They had indeed had contact with their daughter after she left home. More information left out by the Duntons, thought Bernadette. “So Lydia’s mother didn’t ask her to come back or ask her where—”
“Old bitch didn’t do nothing but tell Lyd she was stupid for going to Wisconsin.” He wiped his nose with his shirtsleeve. “Lyd said after talking to her mother she felt like a fugitive.”
Bernadette wondered if the boy was getting his words mixed up. “You sure she said fugitive?”
“Something like that. Maybe it was refugee, like that Tom Petty song.” Under his breath, he sang a few words. “Yeah. Could have been refugee.”
This boy was not smart enough to carry out a murder, thought Bernadette. She was surprised that he could successfully execute a trip to the liquor store. “When did she call again?”
He looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “Four days before Christmas. We talked about that, how it was four days away.”
“Where did she call from then?”
“She was back in Minnesota.”
“Why did she call?”
He smiled. “To tell me the baby had just kicked her a good one.”
“What else did she say?” asked Bernadette. “Did she say where she was or who she was with?”
“She said she was up north, looking for somebody.”
“Who? Who was she looking for?”
“Don’t you remember, lady? It’s none of my motherfucking business.”
“Davy,” Hague said sternly.
“She didn’t say, okay? She wouldn’t tell me. All she said was shewas looking for someone, and she felt like a fugitive. A refugee.
Whatever.”
“David, is there anything else she said? A name or—”
“Did somebody really cut her open and take my baby and killit?” The boy’s eyes started to well up. “Did that really happen, lady?
Is my little baby dead?”
Bernadette hesitated. “Afraid it’s true. I’m sorry.”
“You know who did it?” he yelled through his tears. “That oldbitch mother of hers, that’s who! She didn’t want that baby around! She did her own fucking abortion on Lyd!”
Another hour of questioning didn’t get much more from David Strandelunder. Bernadette would have his cell records checked, but she believed him when he said Lydia had called only twice. Getting phone records out of the Duntons would be another matter. It would require some diplomacy. Up Garcia’s alley, not hers. Why had they lied or omitted information? Embarrassment? Michelle Dunton’s behavior wasn’t going to earn her the Mother of the Year award.
Bernadette had the police pick up Strandelunder for burglarizing the Duntons. Until the case was cleared, she wanted someone sitting on him. She might have more questions for him later. Bernadette and Hague stood watching on the sidewalk while Strandelunder was loaded into a squad, his eyes red from bawling over his lost infant.
“Better call that loser sister of mine,” said the uncle, heading back to the foundry.
Bernadette vowed to herself that she’d watch Strandelunder’s case and help the kid out. He really did need someone on his side.
Before she pulled out of the foundry parking lot, she phoned Garcia to give him an update.
He wasn’t ready to give credence to Strandelunder’s version of events. “Has it occurred to you that the boy genius has a faulty memory, especially since he despises the Duntons? For all you know, Michelle Dunton begged Lydia to come back. Hell, maybe the girl never called home at all.”
“What about the Duntons’ phone records?”
“I’ll work on it. This is … delicate.”
“That’s why you’re doing it,” she said.
Garcia did admit that he was intrigued by the mysterious documents Lydia found at her parents’ home. “Boyfriend didn’t sound sharp enough to make that up.”
“Whatever she found, it had to have something to do with the earlier murder,” said Bernadette.
“Maybe not. Maybe the papers just had to do with Brule.”
“I don’t follow.”
Garcia theorized that the letters could have taken Lydia to Brule for reasons completely unrelated to the earlier murder. While she was in the small town, she got the attention of the Brule resident who’d killed the pregnant woman years ago. Very pregnant and all alone, she would have been tempting. He followed Lydia to Walker—perhaps even picked her up while she was thumbing it—and killed her and dumped her in Paul Bunyan. “He goes back to Brule. Sees you poking around there. Knows the FBI is on Lydia’s case. Tries to scare you off.”
