Love Gone Mad

by Rubinstein, Mark

  Conrad grabs the knife.

  Coming through the kitchen door, Adrian hears a deep thump.

  His insides jump when he sees Megan on the floor, her features twisted in agony.

  Conrad Wilson straddles her, clutching a raised knife.

  Adrian moves quickly, but it feels like a languid flow of time. He hurtles toward Conrad. The knife flashes like a sliver of light, and he sees Conrad’s melting face—purple, blistered, contorted. He hears Marlee shriek as Megan retches and the knife plummets down in a lethal arc.

  Adrian’s sneakers grip the tiles; he feels momentum build as he hurtles across the kitchen, and he senses the impending impact as he closes in on Conrad. He feels the power-packed spring in his legs as he bursts forward, but it feels like a freeze frame stoppage—as though he’s plowing through some viscous substance, glue, or mucilage. Yet it’s only a fraction of a second. He slams into Conrad, hurling him to the floor. Conrad lands on his back with a deep thud. Adrian tumbles on top of him.

  Conrad pushes up; his power is incredible. Adrian leaps to his feet as Conrad rises from a crouch. Adrian rears back and swings from his hip with all his weight, his fist slams into Conrad’s jaw. Conrad’s head snaps back. He grunts from the force of the blow, yet stays on his feet. Even in that adrenaline-fueled moment, Adrian wonders how the man could withstand such a punch. Conrad moves forward. Adrian’s other fist shoots out; he gut punches Conrad, landing a heavy blow to his midsection. Air whooshes from Conrad’s lungs, and the knife slips to the floor. But Conrad stays on his feet.

  Adrian lunges, but in a catlike move, Conrad sidesteps him, grabs Adrian’s torso, and clamps his arms around Adrian. Conrad’s hands lock, then squeeze. It’s a viselike bear hug, constricting like a python’s embrace. Adrian’s ribs and spine compress and his face fills with blood. It feels swollen, like it’ll explode. His chest feels too small for his lungs and heart; Conrad’s grip tightens. Adrian can’t get air; he can’t expand his chest to breathe.

  His knee plunges into Conrad’s groin, but Conrad holds on, and suddenly Adrian is hoisted up and hurled back, and he tumbles through the air; the kitchen spins and he hits the floor. Bouncing like a discarded doll, the back of his head cracks onto the tile floor. There’s an explosion of pain and white lights burst in his eyes.

  Conrad looms over him.

  Adrian’s head clears; he kicks and thrusts his feet at Conrad, but it makes no difference. Conrad drops down—his knees crash into Adrian’s chest and Adrian’s breastbone feels crushed. Conrad straddles him, and his hand clamps onto Adrian’s windpipe. Adrian is pinned, choking, as desperate gurgles ripple from his throat.

  Conrad has the knife.

  Adrian bucks his hips. Conrad pitches up and then comes down, still straddling him.

  Adrian clutches Conrad’s wrist and stops the knife thrust. The blade quivers as each man pushes. The knife sinks slowly toward Adrian.

  Adrian tries to roll to the side, but he can’t. Conrad is too heavy, far too powerful. His weight is overwhelming. Conrad’s free hand curls into a fist as he drives a punch to Adrian’s temple, but Adrian turns his head so the blow only grazes him, slamming his skull against the floor. A shower of lights bursts in his eyes, but Adrian holds on.

  Adrian lurches sideways as the knife plunges down and pierces his left arm, near the shoulder. A lancing pain sears though his biceps and digs deeply. A shocklike sensation—like a blue light—shoots through his flesh. His arm spasms, then flops helplessly at his side. Adrian retches and fights the urge to vomit.

  The blade rises—a lethal steel sliver in Conrad’s fist.

