Blind Spot

by Terri Persons

  Am I losing my mind?

  For the remainder of the drive, the two of them didn’t talk. While Garcia kept the radio off and concentrated on driving, Bernadette kept her head turned away from him and stared through the passenger window. She was embarrassed she’d had a breakdown in front of her boss, and feared her outburst had endangered her career more than any of her previous gaffes on the job. Even before the big scene, Garcia’s attitude toward her and her sight had been all over the board: Curious. Supportive. Skeptical. Resentful. Now there was evidence his underling could see dead people and dead dogs. She didn’t know how he was taking this latest bit of news. Not well, she suspected.

  Dead people. Dead dogs.

  Had she really conversed with a ghost? Touched him? Had sex with him? Would he come to her bed again—invited or not? Those questions made her head spin, but the others were no less dizzying: Was Augie a benign spirit or something malignant? Why did he know so much about her? How had he been able to warn her about the wake? Would other phantoms start materializing in front of her? How was she supposed to use this ability? Was it God who gave her this, or Satan? She knew the answer the Franciscan would give her. She could almost hear him now, in that judgmental voice:

  You’re sleeping with the devil, daughter.

  The biggest, most troubling question she kept asking herself:

  Am I losing my mind?

  As they entered the town of Dassel, she quieted the screaming in her mind and broke the silence inside the car. “Is it coming up?”

  “Yeah.” Garcia’s eyes were glued to the north side of the road. “Two-story house with woods on either side of it. Enclosed front porch. I’ll know it when I see it.”

  “It’s after Dassel?”

  “But before Darwin, home of the largest twine ball rolled by one man.”

  Relieved at his small talk, Bernadette grinned. “What?”

  “It was the biggest twine ball period until some asshole town in Kansas hopped on the bandwagon. Still, Darwin’s twine ball is the only whopper rolled by one guy.”

  “He still working on it?”

  Garcia: “He died.”

  “Maybe he’ll pay me a visit next,” she said dryly.

  Garcia steered around a semi that had stopped in front of him to make a left. “Do you need to talk?”

  “No. No. Don’t worry,” she said, stumbling over her words and regretting her feeble joke. “My head’s back in the game.”

  Garcia pointed through her window. “Good, ’cause that looks like the place. Joint’s lit up like a Christmas tree.”

  Her head swiveled to the right. She looked over her shoulder as they passed a farmhouse with lights on in nearly every window. “He’s afraid of the dark,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do,” she said.

  Garcia slowed and steered the Grand Am to the right, pulling it off the highway and out of sight of the house. The car bumped onto a narrow strip of weeds that bordered the woods. He put it in park, punched off the headlights, and shut off the car. “I say we leave the car here and hike through the woods. Enter the place from the back.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Garcia took out his gun and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “As soon as we see what we’re dealing with here, we’ll call for backup.”

  She took out her Glock and checked it. Slipped it back in her holster. “Still not convinced we’ve got the right psycho?”

  “Not sure I’ve got the right house.” Garcia opened his door, jumped out, and started digging under the driver’s seat.

  She opened the passenger door and hopped out. “That’s the only problem? There isn’t something else you want to say to me?”

  He pulled out his flashlight, stood up with it, and clicked it on. “I’ve come around. You’ve obviously got something going on. An expertise or a power or whatever the hell you want to call it. We’ve got the right man. Was all your work.”

  “All our work,” she said, closing the passenger door.

  They entered from where Garcia had parked the Pontiac, heading north into the woods. Garcia took point, keeping the flashlight ahead of them, and aimed down. The ground was spongy and smelled of rain and moss. Struggling to keep their path straight, they stepped over logs and weaved between evergreens and hardwoods. After twenty minutes of trudging in near blackness, they figured they were deep enough and turned east, toward the house. When they broke through the trees, they found themselves next to a small body of water, its shoreline encircled by reeds and weeds and tall grasses. The two agents hunkered down next to each other. Garcia punched off his flashlight. They were on the far side of a pond behind Quaid’s house. The windows in back of the house, glowing as brightly as those in the front, were reflected in the surface of the water. From across the pool and to their left, they spotted a metal shack that took up nearly as much real estate as the house. A light attached to the back of the shed also shone on the pond surface and illuminated that end of the shack.

