At the Stroke of Madness (32 page)

T
ully let her wait on him. She had insisted. It was the first time he had been inside her brownstone. The first time he had been invited. By default, of course, he reminded himself, but still, an invitation was an invitation.

She had decided they would be more comfortable here than at Joan Begley’s loft. There, she had been distracted. Tully had noticed her walking, stepping lightly, quietly, reverently. He knew Joan Begley was a client of Dr. Patterson’s, but he didn’t have to be a profiler to guess she had also been somewhat of a friend. Or if not a friend, then someone Dr. Patterson genuinely cared about. There was a connection. Even he could see that, feel that.

He studied her face while she poured the coffee into mugs, preoccupied with the task, and so it was safe to study her. He sat at the counter that separated her living room from her kitchen—a spic-and-span kitchen with hanging utensils and pots and pans in more sizes and shapes than Tully could think of uses for. Here, among her own things, she looked less vulnerable than she had at Joan Begley’s. But even here, she still looked…it was hard to explain. She looked tired. No, that wasn’t right. She looked…sad.

“Cream or sugar?” she asked with only a glance over her shoulder.

“No, thanks. I take it black.” He knew before she reached for the cream that she would pour a healthy dollop of it into hers, making it look like milky chocolate. Cream, but no sugar. And if available she preferred a café mocha.

The realization startled him. These days he couldn’t remember what color socks he had put on in the morning—hopefully they at least matched. And yet, here he was remembering how Dr. Gwen Patterson took her coffee.

“So you think Maggie’s right? That this Sonny has something to do with Joan’s disappearance?”

“He sends her e-mails every day that she’s in Connecticut, obviously every day after they met. Sometimes two and three a day. Then all of a sudden they just happen to stop on Saturday, the day she disappeared. Too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“But from the e-mails we read, they sounded like friends, confidants. He didn’t sound like someone who would want to hurt her.”

Her cell phone interrupted them and Dr. Patterson managed to grab it before the second ring, like someone expecting news, any news.

“Hello?” Then her entire face softened. “Hi, Maggie,” she greeted her friend. “No, I’m okay. Yes, I did meet Tully at Joan’s apartment. Actually, he’s here. No, here at my brownstone.” She listened for a few minutes then said, “Hold on.” She handed him the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Hey, O’Dell.”

“Tully, can you tell me anything about Sonny?”

“Well, we were able to get into her e-mail.”

“Already?”

“Dr. Patterson figured out the password. There’re daily e-mails from this guy, but we were just talking about that. They sound pretty chummy, in a friendly way, not a romantic way. Right?” He looked at Gwen for her agreement. “But here’s the thing. His e-mails stop the day she disappeared.”

“Can you track him?”

“I’ve got Bernard working on it. So far it looks like he uses a free e-mail account and there’s no customer profile on him anywhere that I can find. I’m betting he uses a public computer. Probably the local library or maybe one of those cafés that have computers available.”

“Have you talked to Cunningham today?”

“No, he’s in meetings all day. Why?”

“He managed to get out of a meeting long enough to call me.”

“Uh-oh. You’re busted?”

“Not sure. Look, Tully, I just don’t want you getting into trouble for helping me out on this.”

Tully glanced up at Dr. Patterson. She stood on the other side of the counter, sipping coffee and watching him, thinking he was focused on listening to O’Dell when he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

“Tully, do you hear me?” O’Dell was saying in his ear. “I don’t want you getting into trouble over this.”

“Don’t worry about it, O’Dell.”

T
ully let her wait on him. She had insisted. It was the first time he had been inside her brownstone. The first time he had been invited. By default, of course, he reminded himself, but still, an invitation was an invitation.

She had decided they would be more comfortable here than at Joan Begley’s loft. There, she had been distracted. Tully had noticed her walking, stepping lightly, quietly, reverently. He knew Joan Begley was a client of Dr. Patterson’s, but he didn’t have to be a profiler to guess she had also been somewhat of a friend. Or if not a friend, then someone Dr. Patterson genuinely cared about. There was a connection. Even he could see that, feel that.

He studied her face while she poured the coffee into mugs, preoccupied with the task, and so it was safe to study her. He sat at the counter that separated her living room from her kitchen—a spic-and-span kitchen with hanging utensils and pots and pans in more sizes and shapes than Tully could think of uses for. Here, among her own things, she looked less vulnerable than she had at Joan Begley’s. But even here, she still looked…it was hard to explain. She looked tired. No, that wasn’t right. She looked…sad.

“Cream or sugar?” she asked with only a glance over her shoulder.

“No, thanks. I take it black.” He knew before she reached for the cream that she would pour a healthy dollop of it into hers, making it look like milky chocolate. Cream, but no sugar. And if available she preferred a café mocha.

