Blind Sight: A Novel (6 page)

Ashe looked down at the picture without touching it. “So this is the dead kid. Who was she? What was her name?”

“Recognize her?” Bernadette asked.

“Nope,” said Ashe.

Garcia: “Are you sure? Take a good look.”

“That’s enough,” said Ashe, raising a palm. “You want anything else, I call an attorney.”

“Are you guilty of anything?” asked Bernadette.

“No,” Ashe snapped.

“Then you don’t need a lawyer,” said Bernadette.

“Talk to us now and we’ll keep it low-key,” said Garcia. “We just have a few more questions. You might have seen something that you don’t even recognize as a clue.”

“A girl was brutally murdered, a young girl,” said Bernadette. “We could really use your help.”

“I’m sorry, but I was inside all day. I can’t help.”

Garcia: “If you’ll just—”

“No,” said Ashe, bolting up from the couch. “I’m done.”

Garcia and Bernadette exchanged glances. They both stood.

Ashe went over to the front door and yanked it open, sending a cold draft rolling into the room. “Hurry up. I’m not paying to heat the outside.”

As Bernadette followed Garcia out the door, she extended a business card to Ashe. “In case something comes to you.”

The woman looked at the card for several seconds and finally snatched it out of Bernadette’s hand. “I’ll let you know if I have a vision.”

The door slammed after the two agents.

“See anything in the bedrooms?” asked Bernadette as they walked to the truck.

“Dirty laundry and sheets for curtains,” said Garcia. “Balls of dog hair on the floor. Nice place.”

Bernadette looked over her shoulder at the paper-covered windows. “She’s hiding something.”

Ashe peeked through a slit between the papers, watching until the two agents pulled away. As soon as they were out of sight, she left the windows and walked back and forth across the front room. When she got to the Christmas tree, she booted a box of glass balls. The carton slammed against the wall and the ornaments exploded in an eruption of red, green, gold, and silver.

She turned on her heel, marched into the kitchen, and flicked her cigarette into the sink. She studied the phone sitting on the kitchen counter. What if that male agent had planted bugs in her house while he was alone in the front room? What if they were tapping her landline? Could they tap her cell? She didn’t think so. No wires. Have to have wires to wiretap, right?

She told herself she was being ridiculous. She locked her hands over the edge of the kitchen counter, closed her eyes, and took a deep, cleansing breath. “I am a stone in an ancient circle … I am a stone in an ancient circle … I am a stone in an ancient circle.”

She stood straight, zipped up her vest, and went outside. As she jogged to the barn, she muttered a prayer under her breath: “Lady of the moon, lord of the sun, protect me and mine.”

The dogs gathered around her as she entered. She contemplated letting them outside, in case the agents came back, but that man had a gun and seemed ready to use it. Bastard. She didn’t want to put her precious puppies in harm’s way. Putting her hand on one of the dogs’ heads, she whispered, “Don’t worry.”

Ashe locked the barn door so that no one could surprise her and extracted her cell phone from her apron pocket. She punched in a number and with a trembling hand lifted the phone to her ear. An answering machine picked up, and she closed the phone with a snap. She couldn’t leave a message. The wrong person might hear it.

She opened the phone and punched in another number. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she chanted while pacing the length of the barn. She put a hand to her forehead. “Please pick up. Please. Mother Goddess, make someone pick up the fucking phone!”

Mother Goddess apparently heard. After ten rings, someone answered.

Her voice cracking, Ashe said into the phone, “We have a problem.”

CHAPTER NINE

B
ack on Minnesota 64.

Garcia’s cell rang. He took it out, flipped it open, and looked at the screen. “Shit.” Putting the phone to his ear, he slipped into his most buttoned-up voice. “Assistant Special Agent in Charge Anthony Garcia.”

Bernadette watched Garcia’s face. It tightened like an angry fist.

“Yes, sir,” he said into the phone. “No, no, sir. But you have to understand …”

A double
sir
. It was either their bosses in D.C. or Mag Dunton’s office finally returning Garcia’s calls.

“I realize that, Senator. We’re under direct orders from Washington.”

It wasn’t Dunton’s people; it was the man himself.

“Apologize for that, sir. We couldn’t wait… I’m sure it is, but we couldn’t delay starting the investigation.”

