Blind Sight

by Terri Persons

  “Doc,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “I’m good. I gotta hit the road.”

  Hessler: “A CT scan of your brain, and then you can leave with my blessing.”

  “If the doctor wants to check your brain, let him check your brain.”

  “We’ve been here forever.” She yanked a stocking cap on over her head and winced.

  “How serious is this, Doctor?” asked Garcia. “Shouldn’t she be hospitalized overnight?”

  Bernadette took a step back from both men and folded her arms in front of her. “That will never happen.”

  “There are something like a million cases of concussions in the United States annually. Some of those require hospitalization, but most people are treated in the ER or doctor’s office.” Hessler tucked the chart under his arm. “It all depends upon the seriousness of the injury.”

  “Where would you rank this one?” asked Garcia.

  “How long a person remains unconscious can be an indicator of the severity of the concussion,” said Hessler. “Unfortunately—”

  “We don’t know how long she was out,” said Garcia.

  “Sure we do,” said Bernadette, talking quickly to derail any attempts to keep her at the hospital. “Agent Cahill told you I was gone from him for just a few minutes. Most of that time, I was chasing after the suspect. Ergo … well… you guys do the math. I was unconscious for less than a minute. A second or two. I was knocked out for a couple of seconds.”

  “You weren’t out for long, but it was more than two seconds, Cat,” said Garcia.

  “But—”

  “Ergo, put a lid on it.”

  “She was evasive when I asked about previous head injuries,” said Hessler, treating Garcia like the father of an uncooperative pediatric patient. “Has she lost consciousness before? Any other recent incidents on or off the job?”

  Garcia hesitated before answering. “In the fall, she got knocked into the river by a guy. I’d call that an incident.”

  Hessler looked at his patient with raised brows.

  “Bad dinner date,” she said.

  Hessler went back to asking Garcia the questions. “He hit her on the head?”

  “No, on the back. The suspect whacked her on the back with a board or a bat. Then she went into the water.”

  “Her head didn’t strike anything on the way down?” Hessler asked Garcia.

  “You can ask me—I’m standing right here,” interjected Bernadette. “And no, my head didn’t hit anything. It was a clean dive.”

  Hessler continued, still addressing Garcia. “The reason I ask is there’s been evidence of an increased rate of brain injury and even death among those who have had previous concussions with loss of consciousness.”

  “What about repeated back injuries? Do you think I should take her in and have her back looked at when we get home?”

  “I don’t think it would hurt to have her family physician give her a thorough exam.”

  Surrendering to her exclusion from the discussion, Bernadette took Garcia’s former seat in the waiting room.

  “What should I expect tonight?”

  “There may be some irritability.”

  “That’d be something new.”

  Bernadette glared at Garcia, but both men continued to ignore her.

  “Some dizziness. A headache. Those are not unusual following an injury of this nature. If she demonstrates more serious symptoms, you need to bring her back in immediately. I’m talking persistent confusion, repeated vomiting, convulsions, slurred speech. Weakness or decreased coordination. If her headache gets worse.”

  “I’ve heard of head-injury victims going to sleep and never waking up,” Garcia said.

  “It happens,” said Hessler.

  Bernadette didn’t like the sound of that.

  “So do I have to keep her up all night?” asked Garcia.

  “She can go to bed tonight, but I want you to wake her up every two hours. You might want to stay in the room with her, to keep a close watch.”

  The right side of Bernadette’s mouth turned up. This could be quite the evening.

  “Tylenol for the pain,” continued Hessler. “She absolutely needs to take it easy. No runs through the woods for a while. She’ll be fine.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying.” Bernadette stood up.

  Garcia pumped the doctor’s hand. “Appreciate it.”

  Hessler shook his head grimly. “The things going on around here. Murdered girl. That poor Ashe woman. Your agent getting attacked. Hope you catch the person or persons responsible.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Bernadette, pulling her gloves tighter over her fingers. “We will.”

