Blind Spot

by Terri Persons

  They coordinated each other’s viewing as well. One fall evening in their junior year of high school, Maddy was in the back seat of a Buick with a football player and Bernadette was in a neighbor boy’s bed. The girls had exchanged class rings with each other and, at a predetermined hour, slipped the rings out of their pockets for a wild night.

  Bernadette and Maddy never told anyone how far they’d taken their ability to share.

  That ability changed permanently senior year, on a rainy Saturday in the spring. The girls’ father had ordered parts for the John Deere. That afternoon, Maddy took the call from the dealer; the brake pads had arrived.

  Maddy banged on the bathroom door. “Where’re Mom and Dad?”

  Bernadette on the other side of the door: “Left for four o’clock mass.”

  “Tractor junk’s in. Wanna go with to pick it up?”

  “Give me a minute to rinse.” Bernadette was in the tub, shaving her legs and ripping the hell out of them. Maddy was better at the female stuff.

  “They’re getting ready to close.”

  “Wait!” Any excuse to go into town was a good one. Bernadette hopped out of the tub and grabbed a towel, but it was too late. She heard the front door slam and the station wagon skid out of the driveway.

  Bernadette stepped back into the tub and turned on the shower. When she reached for the shampoo in one corner, she noticed that Maddy had forgotten her soapy class ring on the ledge. Bernadette picked up the ring, cupped it in her hand, and held it under the stream. The spray in front of her eyes vanished, replaced by a wall of chrome and metal. Bernadette screamed into the water.

  The instant before impact, Maddy felt her sister watching the same horror she saw through the windshield. She bucked off her sister’s sight. Maddy didn’t know her twin was so determined to be with her that Bernadette’s vision had to go somewhere—and it landed inside the eyes of the drunken driver. Maddy saved her sister from one gruesome view only to exchange it for another. Bernadette watched from behind the wheel of the truck that killed her sister.

  The days after Maddy’s death were a fog for the family, and Bernadette’s parents either failed to notice the change in their surviving daughter’s face, or didn’t care. Bernadette herself couldn’t have explained how it happened or why, but she knew when. The instant she stepped out of the shower that terrible afternoon, she saw the transformation in the bathroom mirror. She considered the blue left eye her sister’s farewell.

  It was at Maddy’s wake that Bernadette realized her ability to see through the eyes of killers could be permanent.

  Helena Smith, a family friend from two farms over, stepped in front of the mourning family and dropped a piece of jewelry into Bernadette’s palm. “For good luck,” she whispered, and moved on. Bernadette looked down and saw a Mother’s Day bracelet. Each charm—shaped like a girl or a boy with a birthstone for a head—represented a child. Bernadette counted eight figures. The newest baby—born only days earlier—hadn’t yet been added. Why would Smith give away something so precious?

  Bernadette closed her hand around the bracelet, and everything in front of her eyes vanished: the flowers, the crowd, and her own fist wrapped around the jewelry. She saw someone else’s hands pressing a pillow into a bassinet. Around the right wrist was a bracelet—the bracelet that had just been dropped into her own hand.

  A few days later, another wake was held at the funeral home. The Smiths’ infant had been found dead in its bassinet by its father while Helena was at Maddy’s wake. Doctors said it was SIDS. Bernadette didn’t tell anyone what she had seen, and she was careful not to touch the bracelet with her bare hands when she buried it in the backyard.

  Another bad call Bernadette couldn’t acknowledge: taking a job with the FBI.

  She’d thought she could handle using her sight for the work if she was discreet. During her entire journey on the way to becoming an agent—from the moment she enrolled in criminal-justice classes at Bemidji State in northwestern Minnesota to the day she graduated from the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia—she kept her curse of sight a secret. She figured she had no choice. The bureau’s Web site, deriding television’s portrayal of profilers, said it all:

  FBI Special Agents don’t get vibes or experience psychic flashes while walking around fresh crime scenes. It is an exciting world of investigation and research—a world of inductive and deductive reasoning; crime-solving experience; and knowledge of criminal behavior, facts, and statistical probabilities.

