At the Stroke of Madness (44 page)

A
dam Bonzado pulled the Polaroids from his shirt pocket. He took another long, studied look, then slipped them back into the pocket. It probably wasn’t a good idea to have the photos out while he rummaged the shelves of the local hardware store.

He was trying to get Maggie O’Dell off his mind. It didn’t help matters that he still felt like a complete bonehead. First the soup incident and then waking her and Racine up last night. Not only waking them up but scaring them. Although Maggie didn’t look that scared behind the barrel of her Smith & Wesson. He smiled at the memory. He liked that she could take care of herself. He didn’t like having her almost blow off his head, though.

Sometimes he worried that his mother was right. That he spent too much time with skeletons and not enough time with real people. His students, according to his mother, didn’t count.

“Why can’t you go out like normal boys,” his mother usually began her lecture that included something about dating nice girls. “You don’t even go to a ball game with your brothers anymore.”

But he liked his work. Why should he have to make excuses about that? And besides, most women were immediately turned off when they learned what he did for a living. No, the truth was he hadn’t wanted anyone else after Kate. He buried himself in his work instead. It took his mind off that empty void.

So here he was again, burying himself in work to get his mind off Maggie O’Dell. What better way to do that than at a hardware store armed with a handful of Polaroids and a mission to add to his tools-of-death list.

Dr. Stolz had given him Polaroids of the victims’ head wounds, all administered to the back top of the skull. Even the young man’s skull Adam had in the lab, as well as the one he had plucked from the boiling pot at Luc Racine’s, seemed to have been dealt similar deathblows.

He went down the aisle of hand tools, searching, paying close attention to the end of each tool. Ball-peen hammer, no. Bolt cutter, no. Then there were pliers. Adam scratched his jaw, always amazed at the assortment. You had your long-nose locking pliers, jaw, diagonal, duckbill, slip joint, Arc joint, groove joint.

Jesus! Forget pliers.

Drive sockets: metric or standard. Screwdrivers: Phillips, slotted or torx. Wrenches: crescent, adjustable or pipe. The bolt clamp looked promising or maybe even the steel bar clamp. Woodworker’s vise, no. Level, no.

“Hey, a mini hacksaw,” he said, picking up the contraption. “For all those hard-to-reach joints when you’re in the middle of dismembering a body.”

“Can I help you, sir?” A clerk appeared at the end of the aisle.

Adam immediately put the mini hacksaw back as if he had been caught. He wondered if the clerk had heard him. The kid looked like he spent more time down in his family’s basement rec room than in his dad’s garage. In fact, he looked like he belonged in an electronics department, selling Game Boys and DVD players, not drills or circular saws, let alone hand tools.

“Is there something in particular you’re looking for, sir?”

“Yeah, but it’s one of those things that I’ll know when I see it. You know what I mean?”

The clerk stared at him. No, he didn’t know what he meant. “Like for a special project or something?”

Adam smiled. He wondered what the kid would do if he told him about his tools-of-death list. Or better yet, if he showed him the Polaroids and asked him to help find the tool that cracked open the skull and left that triangle mark. Instead, he said, “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Okay, then. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Adam started down the next aisle. This one was full of bars. Yes, this was more like it. There were pry bars of every shape and size. Some of forged steel construction, others with black oxide coating to prevent rust. He read the labels below each: “easy, comfortable rubber grip” and “lowprofile claw for more leverage.” There was one called a “gorilla bar.” Another, the “wonder bar.” An I-beam, a double-end nail puller, a gooseneck and a wrecking bar. This was crazy.

Then he saw it. The angle looked right. The size looked right. He slipped out the Polaroids again for a quick glance. Yes, this was it. The end of the double-end nail-pulling pry bar looked like the impressions left in the skulls.

Adam picked up the pry bar and turned it in his hands, examining it at every angle and getting the feel of it. It weighed more than it looked. He tried to hold it the way he imagined the killer had held it up over his head. He tried to imagine how he would swing it. It wouldn’t require much force. A bit of a twist and the heavy, hooked end could crack a skull quite nicely.

He lifted it higher, getting ready to reenact a deathblow swing when he noticed the clerk at the end of the aisle. And he was watching. This time he looked…oh, perhaps
concerned
was an understatement.

“I think I found what I was looking for,” Adam said, bringing the tool back down without any more fanfare. “And it’s even on sale.” He pointed to the tag, smiled and retreated down the other end of the aisle.

He waited in the checkout line, tapping the pry bar into the palm of his hand. Suddenly, it occurred to him that this pry bar was exactly like the one he kept in his El Camino.

