Blindsighted (6 page)

She felt a bump on her arm and looked up in time to see
Webster's
definition of a hick sitting down beside her. His face was sunburned from his neck to about an inch from his hairline where he had obviously been working outside wearing a baseball hat. His shirt was starched within an inch of its life, and the cuffs were tight around his thick wrists.

The jukebox stopped abruptly, and Lena worked her jaw, trying to make her ears pop so she didn't feel like she was in a tunnel.

Her gentleman neighbor bumped her arm again, smiling, saying, "Hey, lady."

Lena rolled her eyes, catching the bartender's eye. "JD on the rocks," she ordered.

"That'n's on me," the man said, slapping down a ten-dollar bill. When he spoke, his words slurred together like a wrecked train, and Lena realized he was a lot drunker than she planned ever to be.

The man gave her a sloppy smile. "You know, sugar, I'd love to get biblical with you."

She leaned over, close to his ear. "If I ever find out you have, I'll cut your balls off with my car keys."

He opened his mouth to reply but was jerked off the barstool before he could get a word out. Hank stood there with the man's shirt collar in his hand, then shoved him into the crowd. The look he fixed Lena with was just as hard as the one she imagined was on her own face.

Lena had never liked her uncle. Unlike Sibyl, she wasn't the forgiving type. Even when Lena drove Sibyl to Reece for visits, Lena spent most of her time in the car or sitting on the front porch steps, keys in her hand, ready to go as soon as Sibyl walked out the front door.

Despite the fact that Hank Norton had injected speed into his veins for the better part of his twenties and thirties, he was not an idiot. Lena showing up on Hank's proverbial doorstep in the middle of the night could only mean one thing.

Their eyes were still locked as music started to blare again, shaking the walls, sending a vibration from the floor up the barstool. She saw rather than heard what Hank was asking when he said, "Where's Sibyl?"

Tucked behind the bar, more like an outhouse than a place of business, Hank's office was a small wooden box with a tin roof. A lightbulb hung from a frayed electrical wire that had probably been installed by the WPA. Posters from beer and liquor companies served as wallpaper. White cartons filled with liquor were stacked against the back wall, leaving about ten square feet for a desk with two chairs on either side. Surrounding these were piles of boxes stuffed with receipts that Hank had accumulated from running the bar over the years. A stream running behind the shack kept mold and moisture in the air. Lena imagined Hank liked working in this dark, dank place, passing his days in an environment more suitable for a tongue.

"I see you've redecorated," Lena said, setting her glass on top of one of the boxes. She could not tell if she wasn't drunk anymore or if she was too drunk to notice.

Hank gave the glass a cursory glance, then looked back at Lena. "You don't drink."

She held up the glass in a toast. "To the late bloomer."

Hank sat back in his office chair, his hands clasped in front of his stomach. He was tall and skinny, with skin that tended to flake in the winter. Despite the fact that his father was Spanish, Hank's appearance more closely resembled his mother's, a pasty woman who was as sour as her complexion. In her mind, Lena had always thought it appropriate that Hank bore a close resemblance to an albino snake.

He asked, "What brings you to these parts?"

"Just dropping by," she managed around the glass. The whiskey was bitter in her mouth. She kept an eye on Hank as she finished the drink and banged the empty glass back down on the box. Lena did not know what was stopping her. For years she had waited to get the upper hand with Hank Norton. This was her time to hurt him as much as he had hurt Sibyl.

"You started snortin' coke, too, or have you been crying?"

Lena wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "What do you think?"

Hank stared at her, working his hands back and forth. This was more than a nervous habit, Lena knew. Speed injected into the veins of his hands had given Hank arthritis at an early age. Since most of the veins in his arms had calcified from the powdered additive used to cut the drug, there wasn't much circulation there, either. His hands were cold as ice most days and a constant source of pain.

The rubbing stopped abruptly. "Let's get it over with, Lee. I've got the show to put on."

Lena tried to open her mouth, but nothing came out. Part of her was angered by his flippant attitude, which had marked their relationship from the very beginning. Part of her did not know how to tell him. As much as Lena hated her uncle, he was a human being. Hank had doted on Sibyl. In high school, Lena could not take her sister everywhere, and Sibyl had spent a lot of time home with Hank. There was an undeniable bond there, and as much as Lena wanted to hurt her uncle, she felt herself holding back. Lena had loved Sibyl, Sibyl had loved Hank.

Hank picked up a ballpoint pen, turning it head over end on the desk several times before he finally asked, "What's wrong, Lee? Need some money?"

If only it were that simple, Lena thought.

"Car broke down?"

She shook her head slowly side to side.

