Love Gone Mad

by Rubinstein, Mark

  Holding the still-open laptop, Grayson grabs his cell phone and car keys and heads into the garage. A quick press on the remote and the garage door slides up. He suddenly realizes he’d better call the police.

  He dials 911 on his cell and gets a high-pitched sound. No signal, not here in the garage.

  He jumps out of the car and stands on the driveway blacktop. He again dials 911.

  “Stratford Police, Emergency.”

  “Officer, this is Dr. John Grayson, medical director of Whitehall Hospital. An insane criminal is on the loose. His name’s Conrad Wilson, and he’s very dangerous. He’s escaped.”

  “From the asylum in Ansonia?”

  “He’s on a weekend pass with his guardian, Pastor Daniel Wilhelm. But he’s escaped from the Wilhelm house in Bridgeport.”

  “Where in Bridgeport?”

  “Twenty-five Hancock Avenue. And the pastor may be hurt.”

  “Any idea where this Wilson is now?”

  “Yes. I’m tracking him on a GPS. He’s in Bridgeport heading onto Route 8. And you’d better have the Bridgeport PD check the pastor’s house and chase down that car. Wilson’s driving a blue 2001 Chevy Impala, Connecticut tag 919 WKR.”

  The dispatcher repeats the car’s description and plate number.

  “Right now he’s getting onto Route 8, heading north … toward Trumbull. He’s heading toward the home of Adrian Douglas and his wife at 22 Hickory Hill Lane in Trumbull. So contact the Trumbull police and send then there.”

  “A 2001 blue Chevy Impala heading north on Route 8.”

  “Yes. Trumbull’s his destination … 22 Hickory Hill Lane.”

  “We’re on it. We’ll contact the Bridgeport PD and the Trumbull PD,” says the dispatcher.

  Grayson gives his address and cell number to the cop, then snaps his phone shut. Breathless, his pulse pounding, he dashes back to the car and jumps inside. He leans to his right, unlocks the glove compartment and opens the inside partition. It’s right there: a Walther PK380 pistol—fully loaded. He’s had it since he was mugged at knifepoint in a Bridgeport parking lot one winter night three years ago. He’d come out of the correctional facility after examining an inmate when the mugger—who’d been hiding behind his parked Volvo—put the knife to his throat and demanded money.

  Grayson opens his cell phone, scrolls down his contacts and stops at “Douglas, Adrian.” It’s Adrian’s cell number. He jumps out of the car, runs to the front of the garage, and hits the speed-dial button. He hears four rings and then he’s switched to voice mail. The outgoing message is in Adrian’s voice.

  “Adrian,” Grayson says. “It’s John Grayson. Conrad Wilson’s escaped. He’s in Bridgeport heading toward Trumbull … I’m sure he’s headed for your house. When you get this message, call the police. I gotta go.”

  Grayson snaps the phone shut, whirls, and heads for the car. He realizes his hands are shaking and his legs feel weak.

  He turns the key in the Volvo’s ignition; the engine purrs to life. He’s about to back out when he realizes Gary’s bicycle is lying on its side, blocking his path. He jumps out of the car, grabs the bike, and tosses it aside.

  Returning to the car, he throws it into reverse and backs down the driveway. He makes a broken U-turn, pounds the gas pedal, burns rubber, and races away. He speeds through the Stratford streets, and a few turns later he’s on the main drag, Boston Avenue, heading westbound. Most of the stores are still shuttered; a few are opening for the Saturday-morning trade.

  Behind him, the sun has risen in the morning sky; the streets haven’t yet filled with Saturday traffic. He roars down the avenue, every few moments glancing at the laptop on the seat beside him.

  Wilson’s now on Route 8, heading north where it merges into Route 25. Yes, he’s headed to Trumbull. Grayson’s certain he’s headed for Adrian and Megan’s house.

  Grayson realizes he’s hitting sixty. Trees and streets hurtle by as the car’s engine growls and its tires hammer on the asphalt road. He’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly his fingers ache. His heart pounds and his pulse sprints furiously. At the intersection of Boston Avenue and Route 25, he brakes hard, turns right, and fishtails. The Volvo swerves toward a Burger King parking lot. He steers into the skid, then yanks the wheel and straightens the car. He peels out and then cruises onto Route 25 toward Trumbull.

