He lowered the book. “Anna?”
She turned her head away from him and sniffled. “I’m still alive.”
“Stop talking like that.” He walked back to her bed and set the volume on the nightstand. “Where’re Jerry and the boys?”
He was being polite or—more likely—hoping to avoid her husband and kids. “Cafeteria. Sent them to get something to eat. They’re not eating right. Making themselves sick.”
He walked across the room and glanced outside again. He turned away from the window. “Your family loves you.”
“They couldn’t do for me what you did for me. What you did for my girl.”
“They tried.” He put his hands behind his back and returned to her bedside. “They had faith in the system—and it failed them.”
“I saw something on television. The cops aren’t saying much.”
“Don’t worry about the authorities.”
“I’m not worried about the police. No time left to worry about them.” She paused and asked: “Did you cry for him?”
“I cry for all of them. The taking of a life should be done with reverence and sorrow. It shouldn’t be a time for celebration. Proverbs tells us how to behave. ‘Do not rejoice when your enemies fall, and do not let your heart be glad when they stumble, or else the Lord will see it and be displeased, and turn away his anger from them.’”
Hungry for more details, she continued: “His hand. What did you do with it? The river?”
“The woods.”
“Perfect.” She appreciated the way he discarded their parts in the wilderness, so an animal or a fish could eat them. She found it satisfying to imagine crows or carp picking at sinners’ body parts. A fitting end to their flesh. Biblical and feral at the same time.
As if he’d read her mind, he launched into the Lord’s message to Pharaoh as quoted in the book of Ezekiel. “‘I will throw you on the ground, on the open field I will fling you, and will cause all the birds of the air to settle on you, and I will let the wild animals of the whole earth gorge themselves with you. I will strew your flesh on the mountains, and fill the valleys with your carcass. I will drench the land with your flowing blood up to the mountains, and the watercourses will be filled with you.’”
“Lovely,” she murmured.
He smiled. “One of my favorites, too.”
She posed the one question she had to ask. She’d lain restless all day in her hospital bed, imagining the possible answers. “Did he suffer?”
“Yes.” Then he added: “Terribly.”
His response sent a rush of warmth through her body. She felt the corners of her mouth turn up. How could she not rejoice when this enemy fell? How could her heart refrain from gladness? She gushed: “Thank you for doing it for me.”
“I did it for all of us.”
“What about Chris? Will you do it for her?”
“I’m meeting with her later tonight, after her shift.”
“She’s a decent person,” said Anna. “You’ll want to help.”
“Tell me more about her.”
Anna thought about it for a moment and said: “Let her tell you.”
“So be it,” he said. “Is there anything else you need or want?”
“Yes.” She weighed how to make her next request. By asking, she was admitting she had doubts about the righteousness of his mission. She decided to say one word: “Penance.”
She found his reaction quick and artificially cheerful: “Go see your parish priest when you get out. Who’ve they got over there now? Father Timothy, right? He’s a good guy.”
“Stop it. You know I’m never leaving this place.” She blinked back tears. “We’re both going to fry.”
He scanned the top of the nightstand, spotted a box of tissues, grabbed it, and dipped his hand into the slot at the top. Empty. He tossed it back on the stand. He patted his blazer pockets, pulled out a handkerchief, and held it out to her. “I told you not to worry about the law.”
“I’m not afraid of the cops.” She reached up and slipped the square of cotton out of his hands. “I’m worried about my soul. Both our souls.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I need to be sure. Have to have a clean slate before I…” She covered her mouth with the kerchief to stifle a sob. Her hands fell back on the covers with the hankie locked in one fist and the rosary in the other.
They both heard a rolling cart clattering outside. She watched him eyeing the door. As the racket drew closer, the muscles in his neck and jaw tightened. The clatter continued down the hallway, and he relaxed. My hero and my coward. You’re afraid someone will walk in on us. Find us out.
He turned his attention back to her. “Sometimes it’s difficult to figure out why these things happen, but they do. Medicine has its limits. We need to know when to surrender quietly and leave it in God’s hands.”