"It's Sibyl," he stated, his voice catching in his throat.

When Lena did not answer, he nodded slowly to himself, putting his hands together, as if to pray. "She's sick?" he asked, his voice indicating he expected the worst. With this one sentence, he showed more emotion than Lena had ever seen him express in a lifetime of knowing her uncle. She looked at him closely as if for the first time. His pale skin was blotched with those red dots pasty men get on their faces as they age. His hair, silver for as long as she could recall, was dulled with yellow under the sixty-watt bulb. His Hawaiian shirt was rumpled, which was not his style, and his hands tremored slightly as he fidgeted with them.

Lena did it the same way Jeffrey Tolliver had. "She went to the diner in the middle of town," she began. "You know the one across from the dress shop?"

A slight nod was all he gave.

"She walked there from the house," Lena continued. "She did it every week, just to be able to do something on her own."

Hank clasped his hands together in front of his face, touching the sides of his index fingers to his forehead.

"So, uhm." Lena picked up the glass, needing something to do. She sucked what little liquor was left off the ice cubes, then continued. "She went to the bathroom, and somebody killed her."

There was little sound in the tiny office. Grasshoppers chirped outside. Gurgling came from the stream. A distant throbbing came from the bar.

Without preamble, Hank turned around, picking through the boxes, asking, "What've you had to drink tonight?"

Lena was surprised by his question, though she shouldn't have been. Despite his AA brainwashing, Hank Norton was a master at avoiding the unpleasant. His need to escape was what had brought Hank to drugs and alcohol in the first place. "Beer in the car," she said, playing along, glad for once that he did not want the gory details. "JD here."

He paused, his hand around a bottle of Jack Daniel's. "Beer before liquor, never sicker," he warned, his voice catching on the last part.

Lena held out her glass, rattling the ice for attention. She watched Hank as he poured the drink, not surprised when he licked his lips.

"How's work treating you?" Hank asked, his voice tinny in the shack. His lower lip trembled slightly. His expression was one of total grief, in direct opposition to the words coming from his mouth. He said, "Doing okay?"

Lena nodded. She felt as if she was smack in the middle of a car accident. She finally understood the meaning of the word
surreal
. Nothing seemed concrete in this tiny space. The glass in her hand felt dull. Hank was miles away. She was in a dream.

Lena tried to snap herself out of it, downing her drink quickly. The alcohol hit the back of her throat like fire, burning and solid, as if she had swallowed hot asphalt.

Hank watched the glass, not Lena, as she did this.

This was all she needed. She said, "Sibyl's dead, Hank."

Tears came to his eyes without warning, and all that Lena could think was that he looked so very, very old. It was like watching a flower wilt. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose.

Lena repeated the words much as Jeffrey Tolliver had earlier this evening. "She's dead."

His voice wavered as he asked, "Are you sure?"

Lena nodded quickly up and down. "I saw her." Then, "Somebody cut her up pretty bad."

His mouth opened and closed like a fish's. He kept his eyes even with Lena's the way he used to do when he was trying to catch her in a lie. He finally looked away, mumbling, "That doesn't make sense."

She could have reached out and patted his old hand, maybe tried to comfort him, but she didn't. Lena felt frozen in her chair. Instead of thinking of Sibyl, which had been her mind's initial reaction, she concentrated on Hank, on his wet lips, his eyes, the hairs growing out of his nose.

"Oh, Sibby." He sighed, wiping his eyes. Lena watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. He reached for the bottle, resting his hand on the neck. Without asking, he unscrewed the cap and poured Lena another drink. This time, the dark liquid nearly touched the rim.

More time passed, then Hank blew his nose loudly, patting at his eyes with the handkerchief. "I can't see anyone trying to kill her." His hands shook even more as he folded the handkerchief over and over. "Doesn't make sense," he mumbled. "You, I could understand."

"Thanks a lot."

This was sufficient enough to spark Hank's irritation. "I mean because of the job you do. Now get that damn chip off your shoulder."

Lena did not comment. This was a familiar order.

He put his palms down on the desk, fixing Lena with a stare. "Where were you when this happened?"

Lena tossed back the drink, not feeling the burn so much this time. When she returned the glass to the desk, Hank was still staring at her.

She mumbled, "Macon."

"Was it some sort of hate crime, then?"

Lena reached over, picking up the bottle. "I don't know. Maybe." The whiskey gurgled in the bottle as she poured. "Maybe he picked her because she was gay. Maybe he picked her because she was blind." Lena gave a sideways glance, catching his pained reaction to this. She decided to expound upon her speculation. "Rapists tend to pick women they think they can control, Hank. She was an easy target."

