Blind Spot Page 10

  She sat on her bed with an open day-planner on her thighs while he opened a Hudson’s Street Atlas on his lap.

  “His flight comes in Wednesday night,” she said. “He’ll work late Thursday so he can catch up.”

  “Where’s his business?”

  “Mendota Heights,” she said.

  He flipped to the back of the atlas and ran his eyes down the index until he found the page number for Mendota Heights, a St. Paul suburb. He flipped to the middle of the book, turned some pages, and found it. “Here it is.”

  “His lab is in a business park right off the highway.” She slid off the bed and went over to him. Reaching over with her index finger, she pointed to a sliver of land on the right side of the open Hudson’s. The strip was on the very bottom of the page, just south of Minnesota 110.

  He studied the sliver. “I’ve been to that part of town, but I’m not intimately familiar. What’s around your husband’s work?”

  “What do you mean? Other businesses? There’s a little strip mall down the road. A McDonald’s.”

  “Do you think I plan to go out for burgers?”

  “Oh. Okay. Umm. You mean places where you can take and murder him without being—”

  “Execute him,” he corrected her. “Innocent people are murdered. Your husband is himself a murderer. He is going to be executed. This is an execution.”

  “Execution,” she repeated. She disliked the way he was talking to her—as if she were a child reviewing a failed quiz with her teacher.

  “I have to use your bathroom.” He stood up with the Hudson’s and dropped it—still open to Mendota Heights—on her bed. “Start looking for some green space. Woods. Something close to his work.”

  He walked into the bathroom—his blazer cradled in his arms—and shut the door. She wondered what she had in her bathroom that could cause her problems. What was in the medicine cabinet over the sink? Headache meds and cough meds and a box of tampons. What was in the drawers under the sink? Toilet paper. Tons of cosmetics. Face cream and hand cream. Hairspray and hair gel and a blow dryer. Combs and brushes. On the sink counter—a tube of toothpaste and two toothbrushes.

  A ringing phone jarred her out of her mental inventory. She slid off the bed and dashed into the kitchen, scooping the phone off the counter. Staying behind the screen, she kept her voice low as she talked: “I told you not to call tonight…Yeah, yeah…Absolutely certain…Me, too, Cindy.” She put the phone down softly, went back to the bed, and retrieved the open map book.

  She heard a flush and water running—undoubtedly sound effects for her benefit, as she was sure he’d spent the time snooping. The door popped open, and as he walked out of the bathroom, he asked casually: “On call at the hospital today?”

  She was sitting on the bed again, legs crossed. “My kid.”

  “What’s her name, your little girl?”

  “Cindy.” She was bent over the Hudson’s, frowning at the open pages.

  “What’re you finding?” he asked.

  She pulled her eyes off the map. “A nature center has a big chunk of land on the same side of the highway, right next to his place.”

  “A nature center,” he repeated.

  “Catholic cemetery down the highway, too. A big one.”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten it was in Mendota Heights. I’ve been to funerals there.” He walked over to the bed. “There’s a risk of being seen by someone visiting a grave.”

  “What about at night? Like I said, he’ll work late Thursday.”

  “Maybe.” He pulled the Hudson’s out of her hands and eyed the distances. “The cemetery would be closer to his work.”

  She reached over, opened the drawer in her nightstand, and pulled something out. “Here’s what he looks like.”

  “Good.” He took the picture out of her hands and examined it.

  Chris had snapped the photo. Dressed in trunks, Noah was stretched out on a lounge chair parked in front of a pool. He had a drink in his hand and a smile on his face. He was looking into the camera and holding the drink up for her. He looked so happy in the picture; she hated it.

  “When was this taken?” he asked. “Where?”

  “Last winter,” she said. “Hawaii. Maui, to be specific. Why?”

  “He still looks like this?”

  “Right down to the goofy grin. Except in the photo he’s got contacts, and he usually doesn’t bother with those unless he’s got a date. For every day, he wears glasses with black frames. All that’s missing is the tape across the bridge.”