  Grayson glances at the laptop: the red light blinks steadily. Yes, Wilson’s going to Trumbull. If Grayson recalls, they bought a small ranch house in Trumbull awhile back, soon after Wilson’s trial. Does Wilson realize he’s being tracked?

  Thirty-nine

  Conrad sees a sign at the side of the road.

  WELCOME TO TRUMBULL

  ESTABLISHED 1725

  He cruises north, careful now not to speed. If he’s pulled over by a cop, it’s bye-bye, baby. Game over. He hears a siren in the distance and lowers the window and listens carefully. It’s headed in his direction. Yup, Grayson’s called it in. He’s one smart fucker, that shrink.

  Just gotta keep going. If the cops’re coming, it’ll be a race to the finish line. After that, it’ll be checkmate.

  On the left side of White Plains Road, he sees a mammoth corporate park—a cluster of ultramodern office buildings with glass facades shimmering in the morning light. The surrounding trees reflect off their mirrorlike veneers. A sprawling parking lot fronts the buildings where a few dozen cars are parked. A hapless group of corporate drones are working their bedraggled asses off on a Saturday morning. Perfect.

  He barrels into the parking area and heads toward the cars. He pulls to a stop near the rear row, turns the ignition off, and jumps out with his day pack.

  In a crouch, he slinks over the blacktop and darts between cars, looking for one that’ll fit the bill. He’s gotta find a gas-guzzler from 2004 or earlier. The newer models have “kill switches,” so hotwiring them’s a major hassle. You could get a world-class shock just trying. An older heap won’t have a state-of-the-art alarm and has a simpler door lock mechanism.

  A beige 2000 Ford Taurus sits right there. Perfect. He peers in the passenger-side window. No sign of an alarm system. Of course, you never know. But life’s filled with unknowns, thinks Conrad.

  He opens his day pack, grabs the chisel, wedges it between the rubber insulation and metal edge of the passenger-side window, forces the handle toward the car, and gets good leverage. There’s a groan as the door separates from the frame, leaving a quarter inch of space between the door and weather-stripping. He slides the hanger wire in, angles it down to the door lock lever and presses. The electrical tape makes for good friction; there’s no slippage. The lever depresses. There’s a snapping sound as the passenger’s door unlocks. He opens it.

  No alarm.

  He leans across and presses the master unlock button on the driver’s side: all locks snap open. He scampers around the Taurus, flings open the driver’s-side door, jumps in and tosses his day pack onto the passenger seat. He knows he’s gotta move fast.

  Grayson comes to the intersection of Route 25 and White Plains Road. He suddenly realizes his pulse is totally amped; it’s going so fast, he feels fluttering, as though there’s a bird in his chest. His arms feel like jelly; his hands go weak. He slows to thirty. Jesus, this is a goddamned freak-out.

  He glances at the laptop. Wilson’s been heading northeast on White Plains Road. Now it looks like he’s slowing down. Grayson catches another glimpse of the screen. The dot blinks in place, maybe a mile away. Grayson estimates he’s a minute behind Wilson. He’s gotta be on the lookout for a blue Impala.

  Suddenly, the dot stops moving and blinks in place; then there’s a blurred blip.

  The dot vanishes.

  Grayson realizes what’s happened: Wilson’s stopped the car.

  The GPS tracker is motion-activated. It turns off when the car stops. The tracking device is useless. Grayson pulls the Volvo onto the shoulder of the road. He turns on the flashers. His thoughts streak to the possibilities facin
g him.

  The last signal was at the Trumbull Corporate Park, a group of office buildings. Wilson may’ve gone into one. But which one? There are five buildings. No doubt the Impala’s parked out front. But why would Wilson go there?

  Another possibility strikes Grayson: he might have lost Wilson because of poor wireless transmission. He could be in a dead zone. It happens all the time in the wireless world. He can test it by hitting the speed dial on his cell phone—see if he gets a connection. In fact, he’ll call 911. It occurs to Grayson that in his rush to notify the police about Wilson’s escape, he didn’t call the Trumbull police directly—he’d depended on the Stratford Police dispatcher. Maybe he should call the Trumbull cops directly, since he’s in their town right now.

  He fishes in his pocket, no phone. He pats himself down but can’t find it. He looks on the seat near the laptop and then beneath it: not there. He bends over and looks on the floor and then in the glove compartment. There’re only the registration, insurance card, and pistol. He again slaps his pockets and then reaches beneath the car seat. There’s nothing.

