Blind Sight

by Terri Persons

  “No thanks.” Bernadette ran her eyes around the galley, a cheerier space than the front room. The cupboards and walls were painted bright white, and the floor was tiled with black and white squares of linoleum. Bunches of dried herbs hung above the sink. Bernadette went over to the plants and examined them, crushing the leaves of one and smelling her gloved fingers.

  “Thyme,” said Ashe.

  “For cleansing?”

  “Cooking. I like to cook.” She motioned toward the full sink with her cigarette. “Doing dishes, not so much.”

  “I can relate to that.” Bernadette unzipped her jacket but kept on her gloves. “The dishes part, not the cooking part.”

  “I have to cook. If it were up to Karl, we’d be living off fried pork rinds and frozen pizza.” The woman fished out a tea bag and dropped it into a cup decorated with a winged monkey from The

  Wizard of Oz and the words DON’T MAKE ME RELEASE THE FLYING

  MONKEYS.

  “You aren’t what I’d call a closeted witch,” said Bernadette, nodding toward the cup.

  Ashe leaned her back against the counter, facing Bernadette. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Some sort of religious persecution. Dare I say it? A witch hunt.”

  “Are there any other Wiccans in the area?”

  “I’m what’s called a solitary practitioner.” She took a puff and tapped the cigarette into a lopsided handmade ashtray on the counter.

  “I thought you had to be in a coven to be a Wiccan, otherwise you’re just a—”

  “Otherwise I’m just a witch.” She gave a dismissive wave. “I’ve heard that before, and it’s nonsense. I honor and revere the earth. I celebrate the changing of the seasons, the phases of the moon, the gods and goddesses.”

  “What about Karl?”

  “He’s a lapsed Catholic. Sort of lapsed. He gets a Christmas tree every year. Goes to church on major holidays.”

  “He’s a CEO, then,” Bernadette said.

  “Huh?” Ashe asked through a haze of smoke.

  “Christmas and Easter Only.”

  She stepped next to Bernadette to drop the butt in the sink and returned to her resting spot opposite the agent. “Is that what you are?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So where did you learn about the Witches Tarot? It’s a specialized deck.”

  “I have a little background,” said Bernadette. “Spent time in Louisiana.”

  Ashe scrutinized Bernadette’s mismatched eyes. “You should let me do a reading for you. You’ve got a yin-and-yang thing going on with the blue and the brown. I think we could have a cool outcome.”

  “I’m not a big believer.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Ashe. “I’m not a charlatan. I can see. Intuit. I have premonitions. All the women in my clan have premonitions. It’s a female thing. Most women are better at watching and listening than men are, don’t you think? This is just an extension of that. I’ll bet you could see stuff if you tried. At least let me read your palm.”

  Bernadette shoved her hands inside her jacket pockets. “I had my palm read in New Orleans. Once is enough.”

  “New Orleans.” The teapot whistled, and Ashe took it off the stove. “There are some powerful sisters down there.”

  “I met a few characters. Witches. Voodoo priestesses. Satanists.” Bernadette paused, waiting for a reaction. “Lots of Satanists.”

  “Takes all sorts.” Ashe dropped a tea bag into her mug and poured water over it.

  “The Wiccans in the area didn’t like the Satanists, and I never quite understood why that was the case.”

  Ashe turned around with the mug in her hand. “An intelligent woman like yourself—someone who recognizes the Witches Tarot and hung out in New Orleans—I’ll bet you could figure out why those two groups don’t always see eye to eye.”

  “I’d like to hear your explanation.”

  Ashe blew on her tea. “Wiccans celebrate pre-Christian deities and do not—I repeat, do not—honor the Christian anti-God. Satanists see the Christian anti-God as a manifestation of their deity. They worship him. They worship the Devil.”

