Blind Spot (34 page)

“That’s why I couldn’t refuse to see her.”

“Lindsey,” Suki tried again, “forget our professional relationship, just talk to me as the mother of someone you care about. Just listen to me, please.”

Lindsey nodded. “Fair enough.”

“I know my daughter, I’ve been with her almost every day for the last seventeen years—for almost every day of her life—and I’m telling you, it’s not good for Alexa to talk to you, to be with you. It could be very dangerous for her mental health.”

Lindsey appeared to consider Suki’s words. “Why do you think that?”

“Because I’m afraid you’ll reinforce her delusions.”

Lindsey raised her eyebrows. “Even in your mother role, you sound like a psychologist.”

“I
am
a psychologist,” Suki said. “That’s the way I think. It’s what I know. And I know the crippling power of holding false beliefs. Especially when those beliefs go against everything you’ve been taught—against what everyone else thinks is true.” Her mother’s bruised, lifeless face rose before her, and Suki closed her eyes against the image. When it didn’t go away, she opened them again.

Lindsey regarded Suki, her expression full of compassion. “Alexa believes she’s responsible for the deaths, and she’s afraid she’ll cause another one.”

“And that’s why I can’t have you encouraging her.”

“If no one acknowledges the reality in Alexa’s fears, she’ll never be able to get through this.”

“But I don’t know if there
is
any reality to her fears.”

“That’s why she came to me,” Lindsey said. “Because you can’t, or won’t, face the truth.”

Suki stared at the rows of panels in the drop ceiling over her head. Some were water-stained. Some were missing. Voices rose and fell around her: “You can’t do that no more. It just isn’t fair.” “We miss you, especially John. He’s been in a bad way. A real bad way.…” “Get out of my life!” “Anna had her gallbladder out last week.…” “And then you want to hear what she went and fuckin’ did?” Chairs scraped. A man sitting next to her sobbed softly, and Suki could smell the cheap aftershave he had used far too liberally.

“You’re right about one thing,” Lindsey was saying, “Alexa
is
confused. She’s scared, full of guilt, full of questions and uncertainties. And she needs to share these concerns with someone she respects, to have them recognized as real and valid. You’re denying her feelings.”

“Who sounds like a psychologist now?”

Lindsey had the good grace to smile.

“But I don’t deny Alexa’s feelings,” Suki argued. “I’m very aware of what she’s going through, of how she’s suffering. I can see that that part is real.”

“When you reject the possibility of the paranormal, you reject Alexa.”

A bell clanged loudly. For a moment, Suki thought it was an alarm, that there was a fire or a lockdown. Then a voice blared through the PA, “Visiting hours are over in five minutes. Visitors must clear the room in five minutes.”

“Alexa came here because she’s afraid if she goes to sleep, she’ll dream,” Lindsey said. “And she knows if she dreams, she’ll see your death. And if she sees your death, she thinks it will make it happen.”

“I know, and that’s the reason—”

Lindsey switched the phone to her other ear. “Alexa wanted my advice—needed my advice. She wanted to know how to keep you alive. She didn’t know where else to turn.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I told her what I told you: that there’s both free will and determinism.”

“But what did you tell her
exactly?
”

“I told her what she saw was the future if it continued on its current course undisturbed,” Lindsey answered. “And I also explained that seeing is a gift, not a curse. That by seeing, she has the power to change what she has seen—that she should feel empowered, not afraid.”

“What did she say when you told her that?”

“She said it made her feel better.”

Suki didn’t know if this was good or bad news.

“It’s good news,” Lindsey said. “Believe me.”

“So are you saying I’m really in danger?” Suki asked. “That all the other things are going to happen, too? Alexa’s worries about fire and a Hebrew letter and Warren Blan—” Suki stopped. Alexa had warned her about Warren Blanchard.

“I don’t know,” Lindsey said. “I told you before that sometimes I see things that appear to be meaningless. Maybe Alexa does too. But what I can tell you is that I think you’re in danger too—that the thing you fear most in the world is going to happen.” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “And you must stop searching for this witness.”

“Did Alexa tell you to say that?” Suki demanded, focusing on the witness rather than on which of her worst fears might be realized.

“About the witness?” Lindsey shook her head. “No. It’s just something I sense.”

“How did you know I was looking for someone?”

