Blind Sight: A Novel (16 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

B
ernadette woke up flat on her back, with Garcia’s face hovering over her and a blanket under her. There were others standing around on the narrow path, but she couldn’t make out their features. Lights were shining in her eyes, and she put her hand in front of her face. “Tony—”

“Stay still.” He was kneeling at her side. “I’ve got a stretcher coming.”

“I don’t need a damn stretcher,” she said, and propped herself up on her elbows in an attempt to rise. Her head was throbbing.

“Take it easy” He put an arm around her to support her as she sat up. “Do you remember what happened?”

She had to think hard. It was foggy “Someone hit me from behind. Nailed me in the back with a bat or something.” She put her fingers to her forehead. “I must have landed on something hard.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t finish the job and crack your skull open.” Garcia looked up at the cluster of lights and people. “You heard her. Get moving. Tell the searchers we’re looking for a weapon in addition to a suspect.”

The sound of men mumbling and boots on the snow. The lights didn’t leave her face, though, and she covered her eyes with her hand. She heard a helicopter overhead but doubted that her assailant could be found easily, especially at night. This was someone who knew the woods. Did the bastard get B.K., too? “Cahill?” she asked. “Is he okay?”

“He led us to you,” said Garcia.

Cahill’s voice from behind the lights: “I’m here, Bern …”

“I’m sorry I left you,” she said. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

“You’re right,” Garcia said flatly, and then tightened his hold around her shoulders. “This wasn’t a good deal for either one of you.”

“We were on the road when we heard something in the woods,” she said, leaning back against Garcia. “We … I … decided to check it out.”

“Agent Cahill told us. Did you get a look at him?”

Again, her memory wasn’t clear. “No … I’m pretty sure I didn’t… I didn’t see him. He sounded big, though. A big ox crashing around.”

“What else?” asked Garcia.

She took her hand down from her eyes. The frozen oval. She remembered walking around it. “I tracked him to the pond over there and lost him. I was on my way back to B.K. when … I guess that’s when the fucker got me.”

“That’s quite a find you and B.K. made,” said Garcia.

“One of my deputies would have come across it eventually,” said the sheriff from behind the lights. He sounded defensive.

Bernadette recalled the worship space. “I think the big ox led us there. He wanted us to find it, to find that mess on the altar. It was fresh.”

“We saw,” said Garcia.

She bit down on her bottom lip. “What was it? Do we know?”

“Baby pig, we think,” said Garcia.

“Good. I was afraid it was …” Her voice trailed off.

“That mangled animal—what does it mean?” Cahill asked.

The bloody spectacle. Being left alone in the woods with it. Finding her unconscious. All of it had obviously shaken the young agent, and she felt terrible about putting B.K. through it. “I don’t know what it means, Carson,” she said gently. “People associate animal sacrifice with certain pagan religions.”

“The witches didn’t do it,” said Wharten.

“The investigation will determine who is responsible, Seth,” said Garcia.

Wharten stepped out from behind the lights and hunkered down next to Bernadette. He asked in a softened voice, “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll live,” she said.

As he squatted by her side, he folded his big hands in front of him. “I know all these people, and they wouldn’t kill and gut a young girl. They wouldn’t kill and hang one of their own. They wouldn’t attack a member of law enforcement. They sure as hell wouldn’t waste good livestock on animal sacrifice.”

Growing up on a farm, she found that last comment reasonable. “Then what do you think is going on, Sheriff?”

“Someone is setting them up,” Wharten said. “That’s all I can figure.”

“But the event that started this whole thing, the murder of a senator’s daughter and her missing fetus, that can’t just be about setting someone up,” said Bernadette. “And what about the dead girl’s amazing disappearing pentagram?”

“There’s gotta be more to it,” Garcia agreed.

By the sound of it, Garcia had abandoned his goofy serial-killer theory. Good riddance. He’d been interviewing Vizner while she and B.K. were having their big adventure. “The boyfriend, did he have a clue about any of that?”

“He wasn’t any help,” said Garcia. “Maybe tomorrow. He’s still a wreck.”

Bernadette looked at the sheriff. “You said Ashe was one of their own? By that, you meant—”

“One of the coven’s own.” Wharten stood up. “Difference between her and the rest of them was she was more flamboyant about it. Seemed to enjoy being the lightning rod for attention and criticism.” He paused. “We can see what that got her.”

“I wonder if that’s who she was calling like crazy, right before she was killed,” said Bernadette. “She was trying to warn them about something.”

