At the Stroke of Madness (48 page)

S
imon stared at the tools on the wall, trying to decide which one to use on Joan. He had gotten used to her company. Despite hating to clean up her messes, he did like having her as his guest. He liked that she didn’t even ask to be let go anymore. He had control over her and he liked that, too. But that reporter had ruined everything. And now he had to get rid of Joan.

He had called in sick, telling the receptionist at the funeral home that he might have the flu. It was something he had never done before. And he wasn’t going to class this afternoon, either. Another first. Not since childhood had he missed a day of work or college classes. After all those missed school days growing up, he had always felt like he needed to catch up. Maybe he felt like he needed to prove something.

He hated missing. Hated ruining his regular routine. It didn’t feel right. But this was important. Already he had cleaned out two of the chest freezers, one here in the toolshed and one back at the house. He had tossed all the parts he had saved, all those pieces he had saved and wrapped in butcher-block white paper. He had tossed it all in the woods, where the coyotes would take care of it once it thawed. He hated parting with the pieces, but none of them proved interesting enough to showcase. He really didn’t need them. Besides, he needed some place to put Joan. At least until he found a new dumping ground.

He continued to stare at the tools. He had ruled out the chain saw, though it was tempting, especially since he still wasn’t sure which gland caused her hormone deficiency. She tried to tell him she was fine. That she had only made it up to excuse her overeating. Poor girl. Like the rest of them, she didn’t recognize what a valuable commodity she was in possession of. But it didn’t matter. He’d just cut all of the glands out. Surely he would be able to tell which one looked diseased. And if he couldn’t, he’d decided to keep all of them.

A knife would work. But which one? He had the entire collection now from his father’s shop. Anything from the huge cleaver to the small, delicate filet knife. Maybe something in between. He really didn’t want to do this. It was almost as if he had become attached to her. He liked coming home and having her there to talk to and share his collection with. He hadn’t ever had a pet before. No, no, not a pet. He didn’t mean that she was like a pet. No, no, no. It was like…actually he had never really had a friend before. That was probably what it was like. But he still reached for one of the boning knives. That was when he heard something outside.

Had the coyotes dared to come already?

He glanced out the small window of the toolshed. Nothing back in the woods. Then he saw her, walking around to the back of the house. He could see her, walking slowly, cautiously, sneaking toward the back door. And from this angle he could tell that Special Agent O’Dell had her gun drawn.

M
aggie couldn’t see a vehicle, but there were enough outbuildings to store several. Had he gone to work already? Or if not work, perhaps he had a class. Maybe he was even back at the rock quarry, helping Watermeier and Bonzado. What a pathetic twist. The killer not only returning to the crime scene but helping to process it. Simon Shelby had stood by and watched, actually even helped at times, while they sorted through his mutilations, his butchery.

The acreage was well maintained. All the buildings were whitewashed, the grass and meadow cut short, no discarded old equipment. One of the buildings looked like it had huge solar panels on its sides, renovated for perhaps a workshop.

She made her way to the back door but hadn’t peeked inside any of the windows yet. She decided to knock. Make sure he was gone, despite her certainty. And she slid her Smith & Wesson under her jacket, in case someone answered the door. When no one did, she tried to the knob, surprised to find the door unlocked.

She brought out her revolver again and swung the door open. She stopped to listen. Other than an electrical hum of an appliance, she couldn’t hear anything. She entered slowly, watching, looking, searching as she eased down the hallway. She came to the kitchen first on the left. She glanced in. Nothing out of the ordinary. The electrical hum was coming from the old chest freezer in the corner. She continued down the hallway. An open stairwell was to her right and she looked up. Nothing.

She could see the living room beyond the stairwell, or perhaps a parlor, furnished like a showroom with what looked like antiques, lace doilies and curtains. She got to the entrance and was paying such close attention to what was in front of her that she didn’t hear him come up from behind. She didn’t hear him until it was too late.

Maggie turned just as something came crashing down on the side of her head.

