Blind Spot (37 page)

Reg Neva is on the run. Bernadette sees his fists locked around his steering wheel. Those big hands of his are bare; he’s removed the killing gloves. Quaid’s attention keeps shifting from the view through the windshield to his rearview mirror. He’s worried about being followed or stopped. He slows and brakes as the rig in front of him stops. Blinking signal lights on the semi tell her the truck is hanging a left, but the driver must wait for opposing traffic to go by. With yellow lines running down the middle, and vehicles braking to turn, this isn’t a freeway. The semi trucks and steady traffic indicate it’s not a side street, either. Must be a highway. Quaid drums his fingers on the steering wheel while waiting for the truck to turn. He looks in his rearview mirror and to the right, steers around the semi, and resumes his drive. His eyes dart to the dashboard. He’s monitoring his speed, because too slow or too fast would draw attention. Quaid’s in a hurry, but he’s being careful.

What borders the road he’s driving? Woods, maybe. Too dark to tell. Doesn’t help that he’s focused on driving instead of sightseeing. Ahead is an illuminated area. A city? A sign is coming up by the side of the road, just outside this place. The name of a town or a village? Quaid pays little mind to the sign, so she can’t make out the words as he rolls past. Not a very large place, whatever it is. Could be nothing more than a collection of businesses at an intersection. She finds nothing familiar or telling about the buildings. Quaid cruises through, and now the place is in his rearview mirror.

Traffic has thinned. Bernadette sees no headlights from opposing cars. She spots no taillights from vehicles in front of Quaid. This has to be a rural area, she thinks. He’s relaxing. He’s stopped checking his rearview mirror and has increased his speed. His right hand leaves the steering wheel to fiddle with the radio buttons. Maybe he’s listening for news reports on the killings. No. He pushes a CD into the car’s player and cranks up the volume. Clearly he’s more relaxed—and cocky.

Slowing to make a right turn. Quaid’s headlights shine down a driveway. Before she can get a decent look at the surroundings, he brakes, puts the car in park, and snaps off the lights. He stays sitting in the car, blackness all around him. She knows this blackness, remembers it from her childhood. It’s a blackness impossible to find in the city. Quaid’s frozen behind the wheel for such a long time, Bernadette thinks he intends to sleep there.

He throws open the driver’s door and swings his legs outside. Standing up, he raises his eyes heavenward. He’s looking for stars, but there are none visible. This is a cloudy night. Windy, too. She can distinguish the tops of the trees, skeletal arms swaying and reaching for the sky. Turns around and digs under the driver’s seat, searching for something. He pulls it out and examines it by the car’s dome light. What is it? A handgun. Quaid puts it in his pocket. More rummaging under the seat. A flashlight.
Good,
she thinks. Better to see. He shuts the car door and walks with the flashlight, punching it on and aiming it yards ahead of him. Where in the hell is he? Heading for a house. Bernadette wonders: Whose house? Where? No address on the front. He’s looking around him as he heads for the steps. It’s an older two-story home surrounded by trees. He’s hiking up the front stoop, shining the beam ahead of him with one hand and fingering something else with the other. What is he fingering? Keys. Quaid shoves them in the lock, pushes the door open, and steps through.

He runs the beam around the inside. It’s a walled front porch. Weird front porch. A handful of foggy mirrors are spaced along the back of the rectangular space. Quaid turns around and secures the door behind him. Jiggles and pulls on the handle to make sure. Yes. Definitely locked. He’s very careful—or fearful.

He pivots around, leans his back against the door, and closes his eyes tight. Resting? Thinking? He opens his eyes and, in a couple of strides, steps up to the next door. Quaid shoves the key in the lock and turns. He pauses, hand wrapped around the knob. He isn’t moving. Is he afraid of going inside? Why? What’s inside? He pushes the door open and steps over the threshold.

