Blind Spot

  Forty-six

  Quaid hung up the file and dusted off his hands. He picked his coat up off the stool and slipped it on. Before switching off the light, he inspected the pegboard one last time. His eyes traveled to the far end, landing on one space. The outline had been empty for some time. He’d taken the tool with him; it had been a dependable companion on all of his missions. Now it was in the trunk of his car, covered with blood. Since he was home, he could reward the ax with a proper cleaning and sharpening.

  He opened the door and set one foot outside. He froze with the door ajar and his hand on the knob. He backed up into the shed, gently closing the door. He snapped off the interior light and leaned his shoulder against the door.

  Quaid stayed motionless while he struggled to calm himself. He couldn’t believe he’d seen a man crouched next to the house. It was happening again. Of all the houses scattered across all the rural roads, his home had been targeted. Another stranger on another dark night. He’d been even more cautious than his parents; he’d locked all the doors. So the thief was breaking in through a window instead—the one busted window he’d put off repairing.

  His horror over another home invasion spun him into a personal time warp. Suddenly everything that had happened since his family was slaughtered—the knock on his dormitory door when the police presented the horrible news, the murder trial, his entrance into religious life, his flight from the priesthood, the executions—was erased from his memory. He was back where it all began, his family being butchered anew.

  He couldn’t utter a formal prayer; all he could muster was a three-word entreaty: “God help me.” He chanted it again and again, his voice getting weaker and more plaintive as his body crumpled against the door. “God help me…God help me…God help me.” Finally, all that escaped from his lips was a hoarse puff of air, a one-word plea to anyone: “Help.”

  As Quaid curled up on the floor of the shed, he tried to strike a deal: make the bad guy go away and he would work hard to be a better person. He would go to mass every day. He’d pray more. He’d do anything if God spared him, if the Lord let him survive. In the midst of his negotiations, he hugged his knees tight to his chest and felt something hard in the pocket of his barn coat. The terrified, powerless victim evaporated in a flash of confidence and anger.

  He wiped the tears off his cheeks and rose to his feet. He was furious at his own gutlessness and growled an order to himself: “Don’t be a coward this time.” He thrust his hand in his coat and felt the hard edges of the gun. The thief had picked the wrong countryside, the wrong house, the wrong robbery victim. The words of Job:

  Their strong steps are shortened, and their own schemes throw them down. For they are thrust into a net by their own feet, and they walk into a pitfall. A trap seizes them by the heel; a snare lays hold of them. A rope is hid for them in the ground, a trap for them in the path. Terrors frighten them on every side, and chase them at their heels.

  Quaid vowed that this stranger arriving in the middle of the night would know terror akin to that suffered by his family. When he threw open the door, light from the outside security lamp poured into the shed. A white swath fell across one of the pegboards, illuminating a set of axes. Quaid took it as a sign to use the tools with which he was most comfortable. He snatched one of the axes off the board, ran through the open door, and sprinted across the lawn to the dark hump hunkered against the side of the house.

  The man was still crouched facing the window; the idiot hadn’t yet figured out that he’d never fit through. Quaid saw no other activity around the outside of the house and noticed no shadows moving around inside, on the other side of the curtains. The robber was alone. Quaid resisted the urge to yell a warning or a curse as he ran. He wanted to take the thief by surprise, knock him cold, and drag him to the shed. Finish him there, amid the tools and the rope. The wind had started to pick up, and Quaid was glad. The rustling trees masked the sound of his footsteps. He was almost on top of the stranger before the man looked over his shoulder. The man started to stand, but it was too late. Quaid swung the side of the ax against the robber’s forehead, and the man flew flat onto his back.

  Bernadette figured Garcia had waited long enough. She headed for the stairs leading up to the basement door, put one foot on the first step and heard a noise. She clicked off the flashlight and looked up at the ceiling. Another noise, this one a muffled cry—and it hadn’t come from inside the house. Her eyes went to the broken window. She pocketed the flashlight and drew her gun. Holding her breath, she stood motionless in the pitch black.