  “But in terms of visible differences—”

  “Let me put it in a way that a nice ex-Catholic girl would understand,” said Ashe, her voice hardening. “Satanists don’t turn the other cheek, okay? There’s no forgive and forget. Some practice black magic with the specific goal of nailing someone who has pissed them off. Their motto is pretty much, ‘Do whatever the hell you want.’ We say, ‘Do whatever you want as long as you don’t hurt someone, including yourself.’ Wiccans don’t try to dominate or control or harm others. The way I see it, we are the opposite of Satanists. The exact fucking opposite. The general, ignorant public thinks we’re the same, and that gives us a bad name. Causes us all sorts of problems.”

  “But you both use the five-pointed star, don’t you?” Bernadette asked evenly.

  Ashe blinked twice and took a sip of tea. “Theirs is inverted.”

  “But—”

  With a toss of her braids, Ashe turned her back on Bernadette and headed into the front room. “Let’s get this interrogation over with. I’ve got work to do.”

  Ashe had apparently decided that she’d said too much. Bernadette followed her out of the kitchen.

  Garcia had pulled one of the folding chairs away from the table and was sitting across from the couch. Ashe took the hint, went over to the couch, and dropped down with her tea in her hand. “Don’t you people need some sort of paperwork? Seriously, should I even be talking to you without a lawyer?”

  Bernadette sat down on the edge of the coffee table and folded her hands in front of her. “This isn’t that big of a deal. We just want to know if you saw anything on New Year’s Eve. Your residence is close to where the body was found.”

  “So are a lot of houses. Lots of people live in and around Paul Bunyan. Go talk to them.” Ashe took a sip of tea and grinned tightly. “Oh, wait. They aren’t a religious minority.”

  Bernadette: “We just want to know if you or Karl saw anything out of the ordinary that day.”

  “Karl was on the plow all night and into the next morning. None of his jobs were anywhere near Paul Bunyan. They were all in town.”

  “What about earlier, before the snow started falling?” asked Garcia.

  “He was busy getting his equipment ready. He was holed up in the garage all day.”

  “What about you?” asked Garcia.

  “I didn’t get outside.” She set down her cup, pulled out another cigarette, and talked as she lit up. “I was in the barn, throwing pots. I have a big show coming up in the spring.”

  “What about the healing touch?” asked Bernadette.

  Ashe released a cloud over the coffee table. “I’ve been cutting back on that, until the show is over.”

  “I understand you’ve been at the hospital offering your ser vices,” said Bernadette.

  “I haven’t been there in months,” said Ashe, fingering her cigarette. “Why do you care about that, anyway? That has nothing to do with being in the woods.”

  Bernadette fished the dead girl’s photo out of her jacket and extended it to Ashe. “Is she familiar?”

  Ashe looked down at the picture without touching it. “So this is the dead kid. Who was she? What was her name?”

  “Recognize her?” Bernadette asked.

  “Nope,” said Ashe.

  Garcia: “Are you sure? Take a good look.”

  “That’s enough,” said Ashe, raising a palm. “You want anything else, I call an attorney.”

  “Are you guilty of anything?” asked Bernadette.

  “No,” Ashe snapped.

  “Then you don’t need a lawyer,” said Bernadette.

  “Talk to us now and we’ll keep it low-key,” said Garcia. “We just have a few more questions. You might have seen something that you don’t even recognize as a clue.”

  “A girl was brutally murdered, a young girl,” sai
d Bernadette. “We could really use your help.”

  “I’m sorry, but I was inside all day. I can’t help.”

  Garcia: “If you’ll just—”

  “No,” said Ashe, bolting up from the couch. “I’m done.”

  Garcia and Bernadette exchanged glances. They both stood.

  Ashe went over to the front door and yanked it open, sending a cold draft rolling into the room. “Hurry up. I’m not paying to heat the outside.”

  As Bernadette followed Garcia out the door, she extended a business card to Ashe. “In case something comes to you.”

  The woman looked at the card for several seconds and finally snatched it out of Bernadette’s hand. “I’ll let you know if I have a vision.”

  The door slammed after the two agents.

  “See anything in the bedrooms?” asked Bernadette as they walked to the truck.

  “Dirty laundry and sheets for curtains,” said Garcia. “Balls of dog hair on the floor. Nice place.”

  Bernadette looked over her shoulder at the paper-covered windows. “She’s hiding something.”