"So, this all comes back to me?"

"I didn't say that."

He grabbed the bottle. "Right," he snapped, dropping the half empty bottle back into its box. His tone was angry now, back to the nuts and bolts. Like Lena, Hank was never comfortable with the emotional side of things. Sibyl had often said the main reason Hank and Lena never got along was that they were too much alike. Sitting there with Hank, absorbing his grief and anger as it filled the tiny shed, Lena realized that Sibyl was right. She was looking at herself in twenty years, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Hank asked, "Have you talked to Nan?"

"Yeah."

"We've got to plan the service," he said, picking up the pen and drawing a box on his desk calendar. At the top he wrote the word FUNERAL in all caps. "Is there somebody in Grant you think would do a good job?" He waited for her response, then added, "I mean, most of her friends were there."

"What?" Lena asked, the glass paused at her lips. "What are you talking about?"

"Lee, we've got to make arrangements. We've got to take care of Sibby."

Lena finished the drink. When she looked at Hank, his features were blurred. As a matter of fact, the whole room was blurred. She had the sensation of being on a roller coaster, and her stomach reacted accordingly. Lena put her hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to be sick.

Hank had probably seen her expression many times before, most likely in the mirror. He was beside her, holding a trash can under her chin, just as she lost the battle.

Tuesday

Chapter Seven

SARA leaned over the kitchen sink in her parents' house, using her father's wrench to loosen the faucet. She had spent most of the evening in the morgue performing Sibyl Adams's autopsy. Going back to a dark house, sleeping alone, had not been something she wanted to do. Add to that Jeffrey's last threat on her answering ma chine to come by her house, and Sara did not really have a choice as to where she slept last night. Except for sneaking in to pick up the dogs, she had not even bothered to change out of her scrubs.

She wiped sweat from her forehead, glancing at the clock on the coffeemaker. It was six-thirty in the morning and she had slept all of two hours. Every time she closed her eyes, she thought of Sibyl Adams sitting on the toilet, blind to what was happening to her, feeling everything her attacker was doing.

On the plus side, short of some type of family catastrophe, there was no way in hell today could possibly be as bad as yesterday.

Cathy Linton walked into the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and took down a coffee cup before she noticed her oldest daughter standing beside her. "What are you doing?"

Sara slid a new washer over the threaded bolt. "The faucet was leaking."

"Two plumbers in the family," Cathy complained, pouring herself a cup of coffee, "and my daughter the doctor ends up fixing the leaky faucet."

Sara smiled, putting her shoulder behind the wrench. The Lintons were a plumbing family, and Sara had spent most of her summers during school working alongside her father, snaking drains and welding pipe. Sometimes she thought the only reason she had finished high school a year early and worked through summers getting her undergrad degree was so she would not have to poke around spider-infested crawl spaces with her father. Not that she didn't love her father, but, unlike Tessa, Sara's fear of spiders could not be overcome.

Cathy slid onto the kitchen stool. "Did you sleep here last night?"

"Yeah," Sara answered, washing her hands. She turned off the faucet, smiling when it didn't leak. The sense of accomplishment lifted some of the weight off her shoulders.

Cathy smiled her approval. "If that medical thing doesn't work out, at least you'll have plumbing to fall back on."

"You know, that's what Daddy told me when he drove me to college the first day."

"I know," Cathy said. "I could have killed him." She took a sip of coffee, eyeing Sara over the rim of the cup. "Why didn't you go home?"

"I worked late and I just wanted to come here. Is that okay?"

"Of course it's okay," Cathy said, tossing Sara a towel. "Don't be ridiculous."

Sara dried her hands. "I hope I didn't wake you up when I came in."

"Not me," Cathy answered. "Why didn't you sleep with Tess?"

Sara made herself busy straightening the towel on the rack. Tessa lived in a two-bedroom apartment over the garage. In the last few years, there had been nights when Sara had not wanted to sleep alone in her own house. She generally stayed with her sister rather than risk waking her father, who invariably wanted to discuss at great length what was troubling her.

Sara answered, "I didn't want to bother her."

"Oh, bullshit." Cathy laughed. "Good Lord, Sara, nearly a quarter of a million dollars to that college and they didn't teach you to lie better than that?"

Sara took down her favorite mug and poured herself some coffee. "Maybe you should've sent me to law school instead."

Cathy crossed her legs, frowning. She was a small woman who kept herself trim by doing yoga. Her blond hair and blue eyes had skipped over Sara and been passed on to Tessa. Except for their matching temperaments, anyone would be hard-pressed to tell that Cathy and Sara were mother and daughter.

