At the Stroke of Madness (26 page)

I
t was late by the time Maggie got to the Ramada Plaza Hotel. She started to feel the exhaustion of the day. A tight knot throbbed between her shoulder blades. Her eyes begged for sleep. And she wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. In the parking lot, while she unloaded her bags, she felt someone watching her. She had looked around but saw no one.

As she waited for the desk clerk—or rather, according to Cindy’s plastic clip-on badge, “desk clerk in training”—Maggie tried to decide what she’d tell Gwen. After everything that had happened today, she wasn’t any closer to knowing where Joan Begley was. For all she knew the woman was still here at the Ramada Plaza Hotel, lying low and simply escaping.

Maggie watched the desk clerk as she plugged in her credit card information. Hotel policy wouldn’t allow them to give out Joan’s room number. And Maggie didn’t want to draw attention to herself or cause alarm by whipping out her FBI badge. So instead she said, “A friend of mine is staying here, too. Could I leave a note for her?”

“Sure,” Cindy said, and handed her a pen, folded note card and envelope with the hotel’s emblem.

Maggie jotted down her name and cell phone number, slipped the card into the envelope, tucked in the flap and wrote “Joan Begley” on the outside. She handed it to Cindy, who glanced at the name, checked the computer and then scratched some numbers under the name before putting it aside.

“Here’s your key card, Ms. O’Dell. Your room number is written on the inside flap. The elevators are around the corner and to your right. Would you like some help with your luggage?”

“No thanks, I’ve got them.” She slung her garment bag’s strap over her shoulder and picked up her computer case, taking several steps before turning back. “Oh, you know what? I forgot to tell my friend what time we’re supposed to meet tomorrow. Could I just jot it down quickly?”

“Oh, sure,” Cindy said, grabbing the note and sliding it across the counter to Maggie.

She opened the envelope and pretended to write down a time before slipping the card back in, this time sealing the envelope and handing it back to Cindy. “Thanks so much.”

“No problem.” And Cindy put the card aside, not realizing she had just shown Maggie Joan Begley’s room number.

Maggie threw her bags onto the bed in her own room. She kicked off her shoes, took off her jacket and untucked her blouse. Then she found the ice bucket, grabbed her key card and headed up to room 624. As soon as she got off the elevator, she stopped at the ice machine to fill the plastic bucket, and she padded down the hall in stocking feet to find Joan’s room. Then she waited.

She popped an ice cube into her mouth, only now realizing she hadn’t eaten since the sandwich at the quarry. Maybe she would order some room service. And as if by magic she heard the elevator ding from around the corner. Sure enough a young man clad in white jacket and black trousers with a tray lifted over his head turned the corner, walking away from her to deliver to the room at the far corner. She waited until he came back and saw her, before she slipped her key card into the slot.

“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?”

“T
ell 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.

“T
ell 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.