  Bernadette wouldn’t have described her ability as psychic, but it sure as hell wasn’t something they sanctioned at Quantico. She waited until she passed her two-year probation with the bureau before she used her sight to solve murder cases. Even after that, she didn’t tell anyone about it—not even Michael.

  Her bosses usually figured out there was something going on and had the good sense to shut up about it. Even when she was solving cases, her superiors didn’t want to know how the sight worked. When she went chasing in the wrong direction or led the bureau to pick up the wrong guy, they wanted to know even less.

  She’d get transferred, and when she arrived at her new assignment in a new city, she’d get the stares. She’d go to a crime scene and the local cops would have already latched onto a string of rumors and exaggerations, outrageous accounts of crimes she’d supposedly solved or screwed up with supernatural talents. In Louisiana, one fable had her walking the cemeteries at night, consulting with murder victims. She pictured herself sitting on a headstone, taking notes: Did you get a good look at the man who killed you? Any distinguishing marks or characteristics?

  She’d hoped to work her way into Behavioral Sciences, but it became clear she would never be allowed anywhere near the prestigious unit. They could have tolerated an agent who was odd; Behavioral was filled with them. Bernadette was worse than that. She was strange and inconsistent.

  The inconsistencies frustrated even her. Once she’d started seeing through killers’ eyes, Bernadette’s sight became cloudy and filmy—akin to peering through a soaped-up window. It might work in real time, or show recent history. She could witness the killing itself, or inconsequential scenes from the murderer’s life. If she landed in the killer’s eyes during his nightmares, she saw fantastic images right out of an abstract painting. Even with concentration and quiet, the sight could fail her. It could also come on suddenly and unexpectedly with a casual touch. Each time she used the thing, it drained her and put her in the emotional shoes of the killer, leaving her angry or depressed or desperate. As murderous as the people she pursued.

  Seven

  “The naked fat chicks have got to go,” muttered Bernadette, standing in the doorway of her new bathroom.

  The tub’s artsy shower curtain—another castoff from the loft’s previous owner—was a vinyl expanse printed with black-and-white images of reclining nude women, all of whom had full hips and handsome breasts. She didn’t need to be reminded of her boyish shape every time she took a shower. Besides, the hem was dotted with dark speckles—and those had nothing to do with art. How filthy had the previous owner left the tub? She walked over to the curtain and told herself not to be squeamish about a little mold. She envisioned the shower scene in Psycho—one of Michael’s all-time favorite movie scenes—and she was the one with the knife. She grabbed the edge of the curtain and ripped it aside. She was relieved. The tub itself—a clawfoot—was spotless, and a gleaming gooseneck extended up from the faucet.

  Running a hand through her hair, she decided she’d use the shower immediately, gross curtain or not. She peeled off her clothes and stepped into the tub. With a grimace, she pulled the curtain shut with two fingers. She activated the shower, stood under the spray, and let the hot needles massage her scalp. She closed her eyes and reminded herself of what she had to do later, and wondered how hard it was going to be to find an open church on a Saturday night.

  Bernadette dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, snapped her gun into her holster, and slipped her sunglass
es on her face. As soon as she stepped outside, she realized how quickly night was approaching—no one would notice her eyes. She took off her specs and hooked them over the neck of her sweatshirt. Though there was no wind, the temperature had taken a nosedive. She was grateful she’d found her leather bomber jacket packed away under the jeans. She reached inside her jacket as she walked and found her leather gloves, pulled them out, and slipped them on. They were as thin as a second layer of skin, but warm enough to take the bite off the night air—and thick enough to shield her from surprise sights.

  An ethnic festival was being held at the same time as a Wild game, filling the sidewalks with an odd mix of humanity: hockey fans stuffed into jerseys, and folk dancers sashaying around in costumes. Her gut rumbled as she walked past a steakhouse. The smell of charred beef was inviting, but the food would have to wait. She was on her way to perform a task best tackled on an empty stomach; God only knew what she’d see this time.

