Blind Sight

by Terri Persons

  Cahill trained the beam on the table. “Some sort of altar.”

  “I’d say so.” Bernadette took out her own flashlight. Walking the perimeter of the clearing, she held her Glock in one hand and shined the beam into the woods with the other. She saw no movement.

  “Bern,” said Cahill, swallowing hard. “Uh … there’s something on top of the table, between the candles.”

  She spun around and shined the light on the altar. “Please let it be another cat,” she said under her breath.

  “What?” asked Cahill, staying at the perimeter.

  “Sorry,” she said, stepping slowly toward the center. “It’s just that… well… that’d be better than some alternatives.”

  “I’m calling for backup,” he said.

  “Please do,” she said, shining the light on the mound in the center of the slab. The object was covered with a towel or a small blanket, neatly arranged so that the edges of the cloth were straight and all four corners pointed out. At each tip was a large, partially melted pillar candle. The candles were positioned at the north, east, south, and west—the four cardinal points, important in pagan ceremonies.

  Behind her, she heard Cahill talking, trying to give directions. His voice was tremulous. “I don’t know how far in we are, but you should be able to see …”

  Bernadette moved closer to the altar and stretched out her arms. With the barrel of her gun, she lifted one corner of the blanket, which was the size of a pillowcase. Her mind was filled with the horrific possibilities of what could fit under such a small drape. “Dear God,” she whispered. “Let it be an animal. Please, please, please.”

  Cahill came up behind her. “What is it, Bern?”

  She lifted the corner higher while shining the light underneath. “It doesn’t look frozen. It must have been left here a few minutes ago.”

  “What is it?” He also trained his flashlight on the object, but maintained his distance.

  “We interrupted something, I think.”

  “But what is it?” he rasped.

  “I don’t know … something … turned inside out.”

  “Jesus,” he said, and took a step back.

  She lowered her gun, letting the blanket drop onto the bloody mess. “I think it’s some kind of animal. I hope it is.”

  “Is there fur?”

  She didn’t want to answer.

  He squeaked his next question. “What else could it be? It’s so small. Oh, God. Maybe it’s a—”

  “Stop.” She didn’t want Cahill to voice her biggest fear.

  “But—”

  “Shut up.” Bernadette shivered. They were being observed. She could feel someone’s eyes on the clearing. On her and Cahill. A rustling in the woods confirmed it. Spinning around, she aimed her gun and flashlight into the trees.

  “What is it?” he whispered. That was becoming his mantra.

  “Carson,” she said evenly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Get out your weapon.”

  He pulled his gun from his jacket pocket. “Now what?”

  “Stay here. Guard the … thing on the altar.”

  “Bern. No. Don’t go.”

  “I’m not going far,” she said, and slipped between two tall pines.

  There was no path to make the hunt easy, but she wasn’t afraid to use her flashlight this time. The element of surprise was gone; now it was a footrace. She pocketed her gun to free up her hands as she threaded through the forest. She came upon a fallen tree limb and jumped over it, stumbling as she landed but staying on her feet. Her breath clouded the air in front of her. “Stop!” she yelled into the woods. “FBI!”

  The sound was getting louder. A bull barreling through the forest, stomping on bushes and snapping branches. This had to be a big, clumsy man, and she was closing in on him. Shining the flashlight ahead, she still couldn’t see him through the pines and aspens. “Stop now!” she yelled. “FBI!”

  As she pushed a low-hanging branch out of her way, another one slapped her across the face. She kicked her way through a thicket of wild berries, the bushes pulling and scratching at her clothing and slowing her down. Despite the subzero temperature, she was perspiring under her jacket.

  She wove between a thick stand of aspens. As soon as she cleared the trees, she stepped onto the shore of a snow-covered oval. She ran the beam around her side of the pond, a body of water the size of a kids’ hockey rink. She couldn’t see any marks on the surface of the pond, which had to be frozen under the layer of snow. Aiming the light down, she walked the shoreline searching for footprints. All she saw were the tops of cattails poking up through the white blanket like whiskers. Scanning the surrounding woods for signs of the bull, she spotted no broken twigs or trampled bushes.

  Bernadette finished her circuit where she’d started it. “Fuck!” she said under her breath. She’d lost him.

  Turning away from the pond, she headed back into the aspens. She didn’t know how long she’d been gone from B.K. He was probably hysterical, and sending everyone else into a panic. Diving into the woods without backup was exactly the kind of cowgirl crap that made Garcia’s face turn purple.

  Bernadette kept the flashlight trained ahead of her as she jogged through the woods, retracing her steps back to the outdoor worship space. Satanic campground. Whatever the hell it was called.

  Behind her, someone emerged from between two trees and swung a branch with the force of a lumberjack chopping a tree. The limb caught Bernadette between the shoulder blades and she stumbled forward with a grunt. The toe of her boot caught under a fallen branch and she went flying face-first onto the ground. Her forehead hit a flat stone poking up through the snow.

  The hooded figure raised the branch to take a second chop, this time aiming for the back of the head.

  The sound of an approaching helicopter vibrated the night sky.