  He must have dropped the phone in the garage. He was in such a rush, he wasn’t thinking, No cell phone and no option. He can’t call anyone.

  Conrad opens the day pack and removes the screwdriver, the folding knife, and the electrician’s tape. He quickly undoes the screws from the plastic access cover beneath the Taurus’s steering wheel.

  Two red wires are there—the power supply for the ignition switch. He pulls them down; with the knife, he strips away an inch of insulation from the end of each wire. He twists the ends together, wraps them with tape, and leaves bare a small section of joined copper above the taped ends. The wires dangle in a V-shaped configuration.

  No time to lose. The cops are only minutes away. He hears a siren’s whine—closer now.

  The ignition wire is covered with brown insulation. He strips away a half inch and touches the stripped wire to the bare copper of the intertwined red wires. Contact.

  The engine whirrs and then turns over, running smoothly.

  A fusillade of thoughts rushes through Grayson’s mind.

  Am I in a dead zone? Is Wilson in a dead zone? And if he’s stopped the car, where has he gone? What’s Wilson doing in an office building?

  Grayson looks at the laptop. He decides to hit a different Web site.

  With weak fingers, he types “VeriPoint” into the address bar and hits “Enter.”

  It must be a dead zone: the laptop’s loading slowly. It registers nearly zero millibytes per second.

  He throws the Volvo into “Drive,” hits the gas, and hurtles onto the road with his blinker lights still flashing. Now he hears sirens approaching.

  Grayson speeds ahead a quarter mile. He brakes and pulls onto the shoulder with the blinkers still flashing. The corporate park is nearby. He glances at the laptop.

  The laptop loads in—quickly.

  Conrad pulls out of the parking lot and swerves onto White Plains Road. He heads south, the opposite direction he drove to get here. He brings the Taurus up to sixty.

  Cruising along, he passes a stalled silver Volvo sitting on the shoulder of the northbound side of the road; its blinker lights are flashing. Poor fucker’s car has conked out. Those are the breaks.

  He heads toward the Merritt Parkway.

  Conrad’s sure there’s a GPS device in the pastor’s Impala, most likely behind a bumper. It’s just stuck in there, like a wad of bubble gum on a shoe sole. How else would the cops know he’s here? He knows they’re zeroing in on him because back at that corporate park, he heard sirens coming closer. A GPS—Grayson’s doing. He’s one smart shrink. It was a good move to dump the Impala in Trumbull—a solid diversion.

  No matter what, the monitoring company knows he’s gone—probably notified Grayson and the cops—and they’re looking for a blue Impala in Trumbull. Good luck, Charlie.

  Soon he’s on the 49S entrance ramp to the Merritt. This early on a Saturday morning, the parkway’s nearly deserted. Conrad cruises at a steady sixty-five, heading west along the two-lane, tree-lined highway. The sun’s risen and it’ll be a beautiful day—and he’s gonna do what needs to be done.

  He drives steadily past Easton, heading toward Eastport.

  Forty

  Megan stands at the stove, warming Philip’s formula. Marlee is upstairs watching him, while she’s downstairs preparing his bottle.

  After Philip is fed, Adrian will be back from his morning run, and he’ll take over while she prepares the kids’ stuff to bring to Erin and Bob’s place. In fact, she’ll telephone Erin and find out if she wants Megan to bring a fresh baguette they can share at dinner. In another minute, the pot of water will be at a boil; it’ll make the Similac too hot. Hearing a thump from upstairs, Megan goes to the foot of the stairway.

  “Marlee, honey, are you watching your brother?”

  “Yes, Mom. I’m just bouncing a ball.”

  “Okay. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  Back at the stove, she picks up the bottle and squeezes a drop of formula onto her wrist. It’s a bit too hot, so she’ll let it cool for a few minutes.

  Megan hears the mudroom door open; there’s a shuffling sound, barely audible.

  “Adrian, honey?” she calls, turning off the stove jet. “You said you want to call your mother early today. It might be a good time now, before we get busy with the kids.”

  The door into the kitchen clicks open.

  “Adrian, when I finish feeding Philip, I’ll call Erin and—” She turns.

  And sees Conrad.