  Bernadette wove up and down the tangled streets of downtown, over cobblestone and pavement, under old-fashioned lantern streetlights decorated with hanging flower baskets, and past an office building and a check-cashing joint. She spent more time ogling the people than the scenery, however. She figured there was some sort of theater event or concert at the Ordway Center for the Performing Arts, because suddenly suits and dresses were added to the hockey jerseys and sarongs. As she walked and watched folks, she slipped her right hand into her jacket pocket and felt for the items. They weren’t going anywhere. She withdrew her hand.

  The sun was almost completely down when she found herself standing in front of a Catholic church. She hiked up the steps. “Please don’t be locked,” she muttered to the massive double doors. She put her hand on one of the knobs, turned, and pushed. The slab of wood creaked open. The interior was a warm, golden glow. She shut the door behind her and stepped deeper inside. Bernadette saw a font against the back wall, went over to it and reached. Remembered her gloves. She pulled them off and stuffed them in her jacket. She dipped her right fingertips into the holy water and crossed herself. She inhaled the comforting aroma of incense and burning candles. She’d tried other venues and tactics over the years, from hunkering down in her bedroom at night to driving to the countryside and sitting alone in a field. Churches seemed to give her the best results. Their thick walls, high ceilings, shadowy niches, and saint statues invited contemplation and meditation.

  Up on the altar, Bernadette saw two middle-aged women, silent and grim-faced as they performed their housekeeping chores. One was removing pots of flowers while the other was pushing a carpet sweeper back and forth. The squeak of the sweeper’s wheels seemed amplified in the nearly empty church.

  Shuffling down the middle aisle of the church was an old woman with a windbreaker pulled over her housedress. The back of the jacket was plastered with the name of a bar. “Tubby’s Tavern. Let the good times roll.” The tavern lady went to a rack of votives sitting to the right of the altar, lit two candles, and slipped into a front-row pew. Bernadette noticed the woman had a round lace doily on top of her head. She remembered her mother forcing her and her sister to wear scarves to church, tying the chiffon tight under their chins. Bernadette brought her hand to her throat. She could still feel that knot of fabric, a tightness that gripped her whenever she first entered a place of worship.

  Bernadette unzipped her bomber as she walked down a side aisle. She heard snoring and looked to her right. An old man in a tattered trench coat and baseball cap was slouched in a back pew. He reeked of urine and alcohol. The booze stink brought back another childhood memory—her father’s drinking. It didn’t get better after Maddy’s death. An ugly home movie started up in her mind: Her father at the kitchen table with a full tumbler of whiskey, and another Johnny Cash dirge playing on the radio. Her mother sitting alone in the front room watching television, crying, and knitting. Bernadette told herself she shouldn’t be thinking about that now. She had to empty her head of her own clutter to make way for someone else’s.

  She stepped between some pews and cut across until she was in a bench on the other side of the church. She went down on her knees, rested her arms on the back of the pew in front of her, and folded her hands together. As she shut her eyes, she whispered a five-word prayer she routinely uttered before searching for the truth through the eyes of a murderer.

  “Lord, help me see clearly.”

  Eight

  Anna Fontaine once believed silence was golden.

  When their daughter ran away from home, her husband called the police and cried out loud, predicting the worst. Anna sat on a front-porch rocker, keeping a wordless vigil until their girl returned.

  After their daughter was arrested with a backpack stuffed with pills and pot and a gun, Jerry railed against the school and the cops and the social workers. Anna curled up in bed and prayed the rosary in her head.

  During the hour their daughter was alone in Sterling Archer’s chambers, Jerry wrung his hands in the hallway and voiced hope for leniency from the juvenile system. His wife sat quietly in a chair, silently worrying and wondering why her child was taking so long with the creepy fat judge.