"Well?" Cathy prompted.

Sara couldn't keep the smile off of her lips. "Let's just say Tess was a little busy when I walked in and leave it at that."

"Busy by herself?"

"No." Sara barked an uncomfortable laugh, feeling her cheeks turn red. "God, Mother."

After a few moments, Cathy lowered her voice, asking, "Was it Devon Lockwood?"

"Devon?" Sara was surprised by the name. She hadn't been able to see exactly who Tessa was wrangling around with in bed, but Devon Lockwood, the new plumber's helper Eddie Linton had hired two weeks ago, was the last name she was expecting to come up.

Cathy shushed her. "Your father will hear."

"Hear what?" Eddie asked, shuffling into the kitchen. His eyes lit up when he saw Sara. "There's my baby," he said, kissing her cheek with a loud smack. "Was that you I heard coming in this morning?"

"That was me," Sara confessed.

"I got some paint chips in the garage," he offered. "Maybe we can go look at them after we eat, pick a pretty color for your room."

Sara sipped her coffee. "I'm not moving back in, Dad."

He jabbed a finger at the cup. "That'll stunt your growth."

"I should be so lucky," Sara grumbled. Since the ninth grade, she had been the tallest member of her immediate family, just inching past her father by a hair.

Sara slid onto the stool her mother vacated. She watched her parents as they went through their morning routine, her father walking around the kitchen, getting in her mother's way until Cathy pushed him into a chair. Her father smoothed his hair back as he leaned over the morning paper. His salt-and-pepper hair stuck out in three different directions, much like his eyebrows. The T-shirt he was wearing was so old and worn holes were breaking through over his shoulder blades. The pattern on his pajama pants had faded out over five years ago, and his bedroom slippers were falling apart at the heels. That she had inherited her mother's cynicism and her fathers sense of dress was something Sara would never forgive them for.

Eddie said, "I see the
Observer's
milking this thing for every penny."

Sara glanced at the headline of Grant's local paper. It read: "College Professor Slain in Grisly Attack."

"What's it say?" Sara asked before she could stop herself.

He traced his finger down the page as he read. " 'Sibyl Adams, a professor at GIT, was savagely beaten to death yesterday at the Grant Filling Station. Local police are baffled. Police Chief Jeffrey Tolliver' "-Eddie stopped, muttering, "the bastard" under his breath-" 'reports they are exploring every possible lead in order to bring the young professor's murderer to justice.'"

"She wasn't beaten to death," Sara said, knowing that the punch to Sibyl Adams's face had not killed her. Sara gave an involuntary shudder as she recalled the physical findings during the autopsy.

Eddie seemed to notice her reaction. He said, "Was anything else done to her?"

Sara was surprised her father had asked this. Normally, her family went out of their way not to ask questions about that side of Sara's life. She had felt from the beginning that they were all more than a little uncomfortable with her part-time job.

Sara asked, "Like what?" before she got her father's meaning. Cathy looked up from mixing the pancake batter, a look of trepidation on her face.

Tessa burst into the kitchen, popping the swinging door on its hinge, obviously, expecting to find Sara alone. Her mouth opened in a perfect 0.

Cathy, standing at the stove making pancakes, tossed over her shoulder, "Good morning, sunshine."

Tessa kept her head down, making a beeline for the coffee.

"Sleep well?" Eddie asked.

"Like a baby," Tessa returned, kissing the top of his head.

Cathy waved her spatula in Sara's direction. "You could learn from your sister."

Tessa had the common sense to ignore this comment. She opened the French door leading to the deck and jerked her head outside, indicating Sara should follow.

Sara did as she was told, holding her breath until the door was closed firmly behind her. She whispered, "Devon Lockwood?"

"I still haven't told them about your date with Jeb," Tessa countered.

Sara pressed her lips together, silently agreeing to the truce.

Tessa tucked one of her legs underneath her as she sat on the porch swing. "What were you doing out so late?"

"I was at the morgue," Sara answered, sitting beside her sister. She rubbed her arms, fighting the early morning chill. Sara was still in her scrubs and a thin white T-shirt, hardly enough for the temperature. "I needed to check some things. Lena-" She stopped herself, not sure she could tell Tessa what had happened with Lena Adams in the morgue last night. The accusations still stung, even though Sara knew it was Lena's grief talking.

She said, "I wanted to get it over with, you know?"

All mirth had left Tessa's features. "Did you find anything?"

"I faxed a report to Jeffrey. I think it's going to help him get some solid leads." She stopped, making sure she had Tessa's attention. "Listen, Tessie. Be careful, okay? I mean, keep the doors locked. Don't go out alone. That kind of thing."

