Blind Sight: A Novel (13 page)

“Why did Lydia go to Walker?”

“Why did she go to Brule?” he countered. “Answer is in those letters.”

“What about my sight?”

“Nothing you saw clashes with my idea. There’s snow in Brule. Those hands on a pregnant woman could have been on a pregnant woman in Wisconsin instead of Minnesota.”

“You’re saying this is about a sick north-woods maniac who targets pregnant women and their fetuses, but he’s only killed twice.”

“Yeah.”

“The pentagram?”

“He got religion between victims, or he knew there was witch stuff going on in Walker and used the star to throw us off. Take your pick.”

Bernadette didn’t like the randomness of Garcia’s scenario. Plus, she had trouble admitting that they’d wasted days harassing a pagan and a former midwife, women whose only sin might be that they were outsiders. “I’ll chew on it while I drive,” she said.

“Coming back up here tonight?”

“I’ve got one more stop, and then I’ll head north.”

“Don’t waste too much time before hitting the road,” he warned. “Another blizzard is on the way. It’s already starting here.”

She glanced through the windshield. Flakes were starting to fall. “I’ll leave soon,” she said, and hung up.

It was already dark out. She checked the dashboard clock. Saturday services at most churches would be over.

At the outskirts of downtown St. Paul, she found a Catholic church and went inside. A handful of people were scattered around the pews, saying Rosaries and paging through prayer books. She took a seat in the back, took off her gloves, reached into her pocket, and took out the bag. She went down on her knees and said her own prayers before beginning.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A
s Jordan Ashe put her hand on the barn door, the dogs gathered around her, whining and wiggling. She’d kept them inside since morning, and now they wanted out. When Ashe slid the door open, they almost knocked her over in the stampede. Following them outside, she blinked in the snowfall as she watched them gallop into the early-evening darkness.

The weather was supposed to get much worse. Good time to let the puppies have one last run for the day. The acreage behind the barn was fenced, and they could only get so far. They’d head back home when they got hungry. If there were stragglers, Karl would fetch them as soon as he got back from plowing—whenever the hell that would be.

She’d thought about phoning him to tell him about the latest FBI call—that Garcia guy wanting to talk to her again—but decided she didn’t want to distract him while he was working.

Reaching into her apron, she took out her pack of Camels. Two left. She fished one out, put it to her lips, and lit up. Inhaling like it was her last breath on the planet, she filled her lungs with smoke and held it. As she put the pack back in her apron, she felt something else. She withdrew the female agent’s business card. The woman had done a good job of sucking up to her the other day. For a second in the kitchen, Ashe had considered telling Saint Clare about the others. Then she came to her senses. The woman was just another cop.

“Cunt,” Ashe cursed, releasing a cloud of cigarette smoke. She snapped the lighter and held the flame under the card. The fire licked at her fingertips before she finally dropped the burning paper on the driveway. Putting her boot over the black rectangle, she pressed it into the snow. She went back inside the barn but left the door open a crack in case some of her puppies came back early.

She went over to her workbench and punched on the radio.

“… should expect blizzard conditions. Winds of up to forty-five miles per hour are expected, causing blowing snow and low visibility. By early Sunday morning, everything north of the Twin Cities will…”

“Suck,” said Ashe, shutting off the radio. She flipped through her CD folder, popped a weathered Melissa Etheridge disc into the clay-splattered player, and cranked the volume as high as it would go. Pulling out a stool, she sat down and rested her elbows on the bench, every once in a while tapping a gray snake into a lopsided ashtray. She sucked on her cigarette until the embers reached the filter, tossed the butt into the tray, and hopped off the stool. Rubbed her arms. For her comfort and that of the dogs, she’d had Karl install assorted space heaters and a wood-burning stove, but the massive old building remained cold and drafty.

Ashe pushed the sleeves of her shirt past her elbows and sat down at her wheel to throw one last pot. She hadn’t lied to the FBI agents about having a show coming up. The wooden shelves lining the walls of the barn were bending under the weight of the work she’d already completed. Tourists bought the stuff, not collectors, but at least she was making a living.

