The Blind

by Shelley Coriell

  “And being the doting older brother, you said yes?”

  “Being the doting older brother, I said, No.” His lips curved in a humorless smile. “Technically, I said, Hell no. The road to the river was covered in ice. It was too dangerous, especially in my old, beat-up pickup truck with shoddy tires. So I took her up Welton’s Hill, one of the highest spots in town where she could see the river below. For an hour I ate ice cream while she sketched fire on ice. She looked so happy and content, I wish we could have stayed there for hours. But the wind picked up and we had to pack up. We got back in the truck and started down the hill. On the first turn the tires lost traction, and we skidded toward the shoulder. Those few hours of sun followed by the cold wind had turned the road into a solid sheet of ice.

  “I corrected, but we slid farther and faster. I had no control.” The memory still had the power to ice his veins. “We careened off the road and plunged into the river. Water and debris rushed below the icy surface, pounding the truck. I yanked on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. I got the window down and climbed out, expecting Abby to follow, but she couldn’t move. It was like she was frozen. I grabbed her and got us both out of the truck.

  “The cold, it was shocking. And the sounds.” Echoes of the past pounded his ears. “The water was a freight train. Sheets of ice moaned and cracked. My hands got so cold, so quick, I lost hold of Abby. The current pulled her to the back of the truck, where she was able to grab the tailgate. I went after her. It was surreal. Her hair swirling about her, her hand reaching out to mine, her mouth frozen in a scream I couldn’t hear.”

  Evie slipped her hand into his. Warm. Soft.

  “I caught her hand. The current pulled, but I hung on. At that point, someone from the surface grabbed my legs and yanked. Abby slipped out of my fingers. I kicked the hell out of whoever was pulling me and lunged for my sister and caught this.” His fingers curled around the sun pendant. “And I never let go. Even when Abby stopped kicking, even when those last few bubbles of air trickled out, and even when I saw the light go out from her eyes, I never let go.”

  When he was working the final hours of a deal, when he was bone tired and had given everything he thought he had to give, he always managed to find a place with more. More insight, more energy, more will. He sought that place now. “Now there were two people at the surface pulling on my legs. The chain snapped. I tried to go after Abby, but the rescuers pulled me back. I watched as she floated away, limp and lifeless.” He brought the fisted pendant to his lips. “And I never let go.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jack, so, so sorry.”A long, thready breath rushed from Evie’s mouth.

  “Me too.” Jack set the sun on the dash. Even without the metal touching his palm, he felt the heat. That sun, that moment, had been branded into his flesh. “By the time the rescuers got me out, police and search crews were at the scene. They wouldn’t let me go back in for Abby’s body, not that I could have done much. Hypothermia had set in. I was dropping in and out of consciousness, but I had to give them credit. For hours police, firefighters, friends, neighbors, and strangers searched for Abby. They sent divers into the screaming waters. They walked up and down the shore and checked every crevice and soft spot that had formed in the ice, searching for her body. Even when darkness came, they searched. Her body was never found, and she was presumed dead. In my mind, there was no presumption. I saw the light go out of her eyes. She was dead.”

  The pronouncement brought him no peace. “Four days later we had a funeral and said our good-byes. Our mom took comfort that Abby was in a place with more light.” The muscles along his throat constricted, cutting off words and breath.

  “But there was no comfort for you.” Evie’s hand cupped his knee, the pressure firm and steady.

  “Abby hated the cold. I wanted to find her body, to get her out of the cold.” He shook his head. “When I made my first million, do you know how I celebrated? No cake. I hired a recovery crew to look for her body. For two weeks they searched the river and the reservoir but found nothing. Twice since then I’ve had the best search-and-rescue teams using the newest and most sophisticated equipment to locate my sister’s remains, and two more times they came up empty.”

  Evie shook her head in commiseration. “Unknowns are a bitch.”