“I don’t know that you are.” Lindsey shrugged. “I just know you have to stop.”

Suki remembered how, when Alexa heard that her precognitive warning was in opposition to Lindsey’s, she had stubbornly insisted that hers was the true vision, ignoring the inconsistency in her logic. Now Lindsey was doing the same. But Suki also remembered that this was the fourth time someone had recommended she quit her search: Kenneth, Alexa, Warren, and now Lindsey. It didn’t make any sense—or did it?

“These things don’t always make sense the way you think of sense,” Lindsey said. “It’s like I once told you about turning sideways—”

The bell clanged again. “Visiting hours are over in one minute. Visitors must clear the room immediately.”

Suki pushed her chair back. “What happened yesterday morning?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

“Up!” An officer behind Lindsey ordered her to stand.

Lindsey flashed Suki a quick grin. “Life on the inside,” she said as she was led away.

Suki walked back down the stairs and through the long corridor, surrounded by a despondent crowd. Men, women, kids; people of every color, of every age, who shared the misfortune of having someone on the inside. They bickered, they cried, and some, like herself, trudged on in stony silence. Was this a glimpse into her own future? Suki wondered. When she would keep Wednesday evenings free to visit her daughter? Suki hadn’t answered Alexa when she asked, but the truth was, if Alexa were found guilty of murder, she would be incarcerated at Watkins.

Alexa had been asleep for over twelve hours when Kenneth called the next morning. “I’ve got some information on methamphetamine that I thought you’d be interested in hearing,” he said to Suki.

Suki was sitting at the kitchen table. Kyle had just left for school, and she hadn’t come down early enough to hound him to clean up after himself. Two open boxes of cereal, a bowl, half an orange, donut papers, an empty milk container, two glasses and three spoons—she had no idea why he had needed three spoons—were strewn in front of her. Chaos. Just like her life. No napkins.

Last night, it had been Suki’s turn to prowl the house, sleepless, while Alexa lay, unmoving, almost unconscious, on her bed. As Suki climbed stairs and stared out windows, she worked herself through just about every negative emotion on the chart. But when she was finished, when she had faced the anger and the guilt and the bewilderment and the panic and the worry and the inadequacy and the unbearable frustration, she realized that underlying each emotion—within it, above it and encircling it—was fear. Fear of what would happen next. Fear of the boundless consequences.

“Suki?” Kenneth interrupted her reverie. “Don’t you want to hear this?”

Suki stared at the brightly colored poster board still taped inside her broken kitchen window. She had to get it fixed. Then she remembered what Warren had said about Marcus Bouchard—if there even
was
a kid named Marcus Bouchard—and sat up. “Tell me.”

“It turns out your little informant was correct: we do seem to have a bit of a meth problem at the high school.”

“No one knew this before?” Apparently, parents weren’t the only blind adults in Witton: police, teachers and guidance counselors could now be added to the list. If nobody knew what was going on, anything could be going on. Lots of anythings.

“I guess this meth thing is pretty new,” Kenneth was saying. “It seems to have happened over the last couple of months.”

“Was it brought in from Boston?” Suki asked, thinking of Warren’s story. If what he had said about the dealer was true, maybe there was a Marcus Bouchard, maybe there was some truth in the tale.

“Boston’s the most likely source, but meth can come from just about anywhere. It’s incredibly simple to make.”

“You mean someone could have just whipped it up in their basement?” Suki asked.

“Sounds like it would be easy enough to pull off,” Kenneth said. “Guess what the main ingredient is.”

“Amphetamines?”

“Sudafed.”

“The stuff you take for a cold?” Suki asked.

“Yup. All those over-the-counter cold pills have a drug in them called …” He paused and she could hear the rustle of papers. “Pseudoephedrine. And this pseudoephedrine is the active chemical in methamphetamine. It’s easy to isolate and reengineer—and just as important, it’s cheap. A five hundred dollar investment in Sudafed, iodine and some kind of phosphorous can bring a return of up to fifteen grand.”

“That could buy a lot of replacement windows,” Suki said glumly. Maybe she should start making meth. Then she’d be able to pay Mike’s bill. And the mortgage. And the plumber.

