Blind Spot

by Terri Persons

  Bernadette shut her eyes and took a calming breath. The air was different in this room, thick with residual pain. Another feeling: intense fear. Not just from the bed; from elsewhere.

  She started at the sound of another downstairs thump. “Get moving,” she muttered to herself.

  She crossed the room to the closet, opened the door, and inhaled sharply. “Unreal,” she whispered. It appeared Quaid had kept every article of clothing ever owned by his parents, including his mother’s wedding dress. Hanging at one end of the rod, the gown was a creepy keepsake, a ghostly puff of satin and chiffon preserved in plastic like a body in the morgue. Another thump, this one directly below her. She stepped inside the closet, closed the door behind her, and slipped between two scratchy wool blazers—Sunday clothes once worn by Quaid’s father? She swore she could smell aftershave, something cheap and spicy. After all these years, could she still detect the dead man’s cologne? Or was it his son’s scent? She felt light-headed and nauseous about either possibility.

  Bernadette crammed herself against the back wall, behind the wedding dress. She batted the plastic away from her face; she felt as if the dress were trying to suffocate her. With her back against the wall, she slid down to the floor and curled her knees to her chest. A shudder shook her frame. This position in this closet was familiar. A feeling that was not her own—intense terror—started to wash over her. The sensation was muddying her head. “Shake it off,” she muttered to herself.

  She pulled off her gloves and buried them in one jacket pocket, and out of the other she retrieved the wad of latex. She hesitated, ready to unfold the package. A sharp crack sounded beneath her. Great. Now he was shooting up the place. She had to find out what he was up to, so she could take him out effectively and completely. Bernadette spilled the ring into her right hand. Curling her fist around the band, she closed her eyes.

  Nothing was visible, save the blackness of her own lids locked tight. She took a long, deep breath through her nose and let it out through her mouth. A bit of plastic brushed her cheek; she didn’t fight it this time. Softly, she said the words: “Lord, help me see clearly.”

  Forty-nine

  He’s on a rampage, searching for the intruders who’d blasted a hole in the back door. That’s the only reasonable explanation, Bernadette thinks. Otherwise, why would he be doing this? Quaid’s ricocheting from one piece of furniture to the next, pulling off sheets and knocking over end tables. The downstairs is a disaster, a sea of cloth and wood and cushions. He’s bending over an armchair, pulling off the seat, and hurling the cushion across the room like a fat Frisbee. The cushion takes a lamp down with it. He’s not through with the chair; he’s kicking it and knocking it over.

  He’s stopping and taking a break from his tantrum, dabbing the perspiration off his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. As he wipes, she can see there’s something in his gloved right hand. What is it? In the long mirror mounted over the dining-room buffet, she sees his reflection. He’s taking a step back, allowing her to see more of him. He’s got an ax in his right hand. His coat is open, and she can see there’s something tucked into the waist of his pants. She can’t make out the details of the object; she deduces it’s the gun.

  He’s turning away from the mirror and resuming his rioting. He’s on his knees, looking under the couch, lifting up the skirt that runs along the bottom, and waving the ax under the sofa. Doesn’t make any sense, she thinks. The sagging piece is too low to hide anyone or anything. He gets up off his knees, squats facing the couch, and locks his free hand under the front. With one thrust, he flips the thing onto its back.

  He stands and whirls around, hunting for his next target. His eyes land on a door at the foot of the stairs, and he runs over to it and yanks it open. Winter gear hanging from a rod. He’s diving into the closet and tearing the stuff off the hangers. Throwing coats down on the floor behind him, one after another. Barn coats and down jackets fly over his shoulder. Some of the jackets are pink—his sisters’ winter wear.