  Hessler buried his hands in the pockets of his medical jacket. “So … any suspects?”

  “Would you like to nominate someone?” Bernadette asked lightly.

  “Can’t be someone from around here,” Hessler said.

  “He knows the woods, this guy,” said Bernadette. “It’s gotta be someone from around here.”

  Hessler took the chart he’d been carrying under his arm and started flipping through it. “Talk is you came upon an interesting sight out in the forest this evening.”

  “What did you hear, exactly?” Bernadette asked.

  The doctor kept his eyes on the chart, which seemed to be growing more engrossing by the second. “Uh … nothing … I just heard you found some … strange things. Some unusual… furniture.”

  “Furniture,” she repeated. “A strangely benign word for a satanic altar topped by a blood sacrifice.”

  Hessler turned to the last page of his chart and said nothing in response.

  “Any thoughts on who arranged such furniture?” Bernadette asked.

  Hessler looked up from his paperwork. “Not my area of expertise, Miss Saint Clare. I imagine you and Mr. Garcia have your own ideas.”

  “Have to believe it was the local witches,” said Bernadette. “Jordan Ashe’s cohorts.”

  “Again, it’s not my area,” said Hessler. “But my understanding is that practitioners of the Wiccan faith don’t kill things as part of their tradition.”

  “You think the furniture was put there by another group?” asked Bernadette. “A Scout troop?”

  The doctor tucked the clipboard under his arm. “If you’re clear on your after-care instructions—”

  “I am,” she said pleasantly.

  “Then I really need to get back to work,” said Hessler, turning on his heel.

  “Thanks again,” she said after him as he disappeared behind the ER doors.

  Bernadette and Garcia saved their analysis for the stroll across the parking lot. It was bitterly cold, but there was no wind. Thinking the frigid night air might numb the pain in her head, she pulled off her stocking cap as they walked.

  “Another defender of the local witches,” said Garcia.

  “I think he’s more than that,” said Bernadette. “I got some spooky vibes from him.”

  “Think he keeps some eye of newt in his medical bag?”

  “That certainly wasn’t politically correct,” she said as they got to the Titan. “And yes, that’s exactly what I think. I think he’s one of the witches.”

  “Sven the witch,” said Garcia, pulling open the driver’s door. “Doesn’t really roll off the tongue, does it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Wait,” said Garcia. “That means he’s a … witch doctor.”

  “You had to say it, didn’t you?” Bernadette laughed and then groaned. “Owie. My head.”

  They got inside the truck and Garcia started it up. “I did think it was telling the way he accepted your plural description of those folks. If my fishing buddy is to be believed, Jordan Ashe was the only Wiccan who let it all hang out. Everyone else is under wraps.”

  “If Hessler is one of them, he would have had access to Lydia’s body,” she said. “He could have been the one who removed the inverted pentagram.”

  “Why would he do that?�
��

  “Public relations?”

  “That would mean he put on a big performance for us in the basement, feigning surprise, pretending he didn’t know shit about shit.”

  “A good act,” she said.

  “I don’t know,” Garcia said slowly. “His shock seemed genuine. I’m not sure he’s the one.”

  “Plus, you’d think a medical professional—a doctor—would be smarter than that,” she conceded. “And he did take good care of me. I didn’t pick up on any hostility or nervousness.”

  Garcia reached under the driver’s seat, pulled out the ice scraper, and hopped out of the cab. While he cleared off the windows, she fooled with the heater and the vents. She felt guilty for not helping him outside, but her headache wasn’t getting any better.

  Garcia hopped back in and steered the truck out of the parking lot. “Let’s go back to the cabin. I’ll make you a late supper and then we can get some sleep—in two-hour doses. Come morning, we’ll be able to think more clearly about Sven.”

  “I’ve got one thing left to do yet tonight on the case.”

  “What?”

  “You know what,” she said.

