by Alex Kava
“It’s best you stay right where you are,” he said, grabbing the handcuffs. “Back down.” He pointed to the floor, and moved in front of her, waiting as she eased her body down the wall.
He snapped the handcuffs on, pinching the wrist of her already wounded hand. And still she could not feel it. He shoved her shoulders against the wall, as if straightening her posture, carefully posing her with restrained hands in her lap. It was all a part of the staged look. He was preparing her for her own death photo.
He took the extra length of clothesline and bound her feet, pulling her legs out in front of her, safely away from her hands. Then he dropped three of the film canisters into her jacket pocket, so that now she had the film in one pocket and the book, his mother’s journal, in the other.
“They’ll be sending backup here any minute, Garrison,” she told him, trying desperately to remember if she had told anyone about stopping at his apartment. But she hadn’t. Not even Gwen. The old woman was the only one who knew.
“Why would you need backup?” He wasn’t even concerned, almost humored by the idea. “You said yourself, everyone is convinced that Everett is the murderer. He and his accomplice Brandon. Poor boy. His Achilles’ heel is that he doesn’t know how to fuck a woman.”
Garrison was back at the counter. He spoke with no sense of panic, no sense of urgency. Instead, he put the gun down and began assembling the tripod with careful, deliberate movements. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” he said almost absently as if talking to himself now. “But what better way to go out than with one last hurrah.”
She needed to do something. He was setting the tripod up five feet directly in front of her, just as he had done with each of his victims.
“Yes, you really did have us all fooled,” she told him, hoping to get the attention of his overworked ego while she scanned the surroundings. Her gun lay against the opposite wall, about ten feet away. Too far away. With her hands in front—well, one good hand—she could grab something, anything and use it as a weapon. Her eyes searched. A lamp to her left. In the messy pile of clothing, a belt with a buckle. On the coffee table, some kind of African pottery.
Garrison snapped a new roll of film into the camera. Not much time. Damn it! She needed to concentrate. Needed to think. Needed to ignore the throbbing in her shoulder and the blood that continued to trickle down her sleeve. The camera was loaded. He began attaching it to the tripod and then unwinding some sort of cable, plugging one end in to the camera. A trip-cable, a release cable—that’s what it was—so he could snap the picture from several feet away. He didn’t need to be behind the camera, he didn’t need to even touch the camera. He could be strangling her into unconsciousness while he shot the picture.
She shifted her back closer to the wall. How long would it take to bend her knees? To shove against the wall and get to her feet? Even with them tied together, she could do it. But how long would it take?
He was checking the camera’s sight, tilting the tripod’s platform to adjust the camera’s angle. Maggie tried to ignore his preparations, his ritual, trying not to be alarmed by his calculating calm, by his steady and intent hands. Instead, her mind raced. Her eyes darted. Her damn arm throbbed and so did her heart, filling her ears with the constant thump, threatening to dismantle her thought process.
“I’ll go down in history for sure,” Garrison mumbled, adjusting shutter speed, assessing, then twisting the camera’s lens. Focusing, making another change. Readjusting the aperture. Checking again, preparing.
Maggie edged her knees up toward her chest, quietly, slowly. Garrison was too involved to notice, at times his back to her, blocking her view of the camera. He seemed lost in his process. He was quickly becoming the invisible cameraman.
“No one has attempted this. A self-portrait along with a fleeting soul caught on film…all in the timing.” His voice continued, his words becoming a sort of mantra of encouragement to himself. “And the angle,” he said. “It’s definitely the timing and the angle. Oh, yes, I’ll be famous. That’s for sure. Beyond my wildest dreams. Beyond my mother’s dreams.” He was caught up in the process, forgetting his victim, or rather reducing her to just another subject, waiting—hopelessly waiting to become a part of his bizarre process.
But Maggie wasn’t waiting. She scooted her feet up, straining to be quiet, straining to pull them up as close as possible. Just a little more. Close enough. Yes, she could reach the clothesline. But not the knot. She shifted her weight and a pain shot through her arm, stopping her, almost bringing her to tears. Damn it!