M
aggie couldn’t see a vehicle, but there were enough outbuildings to store several. Had he gone to work already? Or if not work, perhaps he had a class. Maybe he was even back at the rock quarry, helping Watermeier and Bonzado. What a pathetic twist. The killer not only returning to the crime scene but helping to process it. Simon Shelby had stood by and watched, actually even helped at times, while they sorted through his mutilations, his butchery.

The acreage was well maintained. All the buildings were whitewashed, the grass and meadow cut short, no discarded old equipment. One of the buildings looked like it had huge solar panels on its sides, renovated for perhaps a workshop.

She made her way to the back door but hadn’t peeked inside any of the windows yet. She decided to knock. Make sure he was gone, despite her certainty. And she slid her Smith & Wesson under her jacket, in case someone answered the door. When no one did, she tried to the knob, surprised to find the door unlocked.

She brought out her revolver again and swung the door open. She stopped to listen. Other than an electrical hum of an appliance, she couldn’t hear anything. She entered slowly, watching, looking, searching as she eased down the hallway. She came to the kitchen first on the left. She glanced in. Nothing out of the ordinary. The electrical hum was coming from the old chest freezer in the corner. She continued down the hallway. An open stairwell was to her right and she looked up. Nothing.

She could see the living room beyond the stairwell, or perhaps a parlor, furnished like a showroom with what looked like antiques, lace doilies and curtains. She got to the entrance and was paying such close attention to what was in front of her that she didn’t hear him come up from behind. She didn’t hear him until it was too late.

Maggie turned just as something came crashing down on the side of her head.

L
uc didn’t like waiting.

He wished Agent O’Dell had allowed him to bring Scrapple along. He didn’t like being without the dog. They went everywhere together. And he really didn’t like hearing Scrapple’s howl of abandonment coming from the living room window as they drove away.

He tried to see beyond the trees. He tried to look down the path where Agent O’Dell had disappeared. He didn’t understand why she hadn’t driven up, or at least, walked up the driveway. She was being very secretive for someone who kept telling him not to worry. She reminded him of Julia. Before she moved to D.C. his daughter had always been going off checking stuff, stuff she probably shouldn’t have been poking her nose into. Maybe that was just what law enforcement people did. Maybe it was in their blood. Although he and Julia did share some of the same blood.

He scratched his head, pushing back the beret and looking again to see if he could make out where in the world Agent O’Dell was now. He held up the cell phone. She said fifteen minutes. Well, it was close to that now, wasn’t it? He glanced at his wrist, only to remember that he had stopped wearing watches long ago when he could no longer understand them. Numbers had become useless to him. He couldn’t even write out a check anymore. They probably would have shut off his electricity months ago if he hadn’t had the foresight to set up all the automatic withdrawals for his bills. Hopefully the money wouldn’t run out before his time ran out.

He looked out the car window again and this time felt a slight panic as he tried to remember why he couldn’t recognize anything. Oh, jeez! Where the hell was he? He twisted around in the car, trying to find something he recognized. Then he held up the black object in his hand. He was holding it so tight it had to be something important, but damn it, he couldn’t remember what the hell it was.

L
uc didn’t like waiting.

He wished Agent O’Dell had allowed him to bring Scrapple along. He didn’t like being without the dog. They went everywhere together. And he really didn’t like hearing Scrapple’s howl of abandonment coming from the living room window as they drove away.

He tried to see beyond the trees. He tried to look down the path where Agent O’Dell had disappeared. He didn’t understand why she hadn’t driven up, or at least, walked up the driveway. She was being very secretive for someone who kept telling him not to worry. She reminded him of Julia. Before she moved to D.C. his daughter had always been going off checking stuff, stuff she probably shouldn’t have been poking her nose into. Maybe that was just what law enforcement people did. Maybe it was in their blood. Although he and Julia did share some of the same blood.

