Blind Sight: A Novel (5 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
ony, wait. Someone is coming,” said Bernadette, nodding toward the barn.

A slender woman wearing tinted John Lennon eyeglasses and Bo Derek braids marched toward the truck. She was dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and a down vest. Her jeans were tucked into lace-up black leather boots that reached her knees. She was wiping her hands on a work apron that was tied around her waist.

With a grumble, Garcia pulled his gun out of the window and rolled it back up. “Lucky dogs.”

Instead of calling off the pit bulls, the woman stood behind them peering into the trucks cab. “Who are you?” she yelled to Bernadette’s side.

Bernadette slapped her identification wallet against the window. “FBI!”

The woman grabbed one of the dogs by the collar, pulled him off Bernadette’s door, and stepped closer to get a better look at the ID. As she studied the badge, she took off her glasses.

Through the window, Bernadette could see that the woman had multiple piercings: A nostril. Both eyebrows. Her chin just below her bottom lip. All the way up her ears. A tattoo snaked across her throat. It was a serpent swallowing its own head, the symbol of infinity or cyclicality. “Are you Jordan Ashe?” Bernadette yelled above the barking.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

“We need to talk to you!” Bernadette hollered. “Put the dogs away!”

The woman didn’t budge.

Garcia leaned across Bernadette’s lap and shouted through the glass. “Lock up your animals!”

Her eyes darted from Garcia’s angry face to the gun in his hand. She grabbed two of the dogs by the collar and started dragging them toward the barn. The others followed, tails wagging as if this were all part of a game. The woman wasn’t big, but she was strong enough to handle the pit bulls with authority. When one of the dogs tried to bolt, she grabbed it by the collar and whipped it into the barn.

“I’ll bet she’s split her share of logs,” said Bernadette.

Garcia watched as the woman slid the barn door closed. “I don’t like this one damn bit.”

They both scanned the yard to make sure there were no more loose dogs around, and then popped open their doors. When Bernadette hopped out of the truck, she landed on Garcia’s mangled boot. Riddled with teeth marks and covered in drool, it resembled a hunk of chewed-up beef gristle. She picked it up with two fingers and took it over to him. “Can you identify the remains, sir?”

He took it from her, dropped it on the ground, and stepped into it. “Should have shot the motherfuckers. Every last one of them.”

“I thought you liked dogs.”

“Not those dogs.”

“Maybe we need to get some backup,” said Bernadette, her eyes focused on the black windows as they walked toward the house.

They both stood at the bottom of the front stoop, waiting for the woman to let them inside. She seemed in no hurry as she made her way from the barn toward the house.

“Before we call in the troops, let’s uncover the nature of this particular illegal enterprise,” Garcia said under his breath.

“Pit-bull rescue?” Bernadette sputtered.

“They should be put down,” Garcia grumbled.

“Don’t start that with me,” Ashe warned.

Bernadette pointed to the windows. “And what is all the black paper about?”

“I do psychic readings and healing touch, and I need it dark for both.”

They were all three standing in the middle of a small front room, its walls painted a nameless shade that could be achieved only by mixing leftover cans. The wood floor was covered by an area rug, its muddy color one that could be achieved only by a failure to vacuum. Under the blacked-out windows was a black leather couch with a coffee table in front of it. Against the opposite wall was a brick fireplace, a blaze popping behind a screen. Against the same wall, to the right of the hearth, was a doorway leading to a hall and the bedrooms. The house smelled of dogs and cigarette smoke. Beneath those was another aroma. Reefer? No, something else, thought Bernadette. Maybe it was pine. There was a tree, and ornament boxes on the floor around it. Someone was in the midst of taking down the decorations.

To the left of the fireplace, tucked into a corner, was a round table covered with a black cloth. Two metal folding chairs were parked across from each other, and between them, in the center of the table, was a set of tarot cards. Bernadette went over to the deck, picked it up, and shuffled through it. The colorful images—apparently taken from paintings—were soft and beautiful. “I’ve seen these before,” she said, stopping at a card called the Ace of Pentacles. It depicted a nude woman reaching up toward a five-pointed star. “Witches Tarot, right?”

“I’m impressed,” Ashe said dryly, and then looked at Garcia. “I need to smoke. Can I reach for my smokes without getting shot?”

