Dark to Mortal Eyes

  A curse, indeed. Now, at last, Marsh understood Josee’s involvement: She was the key to the safe-deposit box, to the vials of boomslang hemotoxin. On the grand chessboard, she was the bishop, alone capable of slicing to the coveted object. His daughter? Chance’s grandchild? A living bribe.

  Marsh walked into the bathroom and heaved into the sink. His throat stung.

  Back on the sofa, with a glass of milk, he thought of Josee’s vulnerable turquoise eyes. Defiance and pain bordered her pupils. And—dare he admit it?—he was on some level responsible. He had inflicted damage on those around him. He had followed in his father’s footsteps and made choices that cut deep into his family.

  Family? What family? I pushed Josee away.

  Filtered through Virginia’s hurt, Chance’s betrayals had infused Marsh’s life on every level. How could he be purified of this evil? The way looked dim.

  Marsh, I have numerous regrets. In many ways, I’ve failed to attain even my lowest ambitions. I fear the possibility’s slim that I’ll live to speak these words to your comprehending ears. You’re merely an infant. Yet, in the likelihood that Trudi or her accomplices attempt to foist this horror upon your family as well, I leave my journal as a guide toward understanding. I will not be there to partner with you—against this obstacle or any other. Truly, I’ll miss watching the transformation of my son into a man.

  A section addressed to him? Marsh was caught off guard. He had learned to be strong beneath his mother’s hand, but these intimate words struck deep. Sorrow and anger and regret crashed over him. The same feelings Josee must be contending with.

  She must hate me! And I told her to leave, to say good-bye.

  The sins of the fathers had heaped pain on all involved.

  The journal shall remain in your mother’s possession—oh, this woman who’s so faithfully stood beside me! Virginia knows some of the story, not all. She knows I’ve been untrue, and I’ve begged her forgiveness. What more can I do? I’ve asked her to hide this journal until the day comes that you might require it. Only in such an event do I release these confessions and thus knowingly tarnish my name before my own progeny. As for the canister, I’ve returned it to Trudi. And good riddance! It’s useless to me. It’s done its foul deeds.

  In a final gesture, I’ve enlisted the help of one other, a man committed to the protection of my family. I saved his father’s life; perhaps he’ll have an opportunity to return the favor before all is done. I believe that by remaining anonymous he’ll be safe from Trudi’s ploys. I can only hope he remains faithful to this task. I’ve provided financial incentives to encourage him in this endeavor.

  Marsh, my betrayals and follies are many and have resulted in much pain—for me and for those I cherish. Please don’t repeat my mistakes. In life I’ve involved myself in a dangerous game. In death and in disclosure I hope to bring this to a close.

  May God have mercy on my soul,

  Chance Addison

  P.S. For what it’s worth … Bank of the Dunes, Florence, Box No. 89

  Wrinkled packing tape held a brown envelope to the journal’s inside cover. A key, with its number filed away, slipped from the decades-old resting place.

  25

  The Questions

  Her need for nicotine drove her to the back porch, where trees whipped in the gale. The yard was dark. Josee was alone, by request, and Scooter had joined John Van der Bruegge for a rematch at the pool table.

  So this trip had been a waste and a failure, a lesson in futility. The disappointment jabbed deeper than Josee had anticipated.

  At least she had found Scooter again. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?

  But Kara Addison. She was missing.

  As for Marsh, his fatherhood was still debatable. He seemed like a straight-up guy, not exactly in touch with his feminine side, not exactly dripping with sympathy and emotion, but honest. Josee knew that when it came to women, what she saw was what they wanted her to see. With men, what she saw was what she got.

  Testosterone may run shallow, but at least I know what I’m diving into.

  Marsh Addison had made it clear: No Diving Allowed.

  At the house’s edge, the wind moaned as it had throughout the late afternoon. Josee flicked fingers at the hip of her jeans. A trail of heat seemed to spiral up her leg. Warm. Itchy. She brushed a hand against her pocket, but there was nothing there.