Now he was babbling, falling back on his store of comforting clichés. She’d have none of it. “A priest to hear my sins. I have to tell a priest.”
“Save your breath. Preserve your strength.”
“I can’t die with a mortal sin on my soul. I’ll never see my daughter again.”
The authoritative voice changed. His next words were spoken in something between a pleading whisper and a low growl. “Anna. Please. Be reasonable. Confess to the wrong man and he could turn us in. Ruin everything.”
She wasn’t going to give in. “If you don’t call one for me, Jerry will. I need a priest tonight, before it gets late.”
He glanced at the wall clock hanging over her bed. “It’s already late.” His eyes moved to the erasable board next to the clock. Today is Saturday. “And it’s the weekend.” He folded his hands together and rested them on the edge of the bed. “I’ll pray with you, Anna. How about that? Let’s both of us pray.” He closed his eyes and bent his head down.
She coughed as she made the sign of the cross. The rosary rattled in her fingers as the breath rattled in her lungs. Anna Fontaine thought to herself: All this for my daughter, and now I’m never going to be with her.
Nine
Bernadette got up off her knees and sat on the bench. Staring straight ahead at the candles flickering at the front of the church, she inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. In and out. In and out. In. Out. The breathing exercise reminded Bernadette that she—and not the object she would hold—was in control of her body, in control of her senses. She was the driver; the thing in her hand would be along for the ride. She would take in the sights and decide when she’d had enough, seen enough. She’d stop the ride by letting go of the object. Then came the hard work of processing what she’d observed, dissecting the killer’s actions. Though her unearthly curse of sight brought her the visions, she relied on her grounded talents and training to help her analyze what she saw.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the bag. Through the clear plastic, she studied the white-gold band with eleven tiny diamonds. Pinkie rings used to be reserved for flashy guys, but single women had started wearing a particular kind. They were called “Ah rings.” The bands could be worn on either pinkie. She’d seen pictures of the jewelry on television and in women’s magazines. Celebrity women—actresses and rock stars—stacked them on their fingers. Most men were clueless about the fashion trend, but she’d recognized the ring immediately when the ME guy at the park showed her the hand. She tipped the bag and held it at different angles until she could see the engraving inside the ring. There it was. “AH.” She frowned as she tried to remember what the initials stood for. “Available and happy,” she muttered. The rings were meant to celebrate a woman’s contentment with the single life. She brought her free hand to her chest and felt for the bands under her sweatshirt. The rings were her widow’s jewelry, her dead husband’s wedding band and her own worn on a gold chain that never left her neck. “Available and miserable,” she said in a low voice.
She opened the bag and took a breath, bracing herself as she tipped the ri
ng into her right palm. She curled her hand around the band and closed her eyes. Imagining she could sense every single one of the diamonds, she started ticking the jewels off in her head. One, two, three…
The diamond count stopped scrolling through her mind, abruptly replaced by a picture. She inhaled sharply and involuntarily, like a swimmer jumping into a lake. She shuddered. A cold, cold lake.
The gender and race of the killer are clear. He’s looking down at his own hands, folded in front of him. The large white mitts are covered with black hair. She sees blue trousers on his legs, and a blazer over a dark shirt. Not much of a description, but better than nothing. He raises his head and his eyes. He’s standing inches from a door. It’s oversized, and there’s a line slicing down the middle. The two halves part; it’s an elevator. He’s exiting, hanging a left and heading down a long, dim hallway. The corridor walls are lined with large rectangles—framed paintings or photos—but she can’t make out the details of the art. He’s moving so quickly the passing pictures are smears of color against the walls.