  Forty-seven

  Fists fastened around the ax handle, Quaid crouched down next to the stranger and peered through the compact rectangle into the blackness of the basement. He thought he saw a spark of light in the cellar. He waited, but saw nothing more. Heard nothing. Reassured, he dropped the ax on the ground and stood up. He dismissed the flash, blaming it on the excitement of the moment. No one else could have gotten in; even a child would have trouble fitting through that tiny window.

  He looked down at his catch and nudged him in the side with the toe of his boot. No response. Quaid leaned over, hooked his arms under the robber’s armpits, and dragged him to the workshop. As he drew closer to the light cast by the security lamp, Quaid could see the man was shorter than he but broader in the chest and shoulders. The guy pumped iron; extra rope would be in order. As soon as the stranger’s feet cleared the threshold, Quaid unhooked his arms from the thief’s pits and dropped him on his back. He stepped around the body, closed the shed, and locked the door. He flipped on the interior light and reached for the switch next to it.

  Bernadette heard a door slam and immediately recognized the tinny sound as coming from the outbuilding. Taking the steps two at a time, she ran for the basement door. She locked her free fist over the doorknob and turned. Pushed and pulled and jiggled. The thing was bolted. She felt around for the lock, found the dead-bolt knob, and turned. Yanked on the door handle. Still locked tight. She turned and ran down the steps, holstering her gun as she went. She climbed back into the laundry tub and crawled out the basement window. Jumped to her feet and cut across the yard.

  Bernadette was halfway to the shack when the light mounted over the building’s door went black. Without the glare of the exterior light, she could see the interior was lit, a glow escaping through the ratty curtains. She ducked under one of the windows and drew her gun. Raising her head, she peeked through a hole near the bottom of the drapes. She peered straight ahead and couldn’t see anything but the garage door on the other end of the shed. She angled her head to one side and spotted a workbench with tools mounted over it against one of the long walls. She switched eyes and shifted her head around until she could see the other long wall.

  Garcia was on the floor, his figure parallel to the workbench that ran along that wall. She couldn’t tell if her boss was conscious; he was facedown on the concrete with his arms behind him. He wasn’t moving, but she had to believe he was alive. Quaid was on his knees next to him, twining rope around his victim’s wrists. If he’d already killed Garcia, he wouldn’t bother binding him. Or would he? Could be the ex-priest had gone off the deep end. Quaid tied off the rope and sat back on his heels. Bernadette could see the maniac had wrapped Garcia good and tight. She recognized the tie job: Quaid had used the same sort of thing on the judge.

  Quaid reached up to the bench and pulled down another bundle of line. He moved to Garcia’s feet and started coiling around the ankles. Bernadette wished she could see Quaid’s face; with his back to the window, she couldn’t judge his disposition. Maybe he was talking to Garcia, threatening a conscious man. Threatening him with what? She didn’t see a gun or a knife, but there were plenty of other possible weapons hanging from the walls. What did Quaid have planned for Garcia? Had he gone through Garcia’s pockets? Taken his service weapon? Checked Garcia’s identification? Did Quaid know he’d assaulted a federal agent? Would he give a damn? Would it enrage Quaid even more than dealing
with a civilian?

  These structures were never well insulated; she’d be able to pick up something through the walls. She lowered her head and put her ear to the cold ribbed metal. What she heard confused her at first. When she figured out what she was listening to, her body stiffened with anxiety. In a voice hoarse with self-righteous fury, Quaid was quoting Scripture. She had no idea what part of the Bible Quaid was twisting to his own use. It sounded like the Old Testament:

  “Your doom has come to you, O inhabitant of the land. The time has come, the day is near—of tumult, not of reveling on the mountains. Soon now I will pour out my wrath upon you; I will spend my anger against you. I will judge you according to your ways, and punish you for all your abominations. My eye will not spare; I will have no pity. I will punish you according to your ways, while your abominations are among you. Then you shall know that it is I the Lord who strike.”

