“Where does that Brule murder fit in? Where do the witches fit in?” continued Bernadette, staring into the blaze.
Behind her, Garcia closed the laptop. “My head hurts.”
They were both famished, and agreed to save the rest of the discussion until after dinner hit the table. While she peeled the potatoes, Garcia pulled on a stocking cap. “You’re going to freeze your ass off,” she said. “Why don’t we cook them inside?”
“Because Tony wants to grill,” he said petulantly, and went outside.
As she stood at the island stovetop adjusting the heat under the potatoes, she watched Garcia through the windows. Standing on the porch that ran across the lake side of the cabin, he was hunched over an old Weber. He finally got the coals going just as she got the water boiling. He covered the grill and came inside to warm up and watch her poke at the potatoes.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I like my steak?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you exactly how you like it: burned on the outside and raw on the inside.”
While he went outside to flip the burning steaks, Bernadette mashed the potatoes and lugged the kettle over to the table. He came in with a platter of black T-bones, blood swimming beneath them. “God, those look wonderful,” she said. She dropped down onto a chair and started scooping mashed potatoes onto their plates.
Garcia sat down across from her, stabbed the smallest steak, and deposited it on her plate. Took the biggest for himself. There was one left. They both stared at it. “Arm-wrestle you for it,” he said.
“Let’s see how I do with this,” she said, and started cutting into her meat.
They sawed and chewed and made happy sounds for several minutes. Garcia dragged a napkin across his mouth. “You want to go first or should I?”
“You go,” she said.
Picking up his steak knife, he resumed his hacking at the T-bone while raising the big question that he couldn’t ask with Cahill in the truck. “Do you realize where your sight is taking this investigation, Cat? You’re implying that someone who was in that house last night, a member of the senator’s entourage or a visitor—”
“I’m not implying shit—I’m saying that flat out,” she said, pointing a fork at him. “Someone in that house killed his daughter and stole her baby. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to see Rathers and that trophy room. You know how it works. I see through the eyes of murderers, not… pizza-delivery guys.”
“Is that same person the blackmailer?”
“If the killer isn’t the actual blackmailer, they have something to do with each other. They’re working in tandem.”
“So who was there last night?” Garcia asked.
“Rathers said the Duntons were there last night—and he was there, obviously. The maid was gone …”
“What about those two goons Dunton tried to send after Cahill?”
“They were there last night,” said Bernadette.
“What do you think of those two? Do you like them for the killings?”
“I like them for their sheer size,” said Bernadette, dipping a wedge of meat into a puddle of A1. “They would have been fully capable of handling a little girl and a lady witch.”
“You think one of them tried to break in to your hotel room in Brule? What about the guy who attacked you?”
“I didn’t get a good look at the motel guy. The guy in the woods sounded big, and either one of them would fit the bill.” She popped some meat into her mouth and chewed.
“What about the baby?” asked Garcia. “Who was feeding the baby last night, in your vision?”
“Rathers said both goons were at the house last night, so—”
“So if Dunton’s drivers are involved—”
“Someone is helping them, watching the baby while they’re out and about.”
“A third maniac we need to worry about,” said Garcia. “Great.”
“If the thugs are responsible, they were acting pretty cool.” She took a sip of water. “You’d think they’d be sweating a little. Here they are, standing around the parents of the kid they killed. The grandparents of the baby they’re holding. In walks the FBI agent that one of them bonked on the head.”
“Good actors?” offered Garcia.
“No, those guys didn’t look smart enough to pull it off, especially if the blackmail has been going on for years. There was someone else in that house last night, and I was seeing through his or her eyes.” She dabbed her mouth and threw down her napkin. “Why don’t they just tell us about the blackmailer? They must know their daughter’s death is connected to the extortion.”
“Whatever is being held over their heads, it’s got to be enormous.” He rifled a hunk of meat into his mouth. Chewed and swallowed. “We should get some answers when we crash the party tonight. Sounds like half the county is going to be there.”
“The OB. Did I tell you that? Graham wasn’t lying. Bossard is a member of the coven. Nurse Martini, too.”
He lowered his utensils and blinked. “Isn’t she the one who pointed you to Ashe in the first place?”
“She was one of the coven members Jordan called before she was killed.”
“I’m still wondering about Dunton’s crack regarding the witches,” he said, and stabbed the third steak with his fork. “You want some of this?”
“No way. I’m full.” She pushed her chair back and crossed one leg over the other. Thought about it. “Say the witches are the extortionists. If Dunton wants the fact that he’s being blackmailed kept quiet, why would he have blurted out stuff about us investigating them? Why would he encourage us to go after them?”
“He wouldn’t.” Garcia stared at the T-bone he’d dropped onto his plate as if facing an uphill climb. Took a deep breath and started cutting into it.
“Whether they’re really involved or not, how would he know that we’re checking into them? Do you suppose someone let it slip while Dunton or his people were calling around trying to get the body released? They were bugging Wharten, the coroner, the ME.”
“Maybe that’s how they found out,” said Garcia.