  The closet is empty, with only the bare dowel and a couple of empty wire hangers. He reaches up and grabs the rod with his fist and pulls the pole down. Tosses it behind him. He’s stepping deeper into the closet and, with both hands, raising the ax over his head. Quaid’s bringing the blade down, chopping a hole in the plaster. White dust flies into his face. He keeps chopping and hacking. Bernadette is mystified. Why is he doing this? Is there something stored behind the plaster wall? Cash? Other treasures? A body? The wooden slats behind the plaster are visible now. There’s nothing hidden there. Nothing. He’s still hacking away. His eyes are watering. He props the ax in a corner of the closet, shrugs off his coat, and tosses it down. Pulls off his gloves and drops them on top of the coat. Wipes his face with the hem of his shirt. Good—she can see much better.

  He pivots around and steps out of the closet, wading through the pile of winter gear. He’s kicking at the coats, getting them out of his way. The toe of his boot snags a pink puff of material. He falls to his knees amid the mound of clothing and gathers the cotton candy into his arms. Cradles it and rocks it like a baby. Lifts the jacket closer to his face. Dots of water drop onto the shiny material; he’s weeping. He burrows his face into the fabric. Bernadette is buried in the jacket along with him, forced to join Quaid in his dark, downy misery.

  It seems to last an hour, this black pause. He finally lifts his head and sets down the jacket. Quaid crawls to his feet, but his eyes linger over the pink. He doesn’t want to give up on his baby. Dead cotton-candy baby. He pulls his eyes off the floor, shuffles back into the closet, and retrieves the ax. Picks his way through the mess he’s made—plaster and coats and jackets and upended furniture—and heads for the stairs.

  He puts one foot on the first step and looks up. He freezes, his sight locked at the top of the stairs. Bernadette wonders: What is he waiting for? What is he looking at? She sees nothing at the top of the steps but the second-floor hallway. Is this more of his madness? Maybe he’s simply bracing himself for the fight with the intruder. Perhaps his fury has cooled off and has been replaced by fear. Fear and healthy common sense.

  He’s starting up the stairs. Slowly and deliberately, he’s taking one step at a time while his attention is staying fixed on the lighted corridor at the top. With his free hand, he holds on to the rails as he goes. Halfway there, he stops his ascent, takes his hand off the rail, and turns his head. He’s eyeing the bottom of the stairs. Is he having second thoughts? She can’t let him go back outside. Quaid might flee or—worse—finish off Garcia. She has to keep the maniac focused on the second floor.

  She concentrates. Struggles to keep her sight functioning while also executing a physical maneuver. The effort is draining. She feels sweat collecting under her armpits and beading above her upper lip. She does it. Kicks out one of her bent legs. Did it work? Did her foot even make contact with something—the closet wall or door? She can’t tell. Yes. He hears a bump. He snaps his head back around and looks toward the second floor with wide eyes. She wrestles with her other leg. It shoots out and makes contact with a solid surface. He raises his eyes to the ceiling and shifts the ax from his left hand to his right. So why isn’t he heading upstairs? The noises didn’t attract him; they frightened him. Damn. She needs to do something different.

  She remembers the way her shouts brought Garcia rushing to her bedside. Quaid’s immersion in the pink jacket tells her he’s thinking about his sisters. What would the sound of a female voice do to him? Could it send him running upstairs or fleeing back down? Could she even manage to speak again—this time consciously instead of reflexively? She opens her mouth and wills a sound to come out. Anything. A word. A scream. What comes out shocks her. His name. She manages to yell his first name. Damian! Or did she imagine it? No. He’s running up the stairs now, taking the steps two at a time. She hadn’t anticipated such speed from a big man.

  He’s thumping down the hall and running into the girls’ room. His vision sweeps across both beds
. He goes to the closet and yanks open the door. A wall of pink clothes. He spins around and goes back into the hall. Running into his own room. The brown bed. No one there. He falls to his knees and checks underneath the mattress. He jumps to his feet, pivots around, and in one stride goes to his closet. Throws open the door. A raincoat and a windbreaker and a collection of polo shirts, all dangling from wire hangers. He rips them down. Nothing behind the clothes. He closes the door and runs out of the room. Now the bathroom. She can see him in the mirror as he runs into the small space. His reflection reminds her he still has the gun tucked into the waist of his pants. As if he reads her mind, he sets the ax down on the bathroom counter and draws the gun out of his pants. He’s rushing out into the hall and heading for the last room on the second floor, his parents’ room.

