Blind Spot

by Brenda Novak

  With her caught in the act of tearing apart her cot, it took her a guilty second to realize that Bishop wasn’t paying attention, anyway. She saw only a flash of his balding head as she scrambled to her feet—not very fast now that she was so pregnant—and he tossed an older woman in with her before slamming the door.

  With a mind to save them both, she ran past the woman, who was bleeding from the nose and mouth, and slammed herself up against the panel. She was hoping to catch Bishop before he locked it, maybe knock him down so she and whoever this other woman was might possibly overpower him or, short of that, get around him and try to escape.

  But it was all for nothing. She only succeeded in hurting her shoulder. He’d obviously been prepared for her reaction and secured the door immediately.

  “Damn it!” she cried in frustration.

  A moan, coming from the floor where the other woman had fallen, grabbed her attention and kept her from pounding on the door.

  “Who are you?” she asked as she bent to help her new cellmate over to the bed.

  The woman was probably in her early seventies. She had white hair and fragile, birdlike bones, and she seemed dazed.

  She blinked at Evelyn in apparent confusion. Then she put a hand to her head. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Evelyn replied. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me.”

  Her expression grew more and more horrified as she looked around. “We’re in the cooler!”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “But … why is there a bed in here? And a toilet?”

  Evelyn took her hand in an effort to soothe her. “I’ve been held captive here for I don’t know how long. Several days.”

  Her eyes widened. “By the man who hit me?”

  She was slowly piecing it all together. “If that was Lyman, the same man who just threw you in here, yes.”

  “No. It wasn’t Lyman. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name. It was … it was my renter. His name is…” Probably too shocked and befuddled to recall his name, she let her words drift off as she touched her nose and held her hand out her to examine the blood.

  “What was your renter’s name?” Evelyn gently prodded.

  “John Something,” she decided.

  An alias, no doubt. Of course Bishop would’ve picked a common name. “Let me guess … Smith?”

  She didn’t answer. “I came to see about a dog,” she explained. “And to check on a few other things. There’s a fertilizer company interested in buying the manure piled up in the coops. I could use the money, and it would help clean up the place, which I’ve been meaning to do ever since … ever since…”

  She trailed off, starting again in a different place. “But I didn’t get that far, had no chance to mention the fertilizer company before—” Her jaw dropped and she looked down at her pants. “This isn’t my blood,” she announced. “It was in the weeds. There was a whole puddle of it. As soon as I realized what I was standing in, that’s when he hit me.”

  He hit her, but he didn’t kill her. Why? Obviously, she knew too much, might’ve reported that blood, so he couldn’t let her go.

  But throwing her in with Evelyn? That was an interesting choice.

  Evelyn feared he planned to practice up on his lobotomy skills. Maybe he’d lost confidence in his ability to operate after his brain hemorrhage.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Edna Southwick.”

  Evelyn dumped water from one of her bottles on the sleeve of her own jacket so she could help Edna clean the blood from her face. “I’m Evelyn Talbot.”

  Her gaze dropped—and her eyes widened. “You’re pregnant.” She was stating the obvious, but Evelyn knew there was a lot to take in.

  “Yes.”

  “When’s the baby due?”

  “In three months, if I can hold out that long.”

  The older woman’s forehead furrowed with concern. “Aren’t you terrified? Will you be out of here in time?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  Her pale blue eyes latched on to Evelyn’s face. “What’s going to happen to us?”

  Evelyn considered telling her who Lyman Bishop was and what he’d done in the past. But Edna Southwick was hurt and scared and Evelyn didn’t see any point in making it all worse. “We’re going to do everything we can to survive and get back to the people who love us,” she replied.

  “You don’t think the odds are in our favor.”

  Had she somehow revealed what she really felt? She’d been trying so hard not to.

  Evelyn sat on the cot with her. “If it’s any comfort, your odds are probably much better than mine.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you aren’t his intended target. You just inadvertently got in the way.”

  “Target?” she echoed. “What have I stumbled into?”

  “It isn’t anything good,” Evelyn said with a sigh.

  19

  Minneapolis, MN—Monday 5:00 p.m. CST

  Amarok wasn’t going to give up. He’d flown three thousand miles to speak to Terry Lovett’s widow. As soon as she realized he was with law enforcement, she’d refused to let him in or even give him an audience, but he planned to approach her friends, neighbors and family members. If the man he was looking for was involved with Terry, they had to know each other from somewhere, and Lewis had already established that it wasn’t from work.

  Although the afternoon sun glinted off the glass, so he couldn’t actually see her, he sensed Bridget watching him from her front window as he crossed the street instead of getting into the rental car he’d parked at the curb in front of her house.

  It took a moment for him to rouse someone, but eventually an obese man, using a cane, answered his knock.

  Amarok identified himself as a police officer and took out the photo he’d brought with him. “Do you recognize this man?”

  The gentleman scratched his thick beard growth as he considered the image. “Don’t think so. I mean … he looks vaguely familiar, but the picture is so blurry…”

  “I believe he was a friend of Terry Lovett’s. Could that be where you’ve seen him? At your neighbor’s house?”