The realization startled him. These days he couldn’t remember what color socks he had put on in the morning—hopefully they at least matched. And yet, here he was remembering how Dr. Gwen Patterson took her coffee.

“So you think Maggie’s right? That this Sonny has something to do with Joan’s disappearance?”

“He sends her e-mails every day that she’s in Connecticut, obviously every day after they met. Sometimes two and three a day. Then all of a sudden they just happen to stop on Saturday, the day she disappeared. Too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“But from the e-mails we read, they sounded like friends, confidants. He didn’t sound like someone who would want to hurt her.”

Her cell phone interrupted them and Dr. Patterson managed to grab it before the second ring, like someone expecting news, any news.

“Hello?” Then her entire face softened. “Hi, Maggie,” she greeted her friend. “No, I’m okay. Yes, I did meet Tully at Joan’s apartment. Actually, he’s here. No, here at my brownstone.” She listened for a few minutes then said, “Hold on.” She handed him the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Hey, O’Dell.”

“Tully, can you tell me anything about Sonny?”

“Well, we were able to get into her e-mail.”

“Already?”

“Dr. Patterson figured out the password. There’re daily e-mails from this guy, but we were just talking about that. They sound pretty chummy, in a friendly way, not a romantic way. Right?” He looked at Gwen for her agreement. “But here’s the thing. His e-mails stop the day she disappeared.”

“Can you track him?”

“I’ve got Bernard working on it. So far it looks like he uses a free e-mail account and there’s no customer profile on him anywhere that I can find. I’m betting he uses a public computer. Probably the local library or maybe one of those cafés that have computers available.”

“Have you talked to Cunningham today?”

“No, he’s in meetings all day. Why?”

“He managed to get out of a meeting long enough to call me.”

“Uh-oh. You’re busted?”

“Not sure. Look, Tully, I just don’t want you getting into trouble for helping me out on this.”

Tully glanced up at Dr. Patterson. She stood on the other side of the counter, sipping coffee and watching him, thinking he was focused on listening to O’Dell when he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

“Tully, do you hear me?” O’Dell was saying in his ear. “I don’t want you getting into trouble over this.”

“Don’t worry about it, O’Dell.”

H
e fixed her soup, hearty chicken noodle. It was just canned—that’s all he had—but it smelled good even after he had dissolved the crystals in it. She’d never notice the tiny white residue. Especially after he crumbled saltine crackers into it.

He placed the small bottle back behind his mother’s secret stash, her array of “home remedies” that included molasses and honey and vinegar alongside cough syrup and plenty of children’s aspirin. The brown bottle contained the magic crystals she insisted would make him well. It wasn’t until after she was gone, her control over him broken only by death, that he discovered the brown bottle with the real label hidden underneath an old expired prescription. The real label simply read in bold, black letters, “Arsenic.” He had kept it just as he had found it, realizing that some day he might need that kind of control over someone. And he had been right.

He found her sitting at the window, exactly where he had left her with the restraints now wrapped around the chair. She stared out at the woods through the tempered glass. He had specially ordered and installed the custom-made glass himself. Thick and unbreakable, it allowed a view and let the sunshine in, but on the outside it simply looked like a mirrored solar panel for heat. It provided an excellent work environment—sunny and cheerful, yet private and quiet, protecting his specimens.

She looked up at him. This time her hand didn’t move, though he could see the red welts on her wrists where she must have fought the leather restraints again. And then he saw the scratches and grooves in the chair’s arm. She had ruined the wood. She had done it on purpose. His mother’s chair, a Duncan Phyfe he had reupholstered himself, and she had ruined it by rubbing the buckles of the leather restraints into the wood.

He felt the anger rising but it came with bile, threatening to back up from his stomach. He could taste it. No, no. He couldn’t be sick. He wouldn’t. He mustn’t think about the chair. No anger. He couldn’t afford to make himself sick.

He placed the tray on the table next to her and avoided looking at the scarred chair arm.

“You must be hungry,” he said, as he pulled up a stool from his workbench.

“I don’t feel so good, Sonny,” she mumbled. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why? Why? Because you must be hungry,” he said in a singsong voice, a fake happy voice he had learned so well from his mother. “You ate all of your sandwich but that was hours ago.”

“Can’t we just talk for a while?” she insisted. And he thought her voice sounded whiny. He hadn’t noticed before how whiny her voice was.

He scooped up a spoonful of soup and held it in front of her, waiting for her to open her mouth. She only stared at him.

“Open wide,” he instructed.

She continued to stare.

He brought the spoon to her lips and began to wedge it in, but she kept her lips pursed tight. Suddenly she jerked her head away to the side, so abruptly that she almost knocked the spoon out of his hand and did end up spilling it on his shirtsleeve.

