Bloody Point (14 page)

At the back of the booth sat a man wearing dark glasses. At
his feet was a yellow Labrador retriever wearing a harness – a guide dog.
Cassie looked around for the potter, but there was no one else present. “Excuse
me,” she said, “I’m Cassie McKenna and I’m covering the festival for
The Bay
Beacon
along with my photographer here.”

The man stood up. He had a collapsible white cane in his
hand. The dog raised his head. “I’m Jess Santoro,” he said, extending his hand.

“Jess, this is beautiful pottery.”

“Thank you.”

“Who does it?”

Jess smiled. “I do! I have a studio at my home, on the
Eastern Shore.”

Cassie glanced at Brett, who was already taking his camera
off his shoulder. “You do it.” She couldn’t disguise the surprise in her voice.

The potter laughed out loud. He was young, maybe 30 years
old, and he had dark hair cut short, brown skin, and an easy smile. “I know.
You’re wondering how a blind man could possibly make pots.”

“Well … yes, I am. Tell me, how do you do it?”

“Well, you begin with a lump of clay,” he began and then he
laughed. “I discovered pottery when I was a teenager. I’ve been blind since
birth, and my mother introduced it to me as a way to teach me art.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes, I was home schooled. Once I discovered pottery, I found
I loved everything about it: the feel of the clay, the smell, how pliable it
is, what shapes it takes. I learned to use a wheel, and a kiln, and, well, here
I am.”

Cassie scribbled notes furiously. “Okay, and please don’t be
offended, but I can understand how you can build the pots, but how about the
glazing? How do you get the colors so beautiful?”

“Colors? These things are colored?” Jess said, and then he
laughed. “I had some coaching, and now and then I get my color pots mixed up
and I think a bowl is green when it’s actually blue. But I just had to learn
it. I’ve never seen color, so my mother, and my teacher, and now my wife, have
had to help me understand what I’m doing there.”

“Your wife?”

“Well, yes. Blind men do get married.”

All around her Cassie could hear the clicking of Brett’s
camera. “I’m sorry … I … I just can’t imagine going through life without
vision.”

“Actually, I think I see better than most people.”

“Why do you say that?”

Jess Santoro hesitated, then shrugged and said, “Maybe
because God lets me see with my heart.”

Stunned, Cassie remained silent. “That’s amazing,” she said
finally. “Thank you.”

As they walked away, Brett said, “Incredible guy, huh?”

“Yes,” replied Cassie. She had a shopping bag full of things
she’d bought … a bowl for her aunt, and one for herself, a vase for flowers,
and a mug that was a particularly beautiful shade of blue, with a white rim,
like whitecaps on the crest of a wave. “He is remarkable.”

After Jess, Speedo the performance artist was just a joke.
Cassie dutifully took notes and Brett took photos. All the while, she could not
shake Jess Santoro out of her mind. He was like a puzzle she couldn’t quite
figure out.
He sees with his heart.
What exactly does that mean?

• • •

Cassie didn’t finish her write-up of Art on the Dock until
after lunch on Monday. She was about to call it a day, when her phone rang. She
picked it up. It was the front desk of the newspaper.

“Cassie? Somebody just called. Didn’t want to talk to you,
but he left you a message.”

“What is it?”

“Come on up here. I wrote it down.”

This was strange. Cassie walked through the building to the
front. Ruth, the receptionist on duty, handed her a piece of paper. On it was
written:

JPT1648Franklin523Balt.

†

Bloody Point

Chapter 14

“J
PT1648Franklin523Balt.”
Cassie stared at the note. Her hands trembled. “What is this? Who called?”

“I don’t know. It was a man, but he wouldn’t leave his name.
He just dictated that, and made me repeat it back to him.”

Her heart was pumping. “What did his voice sound like?

The receptionist shrugged. “Male. Adult. American. White. I
don’t know …”

Cassie took a deep breath.
Calm down
, she told
herself. “Okay, thanks … look, if he calls back, dial *69, will you? I want to
know who this is.”