  He’s standing in the doorway and taking in the bed. The mattress. He blinks. Something’s wrong, Bernadette thinks. She figures it out: Quaid sees the twin stains and realizes that both girls are dead, and that the voice he’d heard couldn’t possibly belong to one of his sisters. Ice water floods Bernadette’s body as Quaid takes his attention off the mattress and stares at the closet door. He’s walking across the room. Bernadette knows she should drop the ring and draw her weapon, but she can’t stop watching through his eyes. Being physically close to a killer while watching through his eyes is hypnotic. Mesmerizing. Intoxicating.

  He puts his hand on the knob and rips the door open. It slams against the wall. The contents of the closet flash before his eyes. Before her eyes. She thinks: He can’t see me; the gown is hiding me. The billowy heap of chiffon and plastic has become her protector. But for how long? She orders herself to uncurl her fingers, drop the ring, and draw her weapon. Nothing happens. Her fist is frozen around the band, and the rest of her is paralyzed as well. She sees his left hand reaching out for the wedding dress, the tips of his fingers touching the plastic. With his right hand, he’s bringing up the gun. This is it, she thinks. He’s going to pull back the gown and see her and shoot her. She will watch her own face take a bullet. She will die on the floor of a closet in a house planted in the middle of nowhere. She isn’t frightened; the idea calms and relaxes her. At the same time, she wonders if what she is doing is tantamount to suicide.

  Without warning and for no apparent reason, he yanks his hand away. The gun still raised, he swivels around and peers through the bedroom door into the hallway. Quaid’s eyes dart down to the pistol; he shifts his finger to the trigger. He glances up again and heads for the door. She figures someone is moving around downstairs. Who? Quaid pops his head outside the bedroom and sweeps the corridor with his eyes. He’s slipping out the door and stepping into the hallway. He’s bringing up his left hand and extending his arms.

  Garcia.

  Garcia must be in the house. Does he still have his gun, or did Quaid take it? Does he realize Quaid is armed? Garcia can’t possibly know what waits for him at the top of the stairs.

  She swallows hard and tries to force open her mouth to emit another noise, but her lips feel as if they’ve been sewn together. Bernadette switches her focus to the hand cupping the band. She again wills her fist to open, and again it refuses to unfold. She switches tactics and squeezes harder. It’s working; she senses her fingers curling into a smaller ball. As the metal bites into her palm, she makes herself feel every diamond dotting the band. The ring seems to throb against her skin—as if it has its own heartbeat. She tells herself the ring is a red-hot circle burning a hole into her flesh. She tightens her hand. Her pain—both real and imagined—flares. Her reflexes take over; her hand snaps open and the jewelry drops to the floor. She blinks, and the scene in the second-floor hallway melts away.

  Her sight is her own, but her emotions are Quaid’s.

  Fifty

  Bracing his outstretched arms in preparation for firing, Quaid moved in the direction of the stairway. He stopped, startled by the sound of footsteps coming from another direction. He swung around with his gun.

  Unbelievable! Standing in the doorway of his parents’ bedroom was the blond woman. The FBI agent.

  She was more astute than he’d anticipated; she’d tracked him down to his home. It was his own fault. He’d had three chances to kill her and passed them up. There’d be no letting her go this time. For the first time he got a good look at her eyes. Strange eyes. Devil eyes. A devil girl partnered with the devil man in the shed. The guy had to be another agent, but Quaid didn’t care. They were home invaders with badges. Both were evil—and both would be dead soon. He aimed for her chest.

  “FBI! Drop it!”

  “Why should I listen to a nut case?” he growled. “Fantastic nonsense about visions and a paper cross.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and her gun lowered a fraction. She blinked and barked back: “Drop the gun now!”