“Why did Lydia go to Walker?”
“Why did she go to Brule?” he countered. “Answer is in those letters.”
“What about my sight?”
“Nothing you saw clashes with my idea. There’s snow in Brule. Those hands on a pregnant woman could have been on a pregnant woman in Wisconsin instead of Minnesota.”
“You’re saying this is about a sick north-woods maniac who targets pregnant women and their fetuses, but he’s only killed twice.”
“Yeah.”
“The pentagram?”
“He got religion between victims, or he knew there was witch stuff going on in Walker and used the star to throw us off. Take your pick.”
Bernadette didn’t like the randomness of Garcia’s scenario. Plus, she had trouble admitting that they’d wasted days harassing a pagan and a former midwife, women whose only sin might be that they were outsiders. “I’ll chew on it while I drive,” she said.
“Coming back up here tonight?”
“I’ve got one more stop, and then I’ll head north.”
“Don’t waste too much time before hitting the road,” he warned. “Another blizzard is on the way. It’s already starting here.”
She glanced through the windshield. Flakes were starting to fall. “I’ll leave soon,” she said, and hung up.
It was already dark out. She checked the dashboard clock. Saturday services at most churches would be over.
At the outskirts of downtown St. Paul, she found a Catholic church and went inside. A handful of people were scattered around the pews, saying Rosaries and paging through prayer books. She took a seat in the back, took off her gloves, reached into her pocket, and took out the bag. She went down on her knees and said her own prayers before beginning.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As Jordan Ashe put her hand on the barn door, the dogs gathered around her, whining and wiggling. She’d kept them inside since morning, and now they wanted out. When Ashe slid the door open, they almost knocked her over in the stampede. Following them outside, she blinked in the snowfall as she watched them gallop into the early-evening darkness.
The weather was supposed to get much worse. Good time to let the puppies have one last run for the day. The acreage behind the barn was fenced, and they could only get so far. They’d head back home when they got hungry. If there were stragglers, Karl would fetch them as soon as he got back from plowing—whenever the hell that would be.
She’d thought about phoning him to tell him about the latest FBI call—that Garcia guy wanting to talk to her again—but decided she didn’t want to distract him while he was working.
Reaching into her apron, she took out her pack of Camels. Two left. She fished one out, put it to her lips, and lit up. Inhaling like it was her last breath on the planet, she filled her lungs with smoke and held it. As she put the pack back in her apron, she felt something else. She withdrew the female agent’s business card. The woman had done a good job of sucking up to her the other day. For a second in the kitchen, Ashe had considered telling Saint Clare about the others. Then she came to her senses. The woman was just another cop.
“Cunt,” Ashe cursed, releasing a cloud of cigarette smoke. She snapped the lighter and held the flame under the card. The fire licked at her fingertips before she finally dropped the burning paper on the driveway. Putting her boot over the black rectangle, she pressed it into the snow. Sh
e went back inside the barn but left the door open a crack in case some of her puppies came back early.
She went over to her workbench and punched on the radio.
“… should expect blizzard conditions. Winds of up to forty-five miles per hour are expected, causing blowing snow and low visibility. By early Sunday morning, everything north of the Twin Cities will…”
“Suck,” said Ashe, shutting off the radio. She flipped through her CD folder, popped a weathered Melissa Etheridge disc into the clay-splattered player, and cranked the volume as high as it would go. Pulling out a stool, she sat down and rested her elbows on the bench, every once in a while tapping a gray snake into a lopsided ashtray. She sucked on her cigarette until the embers reached the filter, tossed the butt into the tray, and hopped off the stool. Rubbed her arms. For her comfort and that of the dogs, she’d had Karl install assorted space heaters and a wood-burning stove, but the massive old building remained cold and drafty.