  Bernadette squinted into the night. “There’re a door and two windows on this side of the outbuilding,” she whispered.

  Garcia: “The what?”

  “That metal shed.”

  “Outbuilding. Is that a farmer word or what?”

  “Funny.” She squinted some more. “I can’t tell if there’s someone inside the shed. Yard light is too bright.”

  “I think that’s Quaid’s ride,” said Garcia, pointing to the Volvo parked in the driveway that ran between the house and the metal building.

  Bernadette: “Now what?”

  “You tell me,” he said. “You’ve been in that house once already. I’ve only seen photos.”

  “Yeah.” She paused and tried to think above the din of the croaking. “Let’s get closer. Follow the edge of the water to the back of the house.”

  With Bernadette leading the way, the pair bent down and crept to the right, following the pond’s shoreline. The grasses hid all but the tops of their heads.

  Garcia grunted behind her. She stopped and spun around, pushing a reed away from her face. “You okay?”

  “Almost went down. Slipped on a slimy rock.”

  “Probably a frog.” She turned around and continued heading toward the back of the house. She kept her eyes trained on the windows, in case Quaid or someone else peeked through the curtains.

  The two of them reached the side of the pool nearest to the house and stopped. They crouched next to each other amid the reeds and weeds. The horseshoe of woods that started at the far side of the pond curled up along both sides of the property, so that there were trees wrapping around the west side of the house and the east side of the metal building. But the inside of the horseshoe—the yard between the pond and the back of the buildings, and the area between the shed and the house—was mowed short and was clear of trees.

  Garcia slipped his flashlight in his jacket pocket. “We could beeline it to the back door from here. Hope no one sees us.”

  “Bad idea,” she said.

  “Dive back into the bushes and follow the tree line?”

  “Better idea.”

  “It’ll take twice as long, and I’m sick of nature.” He stood up and bolted out of the reeds.

  “Maniac,” she said, and went after him.

  They both stopped at the bottom of the steps and squatted down as they looked up at the back of the house. The windows along the first and second floors were covered with drapes sheer enough to reveal that the interior of the home was lit, but dense enough to keep them from seeing inside. The only help was a horizontal gap between the curtains covering one window—a square of glass that looked out over the porch. From what Bernadette could remember during her earlier tour of the house—and knowing how farmhouses were laid out and decorated—Bernadette figured it was the window over the kitchen sink. The gap was created by the café curtains. She leaned into Garcia’s ear: “I’ll take the stairs. Try to see in.”

  He nodded and told her
the obvious: “Be careful.”

  Staying crouched, she took out her gun and slowly mounted the handful of steps. The wood creaked as she went up. Damn frogs, she thought. Now that she needed their masking croaks, they seemed to have gone silent. She expelled a breath of relief when she reached the porch landing, a rectangle of uneven boards covered by an overhang and railed by weathered spindles.

  Two round aluminum trash barrels sat under the kitchen window. One, containing cans and bottles, was uncovered. She peered inside and sniffed. Didn’t see or smell anything suspicious. Anything dead. With her free hand, she lifted the lid of the other barrel. She looked down. By the light coming from the square window, she could see the barrel was empty. Not even a garbage bag inside. She replaced the lid. Standing on her tiptoes, she looked up at the window. She was too short to see through the gap, especially with the barrels blocking her way and keeping her from getting closer. Moving the barrels wouldn’t help—and would make too much racket.

  Bernadette holstered her gun and crawled on top of the garbage-barrel lid, staying on her knees. She steadied herself by resting her palms on the trim at the bottom of the window. As she sat up on her knees, she felt the lid beneath her start to pucker and give way. She leaned on the window ledge to relieve the weight on the lid. Peeking through the break in the curtains, she saw the kitchen with all the lights on, but no people inside. Holding her breath, she put her ear to the glass. Heard no voices or music or television.

