Blind Spot

by Brenda Novak

  “Could be as long as a week.”

  “A week,” Terry repeated, as though Lyman had said a year.

  “In order for this to be successful, we have to be patient. Tell him I’ll give him an additional two thousand dollars if he’ll stay.”

  “What about me?” he asked.

  Lyman considered handing him the medication, so he could dispose of it—or sell it, which was far more likely. Lyman had already stockpiled so much. That sort of thing was likely to come in handy when dealing with a recalcitrant prisoner. Knowing that, he’d prepared from the beginning and hidden it all in a small shoe box he kept with his few personal things. But, at the last second, he decided to keep even these last pills. One could never have too many, he told himself. “You’re getting paid well enough,” he said, and slipped the pills into the pocket of his pajama top.

  Terry arched his eyebrows when he saw him do it. “You know you can’t keep them there. The nurse will come by in just a little bit to make sure you took all your medication, and if you do anything that’s out of the ordinary, it’ll draw attention we don’t need.”

  “I plan to take them,” he lied. “I just don’t want to do it while you’re here. They’ll knock me out in no time, and what kind of company would I be then?”

  “Go ahead,” Terry said, his concern melting away that easily. “I have to get my work done, anyway. This place isn’t going to clean itself.” He started for the door, pausing at the last second. “I’ve promised Emmett you’re not going to hurt Evelyn Talbot. That’s true, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve told you, many times, I’ve never hurt anyone.”

  “So the Zombie Maker stuff—with the ice pick through the eye socket and all that other gruesome bullshit—that wasn’t you?”

  Bishop knew how benign he looked, lying in a bed with half his face paralyzed. As an educated man, a man who came off as a calm intellectual, he wasn’t anything like the thugs Terry associated with criminal behavior, a fact he continued to use in his favor. “You know it wasn’t. The detective who was investigating those murders planted the evidence in my house. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have let me out of prison, remember? I’ve shown you the archived newspaper articles online.”

  “I remember. You just want her to sign some paper so you can get your life back; I got it.”

  Bishop hid a smile. It wasn’t difficult to convince someone who wanted to believe him.

  “So how long will you keep her locked up?” Terry asked.

  “Not for long. Once I’ve had my say, really made her hear me, she can go, if she wants.”

  “If she wants? A woman like that would never choose to stay with a man like you,” he scoffed, incredulous.

  Bishop smiled as he imagined how easy it would be to change her mind—in the most literal sense. “You never know.”

  5

  Anchorage, AK—Tuesday, 10:16 p.m. AKDT

  Evelyn was far more exhausted than ever before in her life, but she fought sleep, didn’t feel as though it would be safe. She had to remain as aware as possible and do something about her situation, couldn’t sit back and suppose Amarok or someone else would be able to find her.

  But what could she do?

  She asked herself that over and over as she stared at the ceiling. Her situation seemed hopeless. She didn’t have a door or window that could be breached. The walls were solid, too; there was no way to break through them. But once she quit trying to think of a way to break out and started looking for other options, she had an idea. She’d associated with prison inmates long enough to have learned that it was possible to make a weapon out of almost anything. And something Herculean—like digging a tunnel to freedom—could be accomplished with only a little progress each day, given enough time.

  She had no idea how long she’d be held captive, but in case this wasn’t as simple as being kidnapped for ransom, she wasn’t about to waste the time she had lying on a filthy cot, worrying and waiting for the worst to happen.

  So what were her options? She’d known inmates who’d heated up chocolate bars to throw on prison staff or rival gang members, causing severe burns; inmates who’d created shivs out of magazines or even toilet paper (strengthened with papier-mâché); and inmates who’d made spears from the metal framework of their beds. Most simply filed down the end of a toothbrush. With enough thrust, that could be lethal and seemed the easiest way to go. But she hadn’t been provided with a toothbrush, had only one roll of toilet paper and no magazines.