  Adrian hears Megan shriek, then groan; he hears Marlee scream. Adrian sees blood, smells its coppery odor, sees it ooze and drip—Conrad’s blood, his own—flowing, seeping everywhere, on and around them; it’s a slippery puddle in which they writhe on the floor; and Adrian feels Conrad’s power, smells his breath, sees his scalded face, sees the blisters on his flesh, sees a huge vein pulsing on Conrad’s forehead, sees mucous dripping from his nose, and sees the bubbling spittle on his lips and the wild look in his blood-reddened eyes. In that moment, the craziest thoughts swarm through Adrian’s mind. His brain is afire with the instinct to survive, to avoid that abyss, the endless darkness, and he knows for certain he should have blown Conrad away that night in the cemetery on Bald Hill. He should have squeezed the trigger, shot out his brains and taken his life, wasted him—it would have been so easy—but he hadn’t. And this is what it’s come to, at this moment in their home, with Marlee screaming and Megan groaning. Adrian thinks she’ll somehow save him—she’ll grab a kitchen knife and thrust it into Conrad’s neck, then twist it and slice through his carotid. She’ll stab and slice, spraying his blood everywhere. But deep in Adrian’s mind, he realizes Megan is semiconscious on the floor and Marlee’s still shrieking, even as the knife begins its final plunge, and Adrian realizes he’s weak and draining. He’s sucking air, losing the struggle. In that split second of suspended time, Adrian realizes it’s over. Everything he’s ever known is coming to an end—the way it did for Dad in those final deathly seconds thirty-four years ago. Adrian knows he’s dying, and he accepts that life will leave him. There are no more thoughts, no revelations, and nothing passes before his eyes—no backlit tunnel or white light or dreamy images, or visions, or illusions. It’s not a misty, ethereal experience. It’s Marlee screaming—the very last thing he’ll ever hear. There’s Conrad above him, grunting, his face contorted with hatred and looking like a wild animal, as the knife plummets. And in that fateful moment, Adrian hears an ear-shattering roar and sees Conrad’s right eye burst open, as his face and head explode in a red, foam-filled blowback of blood, bone, and brains.

  Police are everywhere, burly guys in blue. Sirens whoop insanely. Cops swarm through the house. Cameras click and whirr; flashes burst brightly in the kitchen; there’s a blurred circus of movement and noise; it’s all confusing. Adrian hears Megan trying to console Marlee, whose shrieking continues. Amid the tumult, Adrian hears men talking: cops, a fireman, and EMTs. He hears radio static, crackling, buzzing, and then more sirens. So many people, so much movement, everything seems to tumble and spin out of control. He’s not really certain where he is, but it must be home because he can hear Megan and Marlee, even though they’re far away.

  Adrian lies on something soft. It moves a bit, and he realizes the EMT guys have him on a gurney; they’re rolling him out to an ambulance. “You’ll be okay, Doc,” one says. “It’s a nick to the brachial artery. You lost a lot of blood, but we’re getting plenty of normal saline into you, and they’ll hook you up in the ER.”

  “I feel so sleepy. Whadya give me?”

  “Just a shot to mellow things out.”

  Adrian peers up through a haze and sees the IV bag hanging from a pole and a pulse oximeter on his index finger. He hears more voices, all blending now, and then more cameras click and it’s all fuzzy. His lips feel thick. His tongue, too. It seems to flop in his mouth, and it’s tough to get words out, so he’s mumbling something, slurring his words, and everything drifts lazily. And now he’s swaying gently. He’s certain the EMT guys shot him up with morphine, maybe Demerol. It’s like a kiss to the brain.

  Suddenly, Megan’s there and plants her moist lips on his. She whispers, “I love you.”

  He says something but isn’t sure what it is. He thinks he reaches for her and feels her hand. He’s being wheeled through the mudroom, then the garage, where he sees the rafters above, past the snow shovels, rakes, and weed whacker and out to the ambulance. The morning air hits him like a shock. His eyes tear. Everything is blurred and the gurney’s rolling. Megan walks beside it and pulls a blanket up beneath his chin.

  “How’re the kids?” he asks thickly. Suddenly things spin, and yes, he’s starting to drift down some foggy trail. Meandering now, just wandering, he isn’t sure where. He knows his eyelids are fluttering—a sure sign of stupor, going to another world—and he can no longer feel his hands. Thi
ngs are going dim, and the world wafts away. Soon he’ll be somewhere else, if he’s not there already.

  He thinks he hears Megan say something, but he can’t make it out. There’s the fragrance of her hair, the feel of her skin as she bends over him and kisses him again. It’s a soft, warm, moist feeling, her lips on his. She’s incredibly delicious—unmistakably Megan. Like no other woman ever in his life.

  “Love you,” he slurs, and he closes his eyes and then opens them, and of all things, there’s Mulvaney’s huge, lined face—the granite jaw, those weathered Irish features—and Mulvaney’s smiling at him through a rolling fog bank. It feels like he’s somewhere in the English moors because everything’s hazy, like in a dream.

