Authors: Terri Persons
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Precognition, #Minnesota, #General, #Psychological, #United States - Officials and Employees, #Suspense, #Saint Clare; Bernadette (Fictitious Character), #Thrillers, #Mystery Fiction, #Fiction, #Suspense Fiction
Blind Rage
Contents
This book is dedicated to
my brother, Joseph,
his wife, Rita,
and their children,
Anthony, Robert, and Christina.
They have always been there for me and mine
with their love, faith, and sense of family.
Acknowledgments
My devoted husband, David, and our wonderful sons, Ryan and Patrick, keep me buoyant in this journey with their love and trust. I’m a blessed woman.
I continue to be awed by the excellent work of my agent, Esther Newberg, and my editor, Phyllis Grann.
I’m thankful for my supportive pals in the First Friday Club, a collection of cranky journalists and ex-journalists who meet once a month to gossip over soup and sandwiches. Where should we go for lunch next, guys?
To my buddy John Camp: Thank you for the ongoing advice and friendship.
Prologue
THE HOUSE WAS FILLED WITH THE WARM AROMAS OF CHILI
powder and fried ground beef, the only leftovers from taco night. In the white kitchen a boy sat at the table with his hands folded atop the white linen as if immersed in a postmeal prayer. He was dressed in a parochial school uniform: light blue oxford shirt, navy necktie, navy slacks, thick-soled black shoes. Without being given any instructions, he’d already wiped down the stovetop, cleared the table, scraped the plates, and loaded the dishwasher. The racket of the rinse cycle rumbled under the counter, but it was the noise overhead that made his eyes cloud with terror. The tub was running. In any other home, the musical drum of water hitting the porcelain would mean it was bath time. In this house the sound was a dirge.
Though his body was immobile with fear, his mind was convulsing with questions and answers:
What did I do? I didn’t do shit…Mid-quarter grades are coming out. Did I get a B in anything? No fucking way…Did the nuns bug Dad at the office over some bullshit, something I did during lunch or gym or mass? No. I’d know. School would have hauled me into the office before calling him…Did Mom find something in my room? Hell no. Nothing there to find…What is it, then? What did I do?
The rinse cycle lurched to a halt, leaving the running tub to a solo performance. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to kid himself: Maybe Mom is taking one of her bubble baths. That must be it. All the worry for nothing. The harsh voice of reality broke through: Not this early. She’d miss her hospital show.
Am I the one in trouble?
The yells rolling down the stairs from the second floor answered his question.
His father’s booming voice: “Care to explain this?”
A teenager’s rebellious response: “Weren’t you listening? It’s not mine!”
“Then whose is it? How did you end up with it?”
His mother, using a sweet singsong tone that was more frightening than his dad’s loudest barks: “Answer your father. Tell the truth. We’ll find out if you’re lying. We always find out.”
“It’s not mine,” the teen repeated.
The sugar voice again: “Come on now. How stupid do you think your parents are? It was in your backpack.”
“I don’t know how it got there. I swear to God. One of the kids at school must have put it in there.”
“Who put it there?” bellowed his father. “When? How? Why would they?”
A litany of excuses: “None of them like me…Maybe they didn’t want to get caught with it…They could have done it as a joke, while I was riding the bus…I don’t know. I just know it’s not mine.”
“Fuck,” the boy breathed to the ceiling. The reasons for his sibling’s unworthiness scrolled through his head: Can’t even come up with a decent lie. Dummy deserves it. Always causing trouble. Always picking a fight with them.
The tub faucet overhead squeaked to a stop, and all thought fled his mind in a panic.
Heavy footsteps took the stairs down slowly and purposefully. The boy lowered his eyes as his father stepped into the kitchen. He was tall, lean, and square-shouldered. Though his eyes were cool, his face retained the flush from the upstairs shouting match. His close-cropped hair echoed the military-like trim of his son’s cut. He was still dressed for work, his only concession to being home was a slight loosening of his tie. Taking in the cleared table and countertop, he smiled. “Good job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Taco night’s always fun, isn’t it?”
“It is, sir.”
“I need you to come upstairs now. You’ve got one more chore, and then you can hit the books. If you get done early, you can catch the second half of the Vikings.”
The boy stayed seated, hoping to put off the inevitable.
“Now, son.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy bolted up from his seat, knocking his chair backward onto the white tile. He righted the chair while stumbling over an apology. “Sorry, sir…sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, son. Accidents happen.” The man checked his watch. “Now let’s get moving. I have some calls to make before the game starts.”
Trying to stall, the boy looked down at his polished shoes. “Shouldn’t I…change first, sir? My school clothes might get…”
“A little water never hurt anything,” said his father. He turned and walked out of the kitchen.
The boy followed wordlessly. Head bent, he slowly mounted the stairs after his father. Silently, he delivered a petition to God: Please blind me. Don’t make me watch this time.
Chapter 1
MINNESOTA BRACED ITSELF FOR A WHITE HALLOWEEN. ONE
of the wettest summers on record had been followed by a frigid fall, inviting speculation that there’d be snow on the ground by the end of October. Northland kids were accustomed to incorporating rain gear into their costumes, creating Spidermen in slickers and vampires armed with umbrellas. Being forced to add boots and mittens and down vests to their ensembles wouldn’t be a huge leap; the show would go on.
In every neighborhood, picture windows were plastered with paper ghosts and Frankenstein monster heads, subtle declarations of war against the threatened early winter. Plastic tombstones were propped in front yards like protest signs. Bags of mini–candy bars were optimistically stockpiled in cupboards. Orange lights dripped from bushes and twined around tree limbs. Rubber skeletons dangled from porch ceilings while glowing skulls punched through the darkness.
The scariest thing about the Midwest that autumn, however, was the water.
Six college women had drowned in the Mississippi over a period of six months. Four had gone into the river at the University of Minnesota’s Minneapolis campus, and two had perished around the University of Wisconsin in La Crosse. Authorities determined that the women had killed themselves, but rumors of a serial killer and a cover-up persisted and grew. By that fall, the police and the public were at each other’s throats.