Cassie walked quickly back to her desk. Her mind was racing.
JPT had to be Jacob Preston Tucker. She picked up her purse and her attaché
case and left, walking toward her Cabrio. She stood next to her car, staring at
the paper in her hand, lost in her own thoughts. Brett approached her from
behind and greeted her. Startled, she nearly turned around and hit him.
“Brett!”

“What’s up? Where are you headed?”

What could she tell him? “I’m not sure. Edgewater, maybe,”
she said. Maybe she’d get there sometime today.

“Mind if I come?”

Cassie forced herself to smile casually. “Normally, that
would be great, but I just need to do this by myself today, okay, Brett?”

He was disappointed, she could tell. “Sure, no problem. See
ya!”

She pulled out of the parking lot and stomped on the
accelerator. The Cabrio sped down the street. When Cassie reached the 7-Eleven
two blocks down, she pulled in and parked. Then she stared again at the address
on the paper. She rummaged through the glove box and found a map of Baltimore.
There it was: Franklin Street. Cassie threw the map on the passenger seat,
pulled onto the road and headed north.

Twenty miles up the road her cell phone rang. Craig
Campbell’s voice was tight. “He’s gone, Cassie. He left the facility.”

Cassie pressed the phone to her ear. “What?”

“Jake walked out. We know it was voluntary. He hitchhiked
into town, got on a bus, and that’s the last we know.”

She slammed on the brakes to avoid a car cutting in front of
her. “When?”

“Two days ago.”

“And you’re just now calling me?”

Campbell was silent.

“Are they looking for him?” she asked, as she resumed speed.

“Listen, I … we … it isn’t widely known. That could get ugly.
All I’m saying is, if you hear from him, call me, please. Okay?”

“Why would he do this?”

“Got fed up. That’s my guess.”

“Was he well enough to travel on his own?”

“I guess he thought so.”

“What’s his emotional state, Craig? Aren’t you concerned
about that?”

“Of course I’m concerned about that!” Craig almost snapped at
her. “He’s been very angry and despondent. Yes, I’m concerned.”

Cassie glanced left, and moved to pass a slow station wagon
in the right lane. Should she tell Craig about the message she had? The coded
phone message? No. Not yet. “Okay. I’ll call you if I hear from him. But you do
the same for me, okay?”

“Right.”

“Seriously. I want to be in on this.”

“All right.”

As she hung up the phone she glanced in the rear view mirror,
and she realized she was looking for a mis-aimed halogen headlight in broad
daylight.

• • •

Cassie threaded her way through the streets of Baltimore,
wondering what kind of fool’s mission she was on. Painfully aware that she
didn’t have a gun, she reminded herself to stay alert.

She pulled up in front of 1648 Franklin. It was a 12-story
apartment building in a gentrified section near the heart of downtown and as
she cruised by it, she recognized it as the building where a fellow agent, Jeff
Paulson, lived. Jeff? Could Jeff have been the caller? He was a friend of
Jake’s. She parked on a side street and used her cell phone to call the FBI
office. When she asked for Jeff, she was told he was out of town.

Cassie considered her options. She had to go in. How she was
going to get past the security door was an issue. Who or what she would face
was a big question. Nevertheless, she had to go in. She stuck her wallet, a pen
and a small notepad in a belt bag and strapped it on, hoping it looked like a
fanny pack for a gun. Locking her car, she headed for the front door of the
building, wondering what it would take to breach security. But as she walked up
the front steps a man in a business suit was coming out and he gallantly held
the door open for her. Yes!

Cassie glanced down at the paper. The next bit of information
was “523.” That was probably an apartment number. She rode the elevator up. As
it creaked and groaned, she steeled herself. Anything could happen.

The door was anonymous and white, a clone of every other door
along the hallway. The brass numbers “523" were just above the
doorknocker. A small peephole was right below.

