Blind Sight

by Terri Persons

  She slapped another pan on the stove. “Grab some coffee and sit down. My turn to play house.”

  “How’s the head?” he asked as he poured himself a cup.

  “Perfectly fine,” she said, and it was.

  “I shouldn’t have let you sleep through the night.”

  “You didn’t,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  She pointed the spatula at him. “You don’t remember, do you?”

  Leaning a hand against the counter, he took a sip of coffee. “Remember?”

  “Amazing,” she said, taking the bacon out of the microwave. “I mean, I’ve heard of people doing it, but I always thought it was an urban legend.”

  “What?”

  “You sleep-screwed.”

  “I did not,” he said, but his face reddened.

  “Did too,” she said, dropping the thawed slab into the skillet. “You made love to me in the middle of the night, and you don’t even remember.”

  He grinned sheepishly. “So what if I did? Are you complaining?”

  “Not at all,” she said.

  He took another sip of java and propped his butt against the counter. “So … how was I?”

  “Great—both times.”

  He raised his brows and nodded. “I did it twice. Impressive.”

  “Go sit down, stud,” she said. “I’ll call you when breakfast is ready.”

  Before following her instructions, he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Planted a kiss on the back of her neck. His hands moved up, traveled under her shirt, and cupped her breasts. “How about we go for a record?”

  “Not while I’m frying bacon.”

  “I can’t hear you,” he said, and started to snore.

  • • •

  As they ate, they rehashed what Bernadette had seen with her ricocheting sight.

  “So behind door number one we have a short man pacing in a taxidermy room in a house on a lake. Behind door number two—”

  “We have Lydia’s baby getting bottle-fed in somebody’s kitchen.”

  “What makes you so sure it was the Dunton girl’s baby?”

  “It had tiny pink hands. Newborn hands.”

  “Could have been someone else’s newborn. You saw someone else’s pregnant belly earlier.”

  “I’m positive it was Lydia’s.”

  “What do we do with what you saw? Where does it take the investigation? Should we be putting out a bulletin on this baby? What if someone knows of folks around town who suddenly turned up with an infant?”

  “The way these small towns are, people would have reported such a thing already. I think whoever is holding her is sly enough to avoid taking her out in public. Putting the baby on the news could even endanger her. The bozos could panic and decide to dump her.”

  “Why are they keeping her? There’s been no ransom demand, at least none that Dunton has revealed.”

  Bernadette took a bite of her eggs and pointed the fork at Garcia. “If it was a kidnapping for money, why not take both the mother and the child? Why kill one and snatch the other? Wouldn’t the senator have paid more to get both back? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What about the short guy? Do you have enough for a sketch?”

  She buttered a triangle of toast. She’d burned it. “Short—”

  “I got the short part.”

  “He had a little bit of a gut, but not too bad. Dark clothing. Small feet. Egg head, possibly shaved.”

  “Not enough for an artist.”

  “But if I saw him walking down the street, I might be able to identify him as my guy.”

  “Should we circulate something with Seth’s people?”

  “Let’s keep it low-key,” she said. “Talk to Wharten and see if he knows someone in the area who fits that description. Maybe the senator has an enemy with that build and noggin.”

  “I’ve gotta get together with Dunton and his people this morning,” Garcia said, and chomped a slice of bacon in half.

  “Do we tell him his granddaughter is alive?”

  “Not until we’ve got her in our arms,” he said.

  She pushed her eggs around with her fork. Garcia was being cautious, and she couldn’t blame him. Maybe he was still unconvinced that it was indeed Dunton’s granddaughter. “Where’re you meeting them?”

  “Private home outside Walker. He has a buddy on the lake.”

  “Want me to come with you?”

  “Why don’t you drop me off and go do that tattoo parlor in town?”

  “Doubt it’s going to lead anywhere.”

  “It’s worth a shot.” He dragged a napkin across his mouth and dropped it on the table. “It’s the only tatt shop I know of around these parts. If she got the heart while she was up here, it’s gotta be them.”

  Bernadette figured he was giving her busywork to keep her away from the Dunton meeting. If it didn’t go well, Garcia didn’t want to be flogged in front of her. “Sure. You’re right. Definitely worth a try.”

  He picked up a slice of toast and frowned at it. Set it back down. “At some point today, we’ve got to check in with your little buddy. See what progress he made in matching Ashe’s outgoing calls to witches.”

  She stood up and took her plate to the kitchen. “Let’s get moving. We’re burning daylight.”

  “What is it with you and that guy, by the way?” asked Garcia, following her.

  Trying to avoid his eyes, she turned her back to load the dishwasher. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  After a long silence, he said, “Please tell me you didn’t sleep with Cahill after the New Year’s Eve party.”

  She froze with a set of silverware in her hands. Is that the real reason he was pissed about the party? Part of her wanted to snap that it wasn’t any of his business, and another part of her wanted to stab Garcia with a fork. Instead, she answered calmly and honestly: “I had a little too much to drink.”

  “We’ve established that.”

  Her hands tightened around the utensils. “He drove me home in my truck.”