He stops at a door. Is this an apartment? Maybe not; she can’t see a number. He raises his fist to knock. Lowers his hand. He turns his head to one side and sidles up to the door. He’s eavesdropping. What is he listening to? He raises his hand again and pushes the door open. Peeks inside. What’s this place? She can’t tell immediately; it’s too dark, and everything’s too far away to make out. He enters and runs his eyes around. This is not an apartment; it is a tiny room. In the middle of the cell is a white island. A bed. He walks up to it, slowly. There’s a woman under the covers. Long blond hair fans out against the pillow. Her face is a pale oval. Can’t see her eyes; they’re half shut. He leans closer and reaches for her face—an intimate gesture—and then pulls his hand away. Perhaps he doesn’t want to wake her. Her eyes snap open anyway. They’re green. Emeralds dotting the white skin. Bernadette finds it impossible to make out any other facial features.
He glances around the room, his eyes landing on an orange chair in a far corner. He walks around the end of the bed and picks up the chair. It’s weird, this chair. Ugly and institutional. Behind the pumpkin chair is an expanse of pumpkin drapery, and beneath the drapery is a windowsill littered with squares and rectangles. Books? Photos? Greeting cards? He carries the chair to the bed and sits down.
He reaches toward a piece of furniture parked next to the bed. A small chest of drawers? Doesn’t look like normal bedroom stuff. He retrieves something off the top of the chest. A cup and a spoon. He scoops something out of the cup and holds it out to her. No takers. He’s dropping the spoon inside the cup and putting them back.
His eyes travel back to the woman. Her body. Something resting on her bed. Beads almost as green as her eyes. A necklace? A gift from him? An open book next to the necklace. He’s lifting something out of the crack of the book. A bookmark? He sets the object on the chest. What’s wrong with that damn chest? Other shapes behind it. Against the wall. Something glowing. What is all that? Electronics of some kind. His eyes go back to the bed. He’s picking up the book and looking at it. Printed words. What are the words? Too small to see. Too dim in the room.
He’s standing up with the book and carrying it across the room to the window. He’s got the book in one hand while the other is reaching for the drapery cord. The curtains open, and he looks outside. Good boy. What’s outside? Where is he? He’s looking down. The room is up a few stories. Not too high. Where? When? Dark outside, but there are lights. Streetlights. Traffic lights. Office buildings shining with interior lights. A neon sign. FREE PARKING. There’s more to the sign. Part of it is obscured by a low structure in front of the building boasting FREE PARKING. Where is parking a premium? He’s in a city. Which city? Minneapolis? Right here in St. Paul? The killer could be anywhere by now. A city outside the state. The area he sees is unfamiliar to her. No distinctive landmarks. His eyes look up and go to the right of FREE PARKING. Two columns. Skyscrapers? No. Too narrow. Monuments?
He’s turning away from the window. Bringing the book closer to his eyes. Most of the print is still too small to read. The title or chapter printed at the top of the page is big enough to make out. Numbers. What book has that? Is it some sort of reference book?
He closes the book. Walking back to her. Setting the book on the chest. He’s walking back to the window. Looking outside. Pivots away from the window. Walking back to the bed. He looks down at his girlfriend. She’s speaking. She stops. Probably listening to him yammer. Her mouth is moving again. Something’s going on. He’s looking at the chest top. Picks up something. A box. Sets it down. He’s searching for something. Feeling his clothing. Pulls out something white. Gotta be a kerchief or a scarf. She takes it.
He’s looking across the room, against the wall opposite the window. A closed door. Maybe there’s someone knocking. He stares back at the white oval draped in blond. Now he’s looking above her. The wall behind the bed. Is there a mirror? Please, God, let there be a mirror over the bed. A clock. What time is it, lover boy? The numbers are impossible to read. Must be Roman numerals. The “I”s and “V”s and “X”s all running together. The position of the hands. Eight o’clock? No. Nine o’clock. He’s reading something else on the wall. Large words scrawled on a white board. Today is Saturday.
Bernadette gasped and reflexively opened her hand. The image washed away. She opened her eyes, lifted her wrist, and checked her watch. Nine o’clock. Nine o’clock on a Saturday. She used the bag to shield her hand while she retrieved the ring from the bench seat. She crammed the bagged jewelry in her pocket, jumped out of her seat, cut through the pew, and flew out of the church. She jogged down the church steps and ran down the block, pulling on her leather gloves as she went.