Quaid’s swaying side to side, as if he’s going to faint. If he passes out, she could lose the connection. Is he stoned or drunk? No. He was fine while he was driving. Perhaps the exhaustion has caught up with him now that he’s stopped running. Maybe he’s crazy. Hallucinating. Is it his emotions? Something about this place? He’s better now. Steadies himself. Shining the light around the room. Furniture covered with drop cloths and bedsheets. Could double for the inside of a morgue or a haunted house. Whose house? Where is it? How can she find it? The lights go on. She can see much better. The place still looks right out of a horror flick. The set of a B movie.

He turns around and cranks the dead bolt, locking the door behind him. Navigating around all the drop cloths and heading into the dining room. A tarp covers a large piece of furniture—probably the dining-room table. He’s flipping on more lights as he goes. He’s afraid of the dark. Afraid of ghosts.
Be afraid,
she thinks. The more lights the better.

He’s in the kitchen, switching on lights. He goes to some cupboards over the counter, to the left of the sink. Opens the door and takes down four tins. She can’t read the labels. He goes into a drawer under the counter and takes out a can opener. From another drawer, he pulls out a fork. He knows his way around this kitchen. Opens the cans and shovels the chow into his mouth. Rinses the empties before tossing them into the trash can under the sink. Quaid opens the tap and lets the water run while he takes down a glass. Fills the glass, guzzles down the water. Refills it and guzzles some more. Homicide makes a man hungry and thirsty.

He sets the glass on the counter and turns around to head out of the room. Stops in the middle of the kitchen and goes back to the sink. He’s forgotten something. He reaches into his jacket and takes something out. Sets it in the sink. What is it? A white container of some sort. A small jar. Hard to see. If only he’d lean closer to it or pick it up. What’s in the jar? He starts to lift the lid, but he turns his head away. She suspects he’s dumping the jar’s contents into the sink, but she can’t tell for sure. He’s looking away. Why?

He reaches for a switch to the right of the sink, against the back-splash. The garbage disposal. He’s going to destroy what’s in the sink. Is it evidence? Changing his mind, he withdraws his hand. Good. Excellent. He swivels the faucet so it’s over the side of the sink without the disposal. Turns on the hot water, grabs a bar of soap, and scrubs his hands under the stream. Scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing. Getting under his nails. Shuts off the water and wipes his hands on his pants.

Back into the dining room. Through the front room. Up the stairs. He’s at home in this house. No hesitation. No stumbling around. No turning off lights once they’re on, either. Even in familiar surroundings, he’s afraid of the dark. Very afraid. She can feel his fear. At the top of the stairs, he turns on the hallway light. He’s going into a room at the end of the hall and turning on the light. Two twin beds, all made up with feminine quilts. Big flowers and butterflies. Stuffed animals piled against the pillows. Two girls share this room. Mounted over each headboard, a cross fashioned out of rope. Quaid’s creepy craft. He goes deeper inside. His eyes linger over one of the beds. He picks up a stuffed rabbit and hugs it to his chest. Her vision starts to blur; he’s tearing up. He sets the toy down.

Moving on to a room next door. The lights go on. One larger bed with a plain brown spread on top, and no stuffed animals. A guy’s room. Another macramé cross on the wall. No loitering here. Back down the hall and into a third room. He flicks on the lights. Vatican: The Sequel. Virgin Mary statue on the dresser. Candles in jars. Crucifix over the headboard. Quaid’s stepping over to the bed. Unlike the others, this one is bare. No pillows or comforter. What’s that stain on top of the mattress? Two rusty spots. Bernadette recognizes the color all too well: dried blood. People died on this mattress, and he kept it. He didn’t clean it or cover it up or even flip it over to hide the blood. Why did he keep it? Who died here? He had two sisters. They died on this bed. This is his family home. She sees him extend his hand, reaching for the stains. He pulls his fingers back. He’s turning away from the bloody souvenir. Leaving his dead sisters. He goes across the room to another door. A closet? He puts his hand on the knob, but doesn’t open the door. Stands there motionless, staring at the panel of wood. What’s this about?