That’s why she’d relocated to the Midwest from California. It was easier to make a living. The downside: fitting in was tough. She’d found a group, but they were afraid to be themselves in public. Because they were natives of the area, they felt the burden of having to behave. If only their neighbors knew. If only the folks in the towns knew what was going on in the woods. Whenever she contemplated blowing the top off the secrets and lies, she talked herself out of it. Could be the FBI agents would do the job for her. She’d felt obligated to warn her friends with phone calls during the past couple of days. That accomplished, she could get her head back into her work.

Starting out with a slow spin, she worked the wedge of clay into a smooth ball. Ashe forced the material down with her right hand while her left worked as the guide. After moistening her hands and the clay, she jacked up the speed. She enjoyed the feel of the wet clay moving between her hands. Moving, moving, moving in a circle like Mother Earth. Spinning, spinning. The music in the background gave her rhythm and energy.

Behind her, the barn door slid open a few inches wider and a figure in a hooded parka stepped inside. Slowly and gently, the intruder shut the door all the way.

Lost in the music and the clay, Ashe had her eyes closed and her hands occupied. She never heard the vehicle pull down the driveway, the barn door move, or the booted feet come up behind her. By the time she felt gloved hands wrapping around her neck from behind, it was too late.

As the intruder started to pull the potter down from her stool, Ashe clung to the partially formed vase as if it were a lifeline. For an instant, the clay’s seal against the wheel was enough to keep her from being unseated. Then the vase surrendered, tearing in two. The bottom stayed stuck to the wheel and the top remained in the artist’s hands as she went sailing backward off her chair.

Ashe felt the wind leave her lungs as she landed on her back. She instinctively tightened her hold on the clay that remained between her hands. Cranking her arm back, she threw the lump at the figure standing over her. With one step to the side, the parka dodged the missile.

Ashe rolled over and scrambled to her feet. “Get away!” she panted.

Without saying a word, the parka thumped after her.

Ashe ran to her bench. Where was her phone? Where had she set it down? Unable to find the cell, she grabbed a large pot, raised it over her head, and spun around. Tossed it at the intruder. The pot landed behind the parka, shattering and scattering cerulean shards.

The parka continued marching toward her.

The dogs were at the door now. Ashe could hear them barking. Trying to get inside the barn. They knew. They knew something was wrong. If she could get to the door and let them in. Ashe hurled another pot, this one crashing at the intruder’s feet and stalling the big boots. Ashe dashed past the parka and headed for the door. The dogs. The dogs would save her.

Her hand was on the door when she felt those gloves again, wrapped around her waist from behind. “No!” she screamed, and clawed at the door, sliding it open an inch. A dog’s muzzle tried to push through. A second muzzle stacked on top of the first. Behind the pair, the other dogs snarled and scratched at the door.

The intruder swung her around like a rag doll, throwing Ashe against one of the barn’s beams. Ashe grunted upon impact and crumpled against the wood. She curled into a ball at the base of the pillar. “Why?” she whispered to the floor, and covered her head with her arms.

Ashe heard her attacker’s boots march over to the barn door. The slab of wood slammed shut, causing a cacophony of yelps.

The monster had hurt her puppies.

Furious, Ashe uncurled her body and used the barn’s beam to help her climb to her feet. She hobbled toward the hooded figure. “You fucker!”

The parka came at her and fell on top of her like a tumbling brick wall, throwing Ashe onto her back. As the weight bore down on her, Ashe pushed against the wall with both palms. “No!”

The dogs barked and growled and hurled themselves against the other side of the barn door, the wood vibrating with their fury.

The leather-clad fingers tightened around the throat of their mistress. Tightened. Tightened.

Panting and perspiring from the exertion, the intruder stood up and pushed back the hood of the parka. Swiped a layer of sweat off the forehead. Ashe was sprawled on her back with her eyes wide open and bulging and red, like the exaggerated eyes of a comic-book character. Half a dozen times, the intruder prodded Ashe in the side with the toe of a large boot. With each poke came a snarled word.

“Witch … bitch … are … you … dead … bitch?”