  She spotted a doorway leading to another room, but had trouble seeing beyond it. She knew, from her earlier look inside the house, that it led to the dining room. Anything on the counters? Nothing but canisters on the counter opposite the sink. Now she could get a peek at what he’d dumped inside the sink, what he’d almost destroyed. She raised herself a little higher and flattened her face against the glass to get a view of the sink. What she saw resting against the porcelain made her stomach churn. One word came to mind: Monster.

  Forty-five

  She let go of the window ledge and slid off the lid. As her feet hit the porch, the empty barrel tipped toward her. She reached for the can, steadied it, and righted it as gently as she could. Her attention darted to the kitchen window. No one looking out. She let go of the can and waved Garcia up. He took the steps slowly, grimacing with each groan of the boards. Once he reached the top, she told him in a hoarse growl: “Tongue’s in the sink.”

  Garcia grimly shook his head from side to side and then asked in a low voice. “No Quaid?”

  “No Quaid,” she repeated.

  He pointed to the back door. Bernadette nodded, drew her gun, and planted herself on one side of the entry. He took out his pistol, went up to the door, and put his hand on the knob. He turned to the right and pushed. It didn’t budge. He turned to the left and pushed again. Harder. “Bolted,” he whispered. He let go and took a step back. He ran his eyes from the top of the door to the bottom.

  Bernadette knew what he was considering, and she didn’t like it. Old farmhouses were as solid as bricks, and it would take more than one or two kicks to bring down the door. The murderer inside would have plenty of time to grab his gun. Since Quaid was paranoid—no wonder, since intruders had taken out his entire family—the windows were undoubtedly sealed as well. They needed to find a weak spot in the barricade—an unlatched bathroom window or a rotten basement door. Bemadette grabbed Garcia by the elbow and nodded to the steps. They both padded down. At the bottom, she whispered: “Let’s see if there’s a cellar.”

  “What about the front?”

  She shook her head. “Saw him lock it up after he went inside.”

  “Lead the way,” he said.

  They went around to the wooded side of the house. Bernadette kept her gun out, but Garcia holstered his and took out his flashlight. While Garcia trained the beam on the side of the building, the pair walked the length of the foundation from the back of the house to the front. A band of mowed grass a yard wide gave them enough room to walk without wrestling against branches and bushes. No doors on that side. No windows, either. They retraced their steps and returned to the backyard. They squatted next to each other at the back corner of the house, abutting the woods. “There’s gotta be windows or something along the other side,” she said.

  Garcia looked across the barren yard to the back of the shed, with its bright yard light. “If there’s someone in there, they could see us. There’s no cover between the shed and that side of the house. Nothing. Plus, that floodlight won’t do us any favors.”

  “We’ll stay low and work fast.” Her turn to dart out. She crouched down as she ran, stopping when she got to the other back corner.

  Garcia came up behind her. “Let’s go.”

  They started up along the side of the house, again checking the foundation. Even with the illumination from the shed, they needed the flashlight in the inky blackness of the country night. A third of the way to the front, they came across a door. “Bingo,” she said. “Basement.”

  They took the same position as before: Bernadette on one side with her gun, and Garcia working the knob. “Tight as a drum,” Garcia whispered. He let go of the knob, and they continued walking.

  “Stop,” she whispered when they were near the middle of the house. She motioned with the barrel of her gun.

  Garcia aimed the light and saw where she was pointing. A boarded basement window. “Perfect.”

  He set the flashlight on the ground so the beam illuminated the board. Bernadette holstered her gun. They went down on their knees and worked at prying off the slab of plywood. Bernadette was able to slip her fingers under one of the top corners of the board, but she couldn’t lift it off the window frame. “Stuck,” she sputtered.

  “Let me,” said Garcia. She took her hands off the board and shuffled over to give him room. He gripped the corner and pulled. They heard the squeak of nails pulling away from the wood. “Almost there.”

