The End of Madness

By Jerry Gregory

The human psyche, normally a fortress of strength, is most vulnerable when love dies. The emotionally chilling novellas in The End of Madness provide glimpses into the minds of people for whom love stopped existing.

The End of Madness, the signature story, deals with despair born of David Reeds obsessive behavior. The story follows the decline of a famous novelist who blurs the line between loving, trusting and dying. When his love affair spins out of control, soaring to a point of no return, the writer plunges an alluring mistress and a loving wife into their own brand of hell. An unexpected twist provides a gripping conclusion to this transatlantic journey into madness.

THE VISITOR

In The Visitor, a beautiful widow tries desperately to retain her sanity after an encounter with a strange child. Brenda Carters improbable relationship, which slowly intensifies with young Karla Adams, exploits every aspect of her existence. Fear, hope, sadness and incredible discovery highlight four decades in the life of a popular and resolute woman. Unfortunately, her quest for love also falls victim to the indomitable search for truth. Brenda is the perfect protagonist, as Cape Cod is the perfect setting, for this haunting tale that confronts the differences between reality and madness.

THE LOCKET

A fanaticism born of tragedy leads a popular minister on a bizarre crusade. A respected clergymans mind discovers the darkest corner of despair after his loving wife is tragically killed. Leroy Madisons ability to traverse opposing social structures enables him to perform an inner voices unthinkable mandate. An intellectual debate, raging within a wounded heart, defines this psychological thriller. Forces of good and evil struggle to control a tormented mind, trapped in the cruelest of all placesmadness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 5, 2003
• ISBN: 9781465330529

Jerry Gregory

An Eclectic life has provided the author of Valerie’s Dream and End of Madness with a vast reservoir of experiences. Gregory spent a number of years in the United States Diplomatic Corp, holding down assignments in the Congo, England, Russia, Chad, Mexico, the Philippines and Washington, D. C. After leaving the Foreign Service, he became an administrator of a satellite branch of a large west coast blood bank. That experience preceded a brush with the world of municipal politics where he served as the chief of Staff to the mayor of Warwick, Rhode Island. Gregory also spent a number of years as co-owner of a public relations and advertising firm on the east coast. Jerry and his wife, Francine, are parents of three children, Jerilyn, Jay and June and two grandchildren, Boston and Marlee.

Book preview

Prologue

Providence, Rhode Island

Providence, with its majestic buildings, picturesque bay and trendy restaurants, offers visitors all the urban excitement of Boston, its big sister rival fifty miles to the north. Then, on the eastern flank of the capital city, a subtle transformation takes place. A more bohemian lifestyle is celebrated. Dotted along the narrow roads that crisscross atop a steep hillside, a variety of outside cafes and upscale boutiques slumber annually in wait for summer.

In the winter, wealthy students from the sprawling urban campus of Brown University populate the neighborhood, which is referred to simply as the East Side. Hoards of young men and women, clad in winter clothing, scurry along narrow streets, the biting cold wind propelling them rapidly to preplanned destinations. Professors, uniformed in tweed jackets with leather elbow patches, mingle with the baggy trouser-clad youth in an egalitarian tribute to higher education. Steam gushes from manholes and nighttime comes early.

This city within a city offers two distinct faces to the public. In the spring and summertime bright sunshine encourages outside seating at bistros and coffee shops with avant-garde names. As the first buds of spring appear, young men and women stroll past the stylish boutiques and modish storefronts. Having shed the baggy look, they appear scantily dressed and less hurried. Pretty females in Capri pants or short skirts parade the area in search of tans and attention. Young men bare their arms under white, sleeveless t-shirts, their legs and feet exposed to the warmth in khaki walking shorts and black sandals. The charm of summer on the East Side is not strictly a preserve of youth. Older folks enjoy the sun and the quaint atmosphere, sipping cappuccino and nibbling on rich scones or homemade muffins. On streets with a view of old churches and historical buildings, artists of all ages join students from the Rhode Island School of Design to ply their dreams on canvas.

It was in this picturesque setting, while sipping an iced mocha drink in a courtyard café, that David Reed finalized his desperate plan.

Chapter One

London, England

David Reed was uncomfortable around her friends. He couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he felt that way. The people at the party were certainly gracious enough. They went out of their way to welcome him each time he returned to London; Jennifer saw to that. He did notice a few new faces at the gathering.

So, David, said a brittle voice, how long are we going to have the famous American author with us this time?

Oh, hello! Reed replied. He half turned toward the voice, raising a full martini glass awkwardly over his head. He was trying his best to avoid bumping into the exquisitely dressed Anne Fletcher. It was William Fletcher asking the question. I’m flying out on Thursday, Reed answered distractedly. He was preoccupied. He hadn’t seen Jennifer for several minutes. David had to control an urge to run about the room shouting her name! He felt stranded and alone, his jealousy wrenched at him. David despised the way he felt. His thinking process was frightening him.