The body rocked, but there was no sign of life. The killer’s nostrils flared. The witch bitch had wet herself and crapped in her pants. She was definitely dead.

“Good.” Then to the barking dogs on the other side of the door: “No!”

The gloved hands reached into the deep pockets of the parka and withdrew a length of clothesline, the end fashioned into a sloppy noose. The circle of rope was dropped over Ashe’s head and tightened around her throat. The original plan had been to take the corpse into the woods and use a tree. Witches worshipped trees or the woods or some such shit, right? It would have been a fitting setting for suicide. That idea was scrapped as soon as the snow started, however. The storm would have made the going too difficult, and would have raised questions about the death. Who hangs themselves outside during a blizzard?

The barn had a massive beam that ran down the middle, from the back of the building to above the front door. Twenty feet off the ground or better, it would take some work to get the rope over it. After searching the barn for something with weight, the intruder spotted the clay that Ashe had so ineffectually hurled. Good deal. It even had the witch’s prints all over it. The lump was squeezed around the free end of the clothesline and pressed into a neat ball. After several tosses—and losing the clay once—the ball carried the end of the rope over the beam.

The intruder plucked the clay ball off the rope. Gloved hands worked fist over fist, pulling on the rope and raising the body to a standing position. Now, how high off the floor would be credible? The eyes went to the stool sitting under the bench.
That high
.

The free end of the line was anchored to one of the legs of the bench and the stool was positioned under the body so that Ashe’s feet were dangling a few inches over the seat. The parka stood back to admire the scene. Something crucial was missing.

The body was lowered back to the floor. The potter’s workbench was surveyed. A cluster of jars, jugs, and bottles sat at one end, along with some brushes. The gloved hands reached for a container of something red and a small brush. The intruder opened the jar and squatted at the head of the body, brush poised. A master waiting to begin work on a virgin canvas. Slowly and carefully, an inverted star was painted on Ashe’s forehead.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

B
ernadette’s sight is acting screwy again, switching from a scene to that strange, fluid blackness.

Back to the scene. She sees hands drawing a pentagram. The face on the floor is too blurry for her to recognize, but she knows the mop of braids surrounding the victim’s head. Those eyes, wide and unblinking. She’s familiar with them, too. They’re the eyes of the dead.

That blackness again. She doesn’t have time to waste with that nonsense.

Forcing her hand open, Bernadette released the knotted yarn. As she blinked repeatedly to clear her eyes, she felt around her jacket for her cell. It seemed to take forever for her to see well enough to punch in Garcia’s number.

He answered, but he was breaking up badly. Crackling and fading. “Cat… what…”

“Tony!” she yelled into the cell. Everyone in the church turned and looked at her. She didn’t care. “Jordan Ashe is dead! Go to the Ashe place!”

Nothing on the other end now.

Using the plastic bag to shield her hand, she scooped up the yarn, shoved it inside her pocket, and bounded out of the church. As she ran across the church parking lot, she tried Garcia again. Couldn’t get through. Couldn’t get through to the other agents up there, either. They were together in a hole without reception.

“Fuck!” she yelled into the night air, and banged the side of the truck with her hand.

She thought of one other person she could try. Even though they had yet to meet, he knew her boss. He’d be easier to convince than an anonymous emergency dispatcher.

“Sheriff Wharten? This is Agent Bernadette Saint Clare …”

The parka stood straight to admire the artwork and issue a critique. “Nice.”

The jar and brush were returned to the bench. The body was raised and tied off again. As a final touch, the stool was kicked over.

Perfect
.

Noticing that the animals had stopped barking, the intruder looked toward the barn door. Were they gone? They must have found the treats dumped at the far end of the property. The dogs had been figured into the plan.

To neaten up the scene, pieces of busted pots were picked up and tossed into a trash can under the bench. The tipped stool in front of the pottery wheel was set upright. Every so often, an ear was tilted toward the barn door. Still quiet.