  “Can your husband see without his glasses, or is he pretty much blind without them?”

  “He can see okay. I actually think he prefers the nerd look.”

  “Tell me more about him.”

  “What else do you want to know? You already heard about how he smacks me around and—”

  “His legitimate hobbies. His interests.”

  She pulled her knees up to her chest. “Golfing. Runs, but only enough to stay in shape for the golf. That’s about it.”

  “Is there a spiritual dimension to this guy? Does he go to church?”

  She laughed dryly. “Could be he prays before a tough shot. I don’t know.”

  “May I keep the picture?”

  “The Hudson’s, too, if you like.”

  So he could keep his place in the atlas, he tucked the photo into the crack. He closed the Hudson’s over his bookmark.

  “Want me along?” she asked.

  “I work alone.”

  She curled her legs tighter up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees. She was excited; this was actually going to happen. “Thursday night, then?”

  “Thursday night.”

  She ran her eyes up and down his figure. Whatever his name was, the guy was built. “Sure you don’t want another drink?”

  “I’ve got to get home. Tomorrow’s Sunday. Church.” Pulling on his blazer, he started for the door.

  “Wait,” she said. “Your name. Anna didn’t tell me.”

  “Good,” he said. “At least she kept some things to herself.”

  “I need to call you something.”

  He put his hand on the knob. Without turning around, he said: “Reg Neva.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “It’s Danish.” He opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and said over his shoulder: “You should think about going to church.” He shut the door.

  Chris waited until the sound of his footsteps disappeared down the hallway. “Sanctimonious asshole,” she said to the closed door. She snatched her empty wineglass off the nightstand and took it into the kitchen to refill it. Her hands shook as she poured. As handsome as he was, Momma’s Boy had still scared the crap out of her.

  Sixteen

  “Dave Wong’s,” croaked a male voice.

  “Food,” Bernadette muttered to herself, and buzzed him up.

  The deliveryman—a skinny old guy in need of a shave and a shower—handed her a sack through the doorway. “Here ya go, sis.”

  “Thanks for making such a late delivery.” She handed him a twenty. “Keep the change.”

  He stuffed the money into the pocket of his purple Minnesota Vikings windbreaker and, with both hands, hiked up his baggy pants. “Thanks, sis.” As he turned and headed down the hall, she noticed he had a slight limp and felt sorry for him. She’d give him an even bigger tip next time—and there would be a next time. Bernadette cooked for herself, but didn’t particularly enjoy it.

  She closed the door and carried the food into the kitchen. She fished two white cartons out of the sack, along with a handful of fortune cookies, a handful of soy-sauce packets, two paper napkins, two plastic forks, and two sets of chopsticks. The take-out joints always sent pairs of utensils, and she never bothered telling them the food was for one: she didn’t want to make herself sound pathetic, and she didn’t mind having extras. She took both forks and one set of chopsticks and dropped them into a drawer under the kitchen c
ounter. “My new junk-drawer,” she said, and closed it.

  The chicken fried rice and the beef with broccoli were still steaming hot. “You’re my main man, Dave Wong,” she said to the cartons. She dug into each container with the chopsticks while flipping through an old copy of Motocross Action Magazine. Her eyes lingered over photos from the Southwick National, a race held in Massachusetts. The competitors and their machines were coated in grit. “Looks like fun,” she said in between bites of broccoli. Another story profiled a champion rider who was pushing forty. “‘Age hasn’t slowed him down one bit,’” read the piece. “Forty isn’t old,” she groused. An article detailing the latest in goggles reminded her that she had yet to unpack her riding gear.

