Part 17 (1/2)

Yes, he had planned it. Yes, he had wanted her to be sick. He wanted her to see how much control he had over her. He wanted it and yet it still repulsed him. He should have made her clean up her own mess. Clean it up like his mother had made him clean up his messes.

He should have been feeling strong and in control, especially with his newest acquisition. Instead, his own stomach ached despite gagging down half a bottle of the chalky c.r.a.p. That stupid so-called medicine promised to prevent his nausea. He could no longer count on it. Why didn't it work? Why was everything and everyone working against him?

He wanted Joan Begley to see, to understand what control he had. He wanted her weak and helpless. It had worked all those years for his mother. She had maintained control, first over his father and then over him. Why couldn't it work for him? But he hated the mess. Hated, hated, hated it! Hated, hated, hated it!

He grabbed a meat cleaver from the workbench and slammed it into the wooden surface. Raised it and sent it into the wood again. Another chop. Another and another.

He shoved the meat cleaver aside. The wooden bench had plenty of cuts and slits, splinters and raw wounds from other angry bouts. It had been his father's workbench and had been pristine until the day he died. Yet he had taken his father's precious workbench, his workshop, his escape, and turned it into his own escape. And it had been an excellent escape. The only place he allowed his true emotions to come out. It had become his secret vault, protecting and absorbing and withstanding all the hurt, the pain, the anger, as well as the feeling of victory and sometimes even providing him with a sense of control.

He turned and leaned his back against the bench, allowing himself to take in the sights and smells of the magic workshop. The smells he loved: fresh sawdust, gasoline and WD-40-remnants of his father's hideaway and smells that reminded him of his father-were, unfortunately, long ago replaced by the smells of his own escape: caked blood, rotting bits of flesh, formaldehyde, ammonia and now vomit. The only one of that list that bothered him, that repulsed him, was the smell of vomit.

He admired his father's collection of tools, a strange and dazzling a.s.sortment hanging on the wall by pegs and hooks in organized rows. He had added the old meat hooks, boning knives and meat cleavers that now hung next to crescent wrenches, pry bars and hacksaws. Otherwise, he kept the wall of tools exactly the way his father had left it, paying tribute to the painstaking organization by cleaning and replacing the items after each use. So, too, had he kept the handy vises attached to the workbench in the same spots, along with the bone saw and the huge roll of white butcher-block paper resting in its own contraption with a sleek metal blade, sharp enough to slide through the paper with only the slightest touch of the fingertips.

In the corner was an old, battered chest-size freezer, gray scratches in the enamel like wounds and a low, constant hum that sounded like a cat purring. It had also been his father's, used back then for premium cuts of meat and trout or ba.s.s from infrequent fis.h.i.+ng trips. After his father's death, he began using it as his first container, before he knew how to preserve his treasures. Quickly it filled up. Now it was one of several, with one next door and another at the house.

The shelves on the back wall were his addition, too, as were the vials, mason and jelly jars, crocks, gla.s.s tubes, plastic containers, fish tanks and wide-mouth bottles. All were immaculately clean, waiting to store his prizes. Even the cheap, store-bought pickle jars sparkled, not a trace of their brand labels left to block the view.

The top shelf held his own proud a.s.sortment of tools, s.h.i.+ny scalpels, X-Acto knives and blades, forceps, stainless steel probes and basins in different sizes and shapes. Most he had stolen one by one from work so that they wouldn't be missed.

Yes, he was proud of his workshop. Here, he felt in control. Despite the smell of her vomit turning his stomach, here, he never got sick. This was where he cut out other people's pain, their abnormalities, their deformities, their bragging rights, and kept them for himself.

All through his childhood his sickness had been so obscure. He could never point to a b.u.m leg or heart defect or a precious tumor and say, ”See, this is what makes me sick to my stomach.” Had he been able to do so, they wouldn't have dared to doubt him, to whisper about him in hospital corners, to suggest he ”get counseling.”

They wouldn't have dared to laugh at him and point and snicker when he asked to be dismissed from cla.s.s. They wouldn't have dared to call him weak and silly. If only he had had one cancerous tumor, one deformed limb to point to, they wouldn't have dared call him anything but brave and strong, a little soldier instead of a whiny brat.

These people with their claims to pain made him angry, made him jealous, made him crazy with envy. They could complain all they wanted and no one told them to buck up and shut up. And they didn't even realize the priceless treasures they possessed. Fools. All of them fools.

And so he cut them, slicing out that which made them different, made them special, that which gave them the right to complain and brag. He cut out their prizes and made them his own. It gave him power. It gave him control.

