Blind Spot (45 page)

As the words tumbled out of her mouth, he felt a tear snaking out of the far corner of his eye, down to the edge of his upturned mouth. There would be two put to death that night. The man in the shed, and this crazy woman standing with him in the hallway. What would he take from her? The blue one? The brown one? Both? He’d have to educate her. Make her understand before he sent her to hell without her eyes. He cleared his throat and began. “The Lord’s message to Moses. ‘Anyone who strikes another with an iron object, and death ensues, is a murderer; the murderer shall be put to death. Or anyone who strikes another with a stone in hand that could cause death, and death ensues, is a murderer; the murderer shall be put to death. Or anyone who strikes another with a weapon of wood in hand that could cause death, and death ensues, is a murderer; the murderer shall be put to death.’” Quaid paused and studied her face to see if any of this was sinking in, but he couldn’t read past her blue-brown. Strange. Demonic. Seductive in a way. Yes. Both eyes would have to go. He asked: “Are you listening, little lady? Do you comprehend what this is about?”

“You couldn’t even cut it as a priest. What makes you think you’ve got the moral standing to judge and execute?”

He ignored her insult and her question. “Let me finish up with your Bible lesson. The Book of Numbers continues: ‘The avenger of blood is the one who shall put the murderer to death; when they meet, the avenger of blood shall execute the sentence.’” He adjusted his grip on his gun. “So, you see, I’m the avenger of blood.”

“A failed priest.”

His smile flattened and his eyes hardened; he’d had enough of this give-and-take. “I left the priesthood of my own free will.”

“You bailed before they could boot you out. Your self-serving reading of the Bible is a bunch of garbage.”

“Shut up.” He took a step away from her, toward the stairs. At that moment he wanted to distance himself from Devil Girl and her accusations. Her strange eyes, he’d hold them in the palms of his hands soon enough.

She raised her gun a little higher. “What does the Bible say about hypocrites?”

That word again; he hated it. “I am not a hypocrite!”

“Coward.”

Another word he despised, and one he’d used on himself. “You don’t know anything about it. What I’ve been through. What others have been through. People who have lost mothers and fathers and daughters and sons. You’re after me? You’ve got your gun pointed at me? Why aren’t you after the real criminals?” Quaid raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Let them be put to shame and dishonor who seek after my life. Let them be turned back and confounded who devise evil against me. Let them be like chaff before the wind, with the angel of the Lord driving them on.”

“Why should God answer the prayers of a murderer—and a coward?” She took another step closer.

“Stop there!”

Bernadette froze, her gun and her eyes riveted to this dark, handsome man with his dark, ugly soul. He’d stunned her with the revelation that he was the priest from her church visits. He’d set her up to find him—whether he could admit it to himself or not. Why did he want to be caught? Was he trying to exit in a blaze of glory? “Do you see yourself as a hero? A martyr? You’re two paragraphs in the back of the newspaper. Just another sick killer. Another coward.”

“I am not a coward! If I’d been here, don’t you think I would have defended them? Don’t you think I would have given my life? Don’t you think I wanted to die with them? My sister’s cries still ring in my ears. I hear them pleading for their lives. Their honor.”

Bernadette blinked. Why had he suddenly taken off on a rant about defending his family? How could he hear…?

She gasped. The terror she’d felt in the closet. The familiarity of that position in that tight space. Now she understood. He’d been hiding while his family was being butchered. He’d curled his legs up to his chest and done nothing. “You were here all along. You were home when they were killed. Your mother and your father and your sisters—”

“Shut up! I was at school! I was gone! I wasn’t here! I wasn’t!”

“They didn’t even call out your name, did they? They didn’t want the killers to know you were there. They died protecting you. My God. What a thing to carry around!”

He took another step toward the stairs. “I wasn’t home! I didn’t hear anything! I wasn’t in the closet! I wasn’t!”

“Liar.” She took a step in his direction.

His finger moved to the trigger. “Stop where you are! Stop moving or I’ll finish it now!”

She needed to draw him in for the kill. Anything short of a square hit to the chest wasn’t going to stop this guy. Her shot would have to be perfect, and she wasn’t feeling confident. Her head was cloudy and her arms were heavy. She’d finally shrugged off his emotional state, only to find her own psyche crippled and weak. She softened her tone and tried to find their common ground. “Think you’re the only one who’s suffered a loss in this life? Take a number.”

“What do you know about suffering?”

“My sister. That wasn’t a fabrication.” The story tumbled out easier than she expected, a completion of the confession she’d started on the church bench. “The drunk driver. He’s walking around. Living and breathing. Getting up in the morning and going to work and coming home and having dinner with his family. Going to church on Sundays. The same church Maddy was buried from. The same church! You think I like that? I stopped going because of him. I’m the coward, and he’s the brave saint going to mass. Do you know how many times I’ve fantasized about hitting him with my truck? Seeing him roll up over the hood?”

She took a breath and continued, speaking more slowly and with less conviction. “But he did his time. Served his sentence. He’s out and it’s over and that’s how it works.”

Quaid lowered his gun an inch and moved his finger away from the trigger, but stayed where he stood, one stride from the edge of the stairs. “Shouldn’t be how it works. That isn’t God’s justice; it’s man’s way. Flawed and unfair. Easy on the criminals and tough on the victims.”

