Blind Sight

by Terri Persons

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  That was a workout,” said Bernadette as she and Garcia trudged to the truck. She checked her watch. It was ten in the morning. They’d spent fourteen hours in the hospital and she’d been without sleep for twenty-four. She’d also consumed about a gallon of coffee. She was both exhausted and wired.

  “No solid suspects beyond the witch,” said Garcia, squinting into the falling snow.

  Seth’s deputies had taken off at dawn, but the Minneapolis agents were staying behind to do some mop-up at the hospital. The ERT guys hadn’t yet showed at the facility—they were still at the tented crime scene—and the Ramsey County Medical Examiner’s wagon, though on the road, was an hour away. B.K. had been assigned to stay planted outside the storage room/morgue. “Maybe he should be relieved,” said Bernadette as they came up to the truck. “Poor kid was standing in that hallway all night.”

  Garcia fished his keys out of his pocket. “What is it with you and Cahill?”

  “It’s just that he’s so … I don’t know … green.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  Bernadette yanked open the front passenger door and climbed in. Their next stop was the Ashe place. “Delores said we should call ahead because of the dogs.”

  “Like we’re gonna give them some warning.”

  “I know. Just thought I’d point it out. Dogs and guns. Guns and dogs. Be ready.”

  “Imagine everyone up here has at least a shotgun,” said Garcia, getting behind the wheel and starting up the Titan. “As far as dogs go, I like dogs.”

  Their breath filled the interior of the cab, and Bernadette clapped her gloved hands together. “The inside of this thing is colder than it is outside.”

  Garcia cranked the cab’s heat on maximum. “It’s got a great heater. We’ll be toasty in no time.” He reached behind his seat to grab an ice scraper and hopped out with it.

  Watching Garcia’s face through the windshield while he shaved the ice off the windows, Bernadette remembered Martini’s comment. When he got back inside the truck, she passed it on.

  “Erik Estrada?” Garcia navigated the truck out of the parking lot and headed for Paul Bunyan State Forest. “I wish.”

  While Garcia steered, Bernadette tried to navigate using the map Delores had scratched out for her. They were heading north on Minnesota 64, the highway that sliced vertically through the south section of the forest. As soon as they turned off the highway, they got into trouble.

  “Maybe you’re holding it upside down,” offered Garcia as they reached the end of what appeared to be an old logging trail. The narrow, snow-clogged path came to a dead stop at a thick stand of trees. No houses or other vehicles were anywhere in sight.

  Bernadette flipped the slip of paper, frowned, and flipped it back. “Have you got a map?”

  “Look around.”

  She reached under her seat and pulled out an ice scraper, a flashlight, a stocking cap, and a first-aid kit. The only thing inside the glove box was the Titan’s manual, another flashlight, and a bag of licorice, the red sticks as hard as icicles. With raised brows, she held up the sack of candy.

  “Emergency Twizzlers.” He took his arm off the square rest that sat between them on the bench. “Check in here.”

  Bernadette lifted the lid. Loose change, sunglasses, a box of Kleenex, and candy. She plucked out a Baby Ruth, peeled off the wrapper, and gnawed on the frozen candy bar.

  He surveyed the woods around them. “Where in the hell are we?”

  “Let’s get back on the main road,” she suggested.

  Garcia tried to turn the truck around, but there wasn’t enough room. He threw an arm over the top of the seat, looked behind him, and started backing up. “If we get stuck, I’m going to be pissed.”

  Bernadette looked through the windshield at the morning sky. The temperature was in the single digits, and snow was still falling. “Should have brought a GPS.”

  Garcia got them back on 64. “For sure it’s on the east side of the highway?”

  “According to Delores,” said Bernadette, peering through her window. “She said the road is visible from the highway but not the house.”

  After two more wrong turns, they finally hung a right onto a road that looked as if it was meant for more than logging trucks. It was a little wider, and had been visited by a plow.

  “This looks promising,” said Garcia.

  Bernadette studied Martini’s scribbles. “There should be a sharp right pretty quick here.”

