At The Stroke Of Madness. Alex Kava

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      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.

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      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 MO 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.

      Mary Means for a friendship that includes loving and caring for my kids while I’m on the road.

      Tammy Hall for filling in the gaps and always being available at a moment’s notice.

      Sharon Car, fellow writer and friend, for once again helping me weather the good and the bad.

      Marlene Haney, Sandy Rockwood and Patti El-Kachouti for unconditional friendship that withstands absences, that knows no guilt and that celebrates strengths while allowing and unmasking vulnerabilities.

      Kenny and Connie Kava for listening and encouraging.

      And to the rest of my family and friends whose continued support is greatly appreciated: Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, Patricia Kava, Nicole and Tony Friend, LaDonna Tworek, Mac Payne, Gene and Mary Egnoski, Rich Kava, Annie Belatti, Natalie and Rich Cummings, Jo Ellen Shoemaker, and Lyn and David Belitz.

      Also a sincere and humble thank-you to:

      The many book buyers, booksellers and librarians for recommending my books.

      The readers, who are truly the ones responsible for keeping Maggie O’Dell alive.

      The residents of Meriden and Wallingford, Connecticut, for welcoming me into your community. Please forgive me for any liberties I may have taken with the geography and for dumping dead bodies in your backyard.

      Last, to Mike Vallier. MIRA Books lost one of its brightest stars on October 26, 2002. I always thought it was appropriate that Mike was the very first person I met from MIRA, because he genuinely exemplified its generosity, enthusiasm and dedication. We’re going to miss you, Mike, but your spirit will always be a part of this team.

      CHAPTER 1

       Saturday, September 13 Meriden, Connecticut

      It was almost midnight, and yet Joan Begley continued to wait.

      She tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel and watched for headlights in her rearview mirror. She tried to ignore the streaks of lightning in the distance, telling herself the approaching storm was headed in the other direction. Occasionally, her eyes darted across the front windshield. She barely noticed the spectacular view of city lights below, more interested in getting a glimpse in the side mirrors, as if she could catch something the rearview mirror may have missed.

      “Objects may be closer than they appear.”

      The print on the passenger-side mirror made her smile. Smile and shiver at the same time. Not like she could see anything in this blasted darkness. Probably not until it was right on top of her car.

      “Oh, that’s good, Joan,” she admonished herself. “Freak yourself out.” She needed to think positively. She needed to keep a positive attitude. What good were all her sessions with Dr. Patterson if she threw out everything she had learned so easily?

      What was taking him so long? Maybe he had gotten here earlier and had given up on her. After all, she was ten minutes late. Not intentionally. He’d forgotten to mention the fork in the road, right before the final climb to the top. It had taken her on an unexpected detour. It was bad enough that it was pitch dark up here, a canopy of tree branches overhead so thick even the moonlight couldn’t penetrate it. What moonlight was left. The thunderheads would soon block out, or rather they would replace, the moonlight with what promised to be a hell of a lightning show.

      God, she hated thunderstorms. She could feel the electricity in the air. Could almost taste it, metallic and annoying, like leaving the dentist with a fresh filling. And it only added to her anxiety. It pricked at her nerves like a reminder that she shouldn’t be here. That maybe she shouldn’t be doing this … that she shouldn’t be doing this, again.

      Those stupid, distracting thunderclouds had even caused her to lose her sense of direction. Or at least that’s what she was blaming, though she knew full well all it took was getting into a rent-a-car. As soon as she closed the car door her ability to tell direction flew right out the window. It didn’t help matters that all these Connecticut cities were made up of streets that ran every which way except at right angles or in straight lines. She had gotten lost plenty of times in the last several days. Then tonight, on the entire trip up here, she kept taking wrong turns, despite telling herself over and over that she would not, could not, get lost again. Yet, if it hadn’t been for the old man and his dog, she would have been driving around in circles, looking for the West Peak.

      “Walnut hunting,” he had told her, and she hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, because she was too anxious, too preoccupied. Now, as she waited, she remembered that he wasn’t carrying a bag or bucket or sack. Just a flashlight. Who went walnut hunting in the middle of the night? Odd. Yes, there had been something quite odd about the man. A lost, faraway look in his eyes, and yet he didn’t hesitate in giving her animated directions to the top of this wind-howling, branch-creaking, shadowy ridge.

      Why in the world had she come?

      She grabbed her cell phone and punched in the number from memory, crossing her fingers, only to be disappointed when the voice-messaging service picked up after the second ring. “You’ve reached Dr. Gwen Patterson. Please leave your name and phone number