  “He spent the night?”

  Before she could commit a crime with them, she dropped the forks into the dishwasher. “On my couch. Is that okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why did you wait to ask?”

  He shrugged. “Thought you’d be mad … and you are. So I guess I should have kept my trap shut.”

  “Forget it,” she said, and slammed the dishwasher closed.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and massaged them. “Look. I’m insecure. He’s a young guy and … I don’t know … I was jealous.”

  She turned around and faced him. “You are my first man since I came back to Minnesota. Actually, my first in quite a while. It’s not because I haven’t been asked. I’ve been asked.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “I was waiting for someone worth the hassle.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “You want to shower first, or should I?”

  That wasn’t what she was hoping to hear out of his mouth at that moment. “Uh … why don’t you go first? I’m going to clean up a little more in the kitchen.”

  “You could join me,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “The shower in the basement has room enough for two.”

  “You go ahead.” She patted his chest. “Don’t use up all the hot water.”

  She watched his back as he headed for the basement door. Obviously he didn’t think she was worth the hassle.

  So that he could make some calls and take notes, Garcia let her pilot the Titan. His first call was to the Ramsey County Medical Examiner. His people had retrieved Ashe’s body and driven it to St. Paul. The ME also expected to have some news on the Dunton girl’s autopsy later in the day.

  She gave Garcia a sideways glance while he spoke with B.K. Now that she and the boss had slept together, she feared everyone knew or at least suspected. At the same time, she told herself to stop worrying abou
t that bullshit and concentrate on the case.

  “All of them are?” Garcia asked into the phone, and scribbled on a notepad. “Good work.”

  Cahill and the sheriff must have matched all the calls from Ashe’s cell to the phone numbers of coven members. Bernadette was excited.

  “Why don’t you give me the names and numbers right now? … How many are you talking? … That many, huh?”

  Sounded like northern Minnesota was thick with witches.

  “Agent Saint Clare is good,” said Garcia. “She’s with me right now. She’s dropping me off to a meeting and then checking out a tatt shop.”

  Crap, thought Bernadette. B.K. is going to wonder why she and Garcia are together so early in the morning.

  “It’s in downtown Walker, on the main drag … I don’t know. Twenty minutes, maybe. We’re on Minnesota 34, just west of Walker … Sure … I’m certain she’d appreciate the update. I’ll let her know.” Garcia closed the phone.

  “All those outgoing calls were to fellow witches,” said Bernadette.

  “Yup. Cahill is going to join you at the tatt shop this morning. Give you a rundown of our witch roster.”

  “Great,” she said, but her brows were knotted.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you think he knows?”

  “Knows what?”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “Do I have to draw you an X-rated picture?”

  “Oh,” said Garcia.

  She slowed behind a truck pulling a trailer loaded with snowmobiles. “I’m being paranoid.”

  “No. You’re right, Cat. We’ll have to be careful from now on.”

  From now on. Garcia was talking as if their intimacy wasn’t a quick fling, and she found some comfort in that. “Watch what you say, that’s all.”

  “I’m not going to be talking you up in the locker room or anything.”

  “That’s gallant of you,” she said dryly, and stopped behind the snowmobile trailer as it hung a left into the woods. “What I mean is, don’t mention that the two of us hashed something over during dinner or breakfast. People will start putting two and two together. Maybe I should check in to a hotel. I’ll find one where nobody else is staying. They’ll think I was there all along.”

  “That’s dumb.”

  “Let’s stop talking about this,” she said. “I’m starting to go crazy.”

  “Back to the sane subject of witches: what should we do with them?”

  “They must have a leader,” said Bernadette. “Let’s go to his house. Her house. We’ll start the questioning there.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Sooner, if we can get to it. How long is this Dunton meeting going to take?”

  Garcia ripped off his stocking cap and scratched his scalp. “I wish I knew.”

  “Get as much as you can about Lydia.”

  Garcia bunched the cap in his hand. “I will.”

  “I’d like to know why she went to Brule and then Walker. Why didn’t the Duntons tell the St. Paul cops that their runaway daughter was pregnant, and that they’d thrown her out of the house? What about those mysterious letters she found? What did she say to her mom when she called home, and what did Michelle Dunton say to her? Did Lydia try calling home any other times?”

  “We don’t know that the boyfriend was telling the truth.”

  “Two more things. Don’t forget to ask about their phone records and—”

  Garcia’s ringing cell interrupted her list. He flipped it open. “Garcia here … Oh, hey, Seth.”

  Bernadette reached over and cranked up the heat. The sky was clear and blue, belying the temperature of twenty below zero. When they’d first gotten into the truck that morning, it felt like crawling inside a chest freezer.

  “I just got off the phone with Cahill. He’s going to brief Saint Clare this morning. She’s fine … We did. Hessler saw her.” Garcia paused. “Uh, is he one of them, by the way?”

  Garcia looked over at Bernadette and nodded. She’d pegged him: Sven was a witch doctor.

  “I forgot to ask my agent: Anything more come of the boot prints? Yup, yup … That’s what I figured … A partial’s better than nothing. Did my guys or yours find anything more in the woods? … That’s disappointing.”