  She couldn’t tell if Garcia was awake. Alive. She’d hoped to hear something out of him. A word. A grunt. All she could make out was Quaid’s diatribe—and she had a feeling the former priest didn’t care if he had a conscious audience or not, a living audience or not. She lifted her ear off the wall and took a bracing breath. With her free hand, she pulled her cell out of her pocket. She contemplated calling for help, but it would take too long for the bureau’s people to get there, and she didn’t know if she could trust the locals with a hostage situation. She dropped the phone back in her pocket and adjusted her grip on her gun. She could only trust herself. Bernadette weighed the sturdiness of the door between the two windows. Too heavy for her to take down with one or two kicks, and she was sure Quaid had locked it as tight as his Fort Knox house. The garage door on the other side of the shed was out of the question: she couldn’t see well enough through the curtains to take aim through a window. She needed to lure him outside.

  Bernadette raised her head and peered through the tattered drapes again. He was no longer kneeling by his captive. She angled her head around and spotted Quaid standing along the other long wall. The view she’d gotten of him by way of his bathroom mirror hadn’t prepared her for the real deal. He was even taller than she’d expected, and more squarely built. His shoulders seemed to crowd the long, narrow space. His hands were as big as her face, and appeared fully capable of murder—with or without the assistance of hardware. His hands. There was something familiar about them.

  Quaid’s head started jerking back and forth and up and down. He was taking stock of the equipment hanging over the bench. His eyes seemed to rest on one object in particular. “Bastard,” she whispered. She started to stand, preparing to go through the window. With her leather gloves, she could punch the glass. From another hole in the drapes, she saw Quaid extend his arm and then pull his hand back. He turned around and faced her; he was going for the door. She ducked and dashed around to the wooded side of the building.

  He decided to go out to the car and fetch the tool he’d already bloodied. Didn’t matter if it was dull. In fact, dull would be good; let the thief suffer. He didn’t want to use one of his freshly honed blades only to have to clean and sharpen it again. He stepped up to the door, turned the dead bolt, and put his hand on the knob. As he pulled the door open, he heard a noise behind him, a groan. He turned around and said to the figure on the floor: “You picked the wrong house, mister.” Another moan. Quaid didn’t want to listen to that any longer.

  He spun around and went over to the rag bucket, fished out a torn tee shirt black with motor oil, and took it over to his captive. He bent over, grabbed a fistful of the fiend’s scalp and hair, and yanked his face up off the floor. Quaid plugged the guy’s mouth with the rag and studied his forehead for a moment. “You should have a doctor check that goose egg, buddy.” Despite the gag, the man managed another moan. Quaid reached into his own pocket and pulled out his gun. Held it in front of the stranger. “Shut the hell up, or you’ll eat this for dessert.” Quaid let go of the hair; the thief’s head slapped the concrete.

  He stood over his captive for a minute and ran his eyes over the length of the stranger’s body, wondering if there was a wallet on him, a knife, or a gun. Quaid was in no big hurry to find out. He’d wait until it was finished and then go through the guy’s pockets. He knew the names of all the others he’d executed, and he wanted to know this one’s name.

  Quaid went outside, leaving the door open behind him. Fear had been replaced by bravado. He pulled his flashlight out of his pocket, clicked it on, and shone it ahead of him as he walked. With his other hand, he kept his grip on his gun.

  When Bernadette heard his groans through the open door, she felt a weight lift from her chest. Garcia was alive, and conscious enough to make noise.

  From her hiding place, Bernadette watched Quaid’s back as he headed across the yard. Out in the open night air, he looked smaller and more manageable. More mortal. At the same time, she could also see he had the gun. He seemed to swagger as he walked with it. She fantasized about firing into his back, but that wasn’t her style. Besides, it was nighttime, and even the best shooters missed moving targets in the dark. If she missed, she could be screwed and Garcia could be dead.

