Blind Spot

by Brenda Novak

  It’d been highly therapeutic to see the human reality of the man who’d haunted her for so long—and understand that he was just a pitiful, manipulative individual with no love for anyone but himself and no conscience, either. He wasn’t special. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t all that different from the other psychopaths she’d studied. Maybe, like Lyman Bishop, he was smarter.

  She rubbed her temples, trying to ease the pounding behind her eyes, before drawing her mind back to the water. Drink it. You have to drink it. If she didn’t, she could start having contractions. And if she went into labor at only six months …

  Hoping to get her baby to kick, she put a hand to her belly and pressed. She hadn’t noticed any movement since she’d stabbed the muscular behemoth who’d kidnapped her. The thought that the stress of such a long night, waiting on pins and needles for her moment, and the subsequent deluge of adrenaline when that moment arrived might have been too much for her child scared her in a way nothing else could. The grief and the sense of loss she would experience if her baby was stillborn, especially in this godforsaken place, without the proper medical help and without Amarok …

  She blinked rapidly, fighting tears as she frowned at her reflection. Why are you being so stubborn? Do it for your child, she told herself. But if she knew for sure it would help, she would’ve done it already. Problem was she could also throw herself into early labor or lose the baby if she got E. coli or some other bacterial infection.

  Which way would her child have a better chance?

  She squeezed her forehead, trying to decide. She was already experiencing the classic signs of dehydration—the headache, the dry mouth, the dizziness and the sleepiness. There were worse symptoms, ones that affected blood pressure, which were especially risky while pregnant.

  She’d have to drink the toilet water and hope for the best, she decided, and formed her hands into a cup.

  Anchorage, AK—Saturday, 3:30 p.m. AKDT

  Bishop was surprised when he called Emmett’s cell phone and Emmett didn’t pick up. He’d just landed in Anchorage, but he wanted to pretend as though he were having trouble getting out of Minneapolis, so that Emmett wouldn’t be expecting him.

  He left a message saying he wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, to please stay and not leave Evelyn until he could get there. The last thing Lyman needed was for Emmett to decide he’d waited long enough and take off, as he’d threatened, only to return when Lyman was there, expecting his money. That would shift the element of surprise and all the advantage it brought to the other side of the equation.

  Emmett was so much less predictable, so much less tractable, than Terry had been. Lyman worried about that while waiting for the owner of a car he’d rented via a private website to meet him at the airport. He could’ve used one of the big rental car companies—they were more convenient—but he couldn’t take the risk. These days so many of them had GPS trackers. And he couldn’t get in a taxi. He was going to need a vehicle to get groceries and other supplies. He might even need a trunk to dispose of Emmett’s body. Lyman wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d have the strength and coordination necessary to dig a grave, not when he was having trouble walking.

  There had to be someplace on the property to conceal the corpse, however. Possibly under all the chicken shit Emmett had complained about finding when he first rented the place. If it already stunk to high heaven, as Emmett claimed, and the ranch was as remote as it had appeared when Lyman looked it up on Google Earth via the laptop Terry brought to the hospital, he just might get away with it.

  The address Emmett had provided wasn’t difficult to locate. A high chain-link fence enclosed the property, and the gate was padlocked, making it clear the ranch was no longer in business.

  Weeds grew rampant in the small plot of grass and shrubs that had once created a more attractive entrance to the store at the front of the processing plant, and an air of general neglect hovered over everything.

  Lyman drove past without stopping. He liked what he saw. The pictures he’d viewed on the Internet seemed both recent and accurate, but he wanted to take a closer look and he could do that more quietly on foot.

  Once he hid his car down the road, he got the sack of tools and other items he’d bought from the hardware store after he landed and used a pair of bolt cutters to remove the padlock on the front gate.

  As soon as he slipped inside, he could see the blue van in the carport, which came as a relief. Emmett had kept his word. He was still here. Thank goodness!

  There were other things to be grateful for, too. Not only had Emmett found the perfect location, he’d been a plumber at one time, able to see to the necessary adjustments, like making sure the cooler was properly ventilated and had a flushing toilet.

  Bishop hid the bolt cutters in the weeds and avoided the front of the building, where he could be seen through the many windows of the storefront, and walked slowly around to the back.

  Sure enough, Emmett had only one way of getting in or out of the building, just as he’d said. When the chicken ranch went out of business, the owner had boarded up the back door to discourage vagrants from breaking in, and Emmett had said it was unwise to remove those boards, adding that more security was better than less.

  Lyman had to agree, although it did make what he had in mind for Emmett a bit more difficult.

  He decided to find the henhouse where Emmett was keeping the dogs and bang on the walls to rile them up. When Emmett came out to see what was going on, he’d step up behind him and stab him in the back. Then he’d drag his body inside the coop and, when the dogs got hungry enough, maybe they’d take care of the disposal part of the process.

  Done. Easy.

  Except that riling up the dogs didn’t bring Emmett out as expected.

  Was he sleeping? Getting high? What was going on?