Kenneth missed her witticism—or chose to ignore it. “I checked the Internet,” he continued, “and there’s lots of information. Warnings from the DEA. Academic papers on abuse trends. Newspaper articles on how these clandestine meth labs are cropping up all over the place. Everyone’s wailing and moaning and talking about what a horrible problem it is, how awful it is for kids and police, and then I find that some asshole—excuse my language, but this guy
is
an asshole—posts the chemical formula and instructions on his Web site. ‘Four Easy Steps from Sudafed to Methamphetamine,’ he titles it. Can you believe anyone could be so stupid?”

Suki stared at the overturned cereal box in front of her. At the crumpled and browning orange peel, the globule of spilled milk, the used donut papers. Being stupid was easy. So was being blind.

“There’s a couple other things. The first you probably already know: there’s a strong link between methamphetamines and violence—both research and anecdotal. All that speed makes them edgy. No food and no sleep make Johnny an angry little fellow. There’ve been reports of more brawls and unprovoked assaults in cities where there’s been an increase in methamphetamine use.” Kenneth paused before he added, “And more homicides.”

Suki did know about the speed-violence link; she just hadn’t linked it to anything else. If Alexa was doing meth, selling meth … “Do you know a kid named Marcus Bouchard?” Suki asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. “He’s a senior.”

“Can’t say that I do. But there’s another name that keeps coming up in connection with meth at the high school.” He paused again, and the silence felt heavy, laden with meaning.

Suki gripped the edge of the kitchen table. Her knuckles were white. Alexa had definitely been more irritable of late. She wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping.…

“Devin McKinna,” Kenneth said triumphantly.

Suki let go of the table. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until it exploded from her lungs. “What have you got on him?”

“Not much.”

“Anything that can help Alexa?”

“Unfortunately, nothing solid at the moment, but rumors are always a good place to start.” When Suki didn’t respond, he added, “It’s important not to give up hope.”

Suki focused on what a nice man Kenneth Pendergast was. On the bright sun outside the dining room window. How it threw brilliant bands of light across the shiny hardwood floor. “When are the boys going to be arrested?”

The line hung empty. As Suki listened to the distant static, she tried to concentrate on the sunshine. Finally Kenneth said, “It’s already happened. All three are being arraigned in Concord later this morning.”

“How long have we got?”

“It’s hard to know,” Kenneth said slowly. “Depends on Maxwell and Sutterlund and how long all the paperwork takes.”

The light was so bright it was beginning to hurt her eyes. When she closed them, it still burned hot white across her retina. “Tell me.”

“Could really be any time now.”

Her fear expanded, fueling itself with itself. Suki tried to resist, but it filled her throat. White stars fluttered around the edge of her vision.

“Listen to me, Suki,” Kenneth ordered. “You’ve got to keep fighting. This isn’t over until you give up.” His voice was tinny. High and far away. It sounded as if he was on the other side of a long tunnel. Or on the other side of the world.

“I’ll try,” she whispered. “I’ll try.” Then she hung up the phone, dropped her head to the kitchen table, and let the fear take her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

S
uki opened one eye and saw two cornflakes. The golden yellow flakes sat slightly askew, casting tiny lopsided shadows on the kitchen table, and she thought how nice it would be to be a cornflake. She hadn’t felt this way since she was fourteen, when Richie Potter invited Maggie Marholin to the roller skating party after Suki had told everyone he was taking her. Suki lifted her head and squinted at the bright sunlight. Unfortunately, she couldn’t transform herself into a cornflake; there were laws of physics to consider, after all. She pushed herself to a stand and began to clean the kitchen.

She put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and returned the cereal boxes to their cabinet. She rinsed out the empty milk carton and threw it into the recycle bin under the sink. She dumped the half-eaten orange down the garbage disposal and the papers in the trash. Then she wiped the crumbs from the table and countertops, and poured herself another cup of coffee. All nice and tidy, she thought as she sat back down in the chair. Just like her life.

Suki knew her actions were a hollow effort to dupe herself into believing she could actually wield influence over something—anything. Great. She now had power over dirty dishes and cornflakes. A major victory. She grabbed the phone and called Mike. He, of course, was not available and Betty, of course, promised he would call her back as soon as he could. Great. She walked into the dining room and stared out the window, pressing the warm coffee mug between her icy hands. Her early rhododendron bushes were in full bloom, and the sight of the bold balls of purple always lifted her spirits. Suki turned from the flowers, their exuberance an affront.