Garcia’s cell rang while they were cleaning up. He picked it up and examined the screen. Answered it. “Yeah, Seth … really?” Garcia checked his watch. “That late? You sure? Okay. You’re the expert. You still know where? … Wait, wait, wait. You lost me already. We’ll stick with the original plan and all meet up and head in together … Good … Let me flag my people.” Garcia hung up and punched a number in his cell.
“What’s up?” asked Bernadette.
Garcia held up his hand while he talked into his phone. “Cahill, I’m gonna let you be my point man on this.”
Bernadette smiled to herself. B.K. was going to enjoy being Garcia’s anything.
“Tell the rest of the crew we’ve had a change of plans. Seth … Sheriff Wharten thinks the witches aren’t getting together until midnight. Still in the woods. North section of Paul Bunyan. We’ll meet up with Seth and his men in Walker a half hour beforehand, and we’ll all go in together. Otherwise we’ll never find it—I don’t know north unit the way I know south. Got it? Good. Spread the word. See you there.”
As soon as Garcia hung up, Bernadette asked, “How does Wharten know so much about the witches and their meeting?”
“Ashe’s boyfriend.”
“Karl Vizner?”
“He’s still a wreck and isn’t talking to our people, but Seth has been getting some information out of the guy. A lot of it Seth already knows. He knew this full-moon thing was coming up. It’s one of their regular ceremonies. Vizner was able to tell him where the backup worship space is located, being that their main outdoor worship space was desecrated by the pig fetus, and by the presence of a bunch of FBI agents.”
“I wonder which they found more odious,” she said.
Garcia opened his mouth to offer an opinion, and his phone rang again.
“You’re a busy man,” said Bernadette, loading the dishwasher.
Garc
ia picked up his cell and checked the screen. “This should be good.”
She closed the dishwasher and leaned a hand against the counter to listen.
Garcia: “Yeah, Doc. What’s the skinny? Got anything yet? The senator has been asking about the release of her body.”
The Ramsey County Medical Examiner with some autopsy results.
“Are you certain?” Garcia stood at the island and pulled a note pad toward him. Started taking frantic notes. “Damn. That is … yeah … wow. Anything else to back that up? Uh-huh … It sure as shit does.”
Bernadette was dying to know what the ME had found.
Garcia turned to a fresh page. Continued writing. “Yeah … yeah. What makes you think that?”
She craned her neck in an attempt to read what he was writing, but she couldn’t decipher most of his scribbles.
“A what?” asked Garcia, pausing in his writing. “A low-segment transverse incision? What does that mean, exactly? … Uh-huh. Interesting.”
Bernadette looked at his notes. One word was legible, but it was enough to get her heart racing:
Scalpel.
Garcia asked the ME the same questions she would have asked: “Doc, could someone other than an OB have done this? What about an ER doc or a nurse or—”
“A midwife,” she whispered.
“Or a midwife?” Garcia listened and scribbled some more.
Bernadette was dancing around Garcia, trying to read his notes.
“Uh-huh … No, that’s fine … I wasn’t expecting any guarantees,” Garcia said into the phone. “Why would someone use that procedure instead of going with the single incision, especially if they’re trying to misdirect us? Yeah, I completely get what you’re saying. That makes perfect sense. Yeah, yeah … Thanks, Doc.”
As soon as Garcia closed his phone, Bernadette jumped on him. “Tell me.”
“ME said we shouldn’t assume the slice job was done by an amateur,” said Garcia. “In other words, it might have looked like a mess, but it wasn’t.”
“What do you mean? Whoever did it cut through the navel, for Christ’s sake. That sounds like the definition of amateur.”
“That could have been an effort to throw us off.”
“Keep talking.”
“For starters, it was done with a sharp tool. Possibly a scalpel. Possibly.”
“That isn’t enough to convince me. Homicidal maniacs have sharp tools. What else did he say?”
“I’m probably screwing this up, losing something in the translation,” said Garcia.
“Basically …”
“Basically, he said a true amateur would have done a vertical incision on the skin, all the way through to the uterus.”
“That’s not what was done?”
“No. Not exactly. This is where I might screw it up, so bear with me.” He looked at his notes. “What was done was a vertical incision on the skin, and then a low-segment transverse incision into the uterus.”
“How is that different?”
“In order to do this low-segment transverse incision thing, the bladder has to be pushed down so it isn’t cut.” He looked at his notes again. “This is done by cutting a transverse incision in the serosa and pushing it down by blunt—meaning fingers—and sharp—meaning scissors—dissection.”
“What is a serosa?”
“It’s the outer lining”—he flipped to the second page—“of the organs and body cavities of the abdomen. It’s a membrane.”
“So the bottom line is it was done by an OB?”
“He wouldn’t say that with a hundred percent certainty. It could be someone who has seen the procedure done, been in an operating room for it.”
“An ER doc? A nurse?”
“Only if he or she has OB experience, and that’s pushing it.”
“Midwife?”
“Not likely. But again, depends upon her experience.”
“Why would someone who wants to throw us off use a procedure that points to a professional?”
“You heard me—that’s what I asked,” said Garcia. “ME thinks it’s someone for whom the procedure is completely automatic. They’ve done it a million times. It’s like breathing. Even if they start sloppy, cutting through the navel and all, they have to do it right once they get inside the mother.”