Cassie hesitated before she knocked. She took a breath,
reached for the knocker, and the sound of the brass hammering against the plate
echoed the hammering of her heart.

There was no response. She tried again. Nothing. She stood on
tiptoe and peeked into the peephole. She could see a light. She tried the
knocker again, and then again.

There was no answer. Down the hallway an elderly woman opened
her door and peeked out at her. Cassie smiled wanly, and the woman retreated.
She knocked, she rapped on the door, she called out, and she did it all over
again, until finally she stopped, uncertain of what to do next. And then, she
heard the locks unlatching.

The knob turned. The door swung open just a few inches, and
then no more. Cassie waited a moment, then cautiously pushed it open.

The apartment was empty except for one chair, a couch, a
coffee table, and a TV on a cheap wooden stand. A man stood with his back to
her, having opened the door and walked back into the room.

Cassie stepped in. “Jake?”

He turned around and her heart thudded. She barely recognized
him. She closed the door behind her and moved toward him, feeling both relief
and concern.

Jake had lost a good deal of weight, nearly thirty pounds.
His hair was shaggy, over his ears, and he had a full dark beard. His eyes
darted away from hers. His gray sweat pants seemed to hang on him and the white
T-shirt he was wearing was thin and worn.

Jake turned and walked toward the kitchen. Cassie followed.
He turned on the tap, filled a glass with water, and stood leaning over the
sink, staring into it.

“Hey, partner,” she began, softly.

He raised the glass and drained it.

“Jake, how are you?”

He turned to look at her, his dark eyes flickering. He was
holding the glass in his left hand. He extended his right awkwardly, and
brought the glass over with his left, as if to switch hands. When he let go,
the glass slid right through his grasp and shattered on the floor, flinging
shards all over the kitchen.

Cassie stepped back, shocked.

“I’m great,” Jake said, “just great.” Then he brushed past
her.

His bitterness hit her like a blow. Cassie stood rooted to
the spot, her mind racing. How should she respond? What should she do?

Jake walked into the living room and stopped, hands on hips.
His head was bowed as if he were thinking, then he turned to Cassie. “Why are
you here? Why did you come here?” he demanded.

“I … wanted to see you.”

“The last time I saw you,” he said, pointing his finger at
her, “you … you told me to get out of your life. You said … you never wanted to
see me again. You told me …”

“The last time? No, Jake, not the last time. Not the last
time.”

“You said, ‘Leave, Jake, go now.’ You said …”

“No, no!” Cassie approached him. He moved away. “Jake, I
found you when you were hurt. You opened your eyes, Jake, and you looked at me
when you were lying there in that field.”

He was looking at her now, only skeptically.

“At the hospital, I spent so much time in your room. Days,
nights. You don’t you remember, because you were unconscious, but I apologized
to you. I am so sorry, Jake. I was so mean to you.”

He was breathing deeply now, struggling. She saw him flexing
his left hand, squeezing his fist and releasing it, over and over like he was
trying to let go of the tension.

“Jake, I was with you in the hospital in Baltimore for weeks.
Day and night, for weeks.” Her pulse was pounding in her temples. “I was there,
Jake, and so was Craig Campbell and some of the others. We were with you until
they took you away by helicopter. Do you remember that? Do you remember the
chopper?”

His silence was his answer.

“But Jake, look at you. You’re much better than the last time
I saw you. That was eight weeks ago, and now you’re up and walking, you’re
talking, you’re …”

“Who told you I was here?”

“I … I don’t know. I got a message.”

Jake cursed.

“Obviously whoever it was didn’t want me to know his
identity, but he must care about you. He told me where you were because he cares,
and so do I.” Cassie swallowed. Her throat was thick, her mouth dry. “How did
you get here, Jake?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why did you leave the rehab center?”

Jake raised his arms in a gesture of frustration. “I can’t …”
He turned toward her, eyes flashing. “I can’t do this.”

“It takes time to heal, Jake. It just takes time.”

“I can’t … work, I can’t run, I can’t … drive … I can’t …” He
stopped, frustrated.