  Quaid was aiming his flashlight in the direction of the driveway; he was going to his car for something. She didn’t have much time. She wanted to get Quaid into the light, but away from Garcia. A shootout in that narrow shack could turn sour real fast. Her eyes moved across the yard to the house. She’d lure Quaid inside and take him there.

  Darting out from the side of the building, Bernadette ran for the rear of the house.

  As he hovered over the open car trunk, Quaid considered the proper punishment for the violation. The stranger had tried to break into another man’s home to rob and kill him and perhaps sodomize him. Had Quaid not stopped him, the man would have kicked down the door to get inside and commit his crimes.

  Kicked down the door. Kicked and walked inside. It came to Quaid. A foot had to go, or an entire leg. Both legs. Quaid set the flashlight down on the bed and picked up the gloves, grimacing as he pulled them on. They were stiff with dried blood and felt tight on his fingers. He flexed his hands to loosen the leather. The fit was as snug as that of his weight-lifting gloves, and he liked that.

  Bernadette jogged up the back steps and onto the porch. With the light from the kitchen window, she could see well enough to aim. She raised her arms and pulled the trigger, dispatching the lock in a shower of splinters. She kicked open the door and went inside. As she ran across the kitchen floor, she shot a glance over to the counter and thought about what she’d seen through the window: the woman’s tongue against the porcelain. A slice of Garcia could have joined Stannard’s flesh in the sink.

  No trial for this killer, she vowed. She’d make no phone calls until it was all over.

  Forty-eight

  At the sound of the gunshot, Quaid’s head whipped around. He’d been mistaken. The thief had an accomplice, and the animal had just shot his way into the house. Quaid pulled out his gun and, with his other hand, reached down and retrieved the ax from the bed of the trunk. He ran to the back of the house, stood at the bottom of the stairs, and uttered words that sounded closer to a command than a prayer: “Be with me now, God.” As he ran up the steps, his grip on both weapons tightened while his hold on reality started to slip away. From inside the house, he heard their screams. He imagined terrible, gurgling shrieks and one-word pleas for mercy.

  Please! Don’t! Please!

  No! Stop!

  God! Help!

  “I’m coming!” he yelled as he ran through the back door and charged into the kitchen. “Hang on, Mother! Father! I’m coming! Girls! I’m coming!”

  He skidded to a stop when he got to the living room. The cloth-covered furniture became animated. Souls were circling him, surrounding him, taunting. They were demons and devils, the ghosts of the evil sinners he’d executed. They’d come back to claim him and drag him down to hell with them, prevent him from saving his family. He closed his eyes and
took a breath. Opened his eyes. The ghosts had vanished. He shook his head and blinked his eyes twice. They were still gone, but he didn’t believe it. They were hiding, that’s all. He’d have to flush them out.

  Bernadette froze in the middle of the upstairs hallway. She listened to Quaid thumping around and hollering. She didn’t know what he was doing and couldn’t understand what he was saying. A loud bang made her jump. It sounded like furniture being tipped. More yelling. She moved closer to the steps and still couldn’t decipher the words. Before she could figure out what to do next, she had to see what was going on downstairs.

  She ducked into a bedroom and closed the door all but a crack. She turned around and was shocked by the spectacle of the stained mattress, baking under the ceiling light. Only a head case would keep such a horrid souvenir, with its two rusty stains set together like enormous, sorrowful eyes.

  Her attention was drawn across the room, to a closed door she’d seen during her earlier tour. Unlike the rest of the house, the closet would be dark. Could she focus with the maniac right below her? Could she use her sight again so soon? This case had already pushed her way beyond her usual limits. She told herself there’d be no harm in trying. She’d know right away if it was going to fail. There’d be plenty of time to abandon the effort, switch gears, and go downstairs.