H
enry watched from the top of the ridge. They almost had the car out of the trees, enough of a hood showing that he could tell it was a late model sedan. Jesus! What a mess. Why was it that when it rained it had to fucking pour?

He found himself wishing it was some poor drunk bastard who drove all the way up and simply lost control and went over the ledge. He wished it could be that simple. He had driven up here only to prove O’Dell wrong. But now he couldn’t help wondering if they had just found Joan Begley.

He saw O’Dell leave her rented Ford Escort back behind the Meriden police blockade. They had the chain-link gate closed, padlocked and guarded down below at the entrance, but still it was a bit crowded up here along the winding road to the top of the peak. He waved to Deputy Truman to let O’Dell by.

“You found her?” she asked before he could say anything.

“I was standing here hoping that it was some drunk who took a wrong turn,” Henry confessed, leaning on the wooden guard rail.

They stood quietly side by side, watching the tow truck cable pull the car up over the rocks and brush, listening to the scrape of metal against tree bark.

Finally, when it was on level ground, Deputy Charlie Newhouse yelled at him from the tilted smashed-in front of the car, “No one’s inside, Sheriff.”

“Jesus! I don’t need this crap. Run the license plates.” But even as Henry said it he could see the rear one was missing.

“Front plate’s missing,” Arliss said.

“So is the rear,” Watermeier told him.

“You suppose it’s stolen?” Charlie asked.

“Better give the boys a call to bring out a mobile unit.” Henry walked around to the front, trying to get a look inside through the demolished windshield.

“Sheriff.”

O’Dell was still at the back of the car, waiting for him. When he walked around she pointed to the trunk, where a small piece of fabric had gotten caught and was sticking out.

“Shit!” he mumbled, and felt the tightening in his chest. “Charlie, reach in there and pop the trunk, and try not to touch too much.”

When no one moved, Henry looked up to find his two deputies and the tow truck operator staring at the trunk of the car.

“Charlie,” Henry said again.

This time the deputy obeyed, but when the trunk snapped open Henry found himself wondering, once again, why the hell he hadn’t retired six months ago.

He pushed the trunk wide-open and everyone remained motionless, wordless as they stared at the small body of a woman curled up inside. Henry noticed immediately that her wrists weren’t bound. Neither were her ankles. But then there was no need. The back of the head faced them, a mess of blood and tangled hair where she had suffered what had to be a deathblow. It had cracked her skull open, an impact of force that seemed overkill for such a small woman.

“You suppose it’s her?” he asked O’Dell.

“Hard to tell. All I have is a photo. The head wound definitely looks familiar.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” Henry swiped at his eyes. Jesus! They hadn’t fished all his victims out of the barrels yet and here was another one. “Arliss, call Carl and have him bring the mobile crime lab. And Dr. Stolz, too.”

“I think they’re probably out at the rock quarry, sir.”

“I know where they probably are. Call them and tell them to get their asses over here.”

“Sir? You want me to tell them that exactly?”

Henry wanted to throttle the kid. Instead he said, “Charlie, would you—”

“I’ve got it taken care of, Sheriff.”

Henry noticed O’Dell just standing there, staring as if she couldn’t believe it, yet she was the one who suggested he search the area. He moved in for a closer look, leaning into the trunk and under the lid without touching anything. He examined the area around the woman for signs of anything that may have been left. Anything to tell them whether or not this was the missing Joan Begley. Maybe he even hoped the weapon accidently got tossed in or dropped inside. But there was nothing. From this angle he could see the side of her face and there was something familiar about her. Yeah, she looked familiar but he hadn’t seen O’Dell’s photo of Begley.

He gently touched the woman’s shoulder, moving her only slightly to get a better view. But what he saw made him jerk away.

“Holy crap!” He bashed his head on the lid of the trunk. He stumbled backward, slipping and almost losing his balance. Almost falling down.

The others stared at the back of the woman again, trying to see what had spooked him.

“It’s that TV reporter,” he said, out of breath and hating that his chest felt like it would explode. “That one who’s been following me around everywhere.”

“What are you talking about?” O’Dell said, stepping in closer to the trunk but waiting for him.

He rolled his shoulders and brushed his hands on the sides of his trousers as if to prepare himself. Then he leaned into the trunk as little as was necessary. He hesitated for only a second before he laid his hand on her shoulder again.

“He took her fucking eyes,” he said, moving her enough for them to see her face. Just enough for them to see the hollow sockets where her blue eyes had once been.

