At the Stroke of Madness (40 page)

H
e liked shopping at this time of night. The aisles of Stop & Shop were practically empty. The rage was still brewing inside him, threatening to dislodge the nausea, but there was no one to notice if he had to dart to the rest rooms or abandon his cart and leave the store suddenly. Which reminded him, he needed to stock up on more of the chalky crap.

Ever since leaving the library he’d felt a tingling in his hands and a weakness in his knees. He turned around to see if anyone was watching, if he was being followed. There was someone out to destroy him. But how did they know? How did they get his e-mail address?

At first he thought it might be the old man. But now he was convinced it had to be that nosy reporter. That bitch! He should have known she would be a problem. She was following him. He had seen her several places, snooping around. He had almost bumped into her yesterday, and she looked through him as if he didn’t exist. Had she been pretending that she didn’t know anything? No, she knew something. Why else was she everywhere he went?

And now was she playing games with him, sending him e-mails and pretending to be Joan. It had to be that reporter.
It had to be. Had to be.
But how did she know? How did she know he had Joan? Had the old man told her something? Had he seen him taking Joan that night in Hubbard Park?

He had to keep calm. He had to breathe. He would take care of his enemies, all in good time. He just needed to stay calm. He tapped his pocket, making sure the folded piece of paper was there. While at the library reading his e-mail he looked up the TV station’s address and phone number. Some receptionist told him Jennifer Carpenter wouldn’t be in until ten-thirty. That he could call back after the eleven o’clock news if he wished to speak with her. Speak to her? Well, yes, maybe he did wish to speak to her. Maybe he would ask her why she was following him. Why she was harassing him.

He searched the shelves, trying to relax, trying to concentrate on his shopping. He chose several jars of jelly. The twelve ounce would work fine. Then he noticed a large jar with olives. He hadn’t seen these before. He picked it up to examine it, thirty-two ounces and a nice wide mouth with a screw-on lid. He put it into his cart next to the cans of soup and loaf of white bread. Mayonnaise. He remembered he was out of mayonnaise. If only it came in a larger jar, and now they were selling it in sixty-four-ounce plastic containers. Plastic just wasn’t sufficient.

He tried to get his mind off the e-mail, off the rage it had made him feel. It was
stupid, stupid, stupid
to play games with him, to pretend to be Joan Begley. She was out to destroy him. They were all out to destroy him. That old man. Even that FBI agent. He didn’t trust any of them. They were all out to get him. But they couldn’t. No, they couldn’t destroy him. Not if he took care of them first.

That made him smile. Yes, one by one he would take care of his enemies. They had discovered his dumping ground, but he could find other places. That made him feel back in control.

He started down a new aisle. Someone said the old man had Alzheimer’s disease. He hated the way they had said it, like it was something that they were supposed to feel bad about. Like they felt sorry for the poor old guy.

He wondered what it looked like. What would something like Alzheimer’s disease look like? Did it make parts of the brain shrivel up? Did it discolor it in any way? He wouldn’t mind seeing that, taking a look.

Last time a large pickle jar had worked just fine, and he started to look for a similar one. Yes, Steve Earlman’s brain fit perfectly in a large pickle jar and so would Luc Racine’s.

H
e liked shopping at this time of night. The aisles of Stop & Shop were practically empty. The rage was still brewing inside him, threatening to dislodge the nausea, but there was no one to notice if he had to dart to the rest rooms or abandon his cart and leave the store suddenly. Which reminded him, he needed to stock up on more of the chalky crap.

Ever since leaving the library he’d felt a tingling in his hands and a weakness in his knees. He turned around to see if anyone was watching, if he was being followed. There was someone out to destroy him. But how did they know? How did they get his e-mail address?

At first he thought it might be the old man. But now he was convinced it had to be that nosy reporter. That bitch! He should have known she would be a problem. She was following him. He had seen her several places, snooping around. He had almost bumped into her yesterday, and she looked through him as if he didn’t exist. Had she been pretending that she didn’t know anything? No, she knew something. Why else was she everywhere he went?

And now was she playing games with him, sending him e-mails and pretending to be Joan. It had to be that reporter.
It had to be. Had to be.
But how did she know? How did she know he had Joan? Had the old man told her something? Had he seen him taking Joan that night in Hubbard Park?