  “Yeah, so when I saw the photo of the earring in the wreckage from the second bombing, I was drawn to it, couldn’t stop thinking about it. The rational businessman in me knew the earring the victim wore had nothing to do with Abby. It was unique, a custom piece of jewelry, but the artist could have made dozens, maybe hundreds of pieces using that sun.”

  “But the big brother…” Evie prompted.

  “…couldn’t let go. If that was Abby’s earring—and it would be the longest of all long shots—then I had to assume someone found it. Which meant someone found her body or the place where her body may be. Really, that’s all I ever wanted, to find her body and get her out of the cold. That’s when I called you in.”

  “To help you put your sister to rest.”

  “But then as I was going through the photos from the third bombing, I spotted a piece of wreckage, a piece of the woman’s robe that had the same curve and angle as one of the sun’s rays. And you understand that, right? It was only a half-inch curve, but it was enough to make me wonder why a sun my sister treasured was popping up in artwork created by a mad bomber.”

  For the first time since they arrived at the ocean lookout, Evie’s eyes lost some of their softness. “Why didn’t you mention the sun to anyone?”

  “Because when I first discovered the connection, it wasn’t a judicious use of limited resources. The aim is to find the bomber and stop the murder of a woman and child and who knows how many others, not look for the remains of a girl who had a pair of silver sun earrings that matched one of the victim’s. And that was a major factor, Evie, the earrings could have simply been the ones the victim was wearing when she was abducted. There was no tie to the bomber.”

  “Until now.” Evie jammed her seat belt in place and started the car. “Not only does he use a sun motif important to your sister, he painted her. This bomber is linked to your sister.”

  Jack’s hand curved around the sun Abby wore so close to her heart. “I know.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Saturday, October 31

  9:35 a.m.

  At five-foot-two, Evie was closer to the ground than most people, which meant she could get a better look at their feet, and this morning, her world revolved around feet.

  Captain Ricci stood at a podium set up on the scarred earth of the Central Branch of the L.A. Public Library. At his elbow was a six-foot blowup of Carter Vandemere’s signature.

  “Anyone who has seen or purchased artwork by an individual using this name should contact the Angel Bomber hotline,” Ricci was saying to the group of fifty-plus journalists gathered in the courtyard. “This individual may also go by the initial V and use the same angled slant to the letter.”

  Behind Ricci stood Jack along with representatives of each of the law enforcement agencies working the case. Cho was representing the FBI, a good call because Evie needed to be on the streets looking at feet.

  The man who’d taken a shot at her and Jack was still on the loose. If he had anything to do with the bombings, it was possible he showed up at the press conference to watch the chaos he was creating. Bombers weren’t overly social, so she was looking for a man set off from the crowd. She strolled past the library’s fountain area where mothers sat with baby strollers.

  She rammed a wayward lock of hair out of her face. Hell, he could even be here looking for his next victims, a brown-haired woman and a blond infant. She wound through Saturday-morning joggers, checked out the bus stop, and poked her head into a sandwich shop.

  When she reached a coffee shop, she jammed her hands on her hips. “Dammit, Freddy, stop following me.”

  “Man, you’re good,” a voice from behind her quipped. “You got eyes in the back of your h
ead?”

  She turned and aimed an arched eyebrow at the tabloid journalist who’d been on her tail all morning. “I smelled you.” She fanned away his sickly sweet breath. “What is that?”

  “Wacky Watermelon.” He slicked a wad of neon green gum over his tongue and blew a bubble that looked like nuclear waste. “It’s supposed to keep my mouth occupied so I give up the cigs. Doc says I’m a few sticks away from stroking out.”

  “Unless the toxic gum kills you first.”

  Freddy leaned in and said under his breath, “You’re looking for him, aren’t you? You’re thinking he may be here getting a boner over all this attention.”

  She pushed him away. “Shouldn’t you be out shooting cheating celebrities or strung-out rock stars?”

  “I belong right here at your side, and you know it.” He nudged his shoulder against hers and waggled his eyebrows. “Ask me; I know you want to.”

