Blind Sight: A Novel (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

G
arcia thawed some venison steaks and cooked them up for her. After she ate, they sat on the couch in front of the fireplace.

“Need anything else?”

“A beer or a glass of wine would be nice.”

“Be right back.” He returned a minute later.

She looked at what was in his hands. “That isn’t what I ordered.”

He passed her the pills and water. “You’re going to follow the doctor’s instructions.”

“That guy is a twit,” she said, downing the Tylenol.
“A
twit witch doctor.”

Garcia set another log in the hearth. “He wasn’t a dummy, and that witch part is open for debate. I’m not sure you’re right about his involvement. Like Seth, he could simply be protective of the locals, be they Wiccan, Lutherans, or Methodists. And even if he is a witch—hell, even if everyone in the county is a witch—that still doesn’t mean we’ve got our killer.”

“We could settle it if I do my deal tonight.”

•   •   •

He dropped onto the couch next to her. “Your head—”

“Is much better,” she said, and patted her stomach. “And look how much food I put away.”

“First sign of trouble, you pull out,” he said.

“Agreed.”

“Where do we do this?”

While she wanted it as dark as possible, she didn’t want to go back to the stinky man-basement. She looked toward the loft. The light from the fireplace would still be visible from up there, but barely. “We can do it upstairs.”

“All there is up there is a chair and a bed.”

“That’s fine.” Bernadette also figured if she passed out, at least she’d be in bed already—not that she could tell Garcia that.

“Okay,” he said hesitantly, and stood up. “I’ll start turning off the lights.”

She knew he was worried about temptation—on both their parts—but she wasn’t going to let anything happen.

She sat on the bed with her shoes off and her back against the headboard, cushioned by pillows. Garcia pulled the chair—a rocker—over to the bedside. He looked uncomfortable in it, sitting on the edge so that it wouldn’t teeter backward on him.

Every light—save the one on the nightstand next to the bed—was off. On her lap was the plastic bag containing the sliver from Lydia’s nightgown. She’d picked the flannel scrap over the string because it was more substantial. There was no doubt in her mind that each would lead to the same set of eyes.

“Ready?” Garcia asked.

“Ready,” she said.

He reached over and switched off the lamp. “Remember, if anything goes wrong—”

“I’ll put on the brakes,” she said.

She heard a loud creak: Garcia trying to keep his balance on the edge of the rocker.

“Sorry,” he whispered, and creaked again.

She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but there was enough ambient lighting from the distant fire that she could make out his profile. He was bent over like a question mark on the rocker. “Tony sit on the damn mattress.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Promise I can keep my hands off you. You’re not George Clooney for God’s sake.”

“That nurse said I looked like that other actor.”

“I was never a
CHiPs
fan.”

“You burst my little bubble.” Another creak as he got up, and a squeak as he perched on the end of the mattress.

She rolled her head one way and then the other. Bent it forward and back. She noticed the skylight above the bed; it was filled with stars. She pointed at it. “Beautiful.”

“Very,” he said in a low voice.

Even in the dark, she could tell he was staring at her, and it rattled her. She closed her eyes tight.

“Cat,” he whispered a minute later. “I don’t think this is a good place for your deal.”

She whispered back, “Just be still.”

They both sat frozen and silent. The quiet was interrupted by a distant 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 and whispered the words she always said: “Lord, help me see clearly.”

She opened her eyes to the skylight. The stars fell away, replaced by … a charging buffalo.

The killer is sitting in front of the stuffed animal, its humped shape unmistakable. The murderer raises his eyes, and Bernadette is startled by what comes into view next. A massive trophy is mounted on the wall above the buffalo. It isn’t a buck but some other large animal with an enormous rack. A moose, she figures. Another prize is standing to the right of the buffalo, and this creature she recognizes immediately: a bear standing on its hind legs, front paws raised menacingly. The room is dimly lit, and her vision is hampered by its usual blurriness. Nevertheless, she can make out the log walls behind the stuffed animals. This has to be a north-woods retreat.