“About what?” asked Wharten.

“A
killer coming after them,” said Bernadette. “The FBI coming after them.”

“They aren’t afraid of the law,” said Wharten. “They have nothing to hide.”

Garcia looked up at him with raised brows. “Nothing to hide? Seth, you said yourself you were trying to keep their existence under wraps. If nothing else, they’ve been hiding their religious practices.”

“What if those secretive ceremonies included not only the sacrifice of that baby animal but also the sacrifice of a human fetus?” asked Bernadette. “Having a pregnant runaway in their midst would have been hard to resist. Easy pickings. Who would miss her? They didn’t know she was a senator’s daughter.”

“They wouldn’t do those things,” said the sheriff.

“Who put that ceremonial space in the woods, close to Ashe’s house?” asked Bernadette. “It took a lot of hands, and it sure wasn’t Lutheran hands.”

“Then why would they also kill one of their own?” asked Wharten, this time not sounding so defensive. This time, sounding as if there might be a possibility.

Garcia: “Maybe she was so freaked out by our visit, making all those panicky calls …”

“They worried she was going to turn on them,” said Wharten, finishing the thought. He rubbed his chin. “We have to see who Jordan called.”

“Cahill has Ashe’s cell,” said Bernadette.

Cahill materialized at Wharten’s elbow and flipped open the dead woman’s phone.

Wharten stared at the cell for a moment and then sighed heavily. “I can tell you if they’re all members of the coven.”

Bernadette: “If that’s who Ashe was calling right before she was killed …”

“We need a serious come-to-Jesus meeting,” said Wharten.

With Garcia’s assistance, Bernadette got on her feet. She was dizzy, but she didn’t want to tell him that. “I want to be in on this get-together.”

“Not tonight,” said Garcia, putting an arm around her back. “I want you checked out.”

She touched her forehead again. “They’re going to tell me to ice it and take plenty of Tylenol or some such shit.”

“You’re going in,” said Garcia.

“I’m not.”

“They’re already here,” said Wharten, stepping to one side.

A pair of paramedics—a man and a woman—came through with a stretcher. The man ran his eyes around the half-dozen people on the path. “Where’s the injured party?”

“I am not going in on my back,” Bernadette said to Garcia.

Garcia addressed the medics. “Thanks, but I’ll drive her in.”

“You sure?” asked the woman. She tipped her head toward the homestead. “Rig is ready and waiting.”

“I’m sorry for your trouble,” said Bernadette. She peeled herself away from Garcia, walked around the paramedics and their gear, and started hobbling down the path.

Wharten looked after her. “She’s a stubborn one, isn’t she?”

“Yup,” said Garcia. He turned to Cahill. “While we’re at the hospital, sit down with the sheriff and go over those phone numbers.”

“Yes, sir,” said Cahill.

Garcia told Wharten, “Then, sometime tomorrow, we’ll host an intervention.”

Wharten grinned tightly and nodded. “Sounds good, Antonia.”

“Thanks, Seth.” Garcia turned to start down the path.

Wharten snagged him by the shoulder. “Tony …”

Garcia turned to face him. “Yeah?”

“About my going ballistic earlier …”

Garcia: “You can buy the bait.”

“Then we’re square?”

“We’re square,” Garcia said, and went after Bernadette.

Wharten slapped B.K. on the back. “Let’s do this, young man.”

“Yes, sir.”

The two men went down the path, the sheriff taking the lead. He checked his watch. “My favorite greasy spoon’s open all night. You can spring for a cup of java.”

“Yes, sir.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

H
ow long were you unconscious?”

“Did you vomit on the way to the hospital?”

“Are you nauseous or sleepy or dizzy?”

“What do you remember immediately before and after the impact?”

“Have you suffered any sort of head trauma before?”

After bombarding her with questions, Dr. Hessler shined a penlight into her eyes. “What are you checking for?” she asked.

“Pupils equal and reactive to light,” he said. “PERL, we call it.”

“The blue and brown throw you off?” she asked.

“Seen it before,” he said distractedly. “Not that unusual.”

If only he knew how bizarre her eyes really were, Bernadette mused. He clicked off the light and turned around to write something down on his chart. “Can I go now?” she asked his narrow back.

“Not yet,” he muttered as he scribbled.

She had a headache, and her back was sore from taking the hit. Otherwise she felt more foolish than injured. “What else do you need to do?” she asked.

“I’d like to order a CT scan of your brain, just to be sure.”

“How long is that going to take?”