Ashe pushed the sleeves of her shirt past her elbows and sat down at her wheel to throw one last pot. She hadn’t lied to the FBI agents about having a show coming up. The wooden shelves lining the walls of the barn were bending under the weight of the work she’d already completed. Tourists bought the stuff, not collectors, but at least she was making a living.
That’s why she’d relocated to the Midwest from California. It was easier to make a living. The downside: fitting in was tough. She’d found a group, but they were afraid to be themselves in public. Because they were natives of the area, they felt the burden of having to behave. If only their neighbors knew. If only the folks in the towns knew what was going on in the woods. Whenever she contemplated blowing the top off the secrets and lies, she talked herself out of it. Could be the FBI agents would do the job for her. She’d felt obligated to warn her friends with phone calls during the past couple of days. That accomplished, she could get her head back into her work.
Starting out with a slow spin, she worked the wedge of clay into a smooth ball. Ashe forced the material down with her right hand while her left worked as the guide. After moistening her hands and the clay, she jacked up the speed. She enjoyed the feel of the wet clay moving between her hands. Moving, moving, moving in a circle like Mother Earth. Spinning, spinning. The music in the background gave her rhythm and energy.
Behind her, the barn door slid open a few inches wider and a figure in a hooded parka stepped inside. Slowly and gently, the intruder shut the door all the way.
Lost in the music and the clay, Ashe had her eyes closed and her hands occupied. She never heard the vehicle pull down the driveway, the barn door move, or the booted feet come up behind her. By the time she felt gloved hands wrapping around her neck from behind, it was too late.
As the intruder started to pull the potter down from her stool, Ashe clung to the partially formed vase as if it were a lifeline. For an instant, the clay’s seal against the wheel was enough to keep her from being unseated. Then the vase surrendered, tearing in two. The bottom stayed stuck to the wheel and the top remained in the artist’s hands as she went sailing backward off her chair.
Ashe felt the wind leave her lungs as she landed on her back. She instinctively tightened her hold on the clay that remained between her hands. Cranking her arm back, she threw the lump at the figure standing over her. With one step to the side, the parka dodged the missile.
Ashe rolled over and scrambled to her feet. “Get away!” she panted.
Without saying a word, the parka thumped after her.
Ashe ran to her bench. Where was her phone? Where had she set it down? Unable to find the cell, she grabbed a large pot, raised it over her head, and spun around. Tossed it at the intruder. The pot landed behind the parka, shattering and scattering cerulean shards.
The parka continued marching toward her.
The dogs were at the door now. Ashe could hear them barking. Trying to get inside the barn. They knew. They knew something was wrong. If she could get to the door and let them in. Ashe hurled another pot, this one crashing at the intruder’s feet and stalling the big boots. Ashe dashed past the parka and headed for the door. The dogs. The dogs would save her.
Her hand was on the door when she felt those gloves again, wrapped around her waist from behind. “No!” she screamed, and clawed at the door, sliding it open an inch. A dog’s muzzle tried to push through. A second muzzle stacked on top of the first. Behind the pair, the other dogs snarled and scratched at the door.
The intruder swung her around like a rag doll, throwing Ashe against one of the barn’s beams. Ashe grunted upon impact and crumpled against the wood. She curled into a ball at the base of the pillar. “Why?” she whispered to the floor, and covered her head with her arms.
Ashe heard her attacker’s boots march over to the barn door. The slab of wood slammed shut, causing a cacophony of yelps.
The monster had hurt her puppies.
Furious, Ashe uncurled her body and used the barn’s beam to help her climb to her feet. She hobbled toward the hooded figure. “You fucker!”
The parka came at her and fell on top of her like a tumbling brick wall, throwing Ashe onto her back. As the weight bore down on her, Ashe pushed against the wall with both palms. “No!”
The dogs barked and growled and hurled themselves against the other side of the barn door, the wood vibrating with their fury.
The leather-clad fingers tightened around the throat of their mistress. Tightened. Tightened.