  For that matter, she had no chocolate, either, let alone something to heat it with. Her cot provided the only hope she had of creating a weapon, and she already knew it wouldn’t be as fancy as a spear. She couldn’t remove part of the frame, not without a screwdriver. It might even be too optimistic to believe she could remove one of the springs, but she intended to try.

  She pulled the mattress off and studied the interlocking coils. It wouldn’t be easy, not when she had only her bare hands to work with, but if she could untwist one of the thick steel wires, straighten it out and sharpen it by filing it on the floor, she could tear the lining out of her jacket and wrap the fabric tightly around one end to create a handle.

  When she was finished, the weapon would look a lot like a screwdriver. And if she ripped out a short length of the seam in her mattress, she’d even have a place to hide it. Then, if her captor tried to torture or rape her, she could at least attempt to defend herself and her baby.

  She squeezed her eyes closed as past memories assailed her and, once again, had to remind herself that this wasn’t Jasper. Yes, she was pregnant and physically compromised because of it, but she was also older and wiser.

  Humming a song, so she couldn’t think too much while struggling with those coils, she fought to undo one. She’d been hungry for hours, it seemed, but focusing on something else, especially something so difficult, helped her ignore the pangs in her stomach.

  Both thumbs were bleeding at the edge of the nail by the time she gave up. She’d managed to untwist one of the wires halfway down but couldn’t finish. She was too nauseous and weak.

  Being careful to bend the part that was now sticking out so it wouldn’t poke through, she replaced the mattress. She hoped if she slept for a few hours her morning sickness would be gone when she woke up. But she wasn’t overly optimistic, doubted it would go away if she didn’t eat.

  She’d barely closed her eyes when she heard the telltale rustle on the other side of the door.

  “Hello?” She rolled off the cot, nearly tripping in her haste to reach the slot as it opened.

  “Give me the tray.”

  Her captor had spoken, but she didn’t recognize his voice, which was odd. For someone willing to risk a lengthy prison sentence by abducting her, she felt they should have some shared history—a vendetta between them like the one she’d had with Jasper. It was the man she’d seen before, however. She could tell because he was wearing the same camouflage pants and black T-shirt.

  “Now,” he barked. “Or you’ll skip dinner.”

  She grabbed the tray that held the seeds from her apple and slid it through the opening.

  He responded by giving her a bottle of water and a plastic bowl of oatmeal.

  “This looks more like breakfast. Is it morning?”

  “It’s nighttime, for your information. But this isn’t fucking McDonald’s.”

  “How am I supposed to know what time it is?”

  “You don’t need to know. You just eat what I give you.”

  “Fine. Okay. No problem.” For the sake of keeping her hands free and preserving the meal, she put everything on her bed before rushing back to the opening. “Will you tell me what I’m doing here?” she asked. “What I can expect? Is this a ransom situation?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Who are you?”

  He gave her a banana, which she eagerly accepted. She was hungry enough to eat almost anything, but she had no idea what the oatmeal would taste like and figured fruit c
ould only make it better.

  Although he started to close the slot, she put her fingers in the way—and prayed he wouldn’t simply crush them. “Wait! I’m going to need more water. This isn’t enough. I’m carrying a baby. I have to have enough water.”

  When he walked away and returned with another bottle, she took heart. This was the first time she’d been able to improve her situation. “Would it be possible to get another banana?”

  “Move your hands or you won’t have any fingers left,” he growled.

  She pulled back, and he slammed the covering and rammed the bolt home.

  “Bastard,” she whispered as she slid to the floor and twisted the top off her water. Fortunately, she could feel somewhat confident that what she was about to drink was clean, since it had been previously unopened. It turned her stomach to remember the substances Jasper had forced down her throat when he held her captive in that shack. He’d taken such pleasure in her revulsion, in his power over her.