Hi, handsome, said a smiling Jennifer Pratt, tapping her long, well manicured fingernails on Reed’s shoulder.

Oh, there you are! acknowledged David, feeling panic drain from his face and flow out of his body. His anxiety spilled onto the floor and disappeared. He felt cleansed. He wanted the feeling to last forever.

Darling, I want you to meet John and Tracy Westbrook. May I steal this wonderful wordsmith away from you two? she asked the Fletchers, flashing her signature smile. Anne and William Fletcher were already engaged in an artsy chat with a recently knighted poet and his sullen wife. They simply nodded indifferently and returned to their clenched-mouth conversation.

Where have you been? David asked, agitatedly grasping Jennifer’s arm, his face clouded by the prospects of unacceptable answers. Thanks for rescuing me from the pretentious, name-dropping Fletchers, he added quickly, hoping to explain away the anguish in his voice. It didn’t work. She knew!

I am the hostess, luv, she scolded, patting his arm reassuringly. I must make sure that everyone is having a jolly time. Now be a dear and let’s have none of your jealousy. You promised!

Jennifer, aware of her charm, moved gracefully across the floor. Her red evening dress, slit on the side, outlined her supple figure. Her long legs became partially exposed in a series of tantalizing flashes with each step she took. Reed could feel the eyes looking at her as she ushered him across the room. She looked absolutely stunning. Her dark, corkscrewed-curls fell to just under her smooth, bare shoulders. Jennifer Pratt walked with the confidence and grace of a runway model. She led David through a sea of people, all smiling and talking excitedly, the glow of liquor evident on their faces.

John Westbrook’s steel-gray, pencil-thin moustache matched the color of his wavy hair. He had the outdoorsy complexion of a hunter or fisherman. He was neither. John Westbrook was an actor who had appeared in twenty major films. He relished his celebrity and was hanging onto it for dear life; however, the lines in his ruddy face were challenging his need to remain youthful. He reminded Reed of a stately liner, bowing to the blast of a foghorn, as it set sail on its last voyage. Westbrook’s deep stage voice provided the inspiration for Reed’s nautical imagery.

On the other hand, Tracy Westbrook personified youth. She was a woman with baby-smooth skin, red hair and countless freckles. Her beautiful green eyes swam in a sea of pure white, which would appear watery and sad at times. Tracy’s hair fell over one eye, peek-a-boo style. She pushed against John’s side as if trying to inculcate her youthfulness into him. Tracy caressed her husband’s hand and attentively hung on to his every word. She had been an adorable five-year old child when John was celebrating his thirty-fifth birthday. Now, in her early thirties, she looked just as incongruous snuggling against John Westbrook as she would if she still were a toddler. For some reason, the sight of the aging screen star and his youthful wife rekindled Reed’s discomfort.

Jennifer was lying in bed when David entered the room.

The cocktail party went well, he said, unbuttoning his shirt and sitting down on a dressing chair under a large oil painting of Trafalgar Square. A full moon peeked in the windows of the massive bedroom. The illumination was sufficient for David to undress by.

Jennifer stretched her arms over her head, her dark hair splayed out on a silk pillowcase. She languished there for a moment before kicking off the sheet, exposing most of her nude body to the moonlight. She loved to tease and arouse David. She stared at him, observing that he still looked trim and virile at forty-seven years of age. Though eight years younger than him, she understood their relationship for what it was. She was the flame. He was the moth. Her sexual control of him was complete and irreversible. She enjoyed her role and David, period! She especially liked the occasional travels she took with him and found pleasure in his fame as well as his enormous talent. For his part, David took extremely good care of Jennifer. He bought her the beautiful townhouse where they were staying, showered her with expensive gifts, jewelry, vacations, cars and money. He also made arrangements for Jennifer should something happen to him. She was living a lifestyle that she had never dreamt of living and David Reed was responsible for that. She wanted nothing more from him. Jennifer didn’t mind being the other woman. Actually, she preferred the situation, as it existed. Most of the time she had her freedom as well as a lifestyle she coveted. All it cost her was being available and attentive to a famous, wealthy author whom she admired and still found physically attractive.

However, of late, there was an aspect in the relationship that was becoming more and more disturbing. Insecurity was dramatically changing the personality of the man she had met almost a decade earlier. She had to constantly reinforce her loyalty to him. Lately, his need for her was bringing him to London more often. In the past, such frequent visits would have been welcomed. Now, because of David’s recent behavior, those visits were becoming progressively more difficult for Jennifer. His lack of trust in their relationship had increased significantly over the past couple of years. Because Jennifer was living a way of life she found difficult to surrender, she prayed for strength to handle David’s irrationality. She hoped the need to assuage his paranoia was merely a slight crack in the priceless mirror of her existence. It also occurred to Jennifer that the more David grew apart from his wife; the more he seemed to obsessively cling to her.

Crawling into bed, he said, I think your friends, the Westbrooks, are an interesting combination.