While cleaning up, the intruder eyed the pottery lining the shelves and found most of the items ugly and unworthy. Two pieces weren’t bad, however: a pair of little men wearing pointed hats. They were lost amid the other, larger objects. One of the fellows was scooped up and dropped into a pocket of the parka.

One last survey of the place, like checking a motel room to make sure nothing had been left behind. Eyes landed on the cell phone hiding behind an ashtray on the bench. Nothing on the witch’s cell would tell the cops what had happened here just now, or what had transpired elsewhere a couple of days earlier. Better to leave it alone.

The hood went back up over the head. A test, before the barn door was opened: “Here, boy! Come on, boy! Good dog!”

Silence.

The barn door was opened a crack. No animal snouts tried to bust through. A whistle was issued, followed by a clap of hands. No response, not even a distant bark. The treats had distracted them.

Ashe’s killer slid the barn door open and went back into the snowstorm. The boyfriend would be working through the night. On his way in, Vizner would clear his own road and driveway, thereby plowing away any telling tire tracks.

Like the dogs, the weather had been figured into the plan, and it had held up its end of the operation beautifully.

When Karl Vizner tried Jordan’s cell and didn’t have any luck, he decided to take a break and head home. He always worried that those damn dogs of hers were going to haul off and eat her someday for supper. Even a witch couldn’t charm the teeth off a hungry pit bull.

A private plow operator with a full-size truck and attached plow, Vizner made a good living clearing parking lots for businesses in the surrounding towns. He also picked up work doing plowing for cabin owners in the area. The big highway jobs were left up to the monster Minnesota Department of Transportation machines, however. As he drove along the state highway, he noticed that they’d managed to do a good job in the midst of the storm. Like him, however, they’d have to keep working it.

Once he turned down his own road, he lowered the blade and plowed his way home. When he got to the fork, he veered to the right and did the driveway in front of the barn. The dogs were milling by the doors. Jordan had to be in there, working on her pots. Then he went to the left and cleared the driveway leading to the garage. As he plowed, he noticed fresh tire tracks. Had the FBI stopped by the house because he’d refused to return their calls? He felt bad if she’d had to contend with them alone again.
Assholes
.

After he finished plowing, he hopped out of the truck and headed for the barn. A gust rolled down his back and he pulled up the collar of his work coat. He nudged the animals out of the way as he tried to get to the doors. “Make a hole, you monsters.”

Vizner froze in the middle of the pack of dogs. Drops of red splattered the snow. A couple of the bitches had gashes running down their muzzles. Had Jordan left them outside for too long? Had they tangled with one another, some wild animal, or the fence? No. She took better care of the animals than she did of her old man. Something was wrong. Terribly, fucking wrong.

The two largest males were digging under the door and steaming up the air like a couple of engines. They’d scratched away all the snow and had gotten down to the frozen dirt. Though it was as hard as concrete, the pair had managed to dig a shallow trench in the soil. The other dogs were standing behind the excavators, whimpering and wiggling their asses, anxious as hell to get inside the barn. Vizner clamped a hand over the collar of the biggest digger and pulled the dog off the door. The dog sat in the snow and looked at him.

“Fuck!” said Vizner. The dog’s snout was ground beef. “What the fuck is going on?”

Vizner put his hand on the door, took a deep breath, and slid it wide open. Barking and yelping, the dogs went around him to rush inside. He stood in the threshold with one hand on the edge of the door. His grip over the wood tightened, and for a second he wondered if he was going to puke or pass out or do both. He squared his shoulders, went inside, and closed the door after him.

On wobbly legs, he walked into the middle of the barn while pulling off his hat. “Jordan, no,” he whispered up to the dangling figure. “No, no, no, no, no.”

When he reached the tipped stool, he cranked his foot back and booted it. The stool was airborne for a few seconds, and then landed on the wood floor with a clatter. The closest dogs yelped and scattered.

Vizner ran to the anchored end of the rope and squatted next to the workbench leg. Gloves still on his fingers, he started to undo the knot. “Fuck!” He pulled off his gloves with his teeth, spit them out, and continued untying with his bare, trembling fingers. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Help me. Forgive her. Please forgive her.”