  She reached the bottom of both cartons and dropped the chopsticks into one of the empties. She cracked open the fortune cookies one after another, reading and commenting on the prophecies while discarding the cookies themselves. “‘A well-deserved job promotion is headed your way’…That’ll be the day…‘An unexpected prize will be left on your doorstep’…Courtesy of Augie’s dog…‘Your lucky numbers are 3, 15, 19, 27, 35, and 38’…I’ll have to buy a Powerball ticket and try those out…‘The man of your dreams will arrive soon’…I’d have a better chance winning the lottery.”

  She cleared off the table and got ready for bed. Digging through a box of medicine-cabinet stuff, she found her over-the-counter sleeping meds. The bottle said to take two, but she’d long ago graduated to three. She refused to go to a doctor and get a prescription for something more potent. In her mind, that would be an admission that she had a bigger problem—one requiring a shrink—and she didn’t want to acknowledge that she needed that kind of help. She swallowed the pills with a handful of water from the tap.

  As she spiraled her way up the steps to her bed, she wondered how the moving men had managed to get her mattress and dresser up the narrow, twisting wrought iron. The architectural feature reminded her of the way old westerns portrayed whorehouses; the brothels always had balconies with wrought-iron railings.

  She got to the top of the steps and looked around, seeing boxes and bags everywhere. “What a mess.” At one end of the long, narrow space, she spotted a round window, a circle of glass the size of a garbage-can lid. She’d never noticed the portal before. She walked over to the window and stood on her tiptoes to peek out.

  Streetlights lined the waterfront and described the gently curving lines of the river. She imagined herself dressed in a frilly nightgown, leaning out the window and calling down to cowboys galloping by on horseback. Then again, since she was on the river, maybe it would be passing towboat crews. “Hey, sailor, want a good time?” she asked the round of glass.

  As she shuffled over to her bed, she chuckled dryly. She couldn’t remember the last time sex had been about having a good time.

  In the year after Michael’s death, Bernadette didn’t think about sex, and the idea of ever being paired again evaporated from her head. She’d interviewed murder victims’ relatives who were so grief-stricken they’d stopped seeing colors or tasting food. Similarly, she’d become blind to other married people. Couples didn’t exist in her dark, single world.

  Then, one summer day, she noticed two teenagers strolling in front of her on the sidewalk. The boy reached over and took the girl’s hand. The natural, affectionate movement sparked something inside of her.

  The desire for sex was rekindled.

  At first she’d tried getting what she needed from guys at work, but she quickly learned that was a mistake. It wasn’t as much a concern over violating policy—whatever the hell that policy said—as it was a fear of getting a reputation. She didn’t want people to fix her up with guys and go out on formal dates, either. She wasn’t seeking a relationship; she wanted sex.

  She finally fell into a practice she knew was dangerous: sleeping with strangers. She picked them up in hotel bars, high-class establishments with martini menus and Scotch drinks priced in the double digits. Even more than the venue, she was discriminating about the men. They had to be well dressed and immaculately groomed. She looked for professionals attending conferences, or business travelers flying into town for trade shows. They’d go up to his room. She never gave him her real name or told him what she did for a living. She always brought her own condoms—and her Glock. What more did a girl need to stay safe?

  She stripped down to her panties and sat on the edge of the mattress while she fiddled with the clock radio on her nightstand. No matter which station she turned to, she heard rock music—faint but pounding. She snapped the radio off for a minute and looked toward the ceiling. “Rats in the Cellar” was vibrating over her head. She heard barking, too. Were Augie and his dog partying right above her? She’d have to read him the riot act when she saw him again. She turned the radio back on and continued messing with the knob until she hit on a station with Sinatra. “When Your Lover Has Gone.” Perfect. Sinatra was always perfect, no matter what the occasion or mood.

  Bernadette collapsed back on the bare mattress and pulled the comforter up to her chin. Her eyes popped open; she’d almost forgotten. She turned the radio down, slid out of bed, and went down on her knees. She propped her elbows on the mattress edge and folded her hands together. A smattering of the words she’d exchanged with the Franciscan invaded her head:

  Do you believe in God?

  Yes.