She checked on Garrison. He was unwinding the cable, untangling it as he marched back to the counter. Jesus! He was almost ready. She tried for the knot again, her fingers reaching, her wrists scraping against the metal of the handcuffs. If she could get her feet free she might have some defense when he came at her, ready to strangle her. With the pain throbbing in her arm, she knew consciousness would be difficult to hang on to. She couldn’t let him get that far. She couldn’t let the clothesline even get around her neck, or else—or else she would be gone.
He stood at the counter, the air bulb of the release cable in one hand. Maggie watched him pick up the gun in his other hand. Her entire body froze. He wasn’t going to use the clothesline. Was he actually considering the gun, instead?
He turned to face her. Her knees stayed at her chest. Her fingers stopped at the knot. It didn’t matter that he noticed. It was too late. He was ready. And suddenly the rest of her body had become as paralyzed as her right arm. Even her mind came screeching to a halt.
Without a word he walked toward her, carefully dragging the cable. He stood directly in front of her, hovering over her, less than a foot away. He looked back at the camera, checking the angle. He readjusted the cable in his hand, positioning between his thumb and index finger the small plastic bulb—the gizmo that with one quick squeeze would click the photo.
He was ready.
“Just remember,” he told her without taking his sight off the camera lens, “front-page exclusive.”
Before she could move, before she could react, Garrison lifted the gun barrel to his right temple. Both hands squeezed, trigger and air bulb in morbid unison. Maggie closed her eyes to the spray of blood and brain matter hitting her in the face, splatting against the wall. The sound of the camera’s shutter got lost in the explosion of the gun. The smell of discharge filled the air.
When she opened her eyes, it was just in time to see Garrison’s body thump to the floor in front of her. His eyes remained open. But they were already empty. Ben Garrison’s own soul, Maggie decided, had left long before this, long before his death.
EPILOGUE
MONDAY
December 2
Washington, D.C.
Maggie waited outside the police chief’s conference room. She leaned her head against the wall. Her neck still ached, even more than the shoulder she had in a sling. Tully sat quietly next to her, staring at the door as though willing it to open, ignoring the newspaper he had spread out on his lap. The front-page headline of the Washington Times spoke of yet another new and improved piece of airport security equipment. Somewhere below the fold was a sidebar story about a photojournalist’s suicide.
Tully caught her glancing at the newspaper. “Cleveland Plain Dealer kept Everett’s suicide below the fold, too,” he said, as if reading his partner’s mind. “Probably would have made top headlines if there had been photos to go along with the stories.”
“Yes.” Maggie nodded. “Too bad there were no available photos.”
He gave her one of his looks, the raised brow and the unconvincing frown. “But there were photos.”
“Unfortunately, they’re considered evidence. We certainly can’t release photos that are considered evidence, right? Aren’t you always trying to get me to play by the rules?”
At this, he smiled. “So this evidence is being stored in a proper place?”
She simply nodded again, sitting back and adjusti
ng her sling. It was her own personal attempt at justice—that Ben Garrison’s horrifying images would not win him the notoriety he so longed for. A notoriety that he had become so obsessed with that he had even been willing to include himself as one of those horrifying images.
“Have you heard from Emma?” Maggie asked, a transparent attempt at getting Tully to put an end to the subject of evidence, of photos and film canisters that remained safely stashed in her file cabinet back at her Quantico office.
“She’s staying an extra week with her mom,” he answered, folding the newspaper and willingly abandoning the subject along with the newspaper next to a pile of outdated Newsweeks on the table beside him. “She invited Alice to stay with them. She wanted to invite Justin Pratt, too.”
“Really? What did Caroline have to say about that?”
“I don’t think Caroline would have cared. The house is huge, but I said no boys allowed.” He smiled as if he was glad he had some say. “Didn’t really matter, though. As soon as Justin heard about Eric, he wanted to be in Boston.”