The smallest female was sniffing around Vizner as he struggled to undo the knot, tears welling in his eyes. The bitch licked his cheeks. “That’s enough, girl,” he said with a sniffle. “Sit. Go on. Sit.” With a whine, she did as she was told.

One of the big males was standing beneath the body, barking and standing on his hind legs. The rest—the fucking four-legged mercenaries—were in back of the barn, preoccupied with digging into their food. They didn’t give a shit about the one who had filled their bowls that morning. Every morning.

“Come on, puppies. Here you go. Momma’s got food.”

“Chow wagon’s here, you big mooches.”

“Hey, fellas. Let the ladies have some.”

Gathering up his end of the rope, Vizner stood straight and pivoted around to face the suspended figure. Her back was to him. She could have been a scarecrow, those arms and legs so heavy and lifeless. Those braids in such disarray. Quickly, he let the rope run through his hands and lowered Jordan to the floor. With a soft thud, she landed in a heap and then flopped onto her back, tangled legs still under her. Her hair all over her face. A scarecrow cut down.

Vizner dropped the rope and ran to the body, kicking a dog out of the way as he went. He fell to his knees by her shoulders. He knew she was dead, but he went through the motions anyway. He loosened the noose and slipped it off her head. Put his fingers to her neck. Lifted her wrist and checked for a pulse. He dropped her hand and pushed aside the braids to look at her face.

Her forehead.

He reached out an index finger to touch it, but then pulled his hand away. He sat back on his heels and rubbed his eyes with his palms to make sure he wasn’t delusional. Seeing things topsy-turvy because he was so freaked out.

He took down his hands, leaned over her, and checked her face again. There it was, an upside-down star. Painted in red. Jordan hadn’t done this. She hadn’t committed suicide. One weight was lifted off his heart, only to be replaced by another.

As he got to his feet, an icy draft rolled through the barn and wrapped itself around his body. Shuddering, his attention was drawn to the door. It was open a crack. Had he left it that way? Had the wind blown it open?

Boots thumping like a bouncing rubber ball, he ran to the door, slid it shut, and locked it. More thumping as he ran to the back of the barn and took an old double-barreled shotgun down from a shelf. He fumbled around the dusty boxes of shells until he came to the right one. He ripped off the top of the box and took out two shells, dropping them both on the floor. “Fuck me,” he muttered, and took out two more.

He hadn’t used or cleaned the old hinge-action shotgun in a long time. He had to work the release to get the action to open, revealing the empty chambers. As he fed a shell into each rusty chamber, he wished like hell he had more dependable firepower. The rifle was in the house, and he didn’t want to make the run across the yard. He needed to stay and protect Jordan’s body. That’s what he told himself as he stuffed more shells into his jacket pocket.

He went over to the door and stood there with the gun. The two big males followed, one standing on each side of him. The pair didn’t bark or whine or wag their tails. They just stood at the door, staring at the wood and breathing hard. Smart bastards. They knew something wicked could be going down and they wanted in on the mayhem. The others were busy eating and licking their crotches. A female was nosing around the body. Vizner would have to keep one eye on that situation. If the animal looked like it was going to start sampling Jordan, he’d put a hole in the dog. Any excuse and he’d put holes in all of them. Where had the pack of ungrateful fuckers been while Jordan was being killed? Were they too busy fighting with one another to fight for her? Why hadn’t they saved the woman who’d saved them?

My little witch
.

Vizner stifled a sob and put his ear to the barn door. All he heard on the other side was the wind whipping through the yard, yowling like a cat that was being kicked to death.

He looked back at the lifeless heap in the middle of the floor. “No!” he yelled at the sniffing dog. “Bad!” Reprimanded, the bitch retreated to the back of the barn to join the other chickenshits. Only the two large males stayed at the front. Soldiers flanking their leader.

“Good boys.” With his free hand, Vizner reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his cell.

The sheriff was already pulling down the driveway. It had taken Bernadette a while, but she’d convinced him to check on Jordan Ashe. She told the sheriff she had a hunch.

She figured Garcia’s buddy would believe a hunch before he believed her second sight.