“What?”

“I can’t think!”

“Jake,” Cassie began but he would not look at her. Her eyes
followed his. On the table was a handgun, a Glock pistol. A cold chill went
through her. “Jake? What’s the gun for?”

He remained silent.

Suicidal? Jake? No way. Still … a hard knot had formed in the
pit of her stomach. Jake was close, an arm’s length away. His breath was
tremulous and the sinews in his neck were standing out like cords. He stared at
the gun. A drip of sweat ran down the side of his face.

“Your kids, Jake. Your kids need you.”

“Tam’s living with somebody.”

Already?
Cassie wanted to say. “They need you. They
need their real dad.”

“Not like this.”

“They need your love, Jake, believe me, they need your love,”
Cassie responded. “No one else can take your place. And they’ll accept whatever
limitations you have, because you have not stopped being you.”

He cursed again, and that was so unlike Jake she wanted to
cover her ears. Cassie could feel her heart pounding, the blood racing through
her body. “They need you, Jake. I need you.”

“It’s …” An odd look came over Jake’s face. He stared at his
right hand. Then he groaned and sat down on the couch. Cassie watched, alarmed,
as his face became pale, his eyes vacant. His head drooped, and he started to
fall over. She caught him. His eyes were rolled back. He was passed out cold.

Frightened, she broke out in a sweat. What should she do?
Call 911?

But according to Campbell, this happened all the time.
Several times a day. It was normal for Jake, at least, normal right now. Cassie
looked around for something to put under his head. What else should she do?

The blackout lasted seven minutes, nearly an eternity for
Cassie.

• • •

 “What can I get for you?” Cassie asked as Jake came out of
his seizure.

“No.”

She presumed he meant “nothing.” He shook his head, like he
knew he’d said the wrong thing.

It was painful to hear him try to speak. Jake was sitting on
the couch, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, still dazed.

“You could tell that was coming?” she asked.

He nodded.

“How often does it happen?”

He shrugged and ran his hand over his hair, “I can’t take
this … anymore.”

“It takes time, Jake. You just have to be patient.” But being
patient was never Jake’s strong suit, and Cassie knew that. Her heart ached for
him.

“I’m sorry,” he said and he lay down on the couch. She helped
him get comfortable. Within seconds he was asleep. Campbell told her that would
happen, too. The seizures left Jake disoriented and sometimes exhausted.

She had to help him, but how could she? Leaving him breathing
heavily on the couch, she looked around. The apartment was spare, as one would
expect. Jeff was a bachelor. Everything was strictly utilitarian. Jake’s few
clothes were in a plastic bag on the floor, one that said “Univ. of Maryland
Hospital.”

In the kitchen the cupboards were bare. The refrigerator was
completely empty except for a six-pack of beer. Why, she didn’t know. Jake
wasn’t a big drinker.

A wave of fear once again swept over Cassie. It looked like
Jake wasn’t planning to be here long. Still, if he wanted to kill himself, why
did he come all the way back to Baltimore?

Cassie couldn’t take any chances. She had to do something to
help him. Now.

Quietly she returned to the living room and retrieved the gun.
She unloaded it, pulling out the magazine and clearing the chamber. She slipped
the bullets into her purse, reinserted the empty magazine, and returned the gun
to the coffee table. Then she went to the kitchen and began making phone calls.

Jake was still asleep when she returned, and something made
her guess he’d be out of it for a long time. She decided to chance it. Cassie
left the apartment. She slipped a napkin in the doorjamb to keep the latch from
catching. She hurried down to the street. She’d seen a small grocery store not
far away.

• • •

The apartment was filled with the smell of hot bread,
lasagna, and vegetables when Jake woke up. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Dinner. I’m starving. Are you hungry?”

He looked at her strangely. “I guess.”

Cassie talked throughout the meal, trying to prolong it. He
picked at his food and that drove her crazy. She was used to seeing him eat with
gusto.