  “You’re not feeling well enough to do that,” he said. “Save it for tomorrow.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Cat…”

  “Get some red meat in me and a beer and I’ll be ready to rock.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Garcia thawed some venison steaks and cooked them up for her. After she ate, they sat on the couch in front of the fireplace.

  “Need anything else?”

  “A beer or a glass of wine would be nice.”

  “Be right back.” He returned a minute later.

  She looked at what was in his hands. “That isn’t what I ordered.”

  He passed her the pills and water. “You’re going to follow the doctor’s instructions.”

  “That guy is a twit,” she said, downing the Tylenol. “A twit witch doctor.”

  Garcia set another log in the hearth. “He wasn’t a dummy, and that witch part is open for debate. I’m not sure you’re right about his involvement. Like Seth, he could simply be protective of the locals, be they Wiccan, Lutherans, or Methodists. And even if he is a witch—hell, even if everyone in the county is a witch—that still doesn’t mean we’ve got our killer.”

  “We could settle it if I do my deal tonight.”

  • • •

  He dropped onto the couch next to her. “Your head—”

  “Is much better,” she said, and patted her stomach. “And look how much food I put away.”

  “First sign of trouble, you pull out,” he said.

  “Agreed.”

  “Where do we do this?”

  While she wanted it as dark as possible, she didn’t want to go back to the stinky man-basement. She looked toward the loft. The light from the fireplace would still be visible from up there, but barely. “We can do it upstairs.”

  “All there is up there is a chair and a bed.”

  “That’s fine.” Bernadette also figured if she passed out, at least she’d be in bed already—not that she could tell Garcia that.

  “Okay,” he said hesitantly, and stood up. “I’ll start turning off the lights.”

  She knew he was worried about temptation—on both their parts—but she wasn’t going to let anything happen.

  She sat on the bed with her shoes off and her back against the headboard, cushioned by pillows. Garcia pulled the chair—a rocker—over to the bedside. He looked uncomfortable in it, sitting on the edge so that it wouldn’t teeter backward on him.

  Every light—save the one on the nightstand next to the bed—was off. On her lap was the plastic bag containing the sliver from Lydia’s nightgown. She’d picked the flannel scrap over the string because it was more substantial. There was no doubt in her mind that each would lead to the same set of eyes.

  “Ready?” Garcia asked.

  “Ready,” she said.

  He reached over and switched off the lamp. “Remember, if anything goes wrong—”

  “I’ll put on the brakes,” she said.

  She heard a loud creak: Garcia trying to keep his balance on the edge of the rocker.

  “Sorry,” he whispered, and creaked again.

  She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but there was enough ambient lighting from the distant fire that she could make out his profile. He was bent over like a question mark on the rocker. “Tony sit on the damn mattress.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Promise I can keep my hands off you. You’re not George Clooney for God’s sake.”

  “That nurse said I looked like that other actor.”

  “I was never a CHiPs fan.”

  “You burst my little bubble.” Another creak as he got up, and a squeak as he perched on the end of the mattress.

  She rolled her head one way and then the other. Bent it forward and back. She noticed the skylight above the bed; it was filled with stars. She pointed at it. “Beautiful.”

  “Very,” he said in a low voice.

  Even in the dark, she could tell he was staring at her, and it rattled her. She closed her eyes tight.

  “Cat,” he whispered a minute later. “I don’t think this is a good place for your deal.”

  She whispered back, “Just be still.”

  They both sat frozen and silent. The quiet was interrupted by a distant groan. The cabin settling. She concentrated on her breathing. In and out. In. Out. She opened her hand on her lap and tipped the bag over her palm. As light as a feather, the fabric floated down to her fingers. She curled her hand into a fist and whispered the words she always said: “Lord, help me see clearly.”

  She opened her eyes to the skylight. The stars fell away, replaced by … a charging buffalo.