A figure crosses in front of the killer’s line of sight, going from left to right. Then right to left. Back again. Despite the quick movement, Bernadette is able to get a general impression of size and gender: short man. A bit of a gut, but not fat. The killer keeps his gaze low. If only the short guy would look up so Bernadette could see more of him. She tries to note as much as possible of the marching man. What is he wearing? She has a good view of his shoes. They’re black and narrow and small. His legs are dressed in black, too. Trousers, or possibly jeans, topped by a dark sweater or a sweatshirt. Something long-sleeved. His hands are stuffed in the front pockets of his pants.

The man steps closer and extends his hands to the murderer, palms up. He’s pleading a case. There’s a gold band on the ring finger; that means the guy is …

Bernadette blinks, and suddenly she’s in another room. How did that happen? The murderer couldn’t have moved that quickly. Is she mistaken? Is this simply a different view of the same place? No. This is a kitchen. Even the lighting is different from that of the trophy room. It’s bright. Bernadette realizes what happened, why the view changed so swiftly and thoroughly and it makes her heart race.

Bernadette can see that killer number two is moving toward a wall of stainless steel. He—or she—pulls open the door and reaches inside, giving Bernadette a view of the right hand by the light of the refrigerator. Large, milky fingers wrap around a jar. The murderer slams the fridge door and takes the late-night snack over to a black box. A microwave oven. Sets the jar inside, slams the door. Bernadette gets a quick glimpse of the glowing numbers before the oven timer is set. This is real time!

The killer pops open the oven and takes out the jar. Carries it to a nearby table. Sets it down. Reaches toward the center of the table and pulls a laundry basket close. Must be doing some folding. Peels back the edges of a pink cloth.

A tiny hand reaches out.

Bernadette can’t believe what she’s seeing. She blinks twice, and suddenly she’s back to the first room. Back staring at the damn dead animals.

The murderer gets up and starts walking across the room but is intercepted by the short guy. They stand close. Bernadette can’t make out the short guy’s face, but she can see that he’s got a round, smooth head. Shaved?

The egghead’s mouth is moving. He raises a hand with all five fingers extended. Does that mean something? The killer takes a step back and sits down again. Maybe the short guy was asking for five more minutes. Bernadette can see other people milling around behind the short guy, but she can’t get a good look. If only he’d get the hell out of the …

Back in the kitchen, facing the fridge. Bernadette didn’t even blink this time. What is up with this bouncing between scenes?

Killer number two looks away from the fridge. Seated at the table, holding that jar up and examining it. Bernadette can see that a nipple tops the bottle. He tips it down and …

Back in the trophy room. Everyone is gone. The killer stands and crosses the room. Goes to a set of patio doors to the right of the trophies. The drapes are open and the killer looks out. It’s night out, but Bernadette can make out a snow-covered deck with rails. Beyond that, a flat white surface dotted with lights and little boxes. Fish houses on a frozen lake. Lights are moving between the shacks. Snowmobiles or all-terrain vehicles. Where? Up north? It has to be up here.

Back in the kitchen, seated at the table. There’s something resting in the murderer’s left arm. He or she adjusts the bundle. A hand reaches up. Pink, like the blanket. So tiny. That baby has to belong to …

Everything goes black.

Bernadette inhaled sharply and tightened her hold over the flannel fabric. “Come back to me!”

Garcia’s voice in her ear: “What is it?”

“It’s alive!”

“What’s alive?”

“The baby,” Bernadette panted. “Lydia’s baby. It has to be hers.”

“Where? What do you see?”

“Nothing now.” She tossed the fabric down. “I fucking lost it.”

“Cat…”

“Give me a minute,” she said, and blinked to try to clear her eyes.

“This is unbelievable,” Garcia said.

She felt him get up from the bed. “There are two killers,” she said to the darkness.

“What? How do you know?”

She closed her eyes tight and opened them slowly. “I switched from one set of eyes to another. Went from one room to another. Back and forth. Might have been in two different houses.”