  Ashe peeked through a slit between the papers, watching until the two agents pulled away. As soon as they were out of sight, she left the windows and walked back and forth across the front room. When she got to the Christmas tree, she booted a box of glass balls. The carton slammed against the wall and the ornaments exploded in an eruption of red, green, gold, and silver.

  She turned on her heel, marched into the kitchen, and flicked her cigarette into the sink. She studied the phone sitting on the kitchen counter. What if that male agent had planted bugs in her house while he was alone in the front room? What if they were tapping her landline? Could they tap her cell? She didn’t think so. No wires. Have to have wires to wiretap, right?

  She told herself she was being ridiculous. She locked her hands over the edge of the kitchen counter, closed her eyes, and took a deep, cleansing breath. “I am a stone in an ancient circle … I am a stone in an ancient circle … I am a stone in an ancient circle.”

  She stood straight, zipped up her vest, and went outside. As she jogged to the barn, she muttered a prayer under her breath: “Lady of the moon, lord of the sun, protect me and mine.”

  The dogs gathered around her as she entered. She contemplated letting them outside, in case the agents came back, but that man had a gun and seemed ready to use it. Bastard. She didn’t want to put her precious puppies in harm’s way. Putting her hand on one of the dogs’ heads, she whispered, “Don’t worry.”

  Ashe locked the barn door so that no one could surprise her and extracted her cell phone from her apron pocket. She punched in a number and with a trembling hand lifted the phone to her ear. An answering machine picked up, and she closed the phone with a snap. She couldn’t leave a message. The wrong person might hear it.

  She opened the phone and punched in another number. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she chanted while pacing the length of the barn. She put a hand to her forehead. “Please pick up. Please. Mother Goddess, make someone pick up the fucking phone!”

  Mother Goddess apparently heard. After ten rings, someone answered.

  Her voice cracking, Ashe said into the phone, “We have a problem.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Back on Minnesota 64.

  Garcia’s cell rang. He took it out, flipped it open, and looked at the screen. “Shit.” Putting the phone to his ear, he slipped into his most buttoned-up voice. “Assistant Special Agent in Charge Anthony Garcia.”

  Bernadette watched Garcia’s face. It tightened like an angry fist.

  “Yes, sir,” he said into the phone. “No, no, sir. But you have to understand …”

  A double sir. It was either their bosses in D.C. or Mag Dunton’s office finally returning Garcia’s calls.

  “I realize that, Senator. We’re under direct orders from Washington.”

  It wasn’t Dunton’s people; it was the man himself.

  “Apologize for that, sir. We couldn’t wait… I’m sure it is, but we couldn’t delay starting the investigation.”

  Bernadette could hear Dunton’s raised voice on the other end of the cell. Something about his wife being upset.

  The snow was coming down so heavily, the wipers were pretty much useless. Visibility was about three car lengths and shrinking fast. Garcia looked in his rearview mirror and saw a plow bearing down on them. He hung a right on a logging road, slammed on the brakes, and put the truck in park. Behind them, the plow rumbled past in a cloud of snow.

  Garcia checked his watch. “I’m sorry, but your daughter’s body is already on the way to the Twin Cities … No idea, sir. ME would be able to tell you. These things typically take time … Days, possibly longer. After that, her remains can be released to a funeral home. I suggest you call…”

  More yelling from Dunton. Garcia lowered the phone and shot Bernadette a grim smile. He returned the cell to his ear. From listening to what followed on Garcia’s end, it seemed that Dunton was drilling him about the investigation.

  “Don’t know … Don’t know that either, sir. We need a little more time … No arrests yet, but I’m certain we’ll be able to …”

  Bernadette heard the next four words as clearly as if Dunton had shouted them in her face: “You people are useless!”

  Garcia again took the phone away from his ear. He and Bernadette both stared at the cell in his hand as if it were a hand grenade with the pin pulled. Too bad Garcia couldn’t roll down his window and chuck it into a snowbank.

  Garcia puffed out a breath of air and lifted the cell. Listened. “No one under me has permission to say anything to the press … No, sir. That wasn’t from us.”

