Blind Sight: A Novel (15 page)

She and Garcia stood over the body while Tuckert, squatting next to it, pointed with a gloved finger. “See these here?” he asked, pointing to disk-shaped marks around the witch’s neck. “These are
not
from a rope or some other device. This is manual strangulation.”

“Takes a strong person,” said Garcia.

“How long would it take to do something like that, to keep up the pressure and strangle a woman with your hands?” asked Bernadette.

Bobby Tuckert—a brown-haired, barrel-chested fellow from the South who was new to Minneapolis Division—looked up at her. His attention darted between her blue and brown. “Uh … I’m sorry … what was the question?” he asked in a slight drawl.

“Forget it,” Garcia said impatiently.

Shifting her focus to the artwork on the dead woman’s forehead, Bernadette said, “That doesn’t look like blood.”

Tuckert pointed across the room to a workbench, which was taped off. “She had a bunch of paints and brushes. We figure the star was painted with one of those.”

The noose was on the floor next to the body, no doubt where Vizner had dropped it after freeing her neck. “So someone killed her first, then put the noose over her head and hoisted her up,” said Garcia, walking over to where the other end of the rope was hanging from a beam.

Bernadette joined Garcia. The line was dangling at her eye level and swaying slightly from the wind seeping through the gaping cracks in the barn’s walls. “What’s this stuff at the end of it?”

“Clay, we think,” said Tuckert. “We found a lump of it in the middle of the floor. We’re figuring it was used to get the rope over the beam.”

“Sounds feasible,” said Garcia, walking back to the body.

“We’re betting the lady’s assailant wore gloves, sir. We found what look like glove prints in the clay.”

“Good work,” said Garcia, hunkering down next to the body, across from Tuckert.

Bernadette went over to the potter’s wheel and saw the remains of something in the middle. Ashe was working on a project when she was interrupted. Hands clasped behind her back, Bernadette stepped over to the shelves filled with finished pieces. “Hope the victim got some licks in before she was killed.”

“No blood or skin under her nails, but broken pottery in a trash can,” said Tuckert. “That could be something, or maybe not.”

Nodding, Bernadette continued touring the pottery display. “Barn door wasn’t busted or anything?”

“No sign of a break-in,” said Tuckert. “Dogs clawed up the outside of it, though.”

“So maybe they did try to protect her,” said Garcia.

“Cell phone?” Bernadette asked.

“Left on the workbench,” said Tuckert. “B.K…. Agent Cahill should be able to get some good stuff off it.”

“Tire tracks? Footprints?” Garcia asked.

“The boyfriend plowed the road to his house and the driveways before he found her, so that didn’t help,” said Tuckert. “Then there’s the blizzard. That blowing and drifting didn’t help much, either.”

“Sheriff said some of our guys are checking out footprints by the back fence, near the dead cats,” said Garcia.

“Again, the weather isn’t helping.” Tuckert released a barely audible sigh, a commentary on the climate of his new home and its lack of cooperation as he tried to do his work. “We’re doing what we can, sir. It’s been every bit as challenging as that crime scene in Blue Ox Park.”

Garcia didn’t bother correcting him on the name of the state forest.

While listening to the dismal report, Bernadette continued to survey Ashe’s shelves. She spotted a wizard like the ones she’d seen in the house. What had Ashe said about them?

“I’ve got those three and two out in the barn. My unholy quints.”

There was only one wizard on the dusty shelf, and a circle of clean wood next to it. That’s where the second one had stood. Someone had pilfered it. The killer? In case it had been moved rather than taken, Bernadette quickly scanned the shelves again, from top to bottom. No. No second wizard.

Bernadette, turning to face Garcia and Tuckert: “Something was taken. One thing.”

“What?” asked Garcia.

“Ashe made these small wizard statues, and the killer took one as a souvenir. Took it from the shelf here.”

“Good,” Garcia said. “If we find one of those little dudes on someone’s buffet, we’ll have our killer.”

“Exactly.” The blue men were staring at her. Their freak colleague had showed them up.
Tough
.

“Anything else?” Garcia asked hopefully.

Bernadette peeled off the latex and stuffed the gloves into her pocket. “Going to go outside and talk to Carson about his find along the back fence. See if the phone came up with anything juicy.”

Garcia stood up. “I’m heading to the house to try the boyfriend. Join me when you finish with Cahill.”

Bernadette started for the door, pulling her leather gloves tighter over her fingers. As she exited the barn, she felt the eyes of the blue men burning a hole in her back. It made her smile.

CHAPTER TWENTY

B
.K. had left his station next to the woodpile. Bernadette couldn’t see any of the other agents, so she asked a deputy if he knew where Cahill had gone.

“Which one was he?” asked the youngster, who was the size and shape of an oak tree. They grew them big up north.

“He’s the one who found the dead animals,” she said.

“Cat Man Do. Sure.”

She cringed at the nickname they’d given him. “Yeah. Carson Cahill. Where is he?”

“He went to your RV,” the deputy said with a smirk. “How many folks does that thing sleep, by the way? Does it come standard with HDTV?”

“Hilarious,” she said, and started down the driveway.