“Crap! Has that ever happened before?”

“I don’t… I can’t… I don’t remember.” She was distracted by his questions as she tried to get her regular sight back. Tipping her head up, she hoped the skylight and its stars would come into view.

“Is the baby in any danger?”

“Not that I can tell. The killer was feeding her … giving her a bottle.”

“Her? You know it’s a girl?”

“She was swaddled in pink.”

“What else?” Garcia asked excitedly.

“A short guy with a shaved head was talking to the other killer. It was in a room filled with big-game trophies. It had a window looking out over a lake filled with ice shacks on it.”

“Was it happening right now or—”

“Yes. I think so.” She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“Where? Somewhere close? Every lake in the state is covered with fish shacks. Was it up here?”

“Stop asking so many questions!” She could hear him stomping around her. Angry and frustrated, she didn’t know if it was the killers’ emotions rising up in her or her own. “Leave me alone for a minute!”

“What is it, Cat?”

“I can’t see,” she whispered, more to herself than to Garcia.

“I know,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You just told me you lost the connection.”

“No,” she said hoarsely, and brushed his hand off her. “That’s not what I mean.”

“What’re you saying?”

“I can’t see anything with my regular eyesight. I’m completely blind.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

G
arcia brought new meaning to the phrase “freaked out.”

“Son of a bitch!” he bellowed.

Before Bernadette could raise an argument, he scooped her up from the bed. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she hung on tight as he bounded down the stairs. The sensation of getting jostled around in complete darkness was terrifying and a little exciting. A carnival ride controlled by a drunken operator.

When they landed on the first floor, Garcia dropped her on the couch. She heard his truck keys jingling. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

“I’m warming up the Titan.”

The possibility of being left alone like this infused her with terror. She struggled to keep her voice calm. “Where are you going?”

“We’re going back to the hospital.”

She could hear fabric rustling. He was putting on his coat. “We were just there a couple of hours ago.”

“This has got to have something to do with your concussion. They said if your symptoms got worse I was supposed to bring you back in.”

“Sudden blindness was not on the list of things to watch for,” she said. “I really don’t think this has anything to do with it.”

“Shaken infants go blind.”

“I wasn’t shaken, and I’m not an infant.”

“Can’t be a coincidence.”

The prospect of revealing her unnatural abilities to a layman unhinged her more than losing her eyesight. “Tony. Think about it, when Hessler asks what I was doing right before this happened, what are we going to tell him?”

“So what if he knows? He’s a medical doctor. Patient privacy. He has to keep it confidential.”

“He won’t. By morning, everyone will know. I’ll be turned into a circus act.”

“We don’t have to tell him shit then,” said Garcia. “We’ll say you were getting ready for bed when everything went black.”

She heard him pull the door open. “Tony. No. I am not going to spend another three hours in that damn—”

The door slammed.

Her heart was pounding, and she had to force herself to sit motionless on the couch. She needed to derail another trip to the ER. As shaken as she was by the loss of her regular sight, she didn’t want to go back to the hospital and risk being exposed. Even if Garcia was correct in assuming that this had something to do with her head injury, she couldn’t imagine there was anything Hessler could do about it at this hour. He worked at a small hospital in the middle of the woods. If her sight didn’t return by dawn, she’d have Garcia drive her to a medical center in the Twin Cities. Besides, if Hessler did have something to do with the killings, he was the last person she wanted to trust with something as precious as her eyes. Keeping her blind could only help his cause.

She heard the door open and Garcia stomp his feet. He brought a cold draft inside with him, and she rubbed her arms. “Were you raised in a barn?” she asked, working to lighten her voice and defuse the situation.

“Love it when you talk farm talk to me,” he said, and closed the door. He walked next to her. “I’ve got your coat. Stand up and I’ll help you with it.”

She shook her head and fastened her hands over the edge of the cushions. “I am not moving from this couch.”

“I’ll throw you over my shoulder and haul you out of here like a sack of potatoes.”