  Dunton was blaming them for the information released to the media. At least the girl’s name hadn’t been leaked. Yet.

  “Sir … sir … please. Could we meet in town? If we could have a face-to-face. Where are you and Mrs. Dunton staying? … Uh-huh … I know exactly where that is. I could meet you …”

  Bernadette gave Garcia a weak but encouraging smile.

  “If you could fill me in on the last time she contacted you or anyone else, be it a family member or a friend or … Yes, sir … I also have questions about what she was doing up north in the first place. Who the father might be. Anything, any ideas, any names would … Yes, sir. I can appreciate that, but—”

  Garcia blinked and snapped the cell closed. “Hung up on me.”

  “Why isn’t he helping us instead of fighting with us?” sputtered Bernadette. “Doesn’t he want his daughter’s killer caught?”

  “Not by the FBI. By anybody but the FBI. He’d actually have to admit we could be useful.”

  “We were assigned to this case to make a point, weren’t we?”

  “You just figured that out?”

  “I don’t like being used to make a point. I just want to do my job. Why can’t I just work and do my job without all the bullshit?”

  “Welcome to my world.”

  “I take it they’re up here.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to meet them.”

  “What’s this I stuff?”

  “I’m paid to deal with this crap; you aren’t. Just worry about solving the case.”

  “When’re you seeing them?”

  “Later. We’ve got plenty of time to check out that clinic.”

  She wanted to give Garcia something solid, a good lead to take to his meeting with Dunton. “Let’s try my sight first. How close is Ed’s cabin?”

  “Close enough.”

  Garcia backed over the hump of snow created by the passing plow and steered the truck back onto the highway, heading south. He hung a right onto Minnesota 34. Then it was all county roads.

  While Garcia hiked up the back steps and unlocked the cabin door—he had his own keys to his cousin’s place—Bernadette went around to the back of the truck and grabbed their duffels. Garcia took both bags and led her up the steps.

  They stepped into a tiny mudroom. Garcia kicked off
his boots, and Bernadette did the same. The mudroom opened into a short hallway. She poked her head into the room at the end. A small bedroom. Next was a larger bedroom that faced the lake. Then a bathroom. She clawed some toilet paper off the roll, blew her nose, and followed Garcia into the main living space of the log A-frame.

  The kitchen was open, with an island topped by a range. Beyond the kitchen was the front room and its redbrick fireplace. An open stairway, railed with skinned logs, led to a loft sleeping area. Nice, she thought.

  Bernadette took some newspapers from a stack next to the hearth, bunched them up, and shoved the balls into the fireplace. She topped them with kindling and a log.

  “I turned up the heat,” said Garcia, coming up behind her as she lit the newspaper.

  The cabin’s basement was frigid. They should have kept their outdoor gear on, right down to their boots. A hunk of old gold shag carpet covered the bedroom’s icy concrete floor. The wood-paneled walls were decorated with dead fish, most of them large-mouth bass. She assumed all of them were Ed’s trophies. Their glassy eyes added to the chilly feel of the dank space.

  Bernadette and her boss sat on opposite ends of a sagging sleeper sofa, a plaid piece that took up one wall of the cell. On each side of the couch was a table topped by a lamp, but only the light on Garcia’s end worked. The shade depicted a stream with a buck standing onshore, drinking from the running waters. The shade slowly rotated so that the deer would phase out of view, its rump in a slow retreat. Against the opposite wall was a bed covered with a down spread. In the middle of the wall above the bed’s headboard was an egress window with a ragged blanket tacked over it. The smallest bit of light bordered the edges of the curtain. It was not enough to distract her.

  “This couch is shit,” groused Garcia. He’d sunk so far down into the cushion that his knees were nearly at the same height as his head. “You sure you don’t want to go back upstairs?”

  “This is good.” As she rotated her head, she noticed a hole in the ceiling the size of a fist and wondered what the hell that was about. A failed effort at putting in a ceiling fixture? The space smelled like sweaty men, and she wrinkled her nose. “Who usually sleeps down here?”