"Yeah." Tessa squeezed her hand. "Okay. Sure."

"I mean-" Sara stopped, not wanting to terrify her sister, but not wanting to put her in danger either. "You're both the same age. You and Sibyl. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

"Yeah," Tessa answered, but it was obvious she did not want to talk about it. Sara couldn't blame her sister. Knowing in intimate detail what had happened to Sibyl Adams, Sara was finding it hard to get through the day.

"I put the postcard-" Tessa began, but Sara stopped her.

"I found it in my briefcase," she said. "Thanks."

"Yeah," Tessa said, a stillness to her voice.

Sara stared out at the lake, not thinking about the postcard, not thinking about Sibyl Adams or Jeffrey or anything. There was something so peaceful about the water that for the first time in weeks, Sara felt herself relax. If she squinted her eyes, she could see the dock at the back of her own house. It had a covered boathouse, a small floating barnlike structure, like most of the docks on the lake.

She imagined herself sitting in one of the deck chairs, sipping a margarita, reading a trashy novel. Why she pictured herself doing this, Sara did not know. She seldom had time to sit lately, she did not like the taste of alcohol, and at the end of the day she was nearly cross-eyed from reading patient charts, pediatric journals, and forensic field manuals.

Tessa interrupted her thoughts. "I guess you didn't get much sleep last night?"

Sara shook her head as she leaned against her sisters shoulder. "How was it being around Jeffrey yesterday?"

"I wish I could take a pill and forget all about him." Tessa raised her arm, putting it around Sara's shoulders. "Is that why you couldn't sleep?"

Sara sighed, closing her eyes. "I don't know. I was just thinking about Sibyl. About Jeffrey."

"Two years is a long time to carry a torch for somebody," Tessa said. "If you really want to get over him, then you need to start dating." She stopped Sara's protest. "I mean real dates, where you don't drop the guy as soon as he gets close."

Sara sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. She knew what her sister was suggesting. "I'm not like you. I can't just sleep around." Tessa didn't take offense at this. Sara had not expected her to. That Tessa Linton enjoyed an active sex life was pretty much known to everyone in town but their father.

"I was just sixteen when Steve and I got together," Sara began, referring to her first serious boyfriend. "Then, well, you know what happened in Atlanta." Tessa nodded. "Jeffrey made me like sex. I mean, for the first time in my life, I felt like a complete person." She clenched her fists, as if she could hold on to that feeling. "You have no idea what that meant to me, to be suddenly awake after all those years of focusing on school and work and not seeing anybody or having any kind of life." Tessa was quiet, letting Sara talk.

"I remember our first date," she continued. "He was driving me back to the house in the rain and he stopped the car all of a sudden. I thought it was a joke, because we'd both been talking about how much we liked to walk in the rain just a few minutes earlier. But he left the lights on and he got out of the car." Sara closed her eyes, seeing Jeffrey standing in the rain, his coat collar turned up to the cold. "There was a cat in the road. It had been hit, and it was obviously dead."

Tessa was silent, waiting. "And?" she prompted.

"And he picked it up and moved it out of the road so that no one else would hit it."

Tessa couldn't hide her shock. "He picked it up?"

"Yeah." Sara smiled fondly at the memory. "He didn't want anyone else to hit it."

"He touched a dead cat?"

Sara laughed at her reaction. "I never told you that before?"

"I think I'd remember."

Sara sat back in the swing, using her foot to keep it steady. "The thing was, at dinner he told me how much he hates cats. And here he was, stopping in the middle of the road in the dark, in the rain, to move the cat out of the road so that no one else would hit it."

Tessa could not mask her distaste. "Then he got back in the car with dead-cat hands?"

"I drove, because he didn't want to touch anything."

Tessa wrinkled her nose. "Is this the part where it gets romantic, because I'm feeling slightly sick to my stomach."

Sara gave her a sideways glance. "I drove him back to the house, and of course he had to come in to wash his hands." Sara laughed. "His hair was all wet from the rain and he kept his hands up like he was a surgeon who didn't want to mess up his scrub." Sara held her arms in the air, palms facing back, to illustrate.

"And?"

"And I took him into the kitchen to wash his hands because that's where the antibacterial soap is, and he couldn't squeeze the bottle without contaminating it, so I squeezed it for him." She sighed heavily. "And he was leaning over the sink washing his hands, then I was lathering up his hands for him, and they felt so strong and warm and he's always so goddamn sure of himself that he just looked up and kissed me right on the lips, without any hesitation, like he knew all along that while I was touching his hands all I could think about was how it would feel to have his hands on me, touching me."