Bernadette could hear Dunton’s raised voice on the other end of the cell. Something about his wife being upset.

The snow was coming down so heavily, the wipers were pretty much useless. Visibility was about three car lengths and shrinking fast. Garcia looked in his rearview mirror and saw a plow bearing down on them. He hung a right on a logging road, slammed on the brakes, and put the truck in park. Behind them, the plow rumbled past in a cloud of snow.

Garcia checked his watch. “I’m sorry, but your daughter’s body is already on the way to the Twin Cities … No idea, sir. ME would be able to tell you. These things typically take time … Days, possibly longer. After that, her remains can be released to a funeral home. I suggest you call…”

More yelling from Dunton. Garcia lowered the phone and shot Bernadette a grim smile. He returned the cell to his ear. From listening to what followed on Garcia’s end, it seemed that Dunton was drilling him about the investigation.

“Don’t know … Don’t know that either, sir. We need a little more time … No arrests yet, but I’m certain we’ll be able to …”

Bernadette heard the next four words as clearly as if Dunton had shouted them in her face:
“You people are useless!”

Garcia again took the phone away from his ear. He and Bernadette both stared at the cell in his hand as if it were a hand grenade with the pin pulled. Too bad Garcia couldn’t roll down his window and chuck it into a snowbank.

Garcia puffed out a breath of air and lifted the cell. Listened. “No one under me has permission to say anything to the press … No, sir. That wasn’t from us.”

Dunton was blaming them for the information released to the media. At least the girl’s name hadn’t been leaked. Yet.

“Sir … sir … please. Could we meet in town? If we could have a face-to-face. Where are you and Mrs. Dunton staying? … Uh-huh … I know exactly where that is. I could meet you …”

Bernadette gave Garcia a weak but encouraging smile.

“If you could fill me in on the last time she contacted you or anyone else, be it a family member or a friend or … Yes, sir … I also have questions about what she was doing up north in the first place. Who the father might be. Anything, any ideas, any names would … Yes, sir. I can appreciate that, but—”

Garcia blinked and snapped the cell closed. “Hung up on me.”

“Why isn’t he helping us instead of fighting with us?” sputtered Bernadette. “Doesn’t he want his daughter’s killer caught?”

“Not by the FBI. By anybody
but
the FBI. He’d actually have to admit we could be useful.”

“We were assigned to this case to make a point, weren’t we?”

“You just figured that out?”

“I don’t like being used to make a point. I just want to do my job. Why can’t I just work and do my job without all the bullshit?”

“Welcome to my world.”

“I take it they’re up here.”

“Yeah. I’m going to meet them.”

“What’s this
I
stuff?”

“I’m paid to deal with this crap; you aren’t. Just worry about solving the case.”

“When’re you seeing them?”

“Later. We’ve got plenty of time to check out that clinic.”

She wanted to give Garcia something solid, a good lead to take to his meeting with Dunton. “Let’s try my sight first. How close is Ed’s cabin?”

“Close enough.”

Garcia backed over the hump of snow created by the passing plow and steered the truck back onto the highway, heading south. He hung a right onto Minnesota 34. Then it was all county roads.

While Garcia hiked up the back steps and unlocked the cabin door—he had his own keys to his cousin’s place—Bernadette went around to the back of the truck and grabbed their duffels. Garcia took both bags and led her up the steps.

They stepped into a tiny mudroom. Garcia kicked off his boots, and Bernadette did the same. The mudroom opened into a short hallway. She poked her head into the room at the end. A small bedroom. Next was a larger bedroom that faced the lake. Then a bathroom. She clawed some toilet paper off the roll, blew her nose, and followed Garcia into the main living space of the log A-frame.

The kitchen was open, with an island topped by a range. Beyond the kitchen was the front room and its redbrick fireplace. An open stairway, railed with skinned logs, led to a loft sleeping area. Nice, she thought.

Bernadette took some newspapers from a stack next to the hearth, bunched them up, and shoved the balls into the fireplace. She topped them with kindling and a log.

“I turned up the heat,” said Garcia, coming up behind her as she lit the newspaper.

The cabin’s basement was frigid. They should have kept their outdoor gear on, right down to their boots. A hunk of old gold shag carpet covered the bedroom’s icy concrete floor. The wood-paneled walls were decorated with dead fish, most of them large-mouth bass. She assumed all of them were Ed’s trophies. Their glassy eyes added to the chilly feel of the dank space.