  The killer is sitting in front of the stuffed animal, its humped shape unmistakable. The murderer raises his eyes, and Bernadette is startled by what comes into view next. A massive trophy is mounted on the wall above the buffalo. It isn’t a buck but some other large animal with an enormous rack. A moose, she figures. Another prize is standing to the right of the buffalo, and this creature she recognizes immediately: a bear standing on its hind legs, front paws raised menacingly. The room is dimly lit, and her vision is hampered by its usual blurriness. Nevertheless, she can make out the log walls behind the stuffed animals. This has to be a north-woods retreat.

  A figure crosses in front of the killer’s line of sight, going from left to right. Then right to left. Back again. Despite the quick movement, Bernadette is able to get a general impression of size and gender: short man. A bit of a gut, but not fat. The killer keeps his gaze low. If only the short guy would look up so Bernadette could see more of him. She tries to note as much as possible of the marching man. What is he wearing? She has a good view of his shoes. They’re black and narrow and small. His legs are dressed in black, too. Trousers, or possibly jeans, topped by a dark sweater or a sweatshirt. Something long-sleeved. His hands are stuffed in the front pockets of his pants.

  The man steps closer and extends his hands to the murderer, palms up. He’s pleading a case. There’s a gold band on the ring finger; that means the guy is …

  Bernadette blinks, and suddenly she’s in another room. How did that happen? The murderer couldn’t have moved that quickly. Is she mistaken? Is this simply a different view of the same place? No. This is a kitchen. Even the lighting is different from that of the trophy room. It’s bright. Bernadette realizes what happened, why the view changed so swiftly and thoroughly and it makes her heart race.

  Bernadette can see that killer number two is moving toward a wall of stainless steel. He—or she—pulls open the door and reaches inside, giving Bernadette a view of the right hand by the light of the refrigerator. Large, milky fingers wrap around a jar. The murderer slams the fridge door and takes the late-night snack over to a black box. A microwave oven. Sets the jar inside, slams the door. Bernadette gets
a quick glimpse of the glowing numbers before the oven timer is set. This is real time!

  The killer pops open the oven and takes out the jar. Carries it to a nearby table. Sets it down. Reaches toward the center of the table and pulls a laundry basket close. Must be doing some folding. Peels back the edges of a pink cloth.

  A tiny hand reaches out.

  Bernadette can’t believe what she’s seeing. She blinks twice, and suddenly she’s back to the first room. Back staring at the damn dead animals.

  The murderer gets up and starts walking across the room but is intercepted by the short guy. They stand close. Bernadette can’t make out the short guy’s face, but she can see that he’s got a round, smooth head. Shaved?

  The egghead’s mouth is moving. He raises a hand with all five fingers extended. Does that mean something? The killer takes a step back and sits down again. Maybe the short guy was asking for five more minutes. Bernadette can see other people milling around behind the short guy, but she can’t get a good look. If only he’d get the hell out of the …

  Back in the kitchen, facing the fridge. Bernadette didn’t even blink this time. What is up with this bouncing between scenes?

  Killer number two looks away from the fridge. Seated at the table, holding that jar up and examining it. Bernadette can see that a nipple tops the bottle. He tips it down and …

  Back in the trophy room. Everyone is gone. The killer stands and crosses the room. Goes to a set of patio doors to the right of the trophies. The drapes are open and the killer looks out. It’s night out, but Bernadette can make out a snow-covered deck with rails. Beyond that, a flat white surface dotted with lights and little boxes. Fish houses on a frozen lake. Lights are moving between the shacks. Snowmobiles or all-terrain vehicles. Where? Up north? It has to be up here.

  Back in the kitchen, seated at the table. There’s something resting in the murderer’s left arm. He or she adjusts the bundle. A hand reaches up. Pink, like the blanket. So tiny. That baby has to belong to …

  Everything goes black.

  Bernadette inhaled sharply and tightened her hold over the flannel fabric. “Come back to me!”

  Garcia’s voice in her ear: “What is it?”