Blind Spot (13 page)

“I’m sorry if I startled you, daughter.”

“No, Father. I’m sorry for staying so late.” She turned back around and started shuffling out of the pew. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Wait,” he said.

She froze. Bernadette looked over her shoulder and was horrified to see he’d left his pew and was sliding into hers, coming up on her right side. “Father, I really didn’t intend to…”

He motioned down toward the wooden seat with his left hand. “Sit. Please. You look troubled.”

She opened her mouth to respond and then closed it. Slowly lowering back down, Bernadette silently cursed herself for staying so long. For all she knew, this priest had observed her from the sacristy during her first visit. Now she was back and he felt compelled to counsel her. Worse, maybe the altar ladies had summoned him to deal with the crazy woman who kept popping in at night. As he sat down next to her, she avoided looking at him.

“Why are you here this evening?”

“Father…” Her voice trailed off. She hadn’t been close to a priest in years, and his presence made her nervous. She’d always felt guilty for quitting mass while still using the physical space of the church for her sight. Now here she was, caught in the act by a priest. At the same time, she felt drawn to him. He reeked of incense, a scent that drew her back into her childhood memories of church.

He asked: “What troubles you, daughter?”

His voice was low and deep and carried a solemn resonance that appealed to the remnants of her faith. She folded her hands in her lap and kept her eyes down. Odd that he kept the hood of his robe up over his head, but she didn’t want to be rude and stare. “I’m fine, Father,” she said to the floor.

“You don’t sound fine. You sound exhausted. And you’re here at a very late hour. This tells me you’re troubled. Would you be more comfortable in the confessional?”

“No,” she shot back, more loudly and quickly than she’d intended.

“You’re not Catholic?” he asked gently.

She felt bad she’d snapped at him, and fumbled with a response. “No. Yes. I was raised Catholic, but I haven’t been to mass in quite a while.”

“Why?”

His one-word question filled the cavernous church and ricocheted off its walls. Her excuse was halting and weak, and she hated it the minute it dribbled out of her mouth. “Laziness, I guess. I don’t know.”

“Do you believe in God?”

This time her answer was swift and sure: “Yes.”

“Do you believe He deserves your time and devotion?”

“I give Him my time in private prayer.”

“Is that what you’re doing here tonight?”

With his personal questions and hooded garb, this priest was rattling the hell out of her. She thought about lying to him, and then reconsidered. She’d never see him again, she figured. Why not tell him the truth? At worst, he’d assume she was mentally ill and leave her alone. She blurted it out: “I see things, Father, and this quiet time in church helps me focus.”

He paused and then asked: “What do you mean, daughter? What do you see? What
things
?”

Sensing her palms sweating under the leather, she pulled off her gloves and set them on her lap. She wiped her damp hands on her jeans while she continued. “When I hold certain objects, they enable me to see through someone else’s eyes. I see what someone else is seeing.”

“I don’t understand, daughter.”

She shot him a sideways glance and wondered to which order he belonged. His hands were tucked into the robe’s baggy sleeves, and the hood remained pulled up over his head. She wished he would take the hood down so she could tell if he was truly trying to understand, or if there was disbelief in his face. “When I hold something that a killer has touched, I can see through that murderer’s eyes. I see what he sees.”

His left hand came down, to rest in his lap. A large rosary was wrapped around his fist. “Fascinating.”

“I know it sounds absurd, Father. I’m sure you find it impossible to believe.”

Behind the hood, he chuckled lightly. “
Credo quia absurdum.
”

“What?”

“I believe precisely because it is absurd.” He paused and then explained: “I’ve seen everything and learned to discount nothing.”

She appreciated his attitude and forged ahead. “It’s an ability I’ve had for years, and I use it in my job.”

“What do you do? What’s your job, daughter?”

“I’m an FBI agent.”

A long silence. The left hand disappeared back into the robe, as if the sleeves were a muffler warming his mitts. “Has this vision actually worked for you? Have you been able to use it to apprehend criminals?”

“Not every time. There can be…” She struggled to find the right word. “Glitches.”

“What sorts of
glitches
?”

“I misinterpret what I see, or I can’t see clearly enough to get something useful, or it doesn’t function at all. It puts me in the emotional shoes of the killer. A horrible place to be. It drains me so badly I can’t…” She cut herself off. She’d found a sympathetic ear, and now she was rambling. If she wasn’t careful, she’d start disclosing company secrets. “You know what, Father? Dumping this on you was a bad idea. Forget the entire conversation.” She started to stand.

“Don’t go,” he said. He unfolded his arms and with his left hand reached toward the sleeve of her jacket.

She was surprised by his gesture, and sat back down. She stared at his hand as it retreated back inside the sleeves of his robe.

“Give me an example of how this operates,” he said. “Are you using it on a case right now? What are you seeing?”

He was probing for specifics, and she couldn’t give him any. That disappointed her, because she detected authentic interest in his voice. “I can’t talk about it. Ongoing investigation.”

“When did these visions start visiting you?”

“I had a twin sister. We knew what each other was thinking.”

“I’ve heard twins can do that,” he said.

She finished the story in shorthand. “It sort of evolved from there.”