“Go ahead,” said Garcia, keeping his eyes trained on her hands.

The woman unzipped her down vest. “Appreciate it, especially since it’s my house and all.”

“Where’s Karl Vizner?” asked Bernadette, setting down the cards.

Ashe took a pack of Camels and a lighter from the front pocket of her flannel shirt. As she lit up, her attention shifted from Bernadette’s blue left eye to her brown right one. “I’m not answering any questions until you tell me what this is about.”

“Where’s Vizner?” repeated Garcia.

“Plowing.” Ashe took a deep drag and exhaled in Garcia’s direction. “Is this about that dead kid they found in Paul Bunyan? I heard the FBI was coming to town. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

“You folks live close to the scene,” said Garcia, his hands in his jacket pockets.

Obviously remembering that Garcia had a gun, Ashe looked nervously at his right arm. “So?”

“So did you see anything suspicious on New Year’s Eve?”

Instead of answering, the woman took another pull on her cigarette.

Spotting a sagging bookcase, Bernadette went over to it and surveyed the contents. A Shakespeare anthology and a collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald paperbacks shared space with a fat volume on the Wicca religion. An entire shelf was jammed with books on alternative and holistic medicine. She lifted the lid off a clay jar, picked it up, and took a whiff of what was inside. “Nice pot. What’s inside of it?”

“Sage,” Ashe said as she exhaled a cloud. “I use it for cleansing.”

Next to the pot was a trio of figurines. They could have been garden gnomes, except they were a fraction of the size, fitting in the palm of a hand. Bernadette picked one up. “Cute.”

“Wizards,” Ashe said through a gray haze. “I’ve got those three and two out in the barn. My unholy quints. I’m not sure they’re going to sell. People might find them too … what’s the word?”

“Mystical?” asked Bernadette, setting it down.

“Ugly,” Ashe said.

Garcia was getting impatient with the small talk. “We need you to answer some questions.”

“I need a cup of tea first,” Ashe said, and started for the kitchen.

“Sounds good.” Bernadette was right behind her, and stood in the doorway.

Ashe turned the burner on under a teakettle, opened a cupboard, and took down a box of tea. “Want a cup?”

“No thanks.” Bernadette ran her eyes around the galley, a cheerier space than the front room. The cupboards and walls were painted bright white, and the floor was tiled with black and white squares of linoleum. Bunches of dried herbs hung above the sink. Bernadette went over to the plants and examined them, crushing the leaves of one and smelling her gloved fingers.

“Thyme,” said Ashe.

“For cleansing?”

“Cooking. I like to cook.” She motioned toward the full sink with her cigarette. “Doing dishes, not so much.”

“I can relate to that.” Bernadette unzipped her jacket but kept on her gloves. “The dishes part, not the cooking part.”

“I have to cook. If it were up to Karl, we’d be living off fried pork rinds and frozen pizza.” The woman fished out a tea bag and dropped it into a cup decorated with a winged monkey from
The

Wizard of Oz
and the words
DON
’
T MAKE ME RELEASE THE FLYING

MONKEYS.

“You aren’t what I’d call a closeted witch,” said Bernadette, nodding toward the cup.

Ashe leaned her back against the counter, facing Bernadette. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Some sort of religious persecution. Dare I say it? A witch hunt.”

“Are there any other Wiccans in the area?”

“I’m what’s called a solitary practitioner.” She took a puff and tapped the cigarette into a lopsided handmade ashtray on the counter.

“I thought you had to be in a coven to be a Wiccan, otherwise you’re just a—”

“Otherwise I’m just a witch.” She gave a dismissive wave. “I’ve heard that before, and it’s nonsense. I honor and revere the earth. I celebrate the changing of the seasons, the phases of the moon, the gods and goddesses.”

“What about Karl?”

“He’s a lapsed Catholic. Sort of lapsed. He gets a Christmas tree every year. Goes to church on major holidays.”

“He’s a CEO, then,” Bernadette said.

“Huh?” Ashe asked through a haze of smoke.

“Christmas and Easter Only.”

She stepped next to Bernadette to drop the butt in the sink and returned to her resting spot opposite the agent. “Is that what you are?”

“Pretty much.”

“So where did you learn about the Witches Tarot? It’s a specialized deck.”