  Freddy was smarter than he looked. “Okay, Freddy. Does anyone in this crowd look like anyone in the crowd outside the library when Lisa Franco was killed?”

  He stopped blowing bubbles. “No, and I’ve been looking.” He dug into his man purse and took out a small photo album. “Here are some shots of the crowd from the third bombing. I isolated the onlookers who fit your profile, blew them up, and cleaned up their features.”

  As she flipped through the photos, she had to give kudos to Freddy. Ricci had an LAPD uniform shooting the crowd for facial recognition and comparison, but Freddy’s doctored shots could be useful. “Good move. Can I keep these?”

  Freddy put his hand on his heart. “For you, mi corazón, anything.”

  She jabbed the album into her bag and took off, the photographer keeping pace alongside her. In little doses, he wasn’t that bad. While she searched for big feet, Freddy snapped photos. On her second loop around the fountain, Jack finally took to the podium.

  “I’m Jack Elliott, and I live and work downtown,” Jack started. Every eye, every ear in the plaza turned to him. “An evil has invaded my neighborhood, destroying lives and property and peace of mind. People are afraid to shop and dine and meet with friends. Small businesses are feeling the fallout from the bomb. I’m encouraging all of my neighbors, employees, and colleagues to work with Captain Ricci’s team. Be watchful and report any suspicious characters and activities. Residents have set up…”

  Authoritative. Earnest. Compelling. And from the heart. Because Jack’s heart was very much involved. His private art collection was being used as the basis for the bombings, and his sister, at the time of her death, had been wearing custom jewelry that ended up in the bomber’s portfolio.

  Freddy pointed to the dais where her colleague, Steve Cho, now stood and was saying, “In each previous bombing, the improvised explosive device has been encased in a fanny pack with the ignition fully visible.”

  “Why aren’t you up there, Lady Feeb?” Freddy asked.

  “I don’t have the right temperament.”

  Freddy waggled his eyebrows. “You hit someone once, didn’t you?”

  “Not during a press conference.”

  “After?” A grin, more impish than smarmy, slipped onto his lips.

  “I’m not the kind of girl to hit and tell.”

  Freddy laughed, then cradled his lip with his hand. The swelling had gone down, but the skin was blackish purple.

  “How’s your lip?” Evie asked.

  “Still attached to my mouth.”

  At the dais, Ricci took over at the podium. “And now we’ll take questions.”

  A reporter with a handheld recorder hopped to his feet. “Do you have any indication when and where he’ll strike next?”

  The press conference had been carefully scripted up to this point, each participant playing a role in disseminating specific information. Ricci would tread carefully here. He couldn’t tip off too much to the bomber. At this point they were holding back the connection to the Beauty Through the Ages collection. “We don’t know when, but we’re assuming it will be sometime next week and that he will continue to work the downtown area.”

  “What are you doing to safeguard area residents?”

  The questions and answers flew, and Evie shifted from shoes to heads. She scanned the area for faces. No one with barely contained glee. No one with a smug smirk of superiority. No one with a marked emotional release. She checked her watch. And no more time. In four minutes she and Jack would head to LAX. While most of the team would be working the streets of downtown L.A., she and Jack would be flying to southwestern Pennsylvania.

  “Listen, Freddy, I’m heading out of town for the day. Let me know if you get any matches on the faces. And there’s one more thing.” She dug into her purse and took out a wad of bills and counted. “Here’s two hundred fifty-six dollars and”—she reached into the front pocket of her jeans—“twenty-six cents.”

  Freddy waved off the money. “Don’t even try and back out on our deal, Lady Feeb. You promised me an exclusive once we find Bomber Boy.”

  “We’re still on. Consider this a tip for service above and beyond.” She patted her bag where the photo album was stashed. “I want you to find a fast horse and play one on me. If you win, pay Skip that next installment.”

  “You’re fuckin’ serious?”

  “I need you in one piece, Freddy.” A guy who had all those pictures of his nieces on his dresser couldn’t be that bad. “Anyway, I had someone in my life who took a chance on me when no one else would.” She smoothed the wild hair over her right ear.