  They took the first right that came up, and immediately realized that it was another logging road. Garcia put the truck in reverse and backed out. “I’m getting pretty good at this.”

  The next right led them down a road that seemed better cleared than the highway. “This has gotta be their place,” Bernadette said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The boyfriend drives a plow.”

  The snow was getting heavier, and Garcia activated the truck’s windshield wipers. “Gonna be a busy boy today.”

  “A postal box and an address marker,” said Bernadette, pointing.

  “Since deer don’t receive mail, that’s a good sign,” said Garcia.

  The trees on either side of the road started thinning and then stopped altogether as they came to a clearing. Garcia braked so they could scope out the scene.

  At the far end was a rambler with an attached two-car garage, and next to the garage was a barn. There was a plowed driveway in front of the garage and another in front of the barn’s double doors, but no vehicles were parked in either of them. A collection of snow-covered heaps littered the yard, however: Rusty station wagon with fake wood paneling on the sides. Turquoise Volkswagen Beetle. Camper top resting on a set of blocks. Purple conversion van with plastic taped over the missing back windows. Cherry-red convertible, its cloth top in shreds and its interior filled with snow. A half-dozen ancient snowmobiles.

  “The boyfriend must like to work on engines,” said Bernadette.

  “Let’s see if anyone is minding witch headquarters,” said Garcia, taking his foot off the brake and rolling toward the house.

  Bernadette pointed to a massive woodpile alongside the barn. Another mountain was stacked against the side of the house. “I’ll bet all that wood is for her kiln.”

  The road branched off, the right leading to the barn and the left to the house. Garcia took the left fork, pulling up to the garage. One of the garage doors had a plastic road sign nailed to it. Against the yellow background was the black silhouette of a witch on a broom, and the words SAVE A BROOM. RIDE A WITCH. On the other garage door was another road sign declaring, PROUD TO BE A PAGAN. Beneath the words was an upright five-pointed star with a circle around it.

  “I remember that lawsuit over dead Wiccan vets not being allowed to have those symbols on their government-issued markers,” said Bernadette.

  “The one on the girl was inverted, though.”

  “That makes it satanic, not Wiccan.”

  “Doesn’t exclude the witch from our short list,” said Garcia.

  “I agree,” said Bernadette. “If Ashe doesn’t have something to do with the murder and the star, she has to know someone who does. There’s gotta be a connection.”

  “If nothing else, someone wanted us to land on her doorstep.”

  “Let’s do this.”

  Both opened their doors and hopped out. With one hand still on the open passenger door, Bernadette caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She glanced toward the area between the garage and the barn. Bounding out from behind the barn’s woodpile were two thick-necked pit bulls.

  “Tony! Dogs!” She jumped back into the cab and shut the door. The snarling animals hurled themselves against her side of the truck with such ferocity that the Titan rocked.

  Garcia dived inside and slammed his door. “Jesus Christ!”

  Two more pit bulls dashed out from between the garage and the barn, one of them running to Bernadette’s door and the other ci
rcling around to Garcia’s side. The agents had to yell in order to hear each other above the barking.

  “Crap!” hollered Bernadette. “I was expecting hunting dogs!”

  The pit bull on Garcia’s side jumped so high, its front paws hit the middle of the window. “Hunting dogs, my ass!”

  Wondering if someone would hear the racket and come out, Bernadette scanned the front of the house. “The windows are covered with black paper!”

  “Pit bulls and blacked-out windows! You think there’s something naughty going on inside?”

  Two more dogs came running toward the truck to join in the frenzy. Bernadette instinctively looked up at the truck’s ceiling for a shotgun and realized that it hadn’t been fitted with a gun rack. “How many of these monsters do they have?”

  Garcia took out his Glock and put his hand on the door. “I’ve had enough of this!”

  The dogs on the passenger side were standing on their back paws and clawing madly with their front, as if trying to dig a hole through the metal. “God almighty!”