Jennifer knew by the tone of David’s voice, let alone his enigmatic choice of words, that he was having a problem. She decided to ignore his statement.

Where did you meet them? he asked, breaking an awkward silence.

They are friends of the Fletchers. He was a well-known movie star in British films for years; doesn’t work much nowadays. Nice man, don’t you think? She knew that he usually skirted direct questions, trying his utmost to be subtle. She also knew that he was more concerned with John Westbrook than with Mrs. Westbrook. She knew that David was experiencing another of his negative spells. Jennifer was constantly baffled at how such a brilliant mind could house such a distorted chamber within it. You seemed to be getting on famously with him, she continued, hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction.

To tell you the truth, Jenny, I found him to be a phony. I think he has a high opinion of himself . . . do you like him?

That confirmed it, she thought. Westbrook, the venerable actor, was threatening to David. "First of all, he is too old for me. I admit that I happen to like slightly older men . . . especially ones that can write," she said playfully.

Don’t you think he is handsome and charming? David asked sullenly. After a moment, he added, "His child-wife certainly gives the impression that she does!"

Jennifer could make out David’s gloomy expression in the semi-darkness. He was cradling his head on one hand, staring at her silhouette. The moonlight was providing just the right amount of illumination. She decided to end his agony, at least temporarily. Jennifer reached over and pulled him on top of her. She entwined her legs with his, while gently raking her nails over his back. When she kissed him slowly, she felt his body relax . . . then tense with desire.

Are you are trying to seduce me? he asked breathlessly. Jennifer’s smoldering eyes transfixed him. Her hair, scattered undisciplined on the pillow, provided an illusion of wantonness. David found her spellbinding. If you are, it’s working, he mumbled huskily.

It always does, Jennifer replied seductively. She wrapped her arms firmly around his shoulders while shifting her body under him. Sighing softly, Jennifer demanded, Now make us both happy!

Chapter Two

Boston, Massachusetts

The sky over the harbor grew ominously dark as the summer storm intensified. The wind howled mournfully and the rain, coming in bursts, slashed against the huge picture window. Susan sat mesmerized by the raindrops struggle for existence. The little beads of water clung desperately to the smooth glass surface before being hurled violently into space.

Care for a refill, Mrs. Reed?

That would be lovely, Joe, Susan answered. Maybe just a little lighter on the vermouth this time, she suggested, wedging a cigarette between her lips and beginning an animated conversation with the hapless bartender. Joe immediately set down his bar rag, lit a match, and chased after the bobbing cigarette in Susan’s mouth.

As Ruth and Laura walked back into the dimly lit bar of the Twelfth-Floor Lounge, they noticed that Susan’s attention had been diverted away from the rainstorm. They saw a cloud of smoke whirl lazily around Susan’s head while she chatted, non-stop, with the reluctantly attentive bartender.

It’s not going to be easy getting her out of here today, said Ruth. The taller of the two women walked with a slight limp. She added in a whisper, shielding her mouth conspiratorially, You know what they say, if you can’t fight ‘em, join ‘em. Both women laughed as they climbed back onto their barstools.

Fifty-year old Ruth Harding was the oldest of the trio. She limped as a result of a badly broken leg. Two years earlier, after a night of heavy drinking, she had lost control of her car. Her leg had been pinned under the front seat of the vehicle for several hours before the accident was discovered; it took special tools to extract her from the mangled wreck. Ruth had just recently started walking again without the aid of a cane. The accident was the final blow. She and her husband divorced after twenty-six years of marriage.

Laura Jeffers had begun her struggles with alcohol when her husband passed away seven years earlier. She started drinking at home. Soon, she would tell Susan, the walls began closing in on her. That’s when she started imbibing heavily at out-of-town restaurants and bars. It was Laura, in fact, who had introduced Ruth and Susan to the Twelfth-Floor Lounge. The three women shared several things in common. They were all wealthy, attractive, childless and desperately lonely individuals who found solace in alcohol and each other’s company.

Laura, Susan’s closest friend, wore her black hair short and swept back at the sides. Her face appeared thin and impish. The purple shade of eyeliner that circled her large, dark eyes exaggerated the intensity of her appearance. Susan thought that she looked like a cute, wide-eyed caricature commonly depicted on cartoons and greeting cards. Laura’s lips parted slightly, forming a slit when she spoke. Only when she laughed did she expose her beautiful teeth. At forty-six, Laura still had the agile, trim body that served her so well over the years. She had been involved with various ballet ensembles on the east coast. Only when Michael passed away did Laura stop dancing. Her husband, a noted psychologist and researcher, left her financially secure for life.

Think we should be getting back to Rhode Island? Ruth asked, glancing first at Laura then at Susan, hoping one of them would say no.

Maybe we should wait until the weather clears, suggested Susan. What’s the weather suppose to do, Joe?

The bartender heard Susan’s question while holding a wineglass aloft, inspecting for