  But, of course, that wasn’t the worst of what happened.…

  She drank one whole bottle before getting up to eat the banana and oatmeal. The food wasn’t what she’d call good. She could tell the oatmeal was instant, probably cooked in a microwave. But at least she was able to stop her stomach from growling, and the banana did improve the taste.

  After she finished, she drank only half of the second bottle of water before making herself save the rest. After all, she had no idea when the man in the camouflage pants would be coming back. If this was dinner, it would be a long time until breakfast.

  Hilltop, AK—Tuesday, 10:30 p.m. AKDT

  “Excuse me?”

  Prepared for anything, Amarok spread his legs about eighteen inches apart, the right foot slightly behind the left, so he’d have better balance if one of the Ledstetters came at him, and stood with Makita at least five feet from the door. They were good folks, but Davie, who was in his mid-fifties, and Junior, who was Amarok’s own age at thirty-two, were known hotheads—not the type to take an insult of this magnitude lightly. “Have you seen Evelyn?” Amarok asked, repeating his initial question.

  “You have hundreds of criminals, a large majority of which are serial killers—the worst of the worst—just five miles down the road and you show up at my house after ten o’clock with this kidnapping bullshit?” Davie demanded.

  “I didn’t say anything about kidnapping. I just asked if you’ve seen her.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve heard what’s going on. It’s all over town. So I know what you’re really asking.”

  “So? What’s the answer?”

  “Seriously? I’ve never even had a DUI!”

  His son had been arrested for fighting on more than one occasion, but Amarok let that go. “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “With what you’ve been through … It’s not that I want to be here.”

  “Then why’d you come?” he demanded. “You’ve known me your whole life. You know I’m no criminal.”

  “Heartbreak and hatred can twist a man’s heart.”

  “So now my heart is twisted?”

  “I’ve seen how you and Junior glare at Evelyn whenever she’s around.” His wife, Betty, did the same. To a lesser extent, so did the two younger girls. But Amarok didn’t want to accuse the women in the family, too. “I’m just asking if you’ve seen her, Davie. Let’s try not to make anything more out of it.”

  “You believe I might’ve done something to her. I can tell by your face.”

  “I’m hoping you haven’t.”

  The television went off as more members of the family came to see what was going on. Amarok noticed how Betty’s expression grew accusatory when she saw him. He used to be good friends with the whole family, but that relationship had been destroyed since Sandy’s murder. They didn’t like seeing him with Evelyn—took it as a betrayal of sorts, as if he’d chosen the other “side”—and these days he was always with Evelyn.

  “Davie would never harm a woman, even Evelyn,” she said.

  “You know what she’s suffered in the past, right?”

  Betty squeezed in front of her husband. “Everyone knows what she’s suffered. She’s made a big deal of it on the news. Talking about the man who attacked her, garnering sympathy. Those were the antics she used to put that damn prison in our backyard. Doesn’t seem to matter what she’s doing to the rest of us.” When she started to tear up, Davie pulled her back, out of the way.

  “I’ve got this,” he murmured. “Go finish your show.”

  “What’s happening, Dad?” Junior emerged from somewhere, probably his bedroom.

  “Amarok is asking about Dr. Talbot.”

  “He’s here? Why?”

  “Wants to know if we’ve seen her.”

  “Us? What the hell! One of those bastards finally got to her. That’s what happened. We all knew it was only a matter of time.”

  Amarok didn’t hear any regret in that statement. “The question is … which bastard?”

  “I’m only going to say this once, Amarok,” Davie broke in. “You’re jumping to the wrong conclusion.”

  When Makita growled deep and low in his throat, taking exception to their tone and body language, Amarok barked a command for him to stay where he was and looked past Davie. “Junior? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Junior nudged his father aside. “I say the same thing as my dad. You’re going after the wrong people.”

  “Now we’ve both told you,” Davie said, reasserting his authority. “I’m going to try to forget that you came over here to accuse us of a felony, because you’re probably out of your mind with grief. I know what that’s like, so I’m willing to cut you some slack—this time. But unless you have some kind of evidence, besides the fact that we hate the woman who cost us the loss of our oldest daughter, you’d better not ever come back here.”