  “Naw. It’s difficult for me to get out.” He indicated his feet, which were so swollen it was a miracle he could still walk. “I pretty much keep to myself.”

  “You live alone, then?”

  “It’s just me and my mom.”

  “Where’s your mom? Is there any chance I could speak with her?”

  “Not right now. She’s still at work.”

  Amarok made a note of their address. “When will she be home?”

  “You’re coming back?” He sounded surprised.

  “If you don’t mind…” Amarok planned to return regardless, but he was trying to be polite.

  The skin hanging under the man’s chin wagged as he shook his head. “No, of course not. I don’t think she’ll be able to help you, though. It’s not like we have block parties in this crummy neighborhood. There was another officer going through here, so we heard that the neighbor’s husband was murdered. Saw it on the news, too. And we feel bad about it. But we don’t know her very well.”

  “Still, I’d like your mother to take a look at this photo. It’s my job to be thorough.”

  “Okay,” he said in a suit yourself voice.

  After he left, Amarok went up the entire street, knocking on each and every door. Not everyone was home, but he made notes to indicate which houses required a second visit. By the time he’d made it back down to Bridget’s, she was standing in her yard, glaring at him with her hands on her hips.

  “What are you doing?” she snapped as he continued past.

  “I told you. My fiancée has been kidnapped. I don’t know if she’s still alive, but even if she isn’t I’m going to track down whoever took her, and this man”—he lifted the photo he’d tried to show her before—“could be him. I’m guessing he was involved with your late husband in
some way. So until I find what I’m looking for, I’ll talk to everyone you know.”

  “That’s harassment! My husband just died. Why are you trying to make my life more difficult?”

  Her husband had been murdered. He hadn’t “just died,” and yet her statement was passive, almost innocuous, as if no one were to blame. Inserting that kind of emotional distance was something he’d always associated with deception. Wouldn’t an innocent person say, My husband’s just been killed?

  “I’m not harassing you or anyone else,” Amarok said. “Just trying to save the life of the woman who’s supposed to become my wife—and the life of our child. Evelyn’s six months pregnant.”

  Bridget flinched at his mention of the baby but lifted her chin to a defiant angle only a second after. “Another detective already came by. He asked me and everyone else about the man in that blurry picture.”

  Some of the people Amarok had talked to so far had indicated the same thing, but others seemed totally unaware of the case, which just went to prove that Lewis hadn’t been as dogged as Amarok. “If you know something, and you can save me the time and trouble of tracking down all your friends and relatives, I’d be extremely grateful.”

  With a dramatic sigh that suggested she was irritated by his persistence, she grabbed the photo and stared at it. “I’ve never seen this man before in my life,” she said, and handed it back.

  Amarok made no reply. He simply accepted the photograph, pivoted and moved on to the house beyond hers.

  “No one around here is going to recognize him!” she called out. “If he was a friend of my husband’s, I’m the only one who would know that, and I’m telling you he wasn’t.”

  “Then you won’t mind me double-checking.”

  “You’re wasting your time. That’s all. What about your fiancée? She needs you to be doing more productive things.”

  “I’ll decide what my fiancée needs from me. But thanks for the advice.”

  She started jogging to catch up with him and grabbed his arm to stop him. But when he shook her off, she threw up her hands and went back in her own house.

  After another two hours spent canvassing the neighborhood, however, Amarok was afraid she was right. No one recognized the man.

  He was standing on the corner, staring at the vehicle he’d parked in front of her house, wondering if there wasn’t something better he could be doing with his time, after all, when he got a call on the mobile phone he’d purchased from Walmart as soon as he hit town. It was Detective Lewis.

  “Who gave you this number?” he asked as soon as he answered. He hadn’t done it; he’d thought it better if Lewis didn’t know he was in town.

  “Phil did. I just tried to call you at your trooper post.”

  If Phil had provided him with a way to contact Amarok, there had to be a compelling reason. “Do you have something?”

  “I do, and I’d tell you what if I wasn’t so pissed off,” he said. “What are you doing in Minneapolis?”

  “I’m tracking down the man who kidnapped my fiancée.”

  “Nothing I’ve said or done has convinced you that I’m doing my job?”

  Lewis sounded put out, but Amarok didn’t care. The detective wasn’t as driven as Amarok was, wasn’t as desperate to bring Evelyn home, and Amarok never completely trusted anyone else to do the things that were most important to him. “Don’t be offended. I wouldn’t trust anyone. This is Evelyn we’re talking about.”

  “But you’re wasting your time doing my work when you could be in Alaska doing yours.”

  Amarok covered a yawn. His body seemed to have adjusted somewhat to “emergency” mode, and yet he couldn’t seem to quit yawning. “Phil’s got my back in Hilltop. He’ll call if anything turns up.”

  “And if that happens, you’ll be hours and hours away. You’re okay with that?”

  “I have to go where the investigation leads me. I don’t have any choice.”

  “No choice? You could trust me, couldn’t you? I’m doing my job! Maybe you’ll believe me when I tell you I’ve found a possible connection between Terry Lovett and the man in the Quick Stop video.”