He scratched his head, pushing back the beret and looking again to see if he could make out where in the world Agent O’Dell was now. He held up the cell phone. She said fifteen minutes. Well, it was close to that now, wasn’t it? He glanced at his wrist, only to remember that he had stopped wearing watches long ago when he could no longer understand them. Numbers had become useless to him. He couldn’t even write out a check anymore. They probably would have shut off his electricity months ago if he hadn’t had the foresight to set up all the automatic withdrawals for his bills. Hopefully the money wouldn’t run out before his time ran out.

He looked out the car window again and this time felt a slight panic as he tried to remember why he couldn’t recognize anything. Oh, jeez! Where the hell was he? He twisted around in the car, trying to find something he recognized. Then he held up the black object in his hand. He was holding it so tight it had to be something important, but damn it, he couldn’t remember what the hell it was.

M
aggie woke slowly. Her head throbbed. Her legs felt numb, tangled, somewhere underneath her. It was pitch-dark despite her attempt to open her eyes. No use. It was too dark. She couldn’t move her arms. Couldn’t begin to untangle her legs. She could barely move her hands and tried to feel around the small, smooth space above her. Whatever he had shoved her into, it was too tight to move.

Too tight and cold. So very cold.

That was when she heard the motor kick on. That was when she recognized the electrical hum. That same hum she had heard when she first entered the house.

Oh, God! He had put her in the freezer.

She couldn’t panic. It wouldn’t help to panic. She couldn’t have been in here long or she wouldn’t have woken up. She had to remain calm. She tried to twist her legs out from under her. It was useless. They were shoved in tight. Even her arms couldn’t move more than a few inches to the side. It felt like she was squeezing herself down into the chest tighter and tighter. That couldn’t be possible.

She needed to stay calm. She needed to breathe. It was already difficult to breathe. How much air could she possibly have inside here? And the cold. God, it was unbearable.

Her fingers hurt, but she balled them up into fists and pushed on the lid. There wasn’t even enough room to pound. She remembered her weapon. Yes, she could shoot some holes in the lid. Of course, why hadn’t she thought of that? She patted down her jacket. She tried to feel her pockets. And despair came quickly with the realization that, of course, he wouldn’t have tossed her revolver in with her.

It was useless. She started to scream “help” as loud as she could. Over and over again until her throat felt raw. She shoved at the lid. She slammed her fists, now numb from the cold. She kept slamming them into the lid until she could feel what must have been blood dripping down into her face. And all she could think about was that the only person who might know where to look for her was back in her car with a cell phone that had a dead battery.

M
aggie woke slowly. Her head throbbed. Her legs felt numb, tangled, somewhere underneath her. It was pitch-dark despite her attempt to open her eyes. No use. It was too dark. She couldn’t move her arms. Couldn’t begin to untangle her legs. She could barely move her hands and tried to feel around the small, smooth space above her. Whatever he had shoved her into, it was too tight to move.

Too tight and cold. So very cold.

That was when she heard the motor kick on. That was when she recognized the electrical hum. That same hum she had heard when she first entered the house.

Oh, God! He had put her in the freezer.

She couldn’t panic. It wouldn’t help to panic. She couldn’t have been in here long or she wouldn’t have woken up. She had to remain calm. She tried to twist her legs out from under her. It was useless. They were shoved in tight. Even her arms couldn’t move more than a few inches to the side. It felt like she was squeezing herself down into the chest tighter and tighter. That couldn’t be possible.

She needed to stay calm. She needed to breathe. It was already difficult to breathe. How much air could she possibly have inside here? And the cold. God, it was unbearable.

Her fingers hurt, but she balled them up into fists and pushed on the lid. There wasn’t even enough room to pound. She remembered her weapon. Yes, she could shoot some holes in the lid. Of course, why hadn’t she thought of that? She patted down her jacket. She tried to feel her pockets. And despair came quickly with the realization that, of course, he wouldn’t have tossed her revolver in with her.

It was useless. She started to scream “help” as loud as she could. Over and over again until her throat felt raw. She shoved at the lid. She slammed her fists, now numb from the cold. She kept slamming them into the lid until she could feel what must have been blood dripping down into her face. And all she could think about was that the only person who might know where to look for her was back in her car with a cell phone that had a dead battery.