“So there are actually some happy endings to this, after all?”
As the words left her mouth, Maggie saw her mother coming down the hall. She was dressed in a conservative brown suit, wore heels and makeup and was drawing a few looks from police officers in the hall and doorways. Her mother looked good, in control, not at all like some lost soul, and yet Maggie felt her muscles tense and her stomach knot.
“Hello, Mrs. O’Dell,” Tully said, standing. He offered her his chair and she sat next to Maggie with only a nod to her daughter and a quiet “thank you” to Tully.
“I think I’m gonna get some coffee,” Tully said. “Can I get a cup for either of you?”
“Yes, please,” Kathleen O’Dell said with a smile. “With cream.”
He was waiting. “Maggie? How ’bout a Diet Pepsi?”
She glanced up at him and shook her head, but caught his eyes to show him she appreciated the gesture. He simply nodded and started down the hall.
“I’m not sure why you’re here,” Maggie said, looking straight ahead, following her mother’s lead.
“I wanted to be here to put in a good word.” Then as if she remembered something, she set her purse on her lap, opened it and removed an envelope. She hesitated, tapping it against her hand. She set the purse back down. More tapping. Then she handed the envelope to Maggie with only a glance.
“What’s this?”
“For when you’re ready,” her mother said in a soft, gentle voice that made Maggie look over at her. “It’s his name, address and phone number.”
The knot in Maggie’s stomach twisted even tighter. She looked away and laid the envelope in her lap. She wanted to hand it back and forget about it. And yet at the same time, she couldn’t wait to open it. “What is his name?” she asked.
“Patrick.” Her mother managed a smile. “After Thomas’s brother. I think your father would have liked that.”
The door opened, startling both women. Chief Henderson held it open while Julia Racine stepped out, her face immediately showing surprise at seeing Maggie and her mother. Today the detective wore a well-pressed navy suit and heels, her blond hair tamed and styled. She was even wearing lipstick.
“Agent O’Dell? Mrs. O’Dell?” Racine made an effort to hide her astonishment and be polite. Maggie couldn’t help thinking the detective would have felt more comfortable asking what the hell the two of them were doing. But Racine was on her best behavior this morning. She had better be. Henderson wasn’t taking any of these discipline hearings lightly.
“We’ll hear from you first, Agent O’Dell,” Henderson said, still holding the door, waiting.
Maggie could feel Racine watching, wondering whose side she would take. She stopped in front of her, met Racine’s questioning eyes and said, “You mind keeping my mom distracted, just one more time?”
She waited for Racine’s smile, then she walked past Chief Henderson and into the conference room.
ALEX KAVA
AT THE STROKE OF MADNESS
This book is dedicated to
Amy Moore-Benson,
who believed and coached and encouraged
and never gave up on me.
And to
Deborah Groh Carlin,
who listened and inspired and cared
and never allowed me to give up on me.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgments
My sincerest appreciation goes to all the professionals whose expertise has, once again, proven invaluable. And to my family and friends who put up with my long absences while I’m in writing marathon mode. Special thanks to:
Patricia Sierra for the occasional swift kick in the pants, the numerous pats on the back and always, always being there.
Leigh Ann Retelsdorf, Deputy County Attorney, who over lunch one afternoon helped me create an intriguing M.O. for a killer.
Laura Van Wormer, fellow author and friend, for taking time out of your crazy schedule to show me around Connecticut and for sharing your enthusiasm for your adopted hometown of Meriden.
Leonardo Suzio of York Hill Trap Rock Quarry Company for an interesting tour despite it being in the middle of a blizzard.
Lori O’Brien for being my go-to person whenever I had a question about the area.
Dianne Moggy and the rest of the team at MIRA Books, including Tania Charzewski, Craig Swinwood, Krystyna de Duleba, Stacy Widdrington, Kate Monk, Maureen Stead and Alex Osuszek.
Megan Underwood and the crew at Goldberg McDuffie Communications, Inc.