  Amarok gripped his phone that much tighter. “What is it?”

  “You mentioned the guy who came to town was likely an ex-con, right?”

  “That’s what the tattoo on his hand signifies.”

  “I agree. Well, Terry Lovett also served time—eight years to be exact.”

  “Where?”

  “Faribault—the biggest state prison in Minnesota. I’m heading there now to talk to the warden and other staff. If he was incarcerated there, and it was for any length of time, someone will remember him.”

  “How long will that take you?”

  “It’s an hour’s drive. Depending on what I find, how many people I have to talk to, it could take most of the day.”

  Amarok had just opened his mouth to respond when he saw a blue Ford Focus stop in front of Terry Lovett’s house. A young girl, about ten years old, climbed out. She was saying good-bye to the people still in the vehicle when Amarok told Lewis he’d call him back and hurried over.

  “Hi there.” He smiled at the woman behind the wheel as he flashed his badge. “I’m Sergeant Benjamin Murphy—”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?” she interrupted.

  “No, of course not.” He shifted so that the girl, who was watching him curiously, remained between him and the vehicle. “I’m working with Detective Lewis with the Minneapolis Police Department on an important case involving this man.” He showed the woman the photograph. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen him.…”

  “No. I’ve never seen him before,” she replied. “But I don’t live in this neighborhood.” She gestured at the girl who stood only a foot or so away from him. “Maybe Estelle will recognize him. I just picked her up after soccer practice. She lives here. Her mother and I carpool.”

  “Can I look?” Estelle asked.

  He handed her the photo. “You bet.”

  She pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose, but she didn’t have to study the photograph for any length of time. Her face brightened immediately. “I thought I recognized him. That’s my uncle Emmett,” she said proudly.

  Amarok’s heart began to race. “Your father’s brother?”

  “No, my mother’s.”

  She’d barely gotten the words out when a shrill voice cried, “Estelle! Get in this house! Right now!”

  They both turned to see Bridget Lovett standing on the stoop.

  “I have to go,” Estelle mumbled. Obviously frightened by her mother’s reaction, she grabbed her backpack and hurried to do what she’d been told.

  “Get off my property,” Bridget said to Amarok, stabbing her pointing finger at the street. “She’s a kid. I could sue you and the whole Minneapolis PD for talking to her without my permission.”

  “You go right ahead and do that,” he said.

  He wasn’t worried. He now knew why Bridget had refused to cooperate: she was protecting her brother.

  Anchorage—Monday, 5:30 p.m. AKDT

  Lyman Bishop frowned at the laptop Emmett had left behind. Old and battered, with gym stickers all over the lid, it wasn’t much to look at, but Emmett had brought it to Alaska so that he’d be able to watch movies on Netflix while he waited for Lyman. Emmett’s life had been that simple. He couldn’t go without entertainment for three or four days.

  Nothing was simple for Lyman. It never had been but especially not now. After being unable to get out of bed for the past twenty-four hours, thanks to the physical exertion of escaping from Beacon Point, he’d finally fed his two captives (for the first time today, but he didn’t think they deserved better treatment; he was very unhappy with them) and bellied up to the small breakfast bar in the staff room. He’d been so busy since he’d become a free man, taking care of one situation only to move on to the next, he hadn’t had a chance to even think about what he’d left behind in Minnesota. After tossing hi
s landlady in with Evelyn last night, he’d dragged himself over to the couch, where he’d curled into a ball to be able to endure the pain throbbing through his legs. Every muscle was protesting. But he was feeling a bit better, and he needed to know what was going on, what might be coming up from behind.

  As soon as he entered Terry’s name into Google, he learned that the police had ordered an autopsy on Terry’s body and determined his death wasn’t a suicide. That was unfortunate. He’d been hoping for a bit of luck, but he’d never been one to catch a break. And the more he dug, the worse the picture became. The authorities also knew he’d escaped from Beacon Point and were looking for him.

  He shook his head. Now everything was messed up.

  Lyman wished he had the energy to pace. There was so much anger pouring through him. He needed an outlet. But he wasn’t about to stand up. He hadn’t bounced back completely, was still having trouble controlling his left side. A second ago, he’d caught himself drooling like a baby—and groaned to think how he’d feel if Evelyn ever witnessed that. As if he didn’t have enough going against him with the loss of his hair. He didn’t want to look totally unappealing to her. He knew he’d enjoy having sex with her much more if he could verify she found him at least slightly attractive. Not to mention, at some point he’d need others to believe she was with him voluntarily.

  Of course, her beauty would fade quickly enough. After the operation, Beth’s looks had gone downhill almost right away. There was something about that loss of vitality and intelligence; it took a physical toll, too.

  He scratched his head. What was he thinking? He couldn’t worry about stuff like that right now. He had too many other things to deal with.

  “How do I counteract it all?” he muttered, over and over again as he glared at the computer screen and the last article he’d pulled up. Edna Southwick had said three of her four children lived in the Lower 48, which was good. Being so far away, they were less likely to notice she was missing right away.

  But the fourth child …

  The fourth child could be a problem. It’d already been twenty-four hours.