  She wrapped both of her hands over the top edge of the plywood and pulled with him. The board cracked in half and came off in their fists. Garcia placed the board on the ground behind them and started pulling at the remaining slat of wood, nailed firmly to the bottom of the window. “Wait,” said Bernadette. She retrieved the flashlight, trained the beam over the window, and ducked her head down to get a look. There was nothing on the other side of the plywood. No glass or screen or window curtain. Just the blackness of the old home’s basement. A mildew odor wafted up from inside the cellar.

  “Let me finish.” Elbowing her aside, Garcia clamped his hands over the top of the board and pulled. The bottom half came off in one piece.

  “You won’t fit,” she whispered.

  He studied the dark rectangle and concluded she was right. “All that enchilada hot dish.”

  “I’ll slide through and open the cellar door for you,” she said.

  He picked up the flashlight and handed it to her. “Check it out before you dive in.”

  Bernadette stuck her head inside the hole and swept the basement with the beam. She held her breath while she took her survey; the musty smell was overpowering. Right below her was the laundry slop tub. She’d aim to land in that. Next to the tub was an old wringer washer. She looked to one side and saw the stairs leading to the basement door they’d passed outside. Across the room were floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the wall opposite the window; they were filled with dusty jars. She scrutinized the contents, half expecting to see body parts floating in the brine, but noticed only peaches and beans and tomatoes and pickles. Against another wall was a workbench, and a pegboard covered with tools. Hammers and hand saws and pliers and screwdrivers. She held the light over the hardware and squinted, but didn’t see anything spattered with blood or bone. She pulled her head out of the hole.

  “Anything?” Garcia asked.

  “The usual basement junk.” She sat back on her heels and handed him the flashlight so her hands would be free. She decided to go feet-first, sliding in on her belly. She turned around and started shi
mmying backward into the hole while holding on to the bottom of the window frame. She was through up to her waist when she felt the rim of the tub flush against the wall. She let go of the window and slid down into the tub with a soft thud.

  Garcia stuck his head through the rectangle and looked down at her. “You okay?”

  “Ducky,” she said in a low voice. Bernadette reached up and took the flashlight from him.

  “Unlock the basement door and let me in.”

  “In a second.” She stepped out of the tub. Something skittered across the floor in front of her feet, and she stumbled back against the side of the tub. She followed the rodent with her flashlight as it ducked into a hole in the basement wall.

  Garcia, whispering through the window: “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Nothing. Stupid mouse.”

  “Unlock the door.”

  “In a second,” she repeated. She wanted to take her time and look around without him.

  Bernadette went over to the washing machine and shone the light inside. Empty. She ran the beam around the floor and stopped when it landed on a pile of clothes mounded in a corner of the room. Aiming the light up at the ceiling, she found the mouth of the chute. Something was stuck and hanging down, and she went over to it. A tee shirt dangled just over her head. She shone the light up and didn’t see anything red against the white. She hunkered over the pile on the floor, but couldn’t spot any blood. More work for the lab guys, she figured.

  She walked the perimeter of the dank room, breathing through her mouth as she went. Bernadette felt something in her hair—cobwebs or spiders or both—and waved her free hand over her head. Since the fat lady’s hand needed to be matched to a body, she looked for a fresh mortar job in the walls or the floor. She knew it was a long shot; Quaid’s practice had been to discard the bodies as well as the parts. Still, he’d kept Chris Stannard’s tongue, so maybe he’d brought other souvenirs back to the old homestead. She shone the light between the canned goods, but detected nothing amiss behind them. Examined the dates on the peaches and judged them ready for a museum. Quaid was hanging on to the jars for sentimental reasons. The labels, penned by a feminine hand, had to be in his mother’s writing or his sisters’ script. A picture flashed in her head, a snapshot from her curse of sight: Quaid hugging a stuffed toy. She felt a twinge of pity and waved it aside with the same revulsion she’d demonstrated for the cobwebs.