He had to keep calm. He had to breathe. He would take care of his enemies, all in good time. He just needed to stay calm. He tapped his pocket, making sure the folded piece of paper was there. While at the library reading his e-mail he looked up the TV station’s address and phone number. Some receptionist told him Jennifer Carpenter wouldn’t be in until ten-thirty. That he could call back after the eleven o’clock news if he wished to speak with her. Speak to her? Well, yes, maybe he did wish to speak to her. Maybe he would ask her why she was following him. Why she was harassing him.

He searched the shelves, trying to relax, trying to concentrate on his shopping. He chose several jars of jelly. The twelve ounce would work fine. Then he noticed a large jar with olives. He hadn’t seen these before. He picked it up to examine it, thirty-two ounces and a nice wide mouth with a screw-on lid. He put it into his cart next to the cans of soup and loaf of white bread. Mayonnaise. He remembered he was out of mayonnaise. If only it came in a larger jar, and now they were selling it in sixty-four-ounce plastic containers. Plastic just wasn’t sufficient.

He tried to get his mind off the e-mail, off the rage it had made him feel. It was
stupid, stupid, stupid
to play games with him, to pretend to be Joan Begley. She was out to destroy him. They were all out to destroy him. That old man. Even that FBI agent. He didn’t trust any of them. They were all out to get him. But they couldn’t. No, they couldn’t destroy him. Not if he took care of them first.

That made him smile. Yes, one by one he would take care of his enemies. They had discovered his dumping ground, but he could find other places. That made him feel back in control.

He started down a new aisle. Someone said the old man had Alzheimer’s disease. He hated the way they had said it, like it was something that they were supposed to feel bad about. Like they felt sorry for the poor old guy.

He wondered what it looked like. What would something like Alzheimer’s disease look like? Did it make parts of the brain shrivel up? Did it discolor it in any way? He wouldn’t mind seeing that, taking a look.

Last time a large pickle jar had worked just fine, and he started to look for a similar one. Yes, Steve Earlman’s brain fit perfectly in a large pickle jar and so would Luc Racine’s.

L
uc heard something. A noise had awakened him. He propped himself up on one elbow, glancing at Scrapple sprawled on his back, feet in the air at the end of the bed. Either he was imagining things again or his dog was totally useless as a watchdog.

He listened, trying to hear over the thumping of his own heart. Maybe it was only the FBI woman downstairs, Julia’s friend. He wasn’t used to having anyone else in his house. Maybe he just wasn’t used to the normal noises that came along with having someone else in his house. She had promised not to call Julia. He hoped she kept her promises. He didn’t want Julia worrying about him. He didn’t want her running home just because she felt sorry for him. He didn’t want her—

Holy crap! Something moved inside his closet. The night-light in the wall socket made it difficult to see. He squinted. The closet door was open about a foot. He never left his closet door open, always made certain it was closed. And now he could see a shadow inside. Yes, someone was inside his closet. Oh, Jesus! The guy had never left. He was standing inside Luc’s closet. Standing there, waiting. Probably waiting for Luc to fall fast asleep.

He eased himself back down into the pillows, pretending he was going back to sleep but positioning himself so he could see the closet door. He listened again, only this time it was impossible to hear anything. His heart thundered in his ears and his breathing seemed hard to control. He had to think. What did he have close by that he could use as a weapon? The lamp? It was plugged into the wall and too small. His eyes darted around the room—looking, searching for something, anything—always returning to the shadow. Did it move again?

What the hell was wrong with Scrapple? The dog stayed on his back with not so much as a snort, let alone a growl. How could that dog have not sensed this guy?

Maybe a baseball bat. Yes, he used to have one around. A ball, a bat and a glove. He and Julia still hit it around sometimes. Who was he kidding? That was ages ago. No telling where the damn bat was now.

The FBI agent was downstairs. How could he get her attention? Could he sneak out of the room? But not without Scrapple. The dog might be worthless, but no way would he leave him here.