That's what he needed to do with Joan Begley. He needed to do exactly as he set out to do in the beginning. That was the only way he could gain control over her. But what would he use?

He examined the tools and scratched at his jaw. He wasn't even sure what it was that Joan possessed. Where would a hormone deficiency be located? Was it in the pituitary gland? That would be on the underside of the brain. He might need a drill and the bone saw. Or perhaps it was the thyroid gland, which would be a simple slit of the throat. Although, it could be one of the adrenal glands. Where the h.e.l.l were they located? Somewhere over the kidneys, perhaps? He grabbed the ill.u.s.trated medical dictionary off the top shelf and began flipping pages.

As he browsed the index, his fidgeting fingers found a boning knife, the curved blade razor sharp. And suddenly, he found himself hoping it was the thyroid. In fact, he thought he remembered her mentioning the thyroid. Yes, that would be good. After cleaning up her vomit over and over again, he wouldn't mind slitting Joan Begley's throat.

CHAPTER 54.

Thursday, September 18

”You don't have to fix breakfast for me, Mr. Racine,” Maggie said, but her mouth was already watering from the aroma of hash browns and sausage sizzling in one skillet while Luc prepared another with scrambled eggs.

”No, no, I want to. G.o.d! I miss this.” He splashed some milk and fresh ground pepper into the scrambled eggs, stirring and flipping with the expertise of a short-order cook. ”I don't get to do this anymore. I don't trust myself to shut off the stove.” He glanced back at her. ”I'm only telling you so you'll keep an eye on things and make sure that I don't leave something on. Would you do that, please?”

He kept his back to her. Maggie knew it was not an easy thing for him to ask. She wondered if that was the real reason he wouldn't let her call Julia. Did his daughter know that he was deteriorating?

”Sure. Is there anything I can do to help?”

”Nope. Got the table all set.” He looked around. ”Maybe some orange juice. I noticed your friend brought some last night.” He opened one cupboard door, then another and one more before grabbing two gla.s.ses to hand to her. This time he couldn't hide the slight flush of embarra.s.sment. ”I think he likes you.”

”What?”

”The professor, he likes you.”

This time she felt a slight flush. She found the juice and poured. ”We're working on a case together. That's all.”

”What? You don't like him?” He glanced at her over his shoulder.

”No, I didn't say that. It's just that I guess I haven't thought about him that way.”

”Why not? He's a handsome young man. I noticed you're unattached.”

”I don't know why not. I'm just...I'm not...” She realized that she sounded like some tongue-tied teenager. She wasn't sure why she thought she needed to explain it to him. ”I'm not looking right now. My divorce was just finalized. I'm not ready to start another relations.h.i.+p.”

”Oh, okay.” He glanced back at her. ”Sorry, I didn't mean to stick my nose in your business.” He started cleaning the counter. ”I like you. You remind me of Julia. I guess I miss her.”

”I was thinking about that, Mr. Racine. I think-”

”I wish you'd call me Luc.”

”Okay, but I was thinking maybe you should call Julia. I think she would like to know. Actually, I'd feel better if she knew.”

He was putting away what he didn't use, sliding the egg carton back into the refrigerator and wrapping up the leftover sausage.

Maggie stopped him. ”Where did you get this?” She pointed to the sausage he rolled tight into the white butcher-block paper.

”This? It's sc.r.a.pple. I think they call it that because it's made from pork sc.r.a.ps,” he said, misunderstanding what she meant and unwrapping the sausage to show her. ”My wife was from Philadelphia. That's where they have the best. This stuff always reminds me of her. Partly why I named my best buddy Sc.r.a.pple.” He glanced down at the dog who, as if on cue, sat up to beg for a piece of his namesake. ”Can't find it around here, though.” Luc continued wrapping the sausage. ”Last winter I had Steve Earlman make it for me out of some pork shoulder. He did a pretty good job, too. I think you'll like it.”

Maggie wondered if Luc knew they had found Steve at the quarry. He had been to the site enough times he may have heard the rumors. Maybe he couldn't remember. Once again, she was reminded of that white paper that kept showing up. What was she missing?

”Luc, what did they do with the butcher shop when Steve pa.s.sed away? Didn't he have any sons or daughters to keep the shop open?”

He scooped up hash browns, sausage and scrambled eggs, dividing the bounty between their two plates. It looked wonderful and she followed him to the table, bringing their juice.

”No, Steve never married. A nice guy, too.” He pulled out a chair for her, waiting for her to get comfortable before he took his place. ”It was sad to see the shop close. I remember hearing that someone bought all the equipment at the estate sale. I thought maybe whoever it was would keep the shop open or start a new one, but I guess not.”

”Do you remember who bought all the equipment?”