  Mulvaney says something, but it’s indistinct. Adrian feels the gurney rising, and then he’s in the ambulance. The gurney wheels collapse as he slides into the compartment. It smells antiseptic, like an OR. He feels Megan stroke his forehead. She pulls the blanket up again.

  Patty’s still talking, but his voice is fading.

  Adrian’s slipping away, just drifting somewhere, even as he’s inside this ambulance—yes, that’s where he is—and there’s a keening sound as the siren wails and then he’s hovering. He feels Megan next to him, hears Marlee, too, and it’s so peaceful. He could stay this way forever.

  Mulvaney goes into the living room.

  “You get his statement?” he asks Harwood.

  “Yeah, Chief. Got it all,” Harwood says and pockets his digital voice recorder.

  Mulvaney plops down in an armchair and then says, “How ya doin’, Doc?”

  “I’m okay,” Grayson replies, feeling an ache deep in his bones.

  “Rough day, huh?”

  Grayson nods, takes a deep breath and shakes his head wearily.

  “That’s some powerful piece; it packs quite a punch.”

  “It’s registered. I have a permit.”

  “I know. A Walther 380. One of the best.”

  Mulvaney waits and then says, “You know the guardian and his wife are dead.”

  “Captain Harwood told me.” Grayson shakes his head again and sighs. “It’s a shame. The pastor was a good man … had a view of life that’s hard to hold in this insane world. He had hope for humanity.”

  “How ’bout you, Doc? As a shrink, you see good and evil all the time, like I do. Is there any hope for us crazy sons of bitches?”

  Grayson leans his tall frame forward and sets his forearms on his thighs as a wave of crushing fatigue plows through him. He peers at Mulvaney and says, “I wonder about humanity … I wonder and worry.”

  “Ya don’t think kindness and love’ll save us, Doc?”

  Grayson smiles weakly and says, “Chief, I don’t fucking know.”

  “Fair enough,” Mulvaney says with a nod. He clasps his hands together. “Tell me somethin’, Doc. How’d you know to come here?”

  “To tell you the truth, Chief, I never knew that Dr. Douglas and Megan moved to Eastport. I thought they still lived in Trumbull, and I tracked Wilson there with the GPS.”

  “I got it, Doc. But the pastor’s car was left in Trumbull. The tracking unit inside the bumper was useless. So how’d you know to get over here?”

  “I never trusted Wilson—ever.”

  “So you had the monitoring bracelet on the guy and the GPS in the car.”

  “Right.”

  “But once he dumped the car in Trumbull, how’d ya know he’d come here?”

  “I tracked him.”

  “How’d ya do that?”

  “I didn’t think we had enough safeguards. Whenever Wilson went on a pass, I insisted on examining his day pack before he brought it back to the ward. I told the pastor we didn’t want inmates bringing in contraband. So while I had the thing, I had a lightweight GPS unit sewn into the lining. It weighs only a few ounces. Once the car’s tracking device deactivated, I logged on to the Web site for the unit in the backpack.”

  “Clever,” Mulvaney says. “Triple redundancy.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, Doc, ya saved some lives today.”

  “But two innocent people are dead. The system failed completely.”

  “But you succeeded.”

  “If you want to call it success, Chief. It’s a stain on the legal and psychiatric communities, and the Department of Corrections, too. We all failed, if you ask me.”

  “I’m not askin’, Doc. I’m just sayin’ you’re a hero. You saved the life of the guy who saved my life. And his wife’s life. Probably the kids’, too.”

  Grayson wonders how it all came to this. Then he looks into Mulvaney’s eyes. “Hey, Chief, you weren’t at Wilson’s trial, were you?”

  “Na, I gotta run a police force.”

  “I still think about what he said on the stand.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “The DA asked Wilson if he wanted the jury to understand his version of the truth … about Adrian and Megan, and the little girl, Marlee … you know, Wilson’s crazy belief that she’s Adrian’s kid.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And Conrad said the jury didn’t matter, that nothing matters.”

  “And?”

  “He said, ‘You can even kill me. It doesn’t matter. My soul is dead.’” Grayson looks at Mulvaney. “He called it soul murder.”