H
enry watched from the top of the ridge. They almost had the car out of the trees, enough of a hood showing that he could tell it was a late model sedan. Jesus! What a mess. Why was it that when it rained it had to fucking pour?

He found himself wishing it was some poor drunk bastard who drove all the way up and simply lost control and went over the ledge. He wished it could be that simple. He had driven up here only to prove O’Dell wrong. But now he couldn’t help wondering if they had just found Joan Begley.

He saw O’Dell leave her rented Ford Escort back behind the Meriden police blockade. They had the chain-link gate closed, padlocked and guarded down below at the entrance, but still it was a bit crowded up here along the winding road to the top of the peak. He waved to Deputy Truman to let O’Dell by.

“You found her?” she asked before he could say anything.

“I was standing here hoping that it was some drunk who took a wrong turn,” Henry confessed, leaning on the wooden guard rail.

They stood quietly side by side, watching the tow truck cable pull the car up over the rocks and brush, listening to the scrape of metal against tree bark.

Finally, when it was on level ground, Deputy Charlie Newhouse yelled at him from the tilted smashed-in front of the car, “No one’s inside, Sheriff.”

“Jesus! I don’t need this crap. Run the license plates.” But even as Henry said it he could see the rear one was missing.

“Front plate’s missing,” Arliss said.

“So is the rear,” Watermeier told him.

“You suppose it’s stolen?” Charlie asked.

“Better give the boys a call to bring out a mobile unit.” Henry walked around to the front, trying to get a look inside through the demolished windshield.

“Sheriff.”

O’Dell was still at the back of the car, waiting for him. When he walked around she pointed to the trunk, where a small piece of fabric had gotten caught and was sticking out.

“Shit!” he mumbled, and felt the tightening in his chest. “Charlie, reach in there and pop the trunk, and try not to touch too much.”

When no one moved, Henry looked up to find his two deputies and the tow truck operator staring at the trunk of the car.

“Charlie,” Henry said again.

This time the deputy obeyed, but when the trunk snapped open Henry found himself wondering, once again, why the hell he hadn’t retired six months ago.

He pushed the trunk wide-open and everyone remained motionless, wordless as they stared at the small body of a woman curled up inside. Henry noticed immediately that her wrists weren’t bound. Neither were her ankles. But then there was no need. The back of the head faced them, a mess of blood and tangled hair where she had suffered what had to be a deathblow. It had cracked her skull open, an impact of force that seemed overkill for such a small woman.

“You suppose it’s her?” he asked O’Dell.

“Hard to tell. All I have is a photo. The head wound definitely looks familiar.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” Henry swiped at his eyes. Jesus! They hadn’t fished all his victims out of the barrels yet and here was another one. “Arliss, call Carl and have him bring the mobile crime lab. And Dr. Stolz, too.”

“I think they’re probably out at the rock quarry, sir.”

“I know where they probably are. Call them and tell them to get their asses over here.”

“Sir? You want me to tell them that exactly?”

Henry wanted to throttle the kid. Instead he said, “Charlie, would you—”

“I’ve got it taken care of, Sheriff.”

Henry noticed O’Dell just standing there, staring as if she couldn’t believe it, yet she was the one who suggested he search the area. He moved in for a closer look, leaning into the trunk and under the lid without touching anything. He examined the area around the woman for signs of anything that may have been left. Anything to tell them whether or not this was the missing Joan Begley. Maybe he even hoped the weapon accidently got tossed in or dropped inside. But there was nothing. From this angle he could see the side of her face and there was something familiar about her. Yeah, she looked familiar but he hadn’t seen O’Dell’s photo of Begley.

He gently touched the woman’s shoulder, moving her only slightly to get a better view. But what he saw made him jerk away.

“Holy crap!” He bashed his head on the lid of the trunk. He stumbled backward, slipping and almost losing his balance. Almost falling down.

The others stared at the back of the woman again, trying to see what had spooked him.

“It’s that TV reporter,” he said, out of breath and hating that his chest felt like it would explode. “That one who’s been following me around everywhere.”

“What are you talking about?” O’Dell said, stepping in closer to the trunk but waiting for him.

He rolled his shoulders and brushed his hands on the sides of his trousers as if to prepare himself. Then he leaned into the trunk as little as was necessary. He hesitated for only a second before he laid his hand on her shoulder again.

“He took her fucking eyes,” he said, moving her enough for them to see her face. Just enough for them to see the hollow sockets where her blue eyes had once been.