Blind Spot

by Terri Persons

  He asked: “What troubles you, daughter?”

  His voice was low and deep and carried a solemn resonance that appealed to the remnants of her faith. She folded her hands in her lap and kept her eyes down. Odd that he kept the hood of his robe up over his head, but she didn’t want to be rude and stare. “I’m fine, Father,” she said to the floor.

  “You don’t sound fine. You sound exhausted. And you’re here at a very late hour. This tells me you’re troubled. Would you be more comfortable in the confessional?”

  “No,” she shot back, more loudly and quickly than she’d intended.

  “You’re not Catholic?” he asked gently.

  She felt bad she’d snapped at him, and fumbled with a response. “No. Yes. I was raised Catholic, but I haven’t been to mass in quite a while.”

  “Why?”

  His one-word question filled the cavernous church and ricocheted off its walls. Her excuse was halting and weak, and she hated it the minute it dribbled out of her mouth. “Laziness, I guess. I don’t know.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  This time her answer was swift and sure: “Yes.”

  “Do you believe He deserves your time and devotion?”

  “I give Him my time in private prayer.”

  “Is that what you’re doing here tonight?”

  With his personal questions and hooded garb, this priest was rattling the hell out of her. She thought about lying to him, and then reconsidered. She’d never see him again, she figured. Why not tell him the truth? At worst, he’d assume she was mentally ill and leave her alone. She blurted it out: “I see things, Father, and this quiet time in church helps me focus.”

  He paused and then asked: “What do you mean, daughter? What do you see? What things?”

  Sensing her palms sweating under the leather, she pulled off her gloves and set them on her lap. She wiped her damp hands on her jeans while she continued. “When I hold certain objects, they enable me to see through someone else’s eyes. I see what someone else is seeing.”

  “I don’t understand, daughter.”

  She shot him a sideways glance and wondered to which order he belonged. His hands were tucked into the robe’s baggy sleeves, and the hood remained pulled up over his head. She wished he would take the hood down so she could tell if he was truly trying to understand, or if there was disbelief in his face. “When I hold something that a killer has touched, I can see through that murderer’s eyes. I see what he sees.”

  His left hand came down, to rest in his lap. A large rosary was wrapped around his fist. “Fascinating.”

  “I know it sounds absurd, Father. I’m sure you find it impossible to believe.”

  Behind the hood, he chuckled lightly. “Credo quia absurdum.”

  “What?”

  “I believe precisely because it is absurd.” He paused and then explained: “I’ve seen everything and learned to discount nothing.”

  She appreciated his attitude and forged ahead. “It’s an ability I’ve had for years, and I use it in my job.”

  “What do you do? What’s your job, daughter?”

  “I’m an FBI agent.”

  A long silence. The left hand disappeared back into the robe, as if the sleeves were a muffler warming his mitts. “Has this vision actually worked for you? Have you been able to use it to apprehend criminals?”

  “Not every time. There can be…” She struggled to find the right word. “Glitches.”

  “What sorts of glitches?”

  “I misinterpret what I see, or I can’t see clearly enough to get something useful, or it doesn’t function at all. It puts me in the emotional shoes of the killer. A horrible place to be. It drains me so badly I can’t…” She cut herself off. She’d found a sympathetic ear, and now she was rambling. If she wasn’t careful, she’d start disclosing company secrets. “You know what, Father? Dumping this on you was a bad idea. Forget the entire conversation.” She started to stand.

  “Don’t go,” he said. He unfolded his arms and with his left hand reached toward the sleeve of her jacket.

  She was surprised by his gesture, and sat back down. She stared at his hand as it retreated back inside the sleeves of his robe.

  “Give me an example of how this operates,” he said. “Are you using it on a case right now? What are you seeing?”

  He was probing for specifics, and she couldn’t give him any. That disappointed her, because she detected authentic interest in his voice. “I can’t talk about it. Ongoing investigation.”

  “When did these visions start visiting you?”

  “I had a twin sister. We knew what each other was thinking.”

  “I’ve heard twins can do that,” he said.

  She finished the story in shorthand. “It sort of evolved from there.”

  “You said you had a twin.”

  Bernadette grimaced. It was her own fault. If she didn’t want to talk about it, she shouldn’t have mentioned it. “She’s dead.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He fell silent, undoubtedly waiting for details, she thought. She wasn’t anxious to provide them.

  Finally, he asked tentatively: “An illness?”

  “Accident. A guy hit her car. Drunk truck driver.”

  “So, if you see through the eyes of murderers…”

  She waited while he thought it through and reached his own conclusion.

  “You saw him kill her,” he said.

  She whispered her answer: “Yes.”

  “Horrible. To see a loved one die.”

  “Yes,” she said again, in an even smaller voice.

  From behind his hood, she heard him take a breath and let it out as he offered his own story. “I’m alone in this world. My family is gone. All I have is God—and this vocation.”

  She thought about how she struggled to fill her personal void with her career. “Is it enough? Is the priesthood enough?”

  “It has to be,” he said flatly. “Now, let me ask you something, daughter.”

  “Go ahead, Father.”

  “How can you be sure what you’re seeing is always the truth?”