“Oh yeah, big shot? I’d really like to see you …” She stopped herself, and laughed dryly.

“That isn’t funny,” he said.

“You’re smiling, aren’t you? I can hear it in your voice. You’re cracking up.”

“I am not,” he said stiffly.

Bernadette felt the couch sag as he sat down beside her. Making like Helen Keller, she put her hands on his face and ran her fingertips over his mouth. “You are. You’re ready to crack up, you sick bastard.”

“You’re tickling me.” He put his fingers over hers and pulled her hands down. “You’re trembling. You’re scared.”

“I’m cold.” She yanked her hands away from him. “Now go shut off the truck and come back inside. Put another log on.”

“Then what?”

“Then we have a glass of wine in front of the fire and relax.”

“Your sight—”

“Is going to come back,” she said. “I’m absolutely certain.”

“How?”

“I have a plan,” she said.

“Let’s hear it. If it’s not good, we’re going with my plan. The sane plan.”

“You’re wasting gas.”

She felt him get up from the couch, heard the door open and close. She fell back against the cushions and tried to quickly come up with some bullshit that would satisfy him. Only one thing came to mind, and she wasn’t looking forward to it. Her head still ached, and she was exhausted. At the same time, she was curious in a clinical sort of way. Would it work, or would it screw her up even further? Would it cause something temporary to become something permanent? There was only one way to find out.

“Absolutely not,” said Garcia. “That’s how you lost your eyesight in the first place.”

“Hear me out,” she said.

“I’m listening,” he said, and sat down next to her.

Garcia was fiddling with his keys. He wasn’t going to roll over on this one. She talked fast. “The blackness I saw before when I used my vision, that must have been my sight struggling to get a lock on two sets of eyes. Well, it finally did it. It figured out how to go back and forth.”

“So …”

“So …” She was making this up as she went along. “So I got a sort of whiplash from whipping back and forth between homicidal maniacs. I’ve … I don’t know … disturbed something related to my special sight. Knocked something loose. Thrown something off balance.”

“But your concussion …”

“Could have made me more vulnerable to damage. I’ll give you that one.”

“How in the hell is returning to the front lines going to fix it?”

She had to admit that the more she explained her plan, the less sense it made. Then again, her special sight didn’t make sense, either. Instinct told her that this idea of hers could work. “Trust me on this.”

“If it doesn’t pan out, we’re going back to the ER.”

“When the sun comes up.”

“Immediately.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “I don’t trust Hessler as far as I can throw him and his cauldron.”

“I’ll drive you to Minneapolis. University of Minnesota Medical Center.”

If her scheme didn’t work, she’d be ready to go back to the cities. The longer this lasted, the more anxious she became. “Agreed,” she said.

“Where do you want to do it?”

She didn’t want to move around the cabin, with him leading her. Demoralizing. “Right here would work,” she said. “But you’ll have to find that sliver of cloth. I think we dropped it on the floor in all the commotion.”

He got up from the couch and returned a minute later. Sat down next to her. “Let me know when.”

Holding up her right palm, she announced, “I’m ready.”

“You’re shivering.” He started to get up. “I’m going to turn up the heat.”

She reached for him and felt his shirt. Pulled him back down. “I lied,” she said. “I
am
afraid.”

“You sure you want to go through with this? We could hop in the truck right now and head south. Mayo Clinic. We could drive straight through. We’d be in Rochester before—”

“Give it,” she said.

Garcia placed his hand under hers to steady her and dropped the fabric into her palm. Curling his fist over hers, he said, “Good luck.”

Even though she was blind, she closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. They both sat in silence, neither moving. A log tumbled in the hearth, and the sound seemed to fill the entire cabin. She opened her eyes.

“What do you see?” Garcia whispered.

“Nothing,” she said, fighting the panic that was building inside.

“So this isn’t working,” he said, shifting his weight on the cushions.

She put her left hand on his thigh. “Give me some time. I’m distracted.”

He put his hand over hers. “You feel like an icicle. I’m putting more wood on the fire.”

