Blind Spot (42 page)

Bernadette figured Garcia had waited long enough. She headed for the stairs leading up to the basement door, put one foot on the first step and heard a noise. She clicked off the flashlight and looked up at the ceiling. Another noise, this one a muffled cry—and it hadn’t come from inside the house. Her eyes went to the broken window. She pocketed the flashlight and drew her gun. Holding her breath, she stood motionless in the pitch black.

Forty-seven

Fists fastened around the ax handle, Quaid crouched down next to the stranger and peered through the compact rectangle into the blackness of the basement. He thought he saw a spark of light in the cellar. He waited, but saw nothing more. Heard nothing. Reassured, he dropped the ax on the ground and stood up. He dismissed the flash, blaming it on the excitement of the moment. No one else could have gotten in; even a child would have trouble fitting through that tiny window.

He looked down at his catch and nudged him in the side with the toe of his boot. No response. Quaid leaned over, hooked his arms under the robber’s armpits, and dragged him to the workshop. As he drew closer to the light cast by the security lamp, Quaid could see the man was shorter than he but broader in the chest and shoulders. The guy pumped iron; extra rope would be in order. As soon as the stranger’s feet cleared the threshold, Quaid unhooked his arms from the thief’s pits and dropped him on his back. He stepped around the body, closed the shed, and locked the door. He flipped on the interior light and reached for the switch next to it.

Bernadette heard a door slam and immediately recognized the tinny sound as coming from the outbuilding. Taking the steps two at a time, she ran for the basement door. She locked her free fist over the doorknob and turned. Pushed and pulled and jiggled. The thing was bolted. She felt around for the lock, found the dead-bolt knob, and turned. Yanked on the door handle. Still locked tight. She turned and ran down the steps, holstering her gun as she went. She climbed back into the laundry tub and crawled out the basement window. Jumped to her feet and cut across the yard.

Bernadette was halfway to the shack when the light mounted over the building’s door went black. Without the glare of the exterior light, she could see the interior was lit, a glow escaping through the ratty curtains. She ducked under one of the windows and drew her gun. Raising her head, she peeked through a hole near the bottom of the drapes. She peered straight ahead and couldn’t see anything but the garage door on the other end of the shed. She angled her head to one side and spotted a workbench with tools mounted over it against one of the long walls. She switched eyes and shifted her head around until she could see the other long wall.

Garcia was on the floor, his figure parallel to the workbench that ran along that wall. She couldn’t tell if her boss was conscious; he was facedown on the concrete with his arms behind him. He wasn’t moving, but she had to believe he was alive. Quaid was on his knees next to him, twining rope around his victim’s wrists. If he’d already killed Garcia, he wouldn’t bother binding him. Or would he? Could be the ex-priest had gone off the deep end. Quaid tied off the rope and sat back on his heels. Bernadette could see the maniac had wrapped Garcia good and tight. She recognized the tie job: Quaid had used the same sort of thing on the judge.

Quaid reached up to the bench and pulled down another bundle of line. He moved to Garcia’s feet and started coiling around the ankles. Bernadette wished she could see Quaid’s face; with his back to the window, she couldn’t judge his disposition. Maybe he was talking to Garcia, threatening a conscious man. Threatening him with what? She didn’t see a gun or a knife, but there were plenty of other possible weapons hanging from the walls. What did Quaid have planned for Garcia? Had he gone through Garcia’s pockets? Taken his service weapon? Checked Garcia’s identification? Did Quaid know he’d assaulted a federal agent? Would he give a damn? Would it enrage Quaid even more than dealing with a civilian?