  Bernadette’s brows went up; his question baffled her. “The truth?”

  “What if these visions aren’t a gift from God, but trickery by Satan?”

  His take on her talent dismayed her. She’d found her sight problematic at times, difficult because of its inconsistencies. She’d never thought of it as evil. The possibility she was being used sent an icy chill through her body. “No, no,” she sputtered, sounding unconvincing to her own ears. “It’s never led me that far astray. Certainly I’ve made some honest mistakes.”

  “Were they honest mistakes? The words of Exodus come to mind. ‘You shall not spread a false report. You shall not join hands with the wicked to act as a malicious witness. You shall not follow a majority in wrongdoing; when you bear witness in a lawsuit, you shall not side with the majority so as to pervert justice.’”

  “I have not perverted justice,” she shot back.

  “Did you condemn innocents while letting the real devils go free? Respice finem. Look to the end; consider the end result.”

  She’d had enough Latin and lecturing for the evening. She pulled her gloves back on and slid away from him, preparing to bolt from the bench. “Thank you for listening, Father. I’ll consider what you’ve said.”

  “If you want to talk again, I’m here the rest of the week,” he offered. “I usually pray at about this time every evening.”

  She stood in the aisle and looked at his figure. Now he was down on his knees, facing the altar, hood still over his head and arms still tucked into his sleeves. She was curious. “Only through the week?”

  “I’m visiting clergy.”

  She remembered a priest who’d briefly assisted at her parish back home; he’d worn a similar outfit and carried an oversized rosary. She’d found him a wonderful confidant once she got to know him. The name of his order came to her. “Franciscan?”r />
  The hood bobbed in affirmation. “Yes.”

  She thought about everything else she had to do: Unpacking at home. Unpacking at the office. The case. It’d be a few days before she could free up an evening. “Might come to see you again middle of the week.”

  “Wednesday?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Excellent, daughter. I look forward to it.” He bent his head down.

  “I’ll leave you to your prayers, Father.” She genuflected before the altar and turned to leave.

  “Tomorrow is Sunday,” he said without looking up. “They have a five o’clock mass at the cathedral for late risers. Short and sweet and to the point.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe again. You like that word, don’t you?”

  Bernadette didn’t answer. She quickly walked down the aisle and went outside, relieved to be cooled by the rain as she jogged down the steps.

  Thirteen

  Chris Stannard had taken a booth with window seats—she’d had her choice, since she was the only customer at that hour—and through the glass, she saw him hurrying down the pavement in the rain. Anna’s description of the guy had been perfect: he could pass for a pumped-up Clark Gable, tidy mustache and all. She hoped Anna had been equally accurate about the man’s willingness to help, eagerness to make things right. She needed a zealot. Anything to get it done.

  She followed him with her eyes as he hiked up the steps to the restaurant—a knockoff of an old railroad dining car—and went inside. He didn’t notice her at first; his head was bent as he ran his fingers through his wet curls. He wore a tweed blazer over a sweater and jeans. Clark Gable playing the part of a college professor. He looked up, saw her, and headed for her table. As he came up to the booth, she saw fine lines around his eyes betraying his age—well into his thirties—but there was no gray hair mixed with the black. Handsome. Would he find her as attractive as she found him? She reached up and brushed her cheek with the tips of her fingers. The makeup was minimal, but her skin was clear and she’d dabbed on a little perfume. Her brown hair was parted down the middle and styled into a blunt cut that went a few inches past her shoulders. A flattering look for a woman of her years—which was in the same neighborhood as his. The nurse’s uniform didn’t do any favors for her figure, but she’d had no choice, since she’d gone to the diner right after work.

  She stared straight ahead, waiting for him to make the first move. He cleared his throat and extended his hand in front of her face. “Chris? Mrs. Stannard?”

  She slid out of the booth, stood up, and gripped his hand. “Sorry,” she said. “Zoning out for a minute.” He was a head taller than she, and his shoulders seemed to fill the width of the dining car. His size and closeness intimidated her, and she took a step back from him.

  “Sorry I’m late.” He folded his hands in front of him. “How can I help?”

  Her eyes flitted to his large mitts and went back to his face. “This is going to take a while.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” He waited until she slid back into her side of the booth before he took the bench across the table. “May I buy you a late dinner?”

  She shook her head. “Just coffee would be good.”

  He raised one of his large fingers, and the waitress—an older woman with gray hair in a tight bun behind her head—came to the booth with her pad. She clicked her pen and put it to the paper. “What looks good, kids?”

  “Two coffees and…” He glanced over at the rack of pies on the lunch counter.

  The waitress, in a singsong voice: “We’ve got banana cream and coconut cream, blueberry and cherry, pecan and apple, peanut butter and—”

  “Peanut butter,” he interrupted. “My mother used to make it. Haven’t had it in years.” He looked across the table. “Sure you don’t want something?”

  “Maybe I will try the peanut butter.” She smiled.

  She waited until a lull in the conversation. Reaching under the table, she slipped her hand inside the purse on her lap. “This is for you,” she said, sliding the envelope across the table.