  A shock wave of fear blasts through Megan. It’s so sudden and violent, her body pitches backward and slams against the kitchen counter. She freezes in place as waves of fear jangle through her.

  Conrad is huge, so muscular, his bulging shirt seems ready to tear at its seams. He’s in a half crouch, arms spread to cut her off if she bolts. His face is red, contorted with rage. That purple forehead vein of his bulges and seems to throb. His eyes are insane-looking globes of blue-gray ice, and a guttural snort erupts from his throat. He looks like a beast.

  He moves closer, and his lips are wet with spittle so thick it looks like the foam of a mad dog’s mouth. It’s animal madness in the guise of a human being.

  Megan’s thoughts flood in a mind rush: the night he took a knife to Marlee, the locker room, the elevator—it’s a heated broth of confusion and fear, and she wants to run. But she can’t, not here, not with the kids at home and not with her legs so weak and rubbery. Volts of panic burst through her, sending shock waves of inertia to every part of her body.

  Conrad’s lips move—he’s saying something—but Megan hears only the blood rush in her ears. Her hands are like jelly, and she’s frozen with terror.

  He nears her and reaches out.

  In a mindless blur, Megan—somehow galvanized—hurls the pot of near-boiling water in his face. Conrad blinks and says nothing as his mouth twists into a grimace of pain. He blinks a few times, shakes his head, and moves in.

  Megan sprints around the butcher-block island.

  Conrad—his face crimson and blistering, the skin curdling—circles the island. His movements are feline, like a lion stalking prey through the veld.

  Megan cries out, but it’s garbled. Her heart slams like a piston; her muscles quiver; every nerve ending in her body fires frantically.

  He lunges for her, but Megan scrambles away. She gropes for something and her hand slaps onto the kitchen counter, her eyes steadily on him. Plates rattle and shatter onto the floor.

  He circles the island. The skin on his face bubbles; his eyes are reddened, puffy.

  Megan finds it behind her: a slicing knife is in her hand. She circles away from him.

  “I’ll cut you, you son of a bitch,” she hears herself shriek.

  He lunges toward her.

  She lashes out. The knife slices through the air. Misses.

  He draws back and circles the other way.

 
Something changes in Megan. Suddenly, she feels no fear. Instead, a flush of rage—like white heat—sears through her. She waves the knife—left, right—feints, ready to thrust or slice.

  He lurches to her left and comes at her from the right.

  She lashes out and the knife slices the back of his hand. Blood seeps from a severed vein, oozes and drips to the floor and spatters in crimson bursts.

  He smiles, disregards the seep and drip of blood, stares at her, and feints again.

  She slashes and misses.

  “You knew I’d come back and catch you both …”

  Megan backs away as Conrad lunges in each direction. God, he’s so fast, shifting from one angle to another. With her free hand, she slaps again at the counter, grabs a frying pan, and flings it. It whips through the air and smashes into the refrigerator.

  “Mommy!” Marlee shrieks from upstairs.

  “Stay where you are, honey! Don’t come down!”

  “What’s happening?” Marlee screams.

  Conrad’s eyes dart toward the stairway and quickly back to Megan. With melting skin hanging from his face, he circles the island.

  Megan slashes; he jumps back. She thrusts and he quickly sidesteps the blade.

  In an instant, he clamps a huge hand on her wrist and yanks her arm with such force it feels like it’s ripping from its shoulder socket. Then he twists her arm and the knife clatters to the floor.

  He clutches her arm and a fistful of hair. Everything swirls as Megan is hurled across the kitchen. Air bursts from her lungs as her back slams into the pantry door. The impact leaves her breathless, and she crumples to the floor.

  “Mommy!” she hears Marlee cry.

  Megan struggles to breathe. She gasps, and through a haze, sees Conrad above her. She hears Marlee shriek again—a horrified yelp, closer now—and Megan tries to tell Marlee to run, but she can’t get air, can’t get a word out. A hoarse, guttural sound erupts from her throat, nothing sensible. Her lungs feel like they’ve collapsed. She tries to get to her feet, but she’s weak and dizzy, and Conrad’s heavy boot thuds into her belly. It feels like her guts rupture. Nausea rises in a sickening eddy. She retches, gags, and chokes, and the room dims. Things seem far away as Conrad’s knee thumps onto her chest and crushing pressure pins her to the floor.