“My grandpa’s shopping around for one to take down to Arizona,” he yelled after her. “What kind of mileage does it get?”

Turning around, she hollered over her shoulder, “One on the highway and zero in the city.” She heard him laugh, and she had to do the same.

The wind had died down and the snow had stopped, but the temp was dropping. Her boots squeaked as she walked on the snow.

She caught up with B.K. as he was getting out of the van. “Hey, Carson.”

“Hey, Bern,” he said, zipping his jacket to his neck.

As she stepped up to him, she could see that his face was knotted with tension. Was it the mangled cats or the crime scene in general? She decided to ask about something safe. “How’d you make out with the victim’s phone? Come up with anything decent?”

“A
lot,” he said, leaning his butt against the side of the van. “She made a bunch of calls today. A bunch yesterday. Boom, boom, boom, one after another.”

“Hmm. That’s fascinating as hell. All local numbers?”

“Yup. All local. She was up to something. Trying to organize something or track someone down.”

“Or warn people,” she said.

“About what?”

“About us—or someone else—coming after them.”

“Then the outgoing calls stopped and she missed a bunch of incoming, all from a Karl Vizner.”

“Let’s go for a hike,” she said, nodding away from the commotion.

For several minutes, they walked without talking. The new snow made the road glow bright white. He broke the silence with a voice that sounded forced in its casualness. “Heard you ran into some trouble in Brule.”

“Long story.” She sensed that he didn’t want to hear it, and that he in fact wanted to get back to the well-lit homestead.

Something rustled in the woods. “What was that?” he asked, his head snapping to look behind them.

“Maybe we should start walking back,” she offered, thinking it was nothing more than a deer.

“No, I’m good,” he said quickly, then added, “If you’re good.”

“I’m sorry you had to be the one to find the cats,” she said.

“It’ll be a long time before I forget that,” he said, burying his hands in his jacket pockets. “There was blood and fur and guts all over the snow, like a horror movie. I won’t be sleeping tonight.”

“I’ve been there,” she said, thinking back to her worse murder scenes.

“I suppose you think getting so worked up over dead animals is ridiculous,” he said.

“Not at all,” she said sympathetically.

“I imagine you’ve seen a lot worse, with all the years you’ve been in law enforcement.”

“Now you’re making me sound old.”

A branch snapped and Cahill’s arm shot out. “Bern,” he whispered, clutching her forearm.

They both froze and she put her fingers to her lips to silence him. Something large was moving through the woods, not far from the road. Slowly, she unzipped her jacket and reached inside. Un-snapped her holster and drew her gun. Cahill did the same.

Bernadette crouched low, pulling him down with her. She peered into the trees on her side of the road, and he surveyed his side. They heard nothing for a minute or two, and slowly started to straighten up. Another crack caused them both to stop in a semi-crouched position. The noise was coming from the left, from her side of the road. Cahill looked over his shoulder, back toward the house. Bernadette shook her head. She didn’t want to risk losing the culprit. She pointed to a gap between the trees and Cahill hesitated. Nodded. She stood up and slipped into the forest, and he followed.

Slowly, she wove between the trees and bushes on a path of sorts. A couple of feet wide, it cut a meandering swath through the woods. Deer or humans could have made it. Maybe one had created it first and then the other took advantage. Regardless, it allowed her and B.K. to make their way in the darkness without walking straight into a tree or tripping over a fallen branch.

Whatever they were tracking, it sounded as if it were making its own path through the woods. They could hear it barreling ahead of them, snapping twigs and rattling bushes. A frightened animal, or a panic-stricken human?

Every minute or so, she glanced behind to make sure B.K. was keeping up. Cahill was staying back about ten feet. His gun was no longer in his hand. He’d put it back in either his holster or his jacket pocket. She was glad; she didn’t want to be the victim of friendly fire. She kept her Glock in her fist.

The noise was fading; they were going to lose it. She picked up the pace, going from a jog to a run. Behind her, she could hear Cahill increasing his speed. She ran into the branches of a bush or a tree and pushed the limb aside without snapping it. She stopped for a second to hold it for B.K.

Winded, he came up beside her in a cloud of steam. “We should call,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“Not yet,” she whispered back, and continued running. She wanted to make sure it wasn’t just a deer.

He went after her. “Bern. Wait.”

The path emptied out into a clearing. She stumbled into it a few yards and stopped dead. Was she seeing this, or was the darkness playing tricks? A chill deeper than the night’s dropping temperatures invaded her belly, and she instinctively tightened her grip on the gun.

Panting, Cahill came up beside her. He rested his hand against a tree while he caught his breath and took in the scene. “This looks like some sort of—”

“Get out your light,” she whispered.

He fished his Mag out of his jacket, clicked it on, and ran the light around the clearing. “Holy crap,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” she said.

Arranged around the perimeter were backless benches, the legs made of tree stumps and the seats made of rough-cut lumber. The benches were set in a perfect circle and resembled the sort of thing found at a group campground. The arrangement of rustic furniture had nothing to do with campfires and roasting marshmallows, however. In the center of the space was a table, the legs a little taller than those of a dining-room table and made of skinned logs. The top consisted of a thin slab of flat, irregularly shaped stone. It was decorated with a set of candles.