  Bernadette gathered that the footprints around Ashe’s place weren’t clear enough to produce anything spectacular, and that a search of the forest had come up empty. Neither surprised her.

  “One more question, Seth. Is there a guy around the towns who looks like … well… short, little bit of a gut, shaved head … Funny, Seth. Very funny … I don’t know. Probably a cross between the two. Never mind. Forget I asked, okay?”

  Garcia seemed embarrassed. Tough. Bernadette saw the guy, and he could lead them to their killers.

  “We’re following up on some stuff this morning.” Garcia switched the phone to his other ear. “I realize that… We’ve already had this conversation … No. I’m outta commission until this afternoon. Try me this afternoon.” Garcia closed his cell.

  She had to ask: “He wanted to know if my egghead guy was—”

  “Dr. Evil or Mini-Me.”

  “Hilarious.”

  “They got some partials from the boot prints. Nothing that’s going to rock our world.”

  “I heard.”

  “But Hessler. A medical professional. That should make him a strong candidate. We still don’t have a reasonable motive, though.”

  “We do. We talked around the edges of it with Lydia. Now we’ve got a live baby being held somewhere. Being kept alive for some purpose.”

  “What purpose?”

  Bernadette swallowed hard. “What if the baby is needed for a ceremony?”

  “Fuck!” spat Garcia. “That would be monstrous. A human sacrifice? An infant?”

  “Wiccans don’t do that sort of thing,” said Bernadette. “But there could be renegades in their midst. Same person or persons who left that pig on the altar.”

  “What about the woman and fetus killed in Brule years ago? Same thing? Some sort of sacrifice?”

  “Could be.”

  “Again, what was Lydia doing in Brule? Where’s the connection?”

  “It goes back to those letters,” she said. “We have to find them.”

  She hung a right off Minnesota 34, turning the truck in to town. She didn’t know where to go from downtown Walker. Garcia waved his hand straight ahead. “Other side of downtown. Keep going. House is on Walker Bay, in a gated community. Practically walking distance from town.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”

  “Why would you want to put yourself through that?” Garcia asked.

  “He’s probably got people there. You should have people. I can be your people.”

  “My people should drop me off and go back to town to get some work done.”

  The dozen or so homes in the gated community were all large, modern, and constructed of massive pine logs—not the fake kind but the real deal. The one belonging to Dunton’s buddy sat at the end of the community’s private road, atop a hill along the bay. Like its neighbors, it sat on a couple of acres of wooded land. A stone chimney rose up along one side of the house and along the other side was a three-stall garage. The driveway coming down to the street was made of brick pavers set in a herringbone design. A black Lexus sedan and a white Cadillac Escalade were parked in the driveway in front of the garage doors.

  She hung a left to turn onto the paved circular drive that looped past the front of the house and braked at the bottom of the steps leading up to the entrance.

  “I’ll call for a ride,” he said, and hopped out.

  “Good luck,” she said.

  He gave her a little salute and slammed the truck door.

  Pulling out of the circular drive, she looked in her rearview mirror. Garcia’s shoulders were slumped as he went up the steps slowly but purposefully, one foot in front of the other. He was moving like a man going to a wake. She hung a ri
ght and headed back to town.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The tattoo parlor was on the outskirts of the downtown, anchoring the end of a block. It occupied the bottom half of a two-story brick building. She pulled the truck around to the side, parked in a small lot, and hopped out.

  She peered into the storefront windows, which were hand-painted with the name of the tatt shop—Northern Inklings—and its hours. It operated on Sundays, but she had some time to kill before the business opened.

  She walked down the sidewalk to check out the neighbors. The sunshine bounced off the snowbanks, white mountain ranges lining the road. A man dressed in flannel shirtsleeves, camo hunting pants, and a fur bomber hat was sprinkling salt at the entrance to the hardware store next door. “Good to see the sun,” he said, pausing in his work to blink into the sky.

  “Sure is,” she said through the fog of her own breath.

  She spotted Cahill coming down the sidewalk. He raised his hand, and the two met in front of a coffee shop. He’d eschewed his office clothes for jeans and a sweatshirt, which looked less ridiculous with his puffy coat and clunky boots. “How’s the skull, Bern?”

  “Great. Thanks for asking.” She pointed to the coffee shop. “How about we grab a cup?”

  They went inside and took a table. She thought he looked tired. He must have had dead-cat dreams. “Did you sleep okay?”

  “I guess.”

  “A lot happened last night.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.” He pulled off his hat and gloves and scratched his head. “Hat hair.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Bernadette, running a hand through her own messy mop.

  The waitress came up with a pad and pen. “What can I get you?”

  “Mocha latte,” said B.K.

  “Whipped cream?” asked the waitress.

  “Lots,” said Cahill.

  “Anything from the bakery?”

  “Well, I already—”

  “We have great muffins.”

  Cahill paused while he admired her muffins. “Sure.”

  “Which would you like? Cranberry’s my favorite.”

  “Cranberry,” Cahill repeated numbly.