Her vision was operating in real time. If she got to her car and drove around town, maybe she’d luck out. See the towers somewhere around the Twin Cities. She stopped at a crosswalk and at that instant realized how wiped out she felt. This had been a tough one. She leaned a hand against a light post. Rising up in her gut were the killer’s emotions, a weird combination of satisfaction tempered by something else. Fear? No. Fear was too strong. Concern. He’s worried, but only a little. The satisfaction was the predominant sensation, and having that smug feeling coming from a murderer sickened her. She pushed the emotions down and caught her breath while she waited impatiently for the light to change. Cars and trucks zoomed by on the nighttime street in front of her. She smelled charred meat again. She looked across the street at the restaurant emitting the aroma. MICKEY’S DINING CAR, read the neon sign mounted on the roof of the diner. Above that, also in neon: FREE PARKING. A chill crawled up her spine, along with a realization. The killer hadn’t been seeing a pair of monuments when he’d glanced outside. She looked back over her shoulder at the building she’d just visited. There they were, rising up on each side of the church. Twin steeples.
Ten
When the light changed, Bernadette ran across the road to Mickey’s Dining Car. She turned and stood on the corner with her back to the restaurant. Where in the hell was she downtown? She got her bearings. Mickey’s was on Seventh Street at St. Peter Street. From which building was he looking at the diner’s sign? From which window? He was up a few floors. She looked to her right and saw the Minnesota Children’s Museum on the other side of St. Peter Street. No. That would have given him a side view of FREE PARKING.
Kitty-corner from the diner was the Ramsey County Juvenile Service Center. A county building would have a lot of ugly institutional furniture. Orange upholstery would fit right in. She considered whether the killer could be young. The murderer’s hands were large, so he would have to be a big teenager. She prayed it wasn’t a kid. At the same time, she had to admit it was an interesting possibility. Archer had pissed off a lot of kids; one could have come after him and then, for some reason or another, ended up at the juvenile center. Not all of what she’d seen through the killer’s eyes made sense with that disturbing scenario, however. What would a woma
n be doing in bed at a kids’ detention center? Was the woman a teenage girl? The corrections staff wouldn’t let a male be alone with a female in her bedroom—not unless there was some hanky-panky going on. What was that reference book about, then? Was it a kid’s math book? She’d check out the view from the juvenile center.
Making a diagonal dash across the intersection, Bernadette narrowly missed getting slammed by a Suburban. The driver laid on the horn. She stood on the corner and looked at the diner, then turned and looked behind her at the windows dotting the detention center. The angle wasn’t right; he’d been looking at the sign from up high, but facing straight ahead.
The single-story buildings on West Seventh, directly across the street from the diner, were too low. What was behind them on St. Peter? The traffic was heavy again. She waited until she had a green light and crossed back. Bernadette ran down the sidewalk along St. Peter, passing a check-cashing joint, an empty storefront, a Thai restaurant, and a surface parking lot.
There it was, across from the parking lot. A hospital. The woman in bed had been a patient. That explained the institutional furniture. She remembered the cleanness of the cut to the judge’s wrist. Had the amputation been performed by a surgeon or someone else with access to surgical tools? That book or chapter he was reading—Numbers—could have been some sort of medical reference, something related to patients’ stats. What about the gesture, reaching out to touch her? Maybe he was a medical professional screwing around with a patient.
She crossed against the light. What street was she on now? She figured it should be Eighth. She checked the street sign. Of course it wasn’t Eighth. That would make sense, and the streets in St. Paul never made sense. This was Exchange Street. She ran up to the hospital’s front entrance in the middle of the block. As she faced the building, she tipped her head back and took in the full height of the building. She counted five floors. Which one was he on? She thought about calling Garcia and asking for help. Too early, she thought. Could turn into a wild-goose chase. She’d go inside, where there were fewer distractions, try to find a quiet corner, and take another peek through the killer’s eyes before she went running up and down hospital hallways.
Blind Spot Page 6