  He wiggled his fingers in front of his chest. “Ooooo, I sense a juicy story.”

  “It is.” She took his hand, opened his fingers, slapped the money on his palm, and took off to get Jack.

  * * *

  9:41 a.m.

  The bitter, black brew scalded Carter Vandemere’s throat. Just the way he liked it.

  “Want me to top that off?” The woman behind the counter held up a coffeepot.

  “I’m good,” he said. He was beyond good. He was notoriously good. A giggle jiggled the seared flesh of his throat.

  On the television in the corner of The Bean Thing where he’d spent a beautiful Saturday morning watching the sun, people were lining up to talk about him. This. This was what he wanted, dreamed of for the past decade. People seeing his art, acknowledging his masterful work. His art, while certainly not traditional, made people feel, and good art—no, great art—did just that. The stronger the emotion, the more powerful the art. The more powerful the art, the more masterful the artist. For the past three months he’d incited shock, horror, and bone-chilling fear. But until now, he hadn’t received the adulation he deserved.

  He credited the little FBI agent, the one with the red boots and eyes the color of steamy espresso. When she exploded onto the scene, things changed; most important, things with Jack Elliott changed.

  He took another long, blistering swig. The big-shot businessman and art collector had ignored him. Stupid, stupid man. Hot brown liquid sloshed over the rim and splashed onto his hand, leaving a brilliant scarlet streak. Another beautiful shade of red. But now, he finally had Jack Elliott’s attention, and he couldn’t wait until Jack saw his latest installation, the one he’d personally set up and displayed in Jack’s desk drawer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday, October 31

  5:11 p.m.

  Rumble. Craaaaack.

  Lightning spidered the sky as Jack straightened his tie tack, then held open the door to the art boutique.

  Always the gentleman. Always in control. But Evie knew better. On the flight from L.A. to southwestern Pennsylvania, Jack had been in business mode, taking comfort in what was familiar and known, business. With Evie, he’d determined goals, identified strategies, made an action plan, and prepared to execute. He’d been singularly focused on the investigation to identify how the Angel Bomber was connected to his dead sister, Abby.

  As for what was simmering under his purposeful work, Evie had seen the whitening o
f his knuckles when they touched down and a flash of sadness in his eyes when they walked out the jet’s door and into the cold, gray windy day. He was visiting his hometown for the first time in fifteen years, the place where his sister had died after slipping through his fingers.

  Squeezing Jack’s hand, she walked into the boutique in search of a killer. The shop smelled of pine and candle wax and was filled with artisan batik quilts, grainy wooden bowls, handblown glass, and jewelry.

  A white-haired woman waved from behind a counter where she was ringing up a set of large glass goblets. “Be with you in a minute, dears.”

  Jack took Evie by the elbow. “Custom jewelry is over here,” he said.

  The muscles along the back of her arm tensed, but she didn’t pull away. Nor did she jab him in the gut, a not-so-gentle reminder that she didn’t like being led around. Jack had taken some hard blows lately, but unlike Freddy, he didn’t sport a fat lip. Jack had been slammed in the gut.

  The bomber clearly knew Abby. He’d painted her portrait and in all of his artwork had used the sun motif that was so important to her. He could have been one of Abby’s friends, the bagger at the grocery store where Abby bought vanilla ice cream, the kid in the back row of art class, or the artist who created the sun jewelry.

  “Does anything look familiar?” Evie asked.

  Jack studied the tiny boxes of rings and pendants and earrings. “Nothing stands out.” His jaw squared and tightened. She could see the frustration welling. Jack wasn’t used to dealing with unknowns.

  “Good afternoon, kids.” The woman with the white hair slipped behind the jewelry counter. “Looking for wedding rings today?”

  “Wedding?” Evie could barely get the word out. Jack looked equally aghast.

  He was the first to recover. “No rings today. We’re not looking for a specific piece but a particular artist, someone who works in silver and makes items like this.” He held out the silver pendant from his key ring.