“Couldn’t it also be someone who has carefully memorized the procedure and doesn’t know how to safely deliver a baby any other way?”
“Works for me. Take your pick.”
“I didn’t see anything in the Brule murder file about a low-segment whatever. Gotta put my hands on a more detailed autopsy report.”
“They’ve gotta be related,” he said.
As Bernadette walked back and forth across the kitchen floor, she felt as if an electric current were running through her body. “Lots of questions. So many questions.”
“Like I said, we could get the answers at the witches’ deal tonight. I say we stick with the plan. Drop in unannounced for some toad soup. Rattle our sabers and scare the hell out of them.”
“What’s this ceremony called again?”
“It’s some sort of ritual celebrating the full moon.” Garcia rubbed his chin. “What did Seth call it? The Lestat rite?”
“Lestat is a character in a vampire novel. He’s pretty cool, but I doubt they built a whole rite around him.”
“Maybe it was Esbat. Yeah. The Esbat rite.”
Night had fallen hours ago. She stepped over to the windows facing the lake and looked out. The sky was clear. The moon looked as white and round as a snowball. “Good night for an Esbat rite, I’d say.”
Garcia looked down at his sweatpants and sweatshirt. “What do you wear to an Esbat rite?”
She turned away from the window. “I don’t know. Black jeans?”
“What do you think we’re going to see there?”
She chewed her bottom lip. “I know what I don’t want to see.”
“Seth insists that his witches—”
“His witches,” she repeated, shaking her head in dry amusement.
“He says they aren’t into animal sacrifice, human sacrifice, ritual abuse. None of that. If he thought that was going on, he’d be all over them. He knows where they all live, Cat, and they know he knows.”
“We’ve already talked about the possibility there’s a renegade,” she said. “I’m really worried about that little baby. Whether it’s being watched by a coven of blackmailing witches, or a couple of greedy kidnappers, we’ve got to get to it.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we have some time. We should go upstairs and give it another go.”
His face darkened. “I don’t need you going blind right before the big dance.”
“The instant I have trouble, I’ll pull out. I swear.”
“I heard that tune before.”
Bernadette started moving around the cabin, shutting off lights. “I’m going to win this one, Anthony.”
“No, you’re not.”
She started for the loft. “I’m not listening.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Benjamin Rathers wished he’d listened.
As he clomped around the frozen shores of Walker Bay in a set of borrowed snowshoes with a borrowed headlamp strapped to his head, he wished to God that he’d listened to his statistics teacher, and that he’d taken Uncle Joe up on his generous offer.
In high school, Rathers had displayed a talent for numbers—especially statistics—and his instructor had encouraged him to pursue a career as an actuary. His uncle Joe, a senior assistant actuary for an automobile-insurance company, had offered to find him a position, provided he attended college and passed the Society of Actuaries exam.
Looking for excitement beyond an insurance-company cubicle, Rathers had instead chased a degree in journalism at the University of Minnesota. He’d gotten on with a law journal. That had led to political contacts, and that had led to a mid-level job with the senator’s office in Minnesota. M
id-level in Minnesota morphed into high-level in Washington, and in no time at all he was chief of staff for Mad Maggie.
It wasn’t until after Rathers took the top job that he fully grasped how Dunton had earned his nickname. Outsiders thought the senator was called “mad” because he was so angry, constantly railing against his own government and its agencies. The denizens of Dunton’s innermost circle knew that the noun was more applicable than the adjective: Magnus Dunton was not so much a mad man as a madman.
Rathers should have known better than to share with Dunton his suspicions that the FBI had the house under surveillance. The news sent the senator into a tailspin of paranoia. A meeting that had been scheduled for later that evening was deemed out of the question because the FBI was watching. Canceling the meeting via phone wasn’t possible because the FBI was listening. Dunton didn’t want anyone driving to the individual’s home to deliver the cancellation notice because the FBI would follow the car once it left the gated community. The black helicopters had not only landed but were minutes away from disgorging an army of black-suited men. Come morning, Dunton and everyone he’d ever met would be eating off cafeteria trays and standing in line to use the urinals at Gitmo.
The only person remotely capable of calling Dunton off the ledge—Mrs. Mad Maggie—was curled up in her bed with her loyal and ever-present companion, Prince Valium.
End result: Rathers was ordered to sneak out back like a criminal, schlep around the lake, and knock on the person’s door to deliver a sealed envelope.
Rathers had no idea why this particular constituent was so important. He’d only met the individual the night before. “A personal matter,” Mad Maggie had said that evening, and chased everyone else out so that he could be alone with the visitor. More cloak-and-dagger crap. Dunton attracted other black-helicopter enthusiasts, and they were always coming to his office with cardboard boxes. Evidence of government malfeasance. Plots within plots. Corruption at the highest levels.
Marybeth had been after him to quit the job, and this messenger-pigeon assignment convinced Rathers that his wife was right. Spending his workdays in a warm cubicle, pricing auto insurance in the southeastern United States, was preferable to crunching through the woods in snowshoes with a sealed envelope stuffed inside his jacket.
Blind Sight Page 24
