Free Blind Sight: A Novel by Terri Persons Page A

Garcia something solid, a good lead to take to his meeting with Dunton. “Let’s try my sight first. How close is Ed’s cabin?”
    “Close enough.”
    Garcia backed over the hump of snow created by the passing plow and steered the truck back onto the highway, heading south. He hung a right onto Minnesota 34. Then it was all county roads.
    While Garcia hiked up the back steps and unlocked the cabin door—he had his own keys to his cousin’s place—Bernadette went around to the back of the truck and grabbed their duffels. Garcia took both bags and led her up the steps.
    They stepped into a tiny mudroom. Garcia kicked off his boots, and Bernadette did the same. The mudroom opened into a short hallway. She poked her head into the room at the end. A small bedroom. Next was a larger bedroom that faced the lake. Then a bathroom. She clawed some toilet paper off the roll, blew her nose, and followed Garcia into the main living space of the log A-frame.
    The kitchen was open, with an island topped by a range. Beyond the kitchen was the front room and its redbrick fireplace. An open stairway, railed with skinned logs, led to a loft sleeping area. Nice, she thought.
    Bernadette took some newspapers from a stack next to the hearth, bunched them up, and shoved the balls into the fireplace. She topped them with kindling and a log.
    “I turned up the heat,” said Garcia, coming up behind her as she lit the newspaper.
    The cabin’s basement was frigid. They should have kept their outdoor gear on, right down to their boots. A hunk of old gold shag carpet covered the bedroom’s icy concrete floor. The wood-paneled walls were decorated with dead fish, most of them large-mouth bass. She assumed all of them were Ed’s trophies. Their glassy eyes added to the chilly feel of the dank space.
    Bernadette and her boss sat on opposite ends of a sagging sleeper sofa, a plaid piece that took up one wall of the cell. On each side of the couch was a table topped by a lamp, but only the light on Garcia’s end worked. The shade depicted a stream with a buck standing onshore, drinking from the running waters. The shade slowly rotated so that the deer would phase out of view, its rump in a slow retreat. Against the opposite wall was a bed covered with a down spread. In the middle of the wall above the bed’s headboard was an egress window with a ragged blanket tacked over it. The smallest bit of light bordered the edges of the curtain. It was not enough to distract her.
    “This couch is shit,” groused Garcia. He’d sunk so far down into the cushion that his knees were nearly at the same height as his head. “You sure you don’t want to go back upstairs?”
    “This is good.” As she rotated her head, she noticed a hole in the ceiling the size of a fist and wondered what the hell that was about. A failed effort at putting in a ceiling fixture? The space smelled like sweaty men, and she wrinkled her nose. “Who usually sleeps down here?”
    “Overflow parking for Ed’s buddies in homicide. Not the nicest room in the house, but you wanted dark.”
    “It’s perfect.” Bernadette rubbed her arms over her shirt and blew a puff of air. Not quite cold enough to see her breath. On her lap was the plastic bag containing the sliver of flannel from Lydia’s nightgown.
    “Ready?” Garcia asked.
    “Ready,” she said.
    “Here we go.” He snapped off the lamp as the buck’s butt was again fading out of view.
    No airplane or traffic noise. No distant voices or music. Not even the wind broke the stillness. The only interruption to the quiet was a wooden groan. The cabin settling. She concentrated on her breathing. In and out. In. Out. She opened her hand on her lap and tipped the bag over her palm. As light as a feather, the fabric floated down to her fingers. She curled her hand into a fist, closed her eyes, and whispered her prayer.
    Bernadette opens her eyes to … the storm.
    The killer is looking out a window. Even with her hazy vision,