“This time of night…” Rather than finish the sentence, he continued writing.

This time of night
promised to be a long wait. She hopped off the examining table, stepped into her boots, grabbed her jacket, and went for the exit.

“Wait,” Hessler said after her. “We’re not through with you.”

“Thank you,” Bernadette said over her shoulder, and pushed through the doors into the waiting area.

Garcia was the only one sitting in the small, stuffy room. He closed a magazine and stood up. “What did they say?”

“I’m fine.” She started to put on her jacket, and he quickly moved to help her with it. He was treating her like an invalid.

“What are you supposed to do about the forehead?”

She’d bolted before the doctor could give her instructions. She fabricated something, figuring it was medically accurate. “Ice it and take Tylenol for the pain.”

Garcia zipped up his jacket. “Tylenol? I think all I’ve got back at the cabin is—”

“I’m sure whatever it is, it’ll work,” she said, zipping up.

Carrying a clipboard stacked with paperwork, Hessler came out of the emergency room. “We’re not finished with her yet.”

Garcia looked at Bernadette. “You told me they said—”

“I’m fine.” She fished her gloves out of her jacket pockets and pulled them on.

“I’m sure you are,” said Hessler. “But there are still some tests I would like to—”

“Doc,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “I’m good. I gotta hit the road.”

Hessler:
“A
CT scan of your brain, and then you can leave with my blessing.”

“If the doctor wants to check your brain, let him check your brain.”

“We’ve been here forever.” She yanked a stocking cap on over her head and winced.

“How serious is this, Doctor?” asked Garcia. “Shouldn’t she be hospitalized overnight?”

Bernadette took a step back from both men and folded her arms in front of her. “That will never happen.”

“There are something like a million cases of concussions in the United States annually. Some of those require hospitalization, but most people are treated in the ER or doctor’s office.” Hessler tucked the chart under his arm. “It all depends upon the seriousness of the injury.”

“Where would you rank this one?” asked Garcia.

“How long a person remains unconscious can be an indicator of the severity of the concussion,” said Hessler. “Unfortunately—”

“We don’t know how long she was out,” said Garcia.

“Sure we do,” said Bernadette, talking quickly to derail any attempts to keep her at the hospital. “Agent Cahill told you I was gone from him for just a few minutes. Most of that time, I was chasing after the suspect. Ergo … well… you guys do the math. I was unconscious for less than a minute. A second or two. I was knocked out for a couple of seconds.”

“You weren’t out for long, but it was more than two seconds, Cat,” said Garcia.

“But—”

“Ergo, put a lid on it.”

“She was evasive when I asked about previous head injuries,” said Hessler, treating Garcia like the father of an uncooperative pediatric patient. “Has she lost consciousness before? Any other recent incidents on or off the job?”

Garcia hesitated before answering. “In the fall, she got knocked into the river by a guy. I’d call that an incident.”

Hessler looked at his patient with raised brows.

“Bad dinner date,” she said.

Hessler went back to asking Garcia the questions. “He hit her on the head?”

“No, on the back. The suspect whacked her on the back with a board or a bat. Then she went into the water.”

“Her head didn’t strike anything on the way down?” Hessler asked Garcia.

“You can ask me—I’m standing right here,” interjected Bernadette. “And no, my head didn’t hit anything. It was a clean dive.”

Hessler continued, still addressing Garcia. “The reason I ask is there’s been evidence of an increased rate of brain injury and even death among those who have had previous concussions with loss of consciousness.”

“What about repeated back injuries? Do you think I should take her in and have her back looked at when we get home?”

“I don’t think it would hurt to have her family physician give her a thorough exam.”

Surrendering to her exclusion from the discussion, Bernadette took Garcia’s former seat in the waiting room.

“What should I expect tonight?”

“There may be some irritability.”

“That’d be something new.”

Bernadette glared at Garcia, but both men continued to ignore her.

“Some dizziness. A headache. Those are not unusual following an injury of this nature. If she demonstrates more serious symptoms, you need to bring her back in immediately. I’m talking persistent confusion, repeated vomiting, convulsions, slurred speech. Weakness or decreased coordination. If her headache gets worse.”

“I’ve heard of head-injury victims going to sleep and never waking up,” Garcia said.

“It happens,” said Hessler.

Bernadette didn’t like the sound of that.

“So do I have to keep her up all night?” asked Garcia.

“She can go to bed tonight, but I want you to wake her up every two hours. You might want to stay in the room with her, to keep a close watch.”