  The instant Garcia opened his door a crack, one of the dogs shoved its head into the opening. As Garcia kicked at the snarling animal with his boot, the dog latched on to the heel. “Shit!” Garcia yelled, and aimed his weapon.

  “Don’t! You’ll blow your foot off!”

  “Fuck!” Garcia wiggled his foot out of the boot.

  Bernadette threw herself across Garcia’s lap, grabbed the door handle, and slammed the door against the animal’s head. The pit bull fell away from the truck, the boot still clamped between its teeth. As Garcia and Bernadette both wrestled the door closed, two other dogs hurled themselves against the driver’s side of the Nissan.

  Panting, Bernadette collapsed against her seat. “Are you okay? Did he bite you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Glancing through the window, she saw that the dog with the boot was shaking its head furiously. “I don’t think your boot is going to make it.”

  “Funny,” said Garcia, looking through Bernadette’s window.

  Bernadette ran a hand through her damp hair. She had worked up a sweat. “Let’s get out of here and come back with animal control.”

  Garcia adjusted his grip on the gun and put his left hand on the controls for the driver’s window. “Fuck animal control!”

  Bernadette watched as Garcia rolled his window down an inch. “What are you going to do?”

  Garcia poked the muzzle of his Glock through the gap. “Empty my gun!”

  As if they knew Garcia’s intent, a trio of barking dogs attacked the driver’s window, their paws clawing at the glass and nearly reaching the gap.

  “Tony you can’t!”

  “Watch me.” Garcia angled the barrel down toward the pack of pit bulls. “Eat this, assholes!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tony, wait. Someone is coming,” said Bernadette, nodding toward the barn.

  A slender woman wearing tinted John Lennon eyeglasses and Bo Derek braids marched toward the truck. She was dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and a down vest. Her jeans were tucked into lace-up black leather boots that reached her knees. She was wiping her hands on a work apron that was tied around her waist.

  With a grumble, Garcia pulled his gun out of the window and rolled it back up. “Lucky dogs.”

  Instead of calling off the pit bulls, the woman stood behind them peering into the trucks cab. “Who are you?” she yelled to Bernadette’s side.

  Bernadette slapped her identification wallet against the window. “FBI!”

  The woman grabbed one of the dogs by the collar, pulled him off Bernadette’s door, and stepped closer to get a better look at the ID. As she studied the badge, she took off her glasses.

  Through the window, Bernadette could see that the woman had multiple piercings: A nostril. Both eyebrows. Her chin just below her bottom lip. All the way up her ears. A tattoo snaked across her throat. It was a serpent swallowing its own head, the symbol of infinity or cyclicality. “Are you Jordan Ashe?” Bernadette yelled above the barking.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “We need to talk to you!” Bernadette hollered. “Put the dogs away!”

  The woman didn’t budge.

  Garcia leaned across Bernadette’s lap and shouted through the glass. “Lock up your animals!”

  Her eyes darted from Garcia’s angry face to the gun in his hand. She grabbed two of the dogs by the collar and started dragging them toward the barn. The others followed, tails wagging as if this were all part of a game. The woman wasn’t big, but she was strong enough to handle the pit bulls with authority. When one of the dogs tried to bolt, she grabbed it by the collar and whipped it into the barn.

  “I’ll bet she’s split her share of logs,” said Bernadette.

  Garcia watched as the woman slid the barn door closed. “I don’t like this one damn bit.”

  They both scanned the yard to make sure there were no more loose dogs around, and then popped open their doors. When Bernadette hopped out of the truck, she landed on Garcia’s mangled boot. Riddled with teeth marks and covered in drool, it resembled a hunk of chewed-up beef gristle. She picked it up with two fingers and took it over to him. “Can you identify the remains, sir?”

  He took it from her, dropped it on the ground, and stepped into it. “Should have shot the motherfuckers. Every last one of them.”

  “I thought you liked dogs.”

  “Not those dogs.”

  “Maybe we need to get some backup,” said Bernadette, her eyes focused on the black windows as they walked toward the house.

