At the Stroke of Madness Read Online Free PDF

penetrate the thick canopies created by huge oak and walnut trees along Whippoorwill Drive. And it was impossible to see anything up or down the lane, even cars, which were there one second and gone the next.
    The road twisted and curved—surrounded by trees and vines on both sides and sometimes twisting together overhead—showing only the next fifty feet, if that. It took anyone who drove it on a winding roller-coaster ride, climbing and climbing, only to send drivers plunging down and around ninety-degree corners. Like some ancient NASCAR track, it could be three to four seconds of exhilaration, shoving your stomach up into your throat while your foot hovered over the brake pedal. The beautiful surroundings, as well as the dramatic plunge, literally took your breath away. It was one of the things Luc Racine loved about this area, and he told anyone who would listen. Yes, they had it all, right here in the middle of Connecticut: mountains, water, forest and the ocean minutes away.
    His daughter often ribbed him, saying that he could be “a fucking ad for the tourism department.” To which he gave his usual answer, “I didn’t raise you to swear like a sailor. You’re not too big I can’t still wash your mouth out with soap.”
    He smiled, thinking about his little girl. She did have a mouth on her, more so now that she was a big-shot detective in…blast it! Why couldn’t he remember the city? It was easy. It was where all the politicians were, the White House, the president. It was on the tip of his tongue.
    Just then he realized he was almost all the way to his front door and both his hands were empty.
    “Shoot!” He looked back down the lane. The newspaper lay exactly where the carrier had tossed it. How in the world could he guess what day it was if he couldn’t remember to pick up the stupid newspaper? That couldn’t be a good sign. He dug a small notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket, jotted down the date—or at least, the date he believed it to be—and wrote, “Walked to end of lane and forgot newspaper.”
    As he put the notepad back he noticed he had buttoned his shirt wrong—two buttons off this time. He loved his cotton oxford-cloth shirts—short sleeves for the summer, long for the winter—but unfortunately, they would need to go. And as he padded out to the end of the lane he tried to envision himself in a T-shirt or polo shirt, untucked over his trousers. Would it look silly with his black beret? And if it did, did he care?
    He scooped up the Hartford Courant, pulled it out of its plastic bag and unfolded it, swinging it open like a magician. “And the date today is…yes, Monday, September 15.” Pleased, he folded it without glancing at a single headline and tucked it under his arm.
    “Hey, Scrapple,” he yelled to the Jack Russell terrier coming out of the woods. “I got it right again.” But the dog paid no attention, focusing instead on the huge bone he had in his mouth, losing what looked to be a balancing act as he half carried, half dragged his prize.
    “One of these days, Scrap ole boy, those coyotes are going to catch up with you for stealing their kill.” Just as Luc said it, a loud noise came from the other side of the woods, sounding like metal slamming against rock. Startled, the dog dropped the bone and raced to Luc’s feet, tail between his legs as though the coyotes were coming.
    “It’s okay, Scrapple,” Luc reassured the dog as another slam shook the earth. “What the hell?”
    Luc headed down the footpath that led into the woods. There was about a quarter of a mile of trees and brush that separated his property from what had once been a working rock quarry. The owner had gone out of business years ago, deserting the place, leaving behind equipment and piles of rock waiting to be crushed and hauled away. Who’d have guessed that the precious brownstone would someday not be able to withstand all the gas emissions of New York City?
    Someone had started using the