Blind Spot (43 page)

From her hiding place, Bernadette watched Quaid’s back as he headed across the yard. Out in the open night air, he looked smaller and more manageable. More mortal. At the same time, she could also see he had the gun. He seemed to swagger as he walked with it. She fantasized about firing into his back, but that wasn’t her style. Besides, it was nighttime, and even the best shooters missed moving targets in the dark. If she missed, she could be screwed and Garcia could be dead.

Quaid was aiming his flashlight in the direction of the driveway; he was going to his car for something. She didn’t have much time. She wanted to get Quaid into the light, but away from Garcia. A shootout in that narrow shack could turn sour real fast. Her eyes moved across the yard to the house. She’d lure Quaid inside and take him there.

Darting out from the side of the building, Bernadette ran for the rear of the house.

As he hovered over the open car trunk, Quaid considered the proper punishment for the violation. The stranger had tried to break into another man’s home to rob and kill him and perhaps sodomize him. Had Quaid not stopped him, the man would have kicked down the door to get inside and commit his crimes.

Kicked down the door. Kicked and walked inside. It came to Quaid. A foot had to go, or an entire leg. Both legs. Quaid set the flashlight down on the bed and picked up the gloves, grimacing as he pulled them on. They were stiff with dried blood and felt tight on his fingers. He flexed his hands to loosen the leather. The fit was as snug as that of his weight-lifting gloves, and he liked that.

Bernadette jogged up the back steps and onto the porch. With the light from the kitchen window, she could see well enough to aim. She raised her arms and pulled the trigger, dispatching the lock in a shower of splinters. She kicked open the door and went inside. As she ran across the kitchen floor, she shot a glance over to the counter and thought about what she’d seen through the window: the woman’s tongue against the porcelain. A slice of Garcia could have joined Stannard’s flesh in the sink.

No trial for this killer, she vowed. She’d make no phone calls until it was all over.

Forty-eight

At the sound of the gunshot, Quaid’s head whipped around. He’d been mistaken. The thief had an accomplice, and the animal had just shot his way into the house. Quaid pulled out his gun and, with his other hand, reached down and retrieved the ax from the bed of the trunk. He ran to the back of the house, stood at the bottom of the stairs, and uttered words that sounded closer to a command than a prayer: “Be with me now, God.” As he ran up the steps, his grip on both weapons tightened while his hold on reality started to slip away. From inside the house, he heard their screams. He imagined terrible, gurgling shrieks and one-word pleas for mercy.

Please! Don’t! Please!

No! Stop!

God! Help!

“I’m coming!” he yelled as he ran through the back door and charged into the kitchen. “Hang on, Mother! Father! I’m coming! Girls! I’m coming!”

He skidded to a stop when he got to the living room. The cloth-covered furniture became animated. Souls were circling him, surrounding him, taunting. They were demons and devils, the ghosts of the evil sinners he’d executed. They’d come back to claim him and drag him down to hell with them, prevent him from saving his family. He closed his eyes and took a breath. Opened his eyes. The ghosts had vanished. He shook his head and blinked his eyes twice. They were still gone, but he didn’t believe it. They were hiding, that’s all. He’d have to flush them out.

Bernadette froze in the middle of the upstairs hallway. She listened to Quaid thumping around and hollering. She didn’t know what he was doing and couldn’t understand what he was saying. A loud bang made her jump. It sounded like furniture being tipped. More yelling. She moved closer to the steps and still couldn’t decipher the words. Before she could figure out what to do next, she had to see what was going on downstairs.

She ducked into a bedroom and closed the door all but a crack. She turned around and was shocked by the spectacle of the stained mattress, baking under the ceiling light. Only a head case would keep such a horrid souvenir, with its two rusty stains set together like enormous, sorrowful eyes.

Her attention was drawn across the room, to a closed door she’d seen during her earlier tour. Unlike the rest of the house, the closet would be dark. Could she focus with the maniac right below her? Could she use her sight again so soon? This case had already pushed her way beyond her usual limits. She told herself there’d be no harm in trying. She’d know right away if it was going to fail. There’d be plenty of time to abandon the effort, switch gears, and go downstairs.

Bernadette shut her eyes and took a calming breath. The air was different in this room, thick with residual pain. Another feeling: intense fear. Not just from the bed; from elsewhere.

She started at the sound of another downstairs thump. “Get moving,” she muttered to herself.

She crossed the room to the closet, opened the door, and inhaled sharply. “Unreal,” she whispered. It appeared Quaid had kept every article of clothing ever owned by his parents, including his mother’s wedding dress. Hanging at one end of the rod, the gown was a creepy keepsake, a ghostly puff of satin and chiffon preserved in plastic like a body in the morgue. Another thump, this one directly below her. She stepped inside the closet, closed the door behind her, and slipped between two scratchy wool blazers—Sunday clothes once worn by Quaid’s father? She swore she could smell aftershave, something cheap and spicy. After all these years, could she still detect the dead man’s cologne? Or was it his son’s scent? She felt light-headed and nauseous about either possibility.

Bernadette crammed herself against the back wall, behind the wedding dress. She batted the plastic away from her face; she felt as if the dress were trying to suffocate her. With her back against the wall, she slid down to the floor and curled her knees to her chest. A shudder shook her frame. This position in this closet was familiar. A feeling that was not her own—intense terror—started to wash over her. The sensation was muddying her head. “Shake it off,” she muttered to herself.

She pulled off her gloves and buried them in one jacket pocket, and out of the other she retrieved the wad of latex. She hesitated, ready to unfold the package. A sharp crack sounded beneath her.
Great.
Now he was shooting up the place. She had to find out what he was up to, so she could take him out effectively and completely. Bernadette spilled the ring into her right hand. Curling her fist around the band, she closed her eyes.

Nothing was visible, save the blackness of her own lids locked tight. She took a long, deep breath through her nose and let it out through her mouth. A bit of plastic brushed her cheek; she didn’t fight it this time. Softly, she said the words: “Lord, help me see clearly.”

Forty-nine

He’s on a rampage, searching for the intruders who’d blasted a hole in the back door. That’s the only reasonable explanation, Bernadette thinks. Otherwise, why would he be doing this? Quaid’s ricocheting from one piece of furniture to the next, pulling off sheets and knocking over end tables. The downstairs is a disaster, a sea of cloth and wood and cushions. He’s bending over an armchair, pulling off the seat, and hurling the cushion across the room like a fat Frisbee. The cushion takes a lamp down with it. He’s not through with the chair; he’s kicking it and knocking it over.

He’s stopping and taking a break from his tantrum, dabbing the perspiration off his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. As he wipes, she can see there’s something in his gloved right hand. What is it? In the long mirror mounted over the dining-room buffet, she sees his reflection. He’s taking a step back, allowing her to see more of him. He’s got an ax in his right hand. His coat is open, and she can see there’s something tucked into the waist of his pants. She can’t make out the details of the object; she deduces it’s the gun.

He’s turning away from the mirror and resuming his rioting. He’s on his knees, looking under the couch, lifting up the skirt that runs along the bottom, and waving the ax under the sofa. Doesn’t make any sense, she thinks. The sagging piece is too low to hide anyone or anything. He gets up off his knees, squats facing the couch, and locks his free hand under the front. With one thrust, he flips the thing onto its back.

He stands and whirls around, hunting for his next target. His eyes land on a door at the foot of the stairs, and he runs over to it and yanks it open. Winter gear hanging from a rod. He’s diving into the closet and tearing the stuff off the hangers. Throwing coats down on the floor behind him, one after another. Barn coats and down jackets fly over his shoulder. Some of the jackets are pink—his sisters’ winter wear.