“I have a little background,” said Bernadette. “Spent time in Louisiana.”

Ashe scrutinized Bernadette’s mismatched eyes. “You should let me do a reading for you. You’ve got a yin-and-yang thing going on with the blue and the brown. I think we could have a cool outcome.”

“I’m not a big believer.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Ashe. “I’m not a charlatan. I
can
see. Intuit. I have premonitions. All the women in my clan have premonitions. It’s a female thing. Most women are better at watching and listening than men are, don’t you think? This is just an extension of that. I’ll bet you could see stuff if you tried. At least let me read your palm.”

Bernadette shoved her hands inside her jacket pockets. “I had my palm read in New Orleans. Once is enough.”

“New Orleans.” The teapot whistled, and Ashe took it off the stove. “There are some powerful sisters down there.”

“I met a few characters. Witches. Voodoo priestesses. Satanists.” Bernadette paused, waiting for a reaction. “Lots of Satanists.”

“Takes all sorts.” Ashe dropped a tea bag into her mug and poured water over it.

“The Wiccans in the area didn’t like the Satanists, and I never quite understood why that was the case.”

Ashe turned around with the mug in her hand. “An intelligent woman like yourself—someone who recognizes the Witches Tarot and hung out in New Orleans—I’ll bet you could figure out why those two groups don’t always see eye to eye.”

“I’d like to hear your explanation.”

Ashe blew on her tea. “Wiccans celebrate pre-Christian deities and do not—I repeat,
do not—
honor the Christian anti-God. Satanists see the Christian anti-God as a manifestation of their deity. They worship him. They worship the Devil.”

“But in terms of visible differences—”

“Let me put it in a way that a nice ex-Catholic girl would understand,” said Ashe, her voice hardening. “Satanists don’t turn the other cheek, okay? There’s no forgive and forget. Some practice black magic with the specific goal of nailing someone who has pissed them off. Their motto is pretty much, ‘Do whatever the hell you want.’ We say, ‘Do whatever you want as long as you don’t hurt someone, including yourself.’ Wiccans don’t try to dominate or control or harm others. The way I see it, we are the opposite of Satanists. The exact fucking opposite. The general, ignorant public thinks we’re the same, and that gives us a bad name. Causes us all sorts of problems.”

“But you both use the five-pointed star, don’t you?” Bernadette asked evenly.

Ashe blinked twice and took a sip of tea. “Theirs is inverted.”

“But—”

With a toss of her braids, Ashe turned her back on Bernadette and headed into the front room. “Let’s get this interrogation over with. I’ve got work to do.”

Ashe had apparently decided that she’d said too much. Bernadette followed her out of the kitchen.

Garcia had pulled one of the folding chairs away from the table and was sitting across from the couch. Ashe took the hint, went over to the couch, and dropped down with her tea in her hand. “Don’t you people need some sort of paperwork? Seriously, should I even be talking to you without a lawyer?”

Bernadette sat down on the edge of the coffee table and folded her hands in front of her. “This isn’t that big of a deal. We just want to know if you saw anything on New Year’s Eve. Your residence is close to where the body was found.”

“So are a lot of houses. Lots of people live in and around Paul Bunyan. Go talk to them.” Ashe took a sip of tea and grinned tightly. “Oh, wait. They aren’t a religious minority.”

Bernadette: “We just want to know if you or Karl saw anything out of the ordinary that day.”

“Karl was on the plow all night and into the next morning. None of his jobs were anywhere near Paul Bunyan. They were all in town.”

“What about earlier, before the snow started falling?” asked Garcia.

“He was busy getting his equipment ready. He was holed up in the garage all day.”

“What about you?” asked Garcia.

“I didn’t get outside.” She set down her cup, pulled out another cigarette, and talked as she lit up. “I was in the barn, throwing pots. I have a big show coming up in the spring.”

“What about the healing touch?” asked Bernadette.

Ashe released a cloud over the coffee table. “I’ve been cutting back on that, until the show is over.”

“I understand you’ve been at the hospital offering your ser vices,” said Bernadette.

“I haven’t been there in months,” said Ashe, fingering her cigarette. “Why do you care about that, anyway? That has nothing to do with being in the woods.”

Bernadette fished the dead girl’s photo out of her jacket and extended it to Ashe. “Is she familiar?”