  Branch still in hand, the assailant ducked down and vanished between the trees.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Bernadette woke up flat on her back, with Garcia’s face hovering over her and a blanket under her. There were others standing around on the narrow path, but she couldn’t make out their features. Lights were shining in her eyes, and she put her hand in front of her face. “Tony—”

  “Stay still.” He was kneeling at her side. “I’ve got a stretcher coming.”

  “I don’t need a damn stretcher,” she said, and propped herself up on her elbows in an attempt to rise. Her head was throbbing.

  “Take it easy” He put an arm around her to support her as she sat up. “Do you remember what happened?”

  She had to think hard. It was foggy “Someone hit me from behind. Nailed me in the back with a bat or something.” She put her fingers to her forehead. “I must have landed on something hard.”

  “You’re lucky he didn’t finish the job and crack your skull open.” Garcia looked up at the cluster of lights and people. “You heard her. Get moving. Tell the searchers we’re looking for a weapon in addition to a suspect.”

  The sound of men mumbling and boots on the snow. The lights didn’t leave her face, though, and she covered her eyes with her hand. She heard a helicopter overhead but doubted that her assailant could be found easily, especially at night. This was someone who knew the woods. Did the bastard get B.K., too? “Cahill?” she asked. “Is he okay?”

  “He led us to you,” said Garcia.

  Cahill’s voice from behind the lights: “I’m here, Bern …”

  “I’m sorry I left you,” she said. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

  “You’re right,” Garcia said flatly, and then tightened his hold around her shoulders. “This wasn’t a good deal for either one of you.”

  “We were on the road when we heard something in the woods,” she said, leaning back against Garcia. “We … I … decided to check it out.”

  “Agent Cahill told us. Did you get a look at him?”

  Again, her memory wasn’t clear. “No … I’m pretty sure I didn’t�
�� I didn’t see him. He sounded big, though. A big ox crashing around.”

  “What else?” asked Garcia.

  She took her hand down from her eyes. The frozen oval. She remembered walking around it. “I tracked him to the pond over there and lost him. I was on my way back to B.K. when … I guess that’s when the fucker got me.”

  “That’s quite a find you and B.K. made,” said Garcia.

  “One of my deputies would have come across it eventually,” said the sheriff from behind the lights. He sounded defensive.

  Bernadette recalled the worship space. “I think the big ox led us there. He wanted us to find it, to find that mess on the altar. It was fresh.”

  “We saw,” said Garcia.

  She bit down on her bottom lip. “What was it? Do we know?”

  “Baby pig, we think,” said Garcia.

  “Good. I was afraid it was …” Her voice trailed off.

  “That mangled animal—what does it mean?” Cahill asked.

  The bloody spectacle. Being left alone in the woods with it. Finding her unconscious. All of it had obviously shaken the young agent, and she felt terrible about putting B.K. through it. “I don’t know what it means, Carson,” she said gently. “People associate animal sacrifice with certain pagan religions.”

  “The witches didn’t do it,” said Wharten.

  “The investigation will determine who is responsible, Seth,” said Garcia.

  Wharten stepped out from behind the lights and hunkered down next to Bernadette. He asked in a softened voice, “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ll live,” she said.

  As he squatted by her side, he folded his big hands in front of him. “I know all these people, and they wouldn’t kill and gut a young girl. They wouldn’t kill and hang one of their own. They wouldn’t attack a member of law enforcement. They sure as hell wouldn’t waste good livestock on animal sacrifice.”

  Growing up on a farm, she found that last comment reasonable. “Then what do you think is going on, Sheriff?”

  “Someone is setting them up,” Wharten said. “That’s all I can figure.”

  “But the event that started this whole thing, the murder of a senator’s daughter and her missing fetus, that can’t just be about setting someone up,” said Bernadette. “And what about the dead girl’s amazing disappearing pentagram?”

  “There’s gotta be more to it,” Garcia agreed.

  By the sound of it, Garcia had abandoned his goofy serial-killer theory. Good riddance. He’d been interviewing Vizner while she and B.K. were having their big adventure. “The boyfriend, did he have a clue about any of that?”

  “He wasn’t any help,” said Garcia. “Maybe tomorrow. He’s still a wreck.”

  Bernadette looked at the sheriff. “You said Ashe was one of their own? By that, you meant—”

  “One of the coven’s own.” Wharten stood up. “Difference between her and the rest of them was she was more flamboyant about it. Seemed to enjoy being the lightning rod for attention and criticism.” He paused. “We can see what that got her.”

  “I wonder if that’s who she was calling like crazy, right before she was killed,” said Bernadette. “She was trying to warn them about something.”

  “About what?” asked Wharten.

  “A killer coming after them,” said Bernadette. “The FBI coming after them.”

  “They aren’t afraid of the law,” said Wharten. “They have nothing to hide.”

  Garcia looked up at him with raised brows. “Nothing to hide? Seth, you said yourself you were trying to keep their existence under wraps. If nothing else, they’ve been hiding their religious practices.”

  “What if those secretive ceremonies included not only the sacrifice of that baby animal but also the sacrifice of a human fetus?” asked Bernadette. “Having a pregnant runaway in their midst would have been hard to resist. Easy pickings. Who would miss her? They didn’t know she was a senator’s daughter.”