He finally lets go of the knob and leaves the room. Goes down the hall to another room. This must be the last room on this level. The lights go on. He’s walking inside. It’s the bathroom. He’s closing the door. Why? He’s alone in the house. There’s a mirror on the door. He’s looking at himself. She can see him in the mirror. For the first time, she can observe this villain head to toe. Quaid’s tall and muscular. Doesn’t fit her idea of the way a priest should look. Ex-priest. He should be small and wiry, or round like Santa Claus. He’s too built, this guy. Dangerous. She wishes he’d step closer to the door mirror so she could make out his face more clearly. Instead, he steps away and goes to the vanity. Starts taking stuff out of his pockets and dumping the junk on the counter. Flashlight. Keys. Billfold. There it is again—the gun. He’s still got it. What kind of gun is it? What are we up against? Looks like a revolver. That humpbacked shape is familiar. The frame is extended, covering all but the very tip of the hammer. Easy to hide; not so easy to shoot—unless he’s had practice. She prays he hasn’t had practice.

Quaid’s taking off his clothes. There’s gotta be blood. Is he going to throw the clothes away? No. He’s opening a little square door in the wall. The laundry chute. Dropping the duds down to the laundry room. He’s going to try to wash away the evidence. Moving to the tub. Turning on the water. He goes over to the vanity again. He’s looking in the mirror this time, checking himself out. Rakes his cheeks with his knuckles. He’s got a five o’clock shadow darkening his face. A mustache—not big and bushy, but dapper. Prissy. Going closer to the mirror. She can see him better now. Dark eyes. Olive skin. High cheekbones. Chiseled chin and nose. He’s handsome—and disgusting. His skin is spattered in red, as if he’d been painting a barn. Bloody barn. He’s saying something to the mirror. Talking to himself.

Quaid’s turning away from the mirror. Hops in the bathtub. Closes the shower curtain. Punches on the shower. Steps under the water. Looking up, he closes his eyes.

Everything goes black. The connection is severed.

Forty-one

Unfolding her fist, Bernadette dropped the ring on the church bench. At the sound of the
clink,
she opened her eyes and was surprised to see an altar in front of her. Drained and confused, she struggled to remember where she was and how she’d gotten there.

A male voice punched through her fog: “You okay?”

She blinked and turned her head toward the sound. Her vision was still cloudy. She blinked two more times and the film melted away, revealing Garcia sitting next to her on a church bench.

“Did you see anything?” he asked.

She didn’t know how to answer him. She needed a few minutes to collect herself, orient herself, process what she’d seen, and put it into words. Quaid’s emotions were still coursing through her. She felt exhaustion and something beneath that, something that made her anxious. Fear? Was it her own fear, or that of the killer?

Using the ring retrieval as an excuse to buy time, she slid away from Garcia. She pulled a work glove out of her pocket, slipped it on, and picked up the band.

“Agent Saint Clare? You all right? What’d you see?”

“Gimme a minute.” She peeled off the glove so it was inside out, with the ring safely tucked in the ball of latex. She jammed the package in her jacket pocket. She took a couple of calming breaths and turned in the pew to respond to Garcia, answering his questions in order. “I’m okay. I saw Quaid at home.”

“Back at the apartment?”

“No. His family home.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I saw his mom’s beauty shop, and the bed where his sisters…” She stood up and felt dizzy. She lowered herself back onto the bench. Glancing toward the altar, she noticed Father Pete igniting candles with a long brass pole. “How long have we been here? Is it already time for morning services?”

They were sitting close to the front, and she’d spoken louder than she’d intended. The priest turned around. “Don’t mind me. Mass isn’t for hours yet. Thought I’d putter around up here. Try out our new lighter, see if the altar boys will be able to work it without setting fire to the place.” He lowered the flame at the end of the rod. “I hope God answers your prayers, Bernadette. Let me know if you need me later, at the hospital.” The priest turned around and headed to another set of candles with the lighter.