These structures were never well insulated; she’d be able to pick up something through the walls. She lowered her head and put her ear to the cold ribbed metal. What she heard confused her at first. When she figured out what she was listening to, her body stiffened with anxiety. In a voice hoarse with self-righteous fury, Quaid was quoting Scripture. She had no idea what part of the Bible Quaid was twisting to his own use. It sounded like the Old Testament:

“Your doom has come to you, O inhabitant of the land. The time has come, the day is near—of tumult, not of reveling on the mountains. Soon now I will pour out my wrath upon you; I will spend my anger against you. I will judge you according to your ways, and punish you for all your abominations. My eye will not spare; I will have no pity. I will punish you according to your ways, while your abominations are among you. Then you shall know that it is I the Lord who strike.”

She couldn’t tell if Garcia was awake. Alive. She’d hoped to hear something out of him. A word. A grunt. All she could make out was Quaid’s diatribe—and she had a feeling the former priest didn’t care if he had a conscious audience or not, a living audience or not. She lifted her ear off the wall and took a bracing breath. With her free hand, she pulled her cell out of her pocket. She contemplated calling for help, but it would take too long for the bureau’s people to get there, and she didn’t know if she could trust the locals with a hostage situation. She dropped the phone back in her pocket and adjusted her grip on her gun. She could only trust herself. Bernadette weighed the sturdiness of the door between the two windows. Too heavy for her to take down with one or two kicks, and she was sure Quaid had locked it as tight as his Fort Knox house. The garage door on the other side of the shed was out of the question: she couldn’t see well enough through the curtains to take aim through a window. She needed to lure him outside.

Bernadette raised her head and peered through the tattered drapes again. He was no longer kneeling by his captive. She angled her head around and spotted Quaid standing along the other long wall. The view she’d gotten of him by way of his bathroom mirror hadn’t prepared her for the real deal. He was even taller than she’d expected, and more squarely built. His shoulders seemed to crowd the long, narrow space. His hands were as big as her face, and appeared fully capable of murder—with or without the assistance of hardware.
His hands.
There was something familiar about them.

Quaid’s head started jerking back and forth and up and down. He was taking stock of the equipment hanging over the bench. His eyes seemed to rest on one object in particular. “Bastard,” she whispered. She started to stand, preparing to go through the window. With her leather gloves, she could punch the glass. From another hole in the drapes, she saw Quaid extend his arm and then pull his hand back. He turned around and faced her; he was going for the door. She ducked and dashed around to the wooded side of the building.

He decided to go out to the car and fetch the tool he’d already bloodied. Didn’t matter if it was dull. In fact, dull would be good; let the thief suffer. He didn’t want to use one of his freshly honed blades only to have to clean and sharpen it again. He stepped up to the door, turned the dead bolt, and put his hand on the knob. As he pulled the door open, he heard a noise behind him, a groan. He turned around and said to the figure on the floor: “You picked the wrong house, mister.” Another moan. Quaid didn’t want to listen to that any longer.

He spun around and went over to the rag bucket, fished out a torn tee shirt black with motor oil, and took it over to his captive. He bent over, grabbed a fistful of the fiend’s scalp and hair, and yanked his face up off the floor. Quaid plugged the guy’s mouth with the rag and studied his forehead for a moment. “You should have a doctor check that goose egg, buddy.” Despite the gag, the man managed another moan. Quaid reached into his own pocket and pulled out his gun. Held it in front of the stranger. “Shut the hell up, or you’ll eat this for dessert.” Quaid let go of the hair; the thief’s head slapped the concrete.

He stood over his captive for a minute and ran his eyes over the length of the stranger’s body, wondering if there was a wallet on him, a knife, or a gun. Quaid was in no big hurry to find out. He’d wait until it was finished and then go through the guy’s pockets. He knew the names of all the others he’d executed, and he wanted to know this one’s name.

Quaid went outside, leaving the door open behind him. Fear had been replaced by bravado. He pulled his flashlight out of his pocket, clicked it on, and shone it ahead of him as he walked. With his other hand, he kept his grip on his gun.

When Bernadette heard his groans through the open door, she felt a weight lift from her chest. Garcia was alive, and conscious enough to make noise.