  “I am not a hit man,” he whispered, pushing the envelope away from him. Their in-booth jukebox, mounted to the wall just above their table, was winding down on a Roy Orbison pick. “Only the Lonely.” It was cranked as loud as it could go.

  “You need to support yourself.” She pushed the envelope back across the table, and it stuck halfway between them on a patch of something sticky. “Take it.”

  He scanned the diner. Though the other booths had remained empty, three men in jeans and flannel had just taken stools lining the counter. All three were soaked to the skin. The waitress was busy pouring the trio coffee while they dried their heads and faces with paper napkins.

  The big man peeled the white rectangle off the table, set it on his lap, and peeked inside. The envelope was stuffed with large bills. He tucked the top flap closed.

  “It’s my money.” She worried that sounded snotty, and quickly added in her meekest voice: “I’ve been saving. My husband won’t miss it.” She took a sip of coffee and glanced through the diner windows. The rain had kept pedestrians off the sidewalks, but the streets were jammed with traffic. A row of cars and trucks were stopped at the lights on West Seventh Street. The lights turned green, and the cars rolled forward, kicking up waves of water. She set down the cup and returned her attention to the man sitting across the table.

  Fingering the envelope, he said, “I’m still not sure what you expect me to do with this.”

  “Use it for the expenses for your…” She searched for the right phrase, and remembered what Anna had called them. “Righteous missions.”

  “What do you know about my expenses? My missions? What did Anna tell you?”

  Now I’ve done it, she thought. He was angry Anna had told her so much. She skipped over his question. “Put the money in the collection plate, then. Do some good with it. Anna said you do good things.”

  That seemed to appease him, and he tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his blazer. He picked up his fork and poked at the last corner of his pie. “Why am I here exactly? Not to serve as a charity drop box.”

  She bit down on her top lip and looked off to the side, at the jukebox. Orbison was over. The Eagles were singing “Hotel California.” She undid the top two buttons of her smock and pulled back on the material so he could see the purple on the right side of her chest, below the collarbone. A bruise, like a dead violet pressed into her paper-white skin. “He’s smart about it. Beats me where it doesn’t show. Avoids the face. Never hits me hard enough to break anything.” She pulled her eyes off the jukebox and looked at him. “This isn’t the worst of it. I can’t show you the worst of it. My back. Breasts.”

  He dropped his fork and held up his hands. “Stop.”

  “Afterward, Noah makes me take an ice-water bath. For the swelling. And to punish me for crying. Then he sends me to bed so he can leave the house. He’s seeing someone else, I don’t even know who. He hasn’t slept with me for months, and he’s definitely the kind of man who needs it on a regular basis.” She buttoned up her blouse. “He hasn’t hit our daughter. At least not yet.”

  “The police?”

  “They’d never believe me. Even if they did, he’d get no time. He doesn’t have a record. Not even a parking ticket. He said if he ever got nailed he’d take me down with him. Make sure I never see our daughter again. And he could do it. He’s got money. The lawyers.” She looked up at him. “Anna told you who he is?”

  “All she gave me was your name,” he said evenly. “You know more about me than I do about you.”

  “Not true. I don’t even know your name.” She paused, hoping he’d offer it up.

  He retrieved his fork, stabbed the chunk of pie. “Your husband…” He popped the morsel in his mouth and chewed.

  “He’s a pharmacist with a serious drug problem. It’s become my problem. And it’s become other people’s problem, even if they don’t know it.”

>   His brows furrowed. He set down his fork and pushed his empty plate off to one side. “What do you mean?”

  She took a breath and launched into it. “Noah started up by stealing from the inventory. Stealing from the customers. Shorting people their pills. They didn’t bother checking. The old people can’t see well enough to check. They trusted him. Trusted him with their lives. And he was standing behind the counter, stoned.”

  “On what?”

  “Codeine was his first love. Worked his way up the food pyramid from there. OxyContin was one of his favorites.” She picked up her coffee mug, took a sip, and set it down. “He’s graduated from the prescription meds, though. Now he’s into a more dangerous high. Stuff he has to pay for himself.”

  He cupped his hands around his coffee. “But if he isn’t killing anyone but himself with his addiction…”

  “That’s not all.” She looked straight ahead. Past him. She chewed her bottom lip and picked a damp curl off her forehead.

  “Mrs. Stannard. This doesn’t rise to the level…”

  “Chris.”

  “Chris. If this is all there is…”

  She jumped in. “You don’t understand.” She reached across the table and clutched his arm. “He’s killing people right now. While we’re sitting here.”

  He leaned forward. “Tell me more.”

  “For years, he’s hopped around from one pharmacy to another. Always leaves before anyone gets wise. Never worked at my hospital, thank God. Mostly across town.”

  “Go on.”

  “His latest setup gives him access to serious goop. He mixes intravenous bags of medicine that are sold to doctors. Cancer doctors.”

  “Chemotherapy treatments.”

  She nodded grimly. “Gemzar. Taxol. Liquid gold.”

  “Has he been stealing sacks of the stuff? Selling it on the black market?”

  “Something worse. More devious.” She bit down on her bottom lip again. “He’s been diluting it with saline. Billing doctors like he’s selling them full-strength medicine.”