A part of her agreed with him. She knew her retort was flimsy, but it was the truth: “It’s the best we can do.”

“I can do better. I
am
doing better. You and your friend in the shed, you should have left me alone. Let me do my work. Accomplish my missions. We’re on the same side.”

Her eyes darted to his chest. A wide target, but was she close enough? “People can’t take the law into their own hands. Run around executing other people. We’ve got to work within the system, as imperfect as it is.”

“I gave the system a chance. The state of Minnesota turned its back on the death penalty. Turned its back on all of us.”

The thump of a heavy footstep made both snap their heads toward the stairs. Quaid pivoted around to face the steps. A male voice booming up from the first floor. “FBI! Don’t move!”

“Tony,” Bernadette hollered. “He’s armed.”

Quaid stepped to the edge of the stairs and addressed the man at the bottom. “Get out of my house!”

The voice from downstairs: “Drop it, Father Quaid!”

Father.
The sound of a stranger’s voice addressing Quaid by his former title made him hesitate. He adjusted his grip on his gun.

Bernadette steadied her arms and squeezed the trigger. At the same time, two shots rang from downstairs. All three bullets found their mark: Quaid was hit twice from the front and once from the side. He jerked like a man who’d been shocked by an electrical jolt. He dropped his gun and brought both his hands to his chest. Brought his palms up and looked at the red. Turning his head toward Bernadette, he opened his mouth as if to say something to her. He bent forward and tumbled down the stairs.

She lowered her Glock and ran to the top of the steps, relieved to see Garcia standing alive at the bottom. At his feet was Quaid, sprawled on his back with his arms extended straight out and his feet still resting on the bottom step, crossed at the ankles. A sloppy crucifixion. “Sweet Jesus,” Bernadette breathed. A prayer, not a curse.

Garcia holstered his gun, pulled out his cell, and called for help. He dropped his cell back in his pocket and went down on his knees next to the wounded man. Glancing up at Bernadette, Garcia said: “You can put it away.”

She pocketed her Glock and started down the stairs. “Dead?”

Garcia nodded grimly. “Close to it.”

She reached the bottom of the steps and hunkered down on the other side of Quaid, across from her boss. She noticed red lines on Garcia’s wrists. “How did you get loose?”

Garcia held up his right wrist and jiggled his Catholic ID bracelet. “Makes a good saw. I just needed something to distract him so I could use it.” He lowered his wrist. “You played it right—drawing him into the house with the gunshot. A firefight in that tin can would have been a bad deal.”

Quaid’s eyes were closed but his lips were moving. “He’s saying something.” Bernadette leaned down and turned her ear to his mouth.

Garcia asked in a low voice: “A confession?”

Bernadette held up her hand to quiet Garcia and drew closer to the bloody figure on the floor. She whispered into Quaid’s ear: “Don’t understand.” As the dying man’s lips moved again, Bernadette nodded and put her hand on his shoulder.

Garcia: “What does he want? Is he making a confession?”

A final puff of air escaped from Quaid’s lips. Air leaking from a balloon. His eyes popped open and his head rolled to one side, toward Bernadette.

She sat back on her heels. “He’s gone.”

Garcia reached over and searched for a pulse against the side of Quaid’s neck. He cupped his hand and held it over the man’s nose and mouth to feel for breath. He pulled his hand away. “What did he say?”

“Three words,” she said.
“A good priest.”

Garcia stared at the body and frowned. “He wanted last rites? He wanted us to call a priest? He didn’t deserve it.”

The sound of distant sirens made Bernadette look toward the front door. She turned back to her boss and answered his question: “No. I don’t think that was it. He didn’t want a priest.”

“What, then?”

“He wanted me to know. Wanted us to know.
A good priest
. That’s what he was, or what he could have been, if all the crap hadn’t rained down on his life.”

“He dumped his vocation and turned into an ax murderer. Literally.
Good priest
, my ass.” Garcia stood up and swayed, grabbing the stairway banister for support.

“What’s wrong?”

He let go of the railing and touched his forehead with his fingertips, felt the bump, and grimaced. “I’ve got one mother of a headache.”

“Got to get you to a hospital.”

“It can wait. We got plenty to do here. Our folks need to be briefed. Locals are gonna have a few questions about what went down in their backyard and why those asshole feds didn’t clue them in.”

Outside, a half dozen sirens wound down as squad and ambulance lights flashed against the curtains. “Speak of the devil,” said Bernadette.

“Speak of the devil,” Garcia repeated. As he headed for the front door, he said over his shoulder: “Sheriff’s here. Get up and get your game face on. I’ll do the talking for both of us.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said after him. Bernadette watched his back to make sure he wasn’t going to turn around again. She made the sign of the cross and struggled to come up with a quick formal prayer. All she could manage: “May God have mercy on your soul.”

She stood up and gave one last look at the dead man. She wondered if she should keep Quaid’s sad secret—that he’d been in the house hiding when his family was murdered. What about her own secret? Could she ever tell her boss how the killer had deceived her and helped her at the same time? As she followed Garcia to the front door, she remembered the words she’d exchanged with her ghost lover in her dream.

Then stay home. Don’t go back to church. He isn’t there.

Who? Who isn’t there? God?

A good priest.

Fifty-one