“You said you
had
a twin.”

Bernadette grimaced. It was her own fault. If she didn’t want to talk about it, she shouldn’t have mentioned it. “She’s dead.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He fell silent, undoubtedly waiting for details, she thought. She wasn’t anxious to provide them.

Finally, he asked tentatively: “An illness?”

“Accident. A guy hit her car. Drunk truck driver.”

“So, if you see through the eyes of murderers…”

She waited while he thought it through and reached his own conclusion.

“You saw him kill her,” he said.

She whispered her answer: “Yes.”

“Horrible. To see a loved one die.”

“Yes,” she said again, in an even smaller voice.

From behind his hood, she heard him take a breath and let it out as he offered his own story. “I’m alone in this world. My family is gone. All I have is God—and this vocation.”

She thought about how she struggled to fill her personal void with her career. “Is it enough? Is the priesthood enough?”

“It has to be,” he said flatly. “Now, let me ask you something, daughter.”

“Go ahead, Father.”

“How can you be sure what you’re seeing is always the truth?”

Bernadette’s brows went up; his question baffled her. “The truth?”

“What if these visions aren’t a gift from God, but trickery by Satan?”

His take on her talent dismayed her. She’d found her sight problematic at times, difficult because of its inconsistencies. She’d never thought of it as evil. The possibility she was being used sent an icy chill through her body. “No, no,” she sputtered, sounding unconvincing to her own ears. “It’s never led me that far astray. Certainly I’ve made some honest mistakes.”

“Were they honest mistakes? The words of Exodus come to mind. ‘You shall not spread a false report. You shall not join hands with the wicked to act as a malicious witness. You shall not follow a majority in wrongdoing; when you bear witness in a lawsuit, you shall not side with the majority so as to pervert justice.’”

“I have not
perverted
justice,” she shot back.

“Did you condemn innocents while letting the real devils go free?
Respice finem.
Look to the end; consider the end result.”

She’d had enough Latin and lecturing for the evening. She pulled her gloves back on and slid away from him, preparing to bolt from the bench. “Thank you for listening, Father. I’ll consider what you’ve said.”

“If you want to talk again, I’m here the rest of the week,” he offered. “I usually pray at about this time every evening.”

She stood in the aisle and looked at his figure. Now he was down on his knees, facing the altar, hood still over his head and arms still tucked into his sleeves. She was curious. “Only through the week?”

“I’m visiting clergy.”

She remembered a priest who’d briefly assisted at her parish back home; he’d worn a similar outfit and carried an oversized rosary. She’d found him a wonderful confidant once she got to know him. The name of his order came to her. “Franciscan?”

The hood bobbed in affirmation. “Yes.”

She thought about everything else she had to do: Unpacking at home. Unpacking at the office. The case. It’d be a few days before she could free up an evening. “Might come to see you again middle of the week.”

“Wednesday?”

“Maybe.”

“Excellent, daughter. I look forward to it.” He bent his head down.

“I’ll leave you to your prayers, Father.” She genuflected before the altar and turned to leave.

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” he said without looking up. “They have a five o’clock mass at the cathedral for late risers. Short and sweet and to the point.”

“Maybe.”

“
Maybe
again. You like that word, don’t you?”

Bernadette didn’t answer. She quickly walked down the aisle and went outside, relieved to be cooled by the rain as she jogged down the steps.

Thirteen

Chris Stannard had taken a booth with window seats—she’d had her choice, since she was the only customer at that hour—and through the glass, she saw him hurrying down the pavement in the rain. Anna’s description of the guy had been perfect: he could pass for a pumped-up Clark Gable, tidy mustache and all. She hoped Anna had been equally accurate about the man’s willingness to help, eagerness to make things right. She needed a zealot. Anything to get it done.

She followed him with her eyes as he hiked up the steps to the restaurant—a knockoff of an old railroad dining car—and went inside. He didn’t notice her at first; his head was bent as he ran his fingers through his wet curls. He wore a tweed blazer over a sweater and jeans. Clark Gable playing the part of a college professor. He looked up, saw her, and headed for her table. As he came up to the booth, she saw fine lines around his eyes betraying his age—well into his thirties—but there was no gray hair mixed with the black. Handsome. Would he find her as attractive as she found him? She reached up and brushed her cheek with the tips of her fingers. The makeup was minimal, but her skin was clear and she’d dabbed on a little perfume. Her brown hair was parted down the middle and styled into a blunt cut that went a few inches past her shoulders. A flattering look for a woman of her years—which was in the same neighborhood as his. The nurse’s uniform didn’t do any favors for her figure, but she’d had no choice, since she’d gone to the diner right after work.

She stared straight ahead, waiting for him to make the first move. He cleared his throat and extended his hand in front of her face. “Chris? Mrs. Stannard?”

She slid out of the booth, stood up, and gripped his hand. “Sorry,” she said. “Zoning out for a minute.” He was a head taller than she, and his shoulders seemed to fill the width of the dining car. His size and closeness intimidated her, and she took a step back from him.

“Sorry I’m late.” He folded his hands in front of him. “How can I help?”

Her eyes flitted to his large mitts and went back to his face. “This is going to take a while.”