Then he saw the top knob of the baseball bat sticking out from under the bed. Yes, he had kept it here. He let his hand dangle over the edge of the bed. Shoot! He couldn’t reach it. He glanced back at the closet door. Was it opened a little more? Oh, Christ, was he coming out now? This was no time to hesitate.

Luc jumped out of bed. He slammed his knee into the dresser with a bang that woke up Scrapple. But he grabbed the baseball bat and ran to the closet door, not stopping, not waiting, snatching at the doorknob and pulling it open as he raised the bat. He delivered several strong death blows, smashing the shadow to the floor. It took him a second or two before he realized he had just bludgeoned the only suit he owned, the one he had recently picked up from the dry cleaners and hung in his closet, left in the plastic wrap. He had wanted to be sure the suit was clean and pressed and ready one day for his own funeral. And now it was a crumpled mess on the floor of his closet, after threatening his life.

Luc sat on the edge of his bed, petting the now alert and confused Scrapple, waiting for the shaking in his hands to stop. How ridiculous had he become? What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t only losing his memory but perhaps his mind, as well.

Then he heard a noise from outside. A muffled thump that sounded like it came from the back of the house. And this time Scrapple heard it, too.

L
uc heard something. A noise had awakened him. He propped himself up on one elbow, glancing at Scrapple sprawled on his back, feet in the air at the end of the bed. Either he was imagining things again or his dog was totally useless as a watchdog.

He listened, trying to hear over the thumping of his own heart. Maybe it was only the FBI woman downstairs, Julia’s friend. He wasn’t used to having anyone else in his house. Maybe he just wasn’t used to the normal noises that came along with having someone else in his house. She had promised not to call Julia. He hoped she kept her promises. He didn’t want Julia worrying about him. He didn’t want her running home just because she felt sorry for him. He didn’t want her—

Holy crap! Something moved inside his closet. The night-light in the wall socket made it difficult to see. He squinted. The closet door was open about a foot. He never left his closet door open, always made certain it was closed. And now he could see a shadow inside. Yes, someone was inside his closet. Oh, Jesus! The guy had never left. He was standing inside Luc’s closet. Standing there, waiting. Probably waiting for Luc to fall fast asleep.

He eased himself back down into the pillows, pretending he was going back to sleep but positioning himself so he could see the closet door. He listened again, only this time it was impossible to hear anything. His heart thundered in his ears and his breathing seemed hard to control. He had to think. What did he have close by that he could use as a weapon? The lamp? It was plugged into the wall and too small. His eyes darted around the room—looking, searching for something, anything—always returning to the shadow. Did it move again?

What the hell was wrong with Scrapple? The dog stayed on his back with not so much as a snort, let alone a growl. How could that dog have not sensed this guy?

Maybe a baseball bat. Yes, he used to have one around. A ball, a bat and a glove. He and Julia still hit it around sometimes. Who was he kidding? That was ages ago. No telling where the damn bat was now.

The FBI agent was downstairs. How could he get her attention? Could he sneak out of the room? But not without Scrapple. The dog might be worthless, but no way would he leave him here.

Then he saw the top knob of the baseball bat sticking out from under the bed. Yes, he had kept it here. He let his hand dangle over the edge of the bed. Shoot! He couldn’t reach it. He glanced back at the closet door. Was it opened a little more? Oh, Christ, was he coming out now? This was no time to hesitate.

Luc jumped out of bed. He slammed his knee into the dresser with a bang that woke up Scrapple. But he grabbed the baseball bat and ran to the closet door, not stopping, not waiting, snatching at the doorknob and pulling it open as he raised the bat. He delivered several strong death blows, smashing the shadow to the floor. It took him a second or two before he realized he had just bludgeoned the only suit he owned, the one he had recently picked up from the dry cleaners and hung in his closet, left in the plastic wrap. He had wanted to be sure the suit was clean and pressed and ready one day for his own funeral. And now it was a crumpled mess on the floor of his closet, after threatening his life.

Luc sat on the edge of his bed, petting the now alert and confused Scrapple, waiting for the shaking in his hands to stop. How ridiculous had he become? What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t only losing his memory but perhaps his mind, as well.

Then he heard a noise from outside. A muffled thump that sounded like it came from the back of the house. And this time Scrapple heard it, too.