Cahill trained the beam on the table. “Some sort of altar.”

“I’d say so.” Bernadette took out her own flashlight. Walking the perimeter of the clearing, she held her Glock in one hand and shined the beam into the woods with the other. She saw no movement.

“Bern,” said Cahill, swallowing hard. “Uh … there’s something on top of the table, between the candles.”

She spun around and shined the light on the altar. “Please let it be another cat,” she said under her breath.

“What?” asked Cahill, staying at the perimeter.

“Sorry,” she said, stepping slowly toward the center. “It’s just that… well… that’d be better than some alternatives.”

“I’m calling for backup,” he said.

“Please do,” she said, shining the light on the mound in the center of the slab. The object was covered with a towel or a small blanket, neatly arranged so that the edges of the cloth were straight and all four corners pointed out. At each tip was a large, partially melted pillar candle. The candles were positioned at the north, east, south, and west—the four cardinal points, important in pagan ceremonies.

Behind her, she heard Cahill talking, trying to give directions. His voice was tremulous. “I don’t know how far in we are, but you should be able to see …”

Bernadette moved closer to the altar and stretched out her arms. With the barrel of her gun, she lifted one corner of the blanket, which was the size of a pillowcase. Her mind was filled with the horrific possibilities of what could fit under such a small drape. “Dear God,” she whispered. “Let it be an animal. Please, please, please.”

Cahill came up behind her. “What is it, Bern?”

She lifted the corner higher while shining the light underneath. “It doesn’t look frozen. It must have been left here a few minutes ago.”

“What is it?” He also trained his flashlight on the object, but maintained his distance.

“We interrupted something, I think.”

“But what is it?” he rasped.

“I don’t know … something … turned inside out.”

“Jesus,” he said, and took a step back.

She lowered her gun, letting the blanket drop onto the bloody mess. “I think it’s some kind of animal. I hope it is.”

“Is there fur?”

She didn’t want to answer.

He squeaked his next question. “What else could it be? It’s so small. Oh, God. Maybe it’s a—”

“Stop.” She didn’t want Cahill to voice her biggest fear.

“But—”

“Shut up.” Bernadette shivered. They were being observed. She could feel someone’s eyes on the clearing. On her and Cahill. A rustling in the woods confirmed it. Spinning around, she aimed her gun and flashlight into the trees.

“What is it?” he whispered. That was becoming his mantra.

“Carson,” she said evenly.

“Yeah?”

“Get out your weapon.”

He pulled his gun from his jacket pocket. “Now what?”

“Stay here. Guard the … thing on the altar.”

“Bern. No. Don’t go.”

“I’m not going far,” she said, and slipped between two tall pines.

There was no path to make the hunt easy, but she wasn’t afraid to use her flashlight this time. The element of surprise was gone; now it was a footrace. She pocketed her gun to free up her hands as she threaded through the forest. She came upon a fallen tree limb and jumped over it, stumbling as she landed but staying on her feet. Her breath clouded the air in front of her. “Stop!” she yelled into the woods. “FBI!”

The sound was getting louder. A bull barreling through the forest, stomping on bushes and snapping branches. This had to be a big, clumsy man, and she was closing in on him. Shining the flashlight ahead, she still couldn’t see him through the pines and aspens. “Stop now!” she yelled. “FBI!”

As she pushed a low-hanging branch out of her way, another one slapped her across the face. She kicked her way through a thicket of wild berries, the bushes pulling and scratching at her clothing and slowing her down. Despite the subzero temperature, she was perspiring under her jacket.

She wove between a thick stand of aspens. As soon as she cleared the trees, she stepped onto the shore of a snow-covered oval. She ran the beam around her side of the pond, a body of water the size of a kids’ hockey rink. She couldn’t see any marks on the surface of the pond, which had to be frozen under the layer of snow. Aiming the light down, she walked the shoreline searching for footprints. All she saw were the tops of cattails poking up through the white blanket like whiskers. Scanning the surrounding woods for signs of the bull, she spotted no broken twigs or trampled bushes.

Bernadette finished her circuit where she’d started it. “Fuck!” she said under her breath. She’d lost him.

Turning away from the pond, she headed back into the aspens. She didn’t know how long she’d been gone from B.K. He was probably hysterical, and sending everyone else into a panic. Diving into the woods without backup was exactly the kind of cowgirl crap that made Garcia’s face turn purple.

Bernadette kept the flashlight trained ahead of her as she jogged through the woods, retracing her steps back to the outdoor worship space. Satanic campground. Whatever the hell it was called.

Behind her, someone emerged from between two trees and swung a branch with the force of a lumberjack chopping a tree. The limb caught Bernadette between the shoulder blades and she stumbled forward with a grunt. The toe of her boot caught under a fallen branch and she went flying face-first onto the ground. Her forehead hit a flat stone poking up through the snow.

The hooded figure raised the branch to take a second chop, this time aiming for the back of the head.

The sound of an approaching helicopter vibrated the night sky.

Branch still in hand, the assailant ducked down and vanished between the trees.