He tasted the bile again. Oh, God! He couldn’t be sick. He felt his face grow hot. But he scooped up another spoonful and held it in front of her again.

“Come on, now, you have to eat.”

She turned her head slowly to look at him, this time the glaze clearing a bit, revealing her defiance.

“Not until we talk.”

“Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he told her, continuing to keep his happy voice, despite the turmoil brewing in his stomach. “Now, open up.”

He brought the spoon to her lips again, but this time she raised her restrained hand just enough to knock his elbow. It spilled all over his trousers. He’d have to change before work.

He rose slowly to his feet, taking his time to roll up the soiled sleeves of his shirt. A difficult task when his hands were shaking and his fingers were balling up into fists. He could feel the transformation, a lead-hot iron stabbing into his guts. And he could see the transformation in the way she looked at him. Whatever drugged courage had possessed her was gone now. She struggled against the restraints, kicking at the chair legs and smacking the ankle shackles against the wood, leaving more grooves in the precious wood.

“I guess you’ve chosen to do this the hard way,” he said through gritted teeth. This time he left the spoon on the tray, and he picked up the bowl of soup.

H
e fixed her soup, hearty chicken noodle. It was just canned—that’s all he had—but it smelled good even after he had dissolved the crystals in it. She’d never notice the tiny white residue. Especially after he crumbled saltine crackers into it.

He placed the small bottle back behind his mother’s secret stash, her array of “home remedies” that included molasses and honey and vinegar alongside cough syrup and plenty of children’s aspirin. The brown bottle contained the magic crystals she insisted would make him well. It wasn’t until after she was gone, her control over him broken only by death, that he discovered the brown bottle with the real label hidden underneath an old expired prescription. The real label simply read in bold, black letters, “Arsenic.” He had kept it just as he had found it, realizing that some day he might need that kind of control over someone. And he had been right.

He found her sitting at the window, exactly where he had left her with the restraints now wrapped around the chair. She stared out at the woods through the tempered glass. He had specially ordered and installed the custom-made glass himself. Thick and unbreakable, it allowed a view and let the sunshine in, but on the outside it simply looked like a mirrored solar panel for heat. It provided an excellent work environment—sunny and cheerful, yet private and quiet, protecting his specimens.

She looked up at him. This time her hand didn’t move, though he could see the red welts on her wrists where she must have fought the leather restraints again. And then he saw the scratches and grooves in the chair’s arm. She had ruined the wood. She had done it on purpose. His mother’s chair, a Duncan Phyfe he had reupholstered himself, and she had ruined it by rubbing the buckles of the leather restraints into the wood.

He felt the anger rising but it came with bile, threatening to back up from his stomach. He could taste it. No, no. He couldn’t be sick. He wouldn’t. He mustn’t think about the chair. No anger. He couldn’t afford to make himself sick.

He placed the tray on the table next to her and avoided looking at the scarred chair arm.

“You must be hungry,” he said, as he pulled up a stool from his workbench.

“I don’t feel so good, Sonny,” she mumbled. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why? Why? Because you must be hungry,” he said in a singsong voice, a fake happy voice he had learned so well from his mother. “You ate all of your sandwich but that was hours ago.”

“Can’t we just talk for a while?” she insisted. And he thought her voice sounded whiny. He hadn’t noticed before how whiny her voice was.

He scooped up a spoonful of soup and held it in front of her, waiting for her to open her mouth. She only stared at him.

“Open wide,” he instructed.

She continued to stare.

He brought the spoon to her lips and began to wedge it in, but she kept her lips pursed tight. Suddenly she jerked her head away to the side, so abruptly that she almost knocked the spoon out of his hand and did end up spilling it on his shirtsleeve.

He tasted the bile again. Oh, God! He couldn’t be sick. He felt his face grow hot. But he scooped up another spoonful and held it in front of her again.

“Come on, now, you have to eat.”

She turned her head slowly to look at him, this time the glaze clearing a bit, revealing her defiance.

“Not until we talk.”

“Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he told her, continuing to keep his happy voice, despite the turmoil brewing in his stomach. “Now, open up.”

He brought the spoon to her lips again, but this time she raised her restrained hand just enough to knock his elbow. It spilled all over his trousers. He’d have to change before work.

He rose slowly to his feet, taking his time to roll up the soiled sleeves of his shirt. A difficult task when his hands were shaking and his fingers were balling up into fists. He could feel the transformation, a lead-hot iron stabbing into his guts. And he could see the transformation in the way she looked at him. Whatever drugged courage had possessed her was gone now. She struggled against the restraints, kicking at the chair legs and smacking the ankle shackles against the wood, leaving more grooves in the precious wood.

“I guess you’ve chosen to do this the hard way,” he said through gritted teeth. This time he left the spoon on the tray, and he picked up the bowl of soup.