  Months later, Jerry paced and muttered while awaiting the jury in Archer’s sex-abuse trial. Anna stayed glued to a courtroom bench, saying nothing. When the verdict came in, Anna couldn’t bring herself to speak to the reporters; she let her husband and the other families lambaste the acquittal.

  It wasn’t until their daughter died that Anna had an epiphany: silence isn’t golden; it’s shit.

  With the help of one person—a fiery, furious, moral man—Anna found a voice for herself and justice for her daughter. Now she wondered: Have I damned myself in the process? She would ask the question—and a slew of others—when he got there. She would talk and question until the breath left her. Silence was no longer her friend.

  She was starting to nod off when he opened the door a crack and popped his head into her room.

  “Anna?”

  She forced her lids to open. “You came.”

  “I told you I would.” He slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. He stepped next to her bed.

  She felt her lids dropping again. Through the slits, she saw him reach out to her and then withdraw his fingers. She thought: My hero and my coward. You kill, but you’re afraid to touch the dying.

  “Anna?”

  Her eyes opened wider this time. “All doped up.”

  “Do you want me to raise the bed more?”

  “No,” she said.

  He tipped his head toward the bed rails. “Shouldn’t those be up? Should I put them up?”

  She’d already had that fight with the nurses: the rails made her feel trapped. “Leave them down.”

  “Are you comfortable?”

  “They finally got me on the good meds. Why do they save the good shit for the end?” She swallowed and coughed and winced.

  He carried a chair to the side of her bed, set it down, and perched on the edge of the seat. “How’re you doing?”

  She coughed again. “Lousy.”

  He picked up a cup from her nightstand and shoveled a dot of crushed ice with a spoon. “Thirsty?”

  She saw his knuckles were raw, and it repulsed her. She turned her head away. “No thanks. I’m good.” She fingered the rosary in her hands. He’d given it to her, and she planned to be buried with it.

  “Shall I put away your reading?”

  She found him more attentive than her husband and sons combined. “My glasses, too. I’m having trouble with the words. Headache. Dizzy.”

  “I’ll put them where you can find them,” he said, picking her glasses out of the book.

  As her eyes closed again, she felt the volume being lifted off her thighs. She knew he’d check to see what she’d been reading. She hoped he’d approve, and at the same time hated that she still sought his approval. He had a power and a presence that had drawn her to him and to his cause. He’d convinced her it should be her
cause. Jerry hadn’t been swayed. Jerry didn’t know how far she and this magnetic man had taken things, and she was glad.

  She heard him walking across the linoleum floor and remembered the first time she’d watched him cross a room. His size and looks alone would have commanded respect, but his confident gait demanded it. He carried himself like a CEO who was late for his own meeting: he needed to get there, but he also knew it couldn’t start without him. She heard the swish of the drapes. She opened her eyes and saw him leaning toward the window. The outside didn’t offer much light; night was falling quickly. He turned away from the window and brought the book closer to his face. She’d memorized the words, and spoke them for him in a voice so weak only the two of them could hear:

  “But anyone who strikes another with an iron object, and death ensues, is a murderer; the murderer shall be put to death. Or anyone who strikes another with a stone in hand that could cause death, and death ensues, is a murderer; the murderer shall be put to death.”

  Her recitation was interrupted by her coughing. He waited until she stopped hacking and finished it for her, his voice as low as hers but resonating with authority. He paused in the right places and emphasized the right phrases. The cadence moved the message the way a river moves water: smoothly, efficiently, inevitably. She found herself floating along with his words, momentarily forgetting the pain:

  “Or anyone who strikes another with a weapon of wood in hand that could cause death, and death ensues, is a murderer; the murderer shall be put to death. The avenger of blood is the one who shall put the murderer to death; when they meet, the avenger of blood shall execute the sentence. Likewise, if someone pushes another from hatred, or hurls something at another, lying in wait, and death ensues, or in enmity strikes another with the hand, and death ensues, then the one who struck the blow shall be put to death; that person is a murderer; the avenger of blood shall put the murderer to death, when they meet.”