As he opened the glass doors, she felt a rush of heat on her face. She wondered what it would be like never again to see the flames. Never again to see anything. Could she live that way? Maybe it was the price she paid for wielding supernatural tools. One sense exchanged for another. If only the choice had been laid out to her at the onset, she would never have opted to keep this gift. A mundane life with normal eyesight and no psychic upgrades, that would have been her first pick.

As if cuing in on that thought, she was suddenly back again, in the kitchen.

Then back in the trophy room.

Back to the kitchen.

Trophy room.

Kitchen.

“Stop!” she yelled, and closed her eyes. Unfurled her fist. Tipped the fabric onto her lap.

Garcia: “Cat?”

Slowly, she opened her eyes and saw that he was standing in front of her. She looked up at him. “Tony.”

“Can you see me?”

She blinked twice and rose to her feet. “I can see you.”

“Is stuff out of focus or blurry or—”

“It’s good. Like before.” She took a step forward and started to sway. “I’m just a little woozy.”

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Take it easy.”

“I’m just worried that—”

“What?”

“I think my sight, my special sight … I was jerking back and forth between the two killers’ eyes … It’s not supposed to work that way. I think it’s permanently screwed up.”

“If it is, we’ll manage.”

“But what good would I be to you?”

He rubbed her back. “You’re an excellent agent, with or without it.”

“The only reason the bureau keeps me around is because I can do things the others can’t. If I’ve lost it, they’re going to send me packing.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“You’d put yourself at risk, and I can’t let you do that.” She started to pull away from him, and he tightened his hold. “What’re you doing?”

“Read my mind.”

“Funny.”

He bent down and kissed her along the side of the neck. “This was a long time coming, Cat.”

“We can’t do this,” she said, and in the same instant found herself leaning into him.

“Didn’t this scare teach you?” he growled into her neck. “Life’s too fucking short.”

“What about our jobs? This case? The work?”

“It’ll all be there in the morning,” he said.

•   •   •

They returned to the bed in the loft.

It was too bright, so she threw her panties over the shade. She was glad she’d worn something lacy instead of her usual Jockey briefs.

He’d been working out with weights for years, and had the big arms and rippled abdominal muscles to show for it. He wasn’t excessively pumped but, rather, looked like someone who’d been working on a farm all his life. It was a look that aroused her and made her nostalgic; she wanted the night to last.

He went down on top of her, and his mouth went to her breasts. She buried her hands in the top of his dark head. He smelled clean and fresh. Someone who’d been outside all day. She opened her legs to him, but he held back. He lifted his mouth off her breasts and breathed into her ear: “Let me know if I’m too rough. It’s been so long.”

“For me, too.” Running her hands over his back, she enjoyed how hard and smooth he was under her palms. She gently grazed the back of his neck with her nails.

“Feels good,” he said.

She ran her fingers down the length of his body, dragging her nails from his shoulder blades down to his lower back. Raking his buttocks, she whispered, “What about that?”

“Yeah,” he moaned, and returned his mouth to her breasts.

She cupped the back of his head with her hand and arched her back. “Tony.”

He pulled his mouth off her and grabbed her breasts, bunching them in his hands and kneading them. The entire time, he kept his attention focused on her face. “Am I hurting you?”

“It’s good,” she said, looking up at him with narrow eyes.

He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her. His tongue darted into her mouth. As he withdrew it, she scraped his tongue with her teeth. “You are so beautiful,” he said.

As he increased the force of his thrusts, she locked her arms and legs around him. “I’m going to come.”

“Not yet,” he said, and raised his body off hers.

“No,” she said.

“I’m not done.” Ducking his head down, he disappeared under the covers.

She felt him kissing the inside of her thighs. He came up from under the covers and entered her again. They climaxed together, and fell asleep at the same time.

In the middle of the night, she was shaken awake. “I’m good, I’m not dead,” she croaked. “You don’t have to get me up.”

He climbed on top of her, and they made love twice before falling back asleep.