Panting and perspiring from the exertion, the intruder stood up and pushed back the hood of the parka. Swiped a layer of sweat off the forehead. Ashe was sprawled on her back with her eyes wide open and bulging and red, like the exaggerated eyes of a comic-book character. Half a dozen times, the intruder prodded Ashe in the side with the toe of a large boot. With each poke came a snarled word.
“Witch … bitch … are … you … dead … bitch?”
The body rocked, but there was no sign of life. The killer’s nostrils flared. The witch bitch had wet herself and crapped in her pants. She was definitely dead.
“Good.” Then to the barking dogs on the other side of the door: “No!”
The gloved hands reached into the deep pockets of the parka and withdrew a length of clothesline, the end fashioned into a sloppy noose. The circle of rope was dropped over Ashe’s head and tightened around her throat. The original plan had been to take the corpse into the woods and use a tree. Witches worshipped trees or the woods or some such shit, right? It would have been a fitting setting for suicide. That idea was scrapped as soon as the snow started, however. The storm would have made the going too difficult, and would have raised questions about the death. Who hangs themselves outside during a blizzard?
The barn had a massive beam that ran down the middle, from the back of the building to above the front door. Twenty feet off the ground or better, it would take some work to get the rope over it. After searching the barn for something with weight, the intruder spotted the clay that Ashe had so ineffectually hurled. Good deal. It even had the witch’s prints all over it. The lump was squeezed around the free end of the clothesline and pressed into a neat ball. After several tosses—and losing the clay once—the ball carried the end of the rope over the beam.
The intruder plucked the clay ball off the rope. Gloved hands worked fist over fist, pulling on the rope and raising the body to a standing position. Now, how high off the floor would be credible? The eyes went to the stool sitting under the bench. That high.
The free end of the line was anchored to one of the legs of the bench and the stool was positioned under the body so that Ashe’s feet were dangling a few inches over the seat. The parka stood back to admire the scene. Something crucial was missing.
The body was lowered back to the floor. The potter’s workbench was surveyed. A cluster of jars, jugs, and bottles sat at one end, along with some brushes. The gloved hands reached for a container of something red and a small brush. The intruder opened the jar and squatted at the
head of the body, brush poised. A master waiting to begin work on a virgin canvas. Slowly and carefully, an inverted star was painted on Ashe’s forehead.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bernadette’s sight is acting screwy again, switching from a scene to that strange, fluid blackness.
Back to the scene. She sees hands drawing a pentagram. The face on the floor is too blurry for her to recognize, but she knows the mop of braids surrounding the victim’s head. Those eyes, wide and unblinking. She’s familiar with them, too. They’re the eyes of the dead.
That blackness again. She doesn’t have time to waste with that nonsense.
Forcing her hand open, Bernadette released the knotted yarn. As she blinked repeatedly to clear her eyes, she felt around her jacket for her cell. It seemed to take forever for her to see well enough to punch in Garcia’s number.
He answered, but he was breaking up badly. Crackling and fading. “Cat… what…”
“Tony!” she yelled into the cell. Everyone in the church turned and looked at her. She didn’t care. “Jordan Ashe is dead! Go to the Ashe place!”
Nothing on the other end now.
Using the plastic bag to shield her hand, she scooped up the yarn, shoved it inside her pocket, and bounded out of the church. As she ran across the church parking lot, she tried Garcia again. Couldn’t get through. Couldn’t get through to the other agents up there, either. They were together in a hole without reception.
“Fuck!” she yelled into the night air, and banged the side of the truck with her hand.
She thought of one other person she could try. Even though they had yet to meet, he knew her boss. He’d be easier to convince than an anonymous emergency dispatcher.
“Sheriff Wharten? This is Agent Bernadette Saint Clare …”
The parka stood straight to admire the artwork and issue a critique. “Nice.”
The jar and brush were returned to the bench. The body was raised and tied off again. As a final touch, the stool was kicked over.
Blind Sight Page 13