The right side of Bernadette’s mouth turned up. This could be quite the evening.

“Tylenol for the pain,” continued Hessler. “She absolutely needs to take it easy. No runs through the woods for a while. She’ll be fine.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying.” Bernadette stood up.

Garcia pumped the doctor’s hand. “Appreciate it.”

Hessler shook his head grimly. “The things going on around here. Murdered girl. That poor Ashe woman. Your agent getting attacked. Hope you catch the person or persons responsible.”

“Don’t worry,” said Bernadette, pulling her gloves tighter over her fingers. “We will.”

Hessler buried his hands in the pockets of his medical jacket. “So … any suspects?”

“Would you like to nominate someone?” Bernadette asked lightly.

“Can’t be someone from around here,” Hessler said.

“He knows the woods, this guy,” said Bernadette. “It’s gotta be someone from around here.”

Hessler took the chart he’d been carrying under his arm and started flipping through it. “Talk is you came upon an interesting sight out in the forest this evening.”

“What did you hear, exactly?” Bernadette asked.

The doctor kept his eyes on the chart, which seemed to be growing more engrossing by the second. “Uh … nothing … I just heard you found some … strange things. Some unusual… furniture.”

“Furniture,” she repeated.
“A
strangely benign word for a satanic altar topped by a blood sacrifice.”

Hessler turned to the last page of his chart and said nothing in response.

“Any thoughts on who arranged such
furniture
?” Bernadette asked.

Hessler looked up from his paperwork. “Not my area of expertise, Miss Saint Clare. I imagine you and Mr. Garcia have your own ideas.”

“Have to believe it was the local witches,” said Bernadette. “Jordan Ashe’s cohorts.”

“Again, it’s not my area,” said Hessler. “But my understanding is that practitioners of the Wiccan faith don’t kill things as part of their tradition.”

“You think the furniture was put there by another group?” asked Bernadette.
“A
Scout troop?”

The doctor tucked the clipboard under his arm. “If you’re clear on your after-care instructions—”

“I am,” she said pleasantly.

“Then I really need to get back to work,” said Hessler, turning on his heel.

“Thanks again,” she said after him as he disappeared behind the ER doors.

Bernadette and Garcia saved their analysis for the stroll across the parking lot. It was bitterly cold, but there was no wind. Thinking the frigid night air might numb the pain in her head, she pulled off her stocking cap as they walked.

“Another defender of the local witches,” said Garcia.

“I think he’s more than that,” said Bernadette. “I got some spooky vibes from him.”

“Think he keeps some eye of newt in his medical bag?”

“That certainly wasn’t politically correct,” she said as they got to the Titan. “And yes, that’s exactly what I think. I think he’s one of the witches.”

“Sven the witch,” said Garcia, pulling open the driver’s door. “Doesn’t really roll off the tongue, does it?”

“Not exactly.”

“Wait,” said Garcia. “That means he’s a … witch doctor.”

“You had to say it, didn’t you?” Bernadette laughed and then groaned. “Owie. My head.”

They got inside the truck and Garcia started it up. “I did think it was telling the way he accepted your plural description of those folks. If my fishing buddy is to be believed, Jordan Ashe was the only Wiccan who let it all hang out. Everyone else is under wraps.”

“If Hessler
is
one of them, he would have had access to Lydia’s body,” she said. “He could have been the one who removed the inverted pentagram.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Public relations?”

“That would mean he put on a big performance for us in the basement, feigning surprise, pretending he didn’t know shit about shit.”

“A good act,” she said.

“I don’t know,” Garcia said slowly. “His shock seemed genuine. I’m not sure he’s the one.”

“Plus, you’d think a medical professional—a doctor—would be smarter than that,” she conceded. “And he did take good care of me. I didn’t pick up on any hostility or nervousness.”

Garcia reached under the driver’s seat, pulled out the ice scraper, and hopped out of the cab. While he cleared off the windows, she fooled with the heater and the vents. She felt guilty for not helping him outside, but her headache wasn’t getting any better.

Garcia hopped back in and steered the truck out of the parking lot. “Let’s go back to the cabin. I’ll make you a late supper and then we can get some sleep—in two-hour doses. Come morning, we’ll be able to think more clearly about Sven.”

“I’ve got one thing left to do yet tonight on the case.”

“What?”

“You know what,” she said.

“You’re not feeling well enough to do that,” he said. “Save it for tomorrow.”

“Bullshit.”

“Cat…”

“Get some red meat in me and a beer and I’ll be ready to rock.”