  They both stood at the bottom of the front stoop, waiting for the woman to let them inside. She seemed in no hurry as she made her way from the barn toward the house.

  “Before we call in the troops, let’s uncover the nature of this particular illegal enterprise,” Garcia said under his breath.

  “Pit-bull rescue?” Bernadette sputtered.

  “They should be put down,” Garcia grumbled.

  “Don’t start that with me,” Ashe warned.

  Bernadette pointed to the windows. “And what is all the black paper about?”

  “I do psychic readings and healing touch, and I need it dark for both.”

  They were all three standing in the middle of a small front room, its walls painted a nameless shade that could be achieved only by mixing leftover cans. The wood floor was covered by an area rug, its muddy color one that could be achieved only by a failure to vacuum. Under the blacked-out windows was a black leather couch with a coffee table in front of it. Against the opposite wall was a brick fireplace, a blaze popping behind a screen. Against the same wall, to the right of the hearth, was a doorway leading to a hall and the bedrooms. The house smelled of dogs and cigarette smoke. Beneath those was another aroma. Reefer? No, something else, thought Bernadette. Maybe it was pine. There was a tree, and ornament boxes on the floor around it. Someone was in the midst of taking down the decorations.

  To the left of the fireplace, tucked into a corner, was a round table covered with a black cloth. Two metal folding chairs were parked across from each other, and between them, in the center of the table, was a set of tarot cards. Bernadette went over to the deck, picked it up, and shuffled through it. The colorful images—apparently taken from paintings—were soft and beautiful. “I’ve seen these before,” she said, stopping at a card called the Ace of Pentacles. It depicted a nude woman reaching up toward a five-pointed star. “Witches Tarot, right?”

  “I’m impressed,” Ashe said dryly, and then looked at Garcia. “I need to smoke. Can I reach for my smokes without getting shot?”

  “Go ahead,” said Garcia, keeping his eyes trained on her hands.

  The woman unzipped her down vest. “Appreciate it, especially since it’s my house and all.”

  “Where’s Karl Vizner?” asked Bernadette, setting down the cards.

  Ashe took a pack of Camels and a li
ghter from the front pocket of her flannel shirt. As she lit up, her attention shifted from Bernadette’s blue left eye to her brown right one. “I’m not answering any questions until you tell me what this is about.”

  “Where’s Vizner?” repeated Garcia.

  “Plowing.” Ashe took a deep drag and exhaled in Garcia’s direction. “Is this about that dead kid they found in Paul Bunyan? I heard the FBI was coming to town. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

  “You folks live close to the scene,” said Garcia, his hands in his jacket pockets.

  Obviously remembering that Garcia had a gun, Ashe looked nervously at his right arm. “So?”

  “So did you see anything suspicious on New Year’s Eve?”

  Instead of answering, the woman took another pull on her cigarette.

  Spotting a sagging bookcase, Bernadette went over to it and surveyed the contents. A Shakespeare anthology and a collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald paperbacks shared space with a fat volume on the Wicca religion. An entire shelf was jammed with books on alternative and holistic medicine. She lifted the lid off a clay jar, picked it up, and took a whiff of what was inside. “Nice pot. What’s inside of it?”

  “Sage,” Ashe said as she exhaled a cloud. “I use it for cleansing.”

  Next to the pot was a trio of figurines. They could have been garden gnomes, except they were a fraction of the size, fitting in the palm of a hand. Bernadette picked one up. “Cute.”

  “Wizards,” Ashe said through a gray haze. “I’ve got those three and two out in the barn. My unholy quints. I’m not sure they’re going to sell. People might find them too … what’s the word?”

  “Mystical?” asked Bernadette, setting it down.

  “Ugly,” Ashe said.

  Garcia was getting impatient with the small talk. “We need you to answer some questions.”

  “I need a cup of tea first,” Ashe said, and started for the kitchen.

  “Sounds good.” Bernadette was right behind her, and stood in the doorway.

  Ashe turned the burner on under a teakettle, opened a cupboard, and took down a box of tea. “Want a cup?”