  “They wouldn’t do those things,” said the sheriff.

  “Who put that ceremonial space in the woods, close to Ashe’s house?” asked Bernadette. “It took a lot of hands, and it sure wasn’t Lutheran hands.”

  “Then why would they also kill one of their own?” asked Wharten, this time not sounding so defensive. This time, sounding as if there might be a possibility.

  Garcia: “Maybe she was so freaked out by our visit, making all those panicky calls …”

  “They worried she was going to turn on them,” said Wharten, finishing the thought. He rubbed his chin. “We have to see who Jordan called.”

  “Cahill has Ashe’s cell,” said Bernadette.

  Cahill materialized at Wharten’s elbow and flipped open the dead woman’s phone.

  Wharten stared at the cell for a moment and then sighed heavily. “I can tell you if they’re all members of the coven.”

  Bernadette: “If that’s who Ashe was calling right before she was killed …”

  “We need a serious come-to-Jesus meeting,” said Wharten.

  With Garcia’s assistance, Bernadette got on her feet. She was dizzy, but she didn’t want to tell him that. “I want to be in on this get-together.”

  “Not tonight,” said Garcia, putting an arm around her back. “I want you checked out.”

  She touched her forehead again. “They’re going to tell me to ice it and take plenty of Tylenol or some such shit.”

  “You’re going in,” said Garcia.

  “I’m not.”

  “They’re already here,” said Wharten, stepping to one side.

  A pair of paramedics—a man and a woman—came through with a stretcher. The man ran his eyes around the half-dozen people on the path. “Where’s the injured party?”

  “I am not going in on my back,” Bernadette said to Garcia.

  Garcia addressed the medics. “Thanks, but I’ll drive her in.”

  “You sure?” asked the woman. She tipped her head toward the homestead. “Rig is ready and waiting.”

  “I’m sorry for your trouble,” said Bernadette. She peeled herself away from Garcia, walked around the paramedics and their gear, and started hobbling down the path.

  Wharten looked after her. “She’s a stubborn one, isn’t she?”

  “Yup,” said Garcia. He turned to Cahill. “While we’re at the hospital, sit down with the sheriff and go over those phone numbers.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Cahill.

  Garcia told Wharten, “Then, sometime tomorrow, we’ll host an intervention.”

  Wharten grinned tightly and nodded. “Sounds good, Antonia.”

  “Thanks, Seth.” Garcia turned to start down the path.

  Wharten snagged him by the shoulder. “Tony …”

  Garcia turned to face him. “Yeah?”

  “About my going ballistic earlier …”

  Garcia: “You can buy the bait.”

  “Then we’re square?”

  “We’re square,” Garcia said, and went after Bernadette.

  Wharten slapped B.K. on the back. “Let’s do this, young man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The two men went down the path, the sheriff taking the lead. He checked his watch. “My favorite greasy spoon’s open all night. You can spring for a cup of java.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  How long were you unconscious?”

  “Did you vomit on the way to the hospital?”

  “Are you nauseous or sleepy or dizzy?”

  “What do you remember immediately before and after the impact?”

  “Have you suffered any sort of head trauma before?”

  After bombarding her with questions, Dr. Hessler shined a penlight into her eyes. “What are you checking for?” she asked.

  “Pupils equal and reactive to light,” he said. “PERL, we call it.”

  “The blue and brown throw you off?” she asked.

  “Seen it before,” he said distractedly. “Not that unusual.�
��

  If only he knew how bizarre her eyes really were, Bernadette mused. He clicked off the light and turned around to write something down on his chart. “Can I go now?” she asked his narrow back.

  “Not yet,” he muttered as he scribbled.

  She had a headache, and her back was sore from taking the hit. Otherwise she felt more foolish than injured. “What else do you need to do?” she asked.

  “I’d like to order a CT scan of your brain, just to be sure.”

  “How long is that going to take?”

  “This time of night…” Rather than finish the sentence, he continued writing.

  This time of night promised to be a long wait. She hopped off the examining table, stepped into her boots, grabbed her jacket, and went for the exit.

  “Wait,” Hessler said after her. “We’re not through with you.”

  “Thank you,” Bernadette said over her shoulder, and pushed through the doors into the waiting area.

  Garcia was the only one sitting in the small, stuffy room. He closed a magazine and stood up. “What did they say?”

  “I’m fine.” She started to put on her jacket, and he quickly moved to help her with it. He was treating her like an invalid.

  “What are you supposed to do about the forehead?”

  She’d bolted before the doctor could give her instructions. She fabricated something, figuring it was medically accurate. “Ice it and take Tylenol for the pain.”

  Garcia zipped up his jacket. “Tylenol? I think all I’ve got back at the cabin is—”

  “I’m sure whatever it is, it’ll work,” she said, zipping up.

  Carrying a clipboard stacked with paperwork, Hessler came out of the emergency room. “We’re not finished with her yet.”

  Garcia looked at Bernadette. “You told me they said—”

  “I’m fine.” She fished her gloves out of her jacket pockets and pulled them on.

  “I’m sure you are,” said Hessler. “But there are still some tests I would like to—”