  Returning to the plant, Bishop circled slowly and quietly around to the front. Other than making sure anyone standing inside the store couldn’t see him, he hadn’t paid much attention to it. Southwick Family Egg Ranch was painted in cheerful colors on the large front window, but it was dark inside and, Bishop supposed, empty.

  He got the knife out of the bag he carried and set the bag aside. He hoped to determine where Emmett was and what he was doing, but after he got halfway to the store he decided not to go any closer. It was too easy to see out and too difficult to see in.

  After pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he dialed Emmett’s number. He didn’t plan to speak if Emmett answered; he just wanted to wake him so that he would have better luck luring him to the henhouse.

  Except Emmett didn’t pick up.

  Bishop could hear his phone ringing.…

  The weird thing was … the sound was coming from only fifteen feet or so away. How could that be?

  The unanswered call went to Emmett’s voicemail, so Bishop hung up and waited some more. If Emmett was outside and near the store, what was he doing? Was he on to Bishop? Had he heard about Terry and found it suspicious?

  Maybe Emmett was planning to kill Bishop and was waiting and watching.

  No. He would’ve silenced his phone, wouldn’t have let it give him away as it had just done.

  Bishop waited, listening for footsteps or movement, but heard nothing. Finally, he grew so curious he couldn’t stop himself from creeping up to where he’d heard the ring—and nearly stumbled on Emmett, who was lying partly in the weeds and partly on the sidewalk outside the store, staring straight up, in full rigor mortis.

  “Well, well, well!” he said. “What happened here?”

  Emmett had obviously been hurt. There was blood everywhere.

  He knelt to take a look at the wound in his neck. It appeared as though he’d been stabbed. But … by whom?

  Lyman saw no one else, heard no sound except the flies buzzing around the body. The trail of blood that came from the store seemed to tell a story, however. Had Emmett attacked Evelyn—who then retaliated?

  If so, how had she overcome such a
big, strong man?

  Bishop didn’t care that she’d killed Emmett. She’d done him a favor there. But, terrified she’d gotten away, he gripped his chest as his heart began to pound. Damn her! What would he do if she was gone?

  He pushed on the door to the store. It was unlocked.

  A thick layer of dust covered the counters and the shelves, and the sales register had been removed, leaving a gaping hole in the wooden counter where it had been bolted down. He had to wade through the cardboard, busted egg crates, cans, fast-food wrappers and other garbage that littered the floor in order to get to the back, but he had no trouble finding the cooler. A trail of blood led him right to it.

  The strange thing was … it was chained and locked.

  Trying to overcome the panic charging through him, he drew a deep breath and slid the bolt, ready to lift the covering on the slot Emmett had cut into the door.

  Please, be there. Bending, Bishop looked inside.

  * * *

  Evelyn felt a tremendous sense of relief when she heard the slide of the bolt. But that relief was short-lived. She knew her situation hadn’t improved when she scrambled to the door and saw Lyman Bishop’s beady eyes peering in at her.

  “Wow! This is my lucky day, after all,” he said. “I thought you’d escaped.”

  Evelyn wished that were the case. Actually, “wished” wasn’t nearly a strong enough word.

  “Water,” she said simply. Although she’d forced down some toilet water—without getting sick—since she’d last seen Emmett, it wasn’t nearly enough.

  “What did you say?”

  He had to have heard her. He just hadn’t expected such a simple response—a response with no surprise at seeing him, no comment on his ability to get around or think despite the dire predictions after his hemorrhage and no pleading for her freedom.

  Summoning what strength she had left, she raised her voice. “Water! I need water. Now. And some food.”

  He didn’t move. “Emmett wasn’t bringing you anything to eat or drink?”

  “I haven’t seen him”—she swallowed against a dry throat—“for a while. I can’t say for how long. I have no way of reckoning time in here.”

  “I’d have to guess it’s been a day, maybe a day and a half. He’s in full rigor, and that usually goes away after twenty-four hours.”

  “You should know,” she said simply.

  “Know what?”

  A serial killer who’d buried so many victims had to be familiar with rigor mortis. But she let it go. She was too sick to argue.

  “What happened to him?” he asked.

  “No clue,” she lied.

  “That’s interesting.” He disappeared from the slot and she heard movement. When he returned, he showed her the shiv she’d made. “Because no one in the outside world would use this type of weapon.”

  She said nothing at the sight of her bloody shiv, merely slumped against the same wall as the door so he couldn’t see her any longer and closed her eyes. She’d killed the guy who’d kidnapped her.

  Emmett. Bishop had called him Emmett. Until now she hadn’t even known his name! But she was surprised by how little she cared. If she had ahold of that shiv, she’d kill Bishop, too. She’d kill anyone who tried to stop her from getting out of this damn cell.

  “Evelyn?”

  She didn’t bother answering.

  “Hello? Where’d you go?”

  Let him open the door to look. She wasn’t going to make anything easy for him.

  “How’s the baby? Is everything okay there?”

  “She’s going to die without clean water. Is that what you want?” She guessed he did. To most of the dangerous men she’d met, a fetus would be a nuisance at best and a method to inflict maximum pain and torture on her at worst.

  Was that what Bishop had in store? she wondered. Was he planning to cut her baby from her womb and kill the child in front of her, as Jasper would do?