Bernadette and her boss sat on opposite ends of a sagging sleeper sofa, a plaid piece that took up one wall of the cell. On each side of the couch was a table topped by a lamp, but only the light on Garcia’s end worked. The shade depicted a stream with a buck standing onshore, drinking from the running waters. The shade slowly rotated so that the deer would phase out of view, its rump in a slow retreat. Against the opposite wall was a bed covered with a down spread. In the middle of the wall above the bed’s headboard was an egress window with a ragged blanket tacked over it. The smallest bit of light bordered the edges of the curtain. It was not enough to distract her.

“This couch is shit,” groused Garcia. He’d sunk so far down into the cushion that his knees were nearly at the same height as his head. “You sure you don’t want to go back upstairs?”

“This is good.” As she rotated her head, she noticed a hole in the ceiling the size of a fist and wondered what the hell that was about. A failed effort at putting in a ceiling fixture? The space smelled like sweaty men, and she wrinkled her nose. “Who usually sleeps down here?”

“Overflow parking for Ed’s buddies in homicide. Not the nicest room in the house, but you wanted dark.”

“It’s perfect.” Bernadette rubbed her arms over her shirt and blew a puff of air. Not quite cold enough to see her breath. On her lap was the plastic bag containing the sliver of flannel from Lydia’s nightgown.

“Ready?” Garcia asked.

“Ready,” she said.

“Here we go.” He snapped off the lamp as the buck’s butt was again fading out of view.

No airplane or traffic noise. No distant voices or music. Not even the wind broke the stillness. The only interruption to the quiet was a wooden groan. The cabin settling. She concentrated on her breathing. In and out. In. Out. She opened her hand on her lap and tipped the bag over her palm. As light as a feather, the fabric floated down to her fingers. She curled her hand into a fist, closed her eyes, and whispered her prayer.

Bernadette opens her eyes to … the storm.

The killer is looking out a window. Even with her hazy vision, she can tell that it’s daytime and snow is falling. Beyond the white blur, green blurs. Pine trees. This could be virtually anywhere with a winter season, but she knows it’s up north. She can feel it.

The murderer drops the blinds and cranks them so they shut tight. Why close them in the middle of the day? What is this person up to?

The killer turns away from the window and flicks on a table lamp but makes the move too quickly for her to study the hand—its size, whether there is jewelry or a watch. Whether this person has tattoos.

The room is small and butter-yellow. Rectangles decorate the walls. Color photos or paintings—she can’t tell which. A bed with a nightstand and the lamp. Odd lamp. The base is bright yellow and in the shape of a duck.

Suddenly everything goes dark, but it isn’t the same as when Bernadette loses a connection. There are shadows and vague shapes. Movement. A distant, throbbing light beyond the blackness. What is this? She’s never been here before. Her sight has never done this sort of…

Inside the yellow room again, glancing toward a door beyond the bed. The murderer steps up to it, raises a fist, and knocks. Again, too fast for her to scrutinize the hand. The killer backs away, and the door pops open. Someone standing in the doorway. Bernadette can’t make out the details of the face, a creamy round with dark slits for eyes. Long brown hair. A rose-colored robe or dress. Can’t tell which. Doesn’t matter. This is a woman. The killer puts a hand on her shoulder and they walk together to the bed. Is this the next…?

•   •   •

That strange, shadowy world again. Gray shapes like amoebas, moving and undulating and pulsating. A hint of light behind them, or between them. Past them. What is this place? This is the weirdest thing she’s ever …

The rosy woman is sitting on the edge of the mattress. She turns on it and brings her legs up. The killer is standing over her, concentrating on the woman’s face. She’s talking.

The woman lies back against the pillows, and the baby butcher puts both hands on her belly.

Black and gray again. Bernadette tries to will the shadowland away, but it stays in her eyes. Stays. Stays. Swimming gray shapes. A promise of light, but no light. She can’t waste time with this nonsense. A woman is in danger.

Bernadette forced her fist open and tipped her hand, dropping the fabric.

She closed her eyes tight and opened them to a familiar darkness. The cabin’s basement. She could see daylight oozing out from the edges of the makeshift curtain. Before she could speak, she had to take a gulp of air. “The killer’s with a pregnant woman!”