  Do you believe He deserves your time and devotion?

  I give Him my time in private prayer.

  She told herself her private prayer was good enough, and then she launched into her nightly ritual of the Lord’s Prayer followed by the Hail Mary:

  “Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”

  By the end of the Hail Mary, her body was starting to surrender to the pills and exhaustion. She made the sign of the cross, got up off her knees, and crawled back between the covers.

  She felt a breeze combing her hair and moisture beading on her skin. She sensed the rolling of the boat under her sneakers and heard the distinctive thump of a wind gust catching the sails. The smell of the lake—a combination of pine and moss and rotting vegetation—invaded her nostrils. This time she was alone on the boat, bobbing and rocking in a space without lines, where the sky and the water dissolved into each other.

  The noose dropped and danced in front of her face. She grabbed it and slipped it over her head. “My turn,” she said, tightening the loop and waiting for it to lift her and carry her up to him. She saw the end of the line was cut, so she ran to the stern to jump off. From behind, massive arms wrapped around her waist and stopped her from leaping. She scratched and clawed until her captor loosened his hold enough for her to turn around and face him.

  “You,” she said.

  “The man of your dreams,” he said.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Do you believe in God?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

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

  “I give Him my time in private prayer,” she said.

  “Then stay home. Don’t go back to church. He isn’t there.”

  She squirmed. “Who? Who isn’t there? God?”

  “A good priest.” His arms tightened around her.

  Instead of pushing him away, she pulled him closer and buried her face in his chest. She whispered his name as if uttering a prayer: “August.”

  Seventeen

  She’d gone to bed with Sinatra and Steven Tyler. Spent the night immersed in a bizarre dream starring her neighbor. Woke up with the weatherman.

  “A break in the rain today. We’ll have partly cloudy skies over the Twin Cities and a high of sixty degrees. Lows tonight in the mid-forties. Sports are up next. Twins have another home game against…”

  Bernadette flipped onto her stomach, reached over, and slapped off the radio. She cracked open an eye and checked the time. Almost ten. The radio had been blaring for nearly two hours, and she’d slept through it. “Great,”
she said, rolling onto her back. She hoped the market was still going. She hopped out of bed and grimaced as her feet hit the cold floor. Her arms wrapped around her torso, she made her way down the spiral. The wrought iron felt like ice on her bare feet. She contemplated turning on the heat in her condo and then immediately chastised herself for the thought. She was a Minnesotan, for God’s sake.

  Bernadette padded into the bathroom and shut the door. Turned the shower on hot, so it steamed up the small room. She stepped into the tub and gingerly pulled over the curtain. Was it her imagination, or had the mold gotten worse overnight? Shades of The Blob. While she showered, she made a mental note to put the new curtain at the top of her list.

  She pulled on some sweats and a pair of sneakers and her watch. She checked the time. She’d do her grocery shopping before calling Garcia. She grabbed some cash and her keys, slipped her sunglasses over her eyes, locked up, and stepped into the hallway. She walked ten feet and stopped in the middle of the corridor. She checked both ends. No one there. She wanted to try that echo effect.

  “Hey, kid!” she yelled to the ceiling. No echo. She felt foolish.

  She went outside. The Farmers’ Market, at Fifth and Wall Streets in Lowertown, was just a couple of blocks from her place.

  Hmong embroidery. Hanging flower baskets. Wild rice. Herbs. Homemade soaps. Beeswax candles. Buffalo meat. Lamb. Fresh eggs. Apple cider. Exotic, stinky cheeses. Vendors handing out samples. Aisles packed with people and strollers.

  Bernadette spotted a bagel stand on the other side of the market and decided to grab a quick bite before she started loading her arms. She weaved her way through the crowd and got in line. When she got up to the counter, she scanned the selection listed on the sandwich board parked on the ground, to the right of the counter. “Veggie and cream cheese, please. Hold the onions.”

  “What kind of bagel?” asked the girl behind the counter.