  Mulvaney gets up and sets a huge paw on Grayson’s shoulder. “Yeah, well, now the bastard’s dead … and may his dead soul rest in peace.”

  Forty-one

  “It’s great to see ya lookin’ so good,” Mulvaney says as he dumps a third teaspoonful of sugar into his coffee, adds cream, and stirs the brew. He and Adrian sit in a vinyl booth across a Formica-topped table at Rory’s, a roadhouse known best for its huge fire-grilled burgers—juicy half pounders made of ground chuck and sirloin, served with a heaping batch of french fries. The place is thronged by a clamorous lunchtime crowd. Patrons are bellied up three deep at the bar, talking, laughing, guzzling mugs of draft beer. Some people chomp burgers at the bar, while others down a liquid lunch. The clatter of cutlery, dishes, kitchen noise, and the hum of conversation fill the air.

  “I know it isn’t Starbucks,” Mulvaney says with a shrug, “but the food’s good. I come here all the time. Oh, and the tab’s on me today.”

  “Thanks, Patty. Who needs Starbucks?” Adrian is aware that once again, when he’s with Mulvaney, he feels enveloped in a protective shield—and it’s not because the big guy’s a police chief. It’s a father-son kind of thing, and Adrian senses it’s just as gratifying for the chief as it is for him. Mulvaney has no kids, and each has become for the other what was never to be had, or was lost early in life.

  Mulvaney sips his coffee. “So tell me, when ya getting back to crackin’ chests?”

  “Tomorrow. Four weeks is enough time off, and I’m ready. The arm feels like new, and I’ve been exercising it.”

  “Ya gonna save some more lives, huh?”

  “I’m gonna try.”

  Adrian pauses and looks at Mulvaney’s ruddy complexion. “You’re looking good, Patty. How’s the diet?”

  “Marge keeps an eagle eye on me, but to tell ya the truth, I gotta splurge now and then. That’s why I come here—for the burgers. A little fat once in a blue moon won’t kill me, right? If she ever asks what I order, tell her it’s tuna on whole wheat,” Mulvaney says with a wink.

  Adrian nods, knowing Mulvaney loves this little conspiratorial exchange.

  “How’re Megan and the kids?”

  “Between dealing with Marlee’s trauma, nursing me, and taking care of Philip, Megan’s been busy. She’s getting back to work next week … part-time. We’ve arranged for someone to care for Philip since Erin’s gone back to work, too.”

  “Ah, modern married life,” Mulvaney says. “Marge and I’ll never understand this day-care crap.”

  “It’s a different world now, Patty.”

  “Yeah, I’m just an old fart.”

  “But you’re my old
fart, and it’s always good to be with you, Patty.”

  The waitress, standing at another table, spies Mulvaney, smiles and nods. He gives her a wave. It’s obvious Mulvaney visits quite often for his lunchtime splurges.

  “So like I said, Adrian, Grayson’s testifying at the Public Health Commission. He’s pushin’ for some reforms in the Mental Hygiene Laws.”

  “Maybe something good’ll come out of all this.”

  “I hope so. We don’t wanna see another situation like Wilson’s.”

  Mulvaney’s cell phone goes off. He looks at the screen and puts it to his ear.

  “What’s up, Ed?”

  His eyebrows rise and he says, “Who’s the vic?” Listening again, his eyes widen. “Really? Here? In Eastport?” He shoots a glance at Adrian; Mulvaney’s eyes seem to say, Wait until you hear this …

  Adrian feels his muscles tighten. Vic? What the hell’s going on? A murder?

  Mulvaney listens intently, shakes his head, and says, “Conrad Wilson? Jesus!” His index finger rises, a clear signal that something’s up—something relating to Adrian and Megan.

  Adrian’s entire body tenses. Conrad Wilson? Vic? What the hell’s going on?

  “No kiddin’?” Mulvaney says. He listens again, glances at Adrian, and shakes his head. “Son of a bitch,” Patty says. “That bastard leaves a wake of destruction wherever he goes.”

  A jangling sensation rips through Adrian. Through the lunch-time crowd, he hears his pulse pounding in his ears. His face feels hot and his throat constricts.

  Conrad Wilson? The bastard’s dead. What the hell’s going on?

  “Twenty-two Middle Brook Road, got it,” Mulvaney says. “You call the ME yet?”