  Amarok rested one hand on the side of the door and leaned into it to make himself appear friendlier, more relaxed and less defensive and accusing, but he was carefully watching everyone he could see—and he knew Makita was doing the same. “Evelyn didn’t cause Sandy’s murder, Davie. She was about the only one fighting to keep Lyman Bishop behind bars. You seem to forget that.”

  “And you seem to forget that Lyman Bishop would never have been in Alaska, if not for her.”

  “Someone has to do the research. And it can’t always be someone else.” Amarok was using Evelyn’s line—one she’d used in various arguments with him—but after living with her for so long he’d become convinced that her work was important.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see if that’s any solace to you now that she’s gone.”

  He started to close the door, but Amarok stopped its forward motion. “She’s six months pregnant, Davie.”

  For the first time, he seemed to feel some empathy. “Then I’m sorry for the baby.”

  There was nothing more he could say. Amarok let the door close, after which he stood on their front porch, staring at the ground, feeling more bereft and helpless than ever before in his life. Evelyn had been missing all day, and he didn’t have the slightest clue who’d taken her or why.

  When Makita licked his hand, he started toward his truck, but before he could reach it, the door opened again and a teenage girl, their youngest daughter—a caboose born a decade after the last child—poked her head out. “Sergeant Murphy?”

  He pivoted to face her. “Yes?”

  “I don’t know if this means anything, but I saw a man I’ve never seen before in town earlier. He was driving a blue carpet-cleaning van. It had yellow writing on the side.”

  “A carpet-cleaning van? Could you make out the company name?”

  “No. That part had been painted over. It just said carpet cleaning. But he didn’t look like any kind of carpet cleaner to me.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He was sort of scary. He had this terrible scar on one eye.”

  “Where did you see him?”

  “At the Quick Stop. I wa
s at work, talking on the phone to my boyfriend, when he pulled up. After he left I mentioned that some guy had come in with a nasty scar who made me sort of nervous, and my boyfriend joked that he’d probably just been released from Hanover House.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Now that I’m a senior, I get out at noon, so I’ve been starting earlier. I hadn’t been at work long, so … around one?”

  The timing was certainly suspect. Evelyn had gone missing shortly after. “What was he wearing?”

  “Camouflage pants and a Black Sabbath T-shirt.”

  “Do you remember anything else about him? The color of his eyes, maybe?”

  “Just that scar that barely missed his eye and the fact that he was all roided out, like The Rock.”

  “Would you say he was as tall as The Rock?”

  “I don’t know how tall The Rock is, but he wasn’t short.”

  “How old?”

  “Maybe … thirty?”

  “Did he speak to Garrett? Have an accent?”

  “Didn’t say much. Just asked for a pack of Camels. From what I could tell, he didn’t have an accent.”

  “Did he mention me or Evelyn? Ask where I lived? Where Hanover House was?”

  “No.”

  Which, if this stranger was the culprit, meant he probably already knew. The question was … how? And how did he know Evelyn would be home at such an unusual time of day? That was the part that puzzled Amarok the most. He’d checked her schedule, spoken to the other doctors and staff at HH. Other than meeting him at the Moosehead, no one knew of any appointments she’d made. And she certainly wouldn’t have hired someone to clean their carpets. They had only hardwood floors. “How’d you see what he was driving?”

  “I was by the door when he got there.”

  “Did you happen to get his license plate number?”

  “No. I was too preoccupied with the sight of him, and I didn’t follow him out when he left. I was just glad to see him go.”

  “Thanks, Kaylene.”

  She gave him a shy but sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I know it wasn’t your fault—what happened to Sandy. You were against the prison coming here. I did a report on it in eighth grade and interviewed you. I’m not sure if you remember.”