-something bartender, turns to him, his face creasing into a smile. “How ya doin’ Adrian?”
“Good, Vinnie. You?”
“Can’t complain.”
“How’re the wife and kids?”
“They keep me workin’,” Vinnie says, and shakes his head.
Vinnie has a flattened nose and rough-hewn features and always sports a thick stubble of beard. He looks like a guy who’s seen his share of barroom brawls. He wears faded jeans and a tight-fitting, sleeveless T-shirt. His bloated biceps are covered with a riotous array of tattoos.
“Bottle of Bud, Adrian?”
“Right on, Vin,” he says as the music in a minor key hits its ethereal stride.
Adrian and Vinnie usually talk about the Red Sox. As a former college baseball player, Adrian loves the game.
“Score’s tied … five apiece,” Vinnie says, setting the bottle on the bar.
A smoky vapor rises from the open top.
Adrian puts the bottle to his lips, takes a gulp, and feels the cold effervescence at the back of his throat. After a long day in the OR, the beer’s warmth mushrooms through his belly and rises to his chest. It’s followed by a deliciously light buzz. Adrian feels his muscles loosen.
“That’s damned good music, Vinnie,” he says.
“Adrian—my man,” Vinnie calls. “Nobody loves Led Zeppelin like we do.” Vinnie moves down the bar.
He’s had only one swig, but Adrian already feels a foamy web of warmth in his head. He seems to float in the bar’s dimness.
Adrian hears a voice—but it’s muffled by the music.
He takes another pull on the Bud. A haze settles in his brain.
“I said … Adrian?”
Startled, Adrian peers to his right.
A ruggedly built man in his midthirties stands at the bar. He stares intensely with cold, deep-set gray eyes. The guy’s about six two, maybe taller—with sloped, powerful-looking shoulders and a broad, well-muscled chest. He has a bull neck with cordlike veins that look like blood-filled pipes. Even in a flannel jacket, the man’s arms are thick, sinewy. His hands are huge, with thick, gnarled fingers.
“Adrian? Do I know you?”
Adrian suddenly feels a clenched dread. A knot forms in his stomach. A shudder floats through his chest. He draws back as if by instinct. The man is steep-jawed; he has a Vandyke beard and closely cropped blondish hair cut in a semimilitary style.
“I don’t think so …”
“Oh, yes … I know you …”
The guy edges closer, looming larger.
Adrian thinks the man’s nostrils quiver as though he smells something. Even in the bar’s dimness, Adrian registers the strange grayness of the man’s eyes, with their pitted-olive black pupils reflecting a purple neon sign. Adrian sees a dark madness there, a smoldering rage, and something cold crawls through him.
“Adrian … That’s a girl’s name. You a faggot?”
Adrian’s mouth goes dry. The guy reminds him of a beast—something lethal, soulless. Adrian’s fingers tingle; his scalp dampens.
Holy shit. This is unbelievable. It’s not from the life I’ve been living. What’s this guy about?
“Look, mister,” Adrian says. “I don’t know you and I’m—”
“Hey, you,” Vinnie growls from behind the bar.
The man’s eyes shift to Vinnie. The guy has yet to blink.
Voltage charges through the air.
Except for the jukebox, the place goes quiet.
“Vinnie,” Adrian says, “there’s no need—”
“It’s okay, Adrian,” says Vinnie as his sumo-sized arm slips beneath the bar. “If you’re looking for trouble, you son of a bitch, you’ve come to the right place.” A blue-black baseball bat appears in his hand. “Get the fuck outta here. Now!”
Suddenly, the guy’s arm lunges out in a mercury-quick movement; his beer bottle slams onto the bar. The bottle bounces, topples, and twirls wildly as foamy beer spurts out its neck. He glares at Vinnie with those cold, unblinking eyes. “I’ll be back,” he says and then turns to Adrian. “And I’ll see you too, faggot.”
Adrian’s skin feels like it’s peeling. His insides go cold, as though an ice floe encircles his heart.
The guy turns, casts another look at Vinnie, and saunters out the door.
Led Zeppelin’s chorus fills the room.
Adrian’s armpits are soaked. His heart batters his rib cage, and his knees feel weak.
“You know that guy?” Adrian asks, surprised at the steadiness of his voice.
“Nah,” Vinnie says, setting the bat behind the bar. “Been hanging around a couple a weeks now. Looks like he’s been waitin’ for someone.”
“Looks like he was waiting for me …”
“He’s just killin’ time—comes in around seven, stays an hour or two, leaves, then wanders in again around eleven, stays another hour. Nurses a bottle of beer, that’s all. Doesn’t talk to anyone. Strange guy.” Vinnie swipes the beer bottle, tosses it into a bin, and wipes down the bar top. “In this business, you meet all types …”
Vinnie heads toward the grill area.
Adrian waits for the adrenaline rush to subside. He feels his heart still throbbing in his throat. He swigs his b
eer, and it shoots right to his brain. His legs are unsteady. He plops down on a stool.
The last stanza of “Stairway to Heaven” resounds through the bar.
The front window shatters. A scorching air blast whooshes through the room as bottles detonate in a percussive blowout. Glass, liquor, and debris scatter as neon explodes and everything flies. Everyone drops to the floor.
Another blast sprays the place.
The lights flicker; one goes out.
Smoke, plaster, and dust float in the air.
“A shotgun!” shouts Vinnie; he leaps over the bar and rushes out the front door.
A dangling ceiling light sizzles.
A babble of voices rises; panic-level fear takes over as patrons stampede toward the back of the place. It’s pure mayhem.
“Don’t go out the door,” someone shouts. “He could be there.”
Vinnie bursts back in, looking around. “Anyone hurt?”
“What the hell was that?” someone calls.
“A shotgun,” Vinnie says, snapping open his cell phone.
A patron swipes shards of glass from his hair. Another guy curses. Someone whimpers. A few men rush for the front door.
Adrian gets to his feet. “You see who it was?”
“Probably that bastard I kicked out,” Vinnie says, dialing 911. “It was a black pickup, a big Ford or Chevy with a steel toolbox behind the cab. He was goin’ like a bat outta hell.”
“You get his plate?”
“Nah … He was goin’ too fast.”
The place smells like malt and acrid smoke—a trace of whiskey, too. The walls are pocked with pellet holes. Ceiling wires dangle, spit, and sputter.
“It’s King’s Corner,” Vinnie says into his cell. “There’s been a drive-by shooting through my front window.”
A pause as Vinnie listens.
“No … nobody’s hurt …”
The music builds in a surge of guitars and vocals. The air is hazy, yellowish, and caustic. It smells chemical. Booze drips from shattered bottles.
Vinnie’s still on his cell, talking to the police dispatcher.
The music hits a crescendo and then goes serene.
A police siren burps and then whoops. Whirling lights suddenly appear; they carousel everywhere.
Love Gone Mad Page 1