  He could see he’d knocked her off balance. Up until that moment, she’d had no idea that her confessor was the man she’d pursued and cornered. He sneered. “Dense, psychotic little woman.”

  “Drop your gun or I’ll blow your fucking head off!”

  She sounded as furious as he felt. Lethal. He worked to moderate his own voice, again becoming the priest on the bench, her hooded confidant. “You’re out of control, daughter. Deeply disturbed. You need help.”

  “How did you find me? Tell me!” she demanded.

  “Someone from the hospital overheard you. Pointed you out to me. The rest was easy. I followed you to church. Slipped into my costume.”

  “You helped me,” she said. “I was on the wrong track and you redirected me. Why?”

  He couldn’t answer her question without doubting his own sanity, so he turned it around and asked her: “How did you find me? I was careful.”

  “Very careful.” Her voice had calmed, but her aim stayed at his chest. “I told you in church how I know things. Some things.”

  Her answer angered him, and he abandoned his cloak of reason. “Satanic. Unhallowed. A load of crap. You’re a delusional fake cop.”

  “Not fake,” she said. “That’s another federal agent you’ve got tied up in your shed.”

  “I don’t give a damn who or what you are.” He kept his gun pointed at her, but his eyes shifted to the stairs. He was sure he’d heard something earlier, someone coming up the steps. Were there three intruders? Three devils? The girl, the one in the shed, and a third running around downstairs. He’d been dropped into his family’s nightmare. “You broke into my house. You’re on my property.”

  “We’ve been following your trail of bodies. We know you killed Chris Stannard. Noah Stannard. The judge. That other woman. We found her hand. Who was she? What did you do with the body?”

  The right side of his mouth curled up. Quaid wanted to make sure the tally was complete. “Don’t forget the deviant who slaughtered my family. I executed him, too. The woman was his lawyer. Marta Younges. The one who’d gotten him off so lightly. The rest of her is rotting somewhere along the river. Feeding the crows. ‘The corpses of this people will be food for the birds of the air, and for the animals of the earth; and no one will frighten them away.’ Read your Jeremiah.”

  “You’re a murderer.”

  “Didn’t murder any of them. All of them were executed according to God’s laws. God’s justice. Life for life. I’m sorry to say it, FBI lady: you’re next.”

  Her gun still trained on him, she took a step out of the doorway and into the hall. “What gives you the authority? Who died and left you in charge of dishing up revenge?”

  As the words tumbled out of her mouth, he felt a tear snaking out of the far corner of his eye, down to the edge of his upturned mouth. There would be two put to death that night. The man in the shed, and this crazy woman standing with him in the hallway. What would he take from her? The blue one? The brown one? Both? He’d have to educate her. Make her understand before he sent her to hell without her eyes. He cleared his throat and began. “The Lord’s message to Moses. ‘Anyone who strikes another with an iron objec
t, 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. 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.’” Quaid paused and studied her face to see if any of this was sinking in, but he couldn’t read past her blue-brown. Strange. Demonic. Seductive in a way. Yes. Both eyes would have to go. He asked: “Are you listening, little lady? Do you comprehend what this is about?”

  “You couldn’t even cut it as a priest. What makes you think you’ve got the moral standing to judge and execute?”

  He ignored her insult and her question. “Let me finish up with your Bible lesson. The Book of Numbers continues: ‘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.’” He adjusted his grip on his gun. “So, you see, I’m the avenger of blood.”

  “A failed priest.”

  His smile flattened and his eyes hardened; he’d had enough of this give-and-take. “I left the priesthood of my own free will.”

  “You bailed before they could boot you out. Your self-serving reading of the Bible is a bunch of garbage.”

  “Shut up.” He took a step away from her, toward the stairs. At that moment he wanted to distance himself from Devil Girl and her accusations. Her strange eyes, he’d hold them in the palms of his hands soon enough.

  She raised her gun a little higher. “What does the Bible say about hypocrites?”

  That word again; he hated it. “I am not a hypocrite!”