  “Of course that’s not what I want,” he said as though he was shocked she’d even suggest it. “I’m excited about the baby. This might be the only child I ever have.”

  Only child he ever had? What did he mean by that? She had no clue, but she wasn’t about to ask. In this moment, all she cared about was getting something she could trust to drink. “Then get me some fucking water,” she said.

  Hilltop, AK—Saturday, 4:30 p.m. AKDT

  Jasper studied the screen. They weren’t allowed much computer time. The inmates faced stiff competition for such luxuries. Most had to earn it by participating in various studies, which he’d so far refused to do. He wouldn’t permit Evelyn to examine him like some kind of lab rat. The only satisfaction he had left was denying her.

  She pretended she didn’t care that he refused, told him he’d eventually succumb to boredom and crave the benefits badly enough to change his mind.

  Sometimes he worried that she’d turn out to be right. He did require a great deal of stimulation—someone who killed for fun was always searching for some kind of high. There were moments when he wondered if seeking that adrenaline rush was the only reason he’d done what he’d done.

  But he didn’t wonder enough to give in. As long as he had money on his books, he could pay for the privileges he didn’t earn. So far, the women he corresponded with on the outside had taken pretty good care of him. The funds they sent enabled him to live passably well, for a prisoner—better than most, thanks to his notoriety and good looks.

  He clicked away from the Internet to check his e-mail again. He was hoping to receive word from Chastity Sturdevant. She was too young to be able to offer him the resources some of the other women he was involved with could. She’d graduated from high school only two weeks ago, didn’t have a job. But she brought other assets to the table. She was far more attractive than the typical “desperate prison groupie”—hot and young enough that she made the other inmates jealous, which was fun. Jasper enjoyed being admired. That she also lived so close to Minneapolis and could drive to Beacon Point Mental Hospital had just been lucky.

  No new messages. Damn! Where was she? She should’ve been there by now. Was Bishop still at the hospital? And, if not, did she call Sergeant Murphy as he’d told her to do?

  He’d kill her one day if she didn’t.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall of the small prison library. Only five minutes left. If she didn’t check in with him soon, he’d have to wait until he could afford more computer time, which could be several days. There were people who had a cell phone in this prison, but the bribe to be able to use it was much too expensive. He hadn’t realized he would have such a need, so he hadn’t saved for it.

  “Hurry the hell up!” He was speaking to Chastity even though she wasn’t there, but the inmate sitting next to him looked over.

  “You talking to me?”

  “What do you think?” Jasper gave him a withering mind your own business or I’ll tear your throat out glare, and his neighbor made the right decision by returning his attention to his own computer.

  With a sigh, Jasper once again clicked away from his in-box and returned to the Internet. While waiting for some word from Chastity, he’d been searching for anything that might signify Bishop was on the loose—any news of the escape or release of the Zombie Maker, any report of someone claiming to have been attacked by a man wielding an ice pick, any indication that Beth Bishop, Lyman’s sister, had gone missing from her own institution.

  All of those searches came up empty.

  As the rest of his computer time wound down and there was still no word from Chastity, he nearly put his fist through the screen. Damn her! He’d told her to get back to him as soon as possible. What was she waiting for? She could check her e-mail and respond on her phone. Except she had no way of knowing he’d managed to trade a picture of her, as well as her address, for another inmate’s library privileges.

  Racking his brain for some other way to discover if Lyman Bishop was no longer where he was supposed to be, he tried using the
words “convicted cancer researcher,” “ice-pick murderer” and “ice-pick lobotomy” to bring up more information on him.

  Those searches generated so many links he couldn’t get through them all in time, but he checked the dates. They were years or months old.

  A prison guard, a CO by the name of M. Cadiz, signaled that it was time to return to his cell, but Jasper didn’t budge. He stayed where he was and typed in “Beacon Point Mental Hospital.” He hadn’t tried that because it seemed like such a long shot. He knew it would generate all kinds of information on the hospital itself, not necessarily its patients.

  But just as Officer Cadiz started to walk over, he spotted a recent article titled: “Beacon Point Mental Hospital Janitor Dead in Swede Hollow.”

  “Just a sec,” he told the CO, and clicked on it.

  Terry Lovett, a janitor at Beacon Point Mental Hospital, was found dead in his car after driving off Seventh Street into Swede Hollow yesterday afternoon. Four teenage boys were in the park, not far from the scene of the crash. Fortunately, no one else was hurt.

  “It was weird,” said one of the boys, age sixteen. “We were hanging out, talking after school, and suddenly this car comes plunging down the ravine. It crashed about twenty feet from us. We wanted to see if the driver was okay, but we didn’t dare go too close. We thought it might burst into flames.”

  Lovett was found unresponsive behind the wheel and died before reaching the hospital. Initial reports indicate possible suicide. Not only had Lovett been fired from his job earlier in the day, he also was deeply in debt and, according to two different neighbors, he wasn’t getting along with his wife. But his parents and siblings insist he would never take his own life. At their prodding, police have ordered an autopsy to confirm the cause of death.