  Through exhaled smoke, she admired the moon that skirted behind the clouds—

  Dang it, what is that?

  Again she felt something contract and twitch from her heel and up along her thigh. Wool-stockinged feet tensed to the point of cramping in her leather sandals. She coughed and almost discarded her cigarette, but the rolled paper seemed superglued to her fingertips. She took another puff.

  As she turned to go back in, she saw coiled in the yellow pool of the porch light a small snake. Had it been there when she came out? Had she stepped right over it? Or perhaps it had arrived while she was smoking and had watched her with interest.

  The thing was laughable really. She could crush it with ease. One good stomp.

  Kris Van der Bruegge opened the door, and the snake slithered between the porch slats into the dark below.

  “Josee? Sorry to interrupt your alone time, but you have a phone call.”

  Rosie nosed her vintage car down Timberwolf Lane. The Pacific’s frigid blasts buffeted the vehicle and found their way through the windows. She quivered. She would be inside in a moment, but she reveled in the ocean’s brawny might and the dunes’ sensual curves. Unfortunately, her years in the drier climate of eastern Oregon had left her susceptible to this damp cold, and her visits here had been curtailed.

  She dialed Marsh’s cell number but reached his voice mail.

  “Sir,” she said through static, “this is Rosie. I’ve arrived safely in Yachats. Again, thank you for allowing me the use of the beach house. Things’ve been difficult for you the past two days, but take heart, I trust that all will come to light. Please ring me when the investigators have departed and my services are needed back at the manor. Until then, I’ll be seeing to my duties here. Good night.”

  She parked in the gravel drive and carried her carpetbag up the front steps.

  Turney flicked a finger at a fly, then drew up his uniform sleeve to find his scars pressing through the skin. A pair of green marbles. Between the scars, trails of goop connected the freckles like a dot-to-dot. This thing was getting uglier by the hour. He applied an antiseptic cream and wrapped it in fresh gauze.

  “Here goes nothing.” He grabbed the phone, reached the Van der Bruegges, got Josee on the line. He was off-duty, but in his years with the department, he’d discovered that certain cases thumbed their noses at individual schedules.

  “Good news. We think Kara Addison’s alive,” he told her.

  “My mother? You found her?”

  “No, but a kid stumbled into the station a few minutes ago. Does the name Beau Connors ring any bells? He was holding his head, said he’d done work up at a vineyard and started obsessin’ over a lady there, so he cooked up a plan to kidnap her. Now that he’s got her, he’s riddled with guilt and worried he’ll be put away for a long time. Doesn’t want her to die, or so he claims. Says that was never his plan.”

  “Is she okay? What’d he do to her?”

  “He’s afraid. Disoriented. Won’t tell us where she is.”

  “Maybe he’s full of it.”

  “His facts’re too specific,” Turney said. “We haven’t made any public statements yet about her disappearance—least nothing that’s been aired before the news later tonight—but Beau knows details about the car in the ravine. The workers up at Addison Ridge have been sent home for the weekend, so they know bits and pieces, but we’ve kept things quiet otherwise.”

  “But he did work up there too. You just said that, Sarge.”

  “Diesel repair, contract work, nothing steady. I think this kid’s the full-meal deal. Plus, he’s got physical evidenc
e.” The line grew quiet. “Still there?”

  “Do I want to hear this?”

  Turney paced in front of his desk, kicked an old box of Fiddle Faddle. “Josee, the good news here is that she’s alive. If it were any different, I’d have come over in person. Not gonna lie to you, won’t sugarcoat it, but we do have reasonable hope of gettin’ information outta this kid.”

  “So what kind of evidence are you talking about?”

  “The keys to the car. Plus a pair of Kara’s earrings.”

  “How can that be proof? He could’ve made copies of the keys. And the earrings? How hard would it be to pick something out at the same store?”

  “Josee, we’ve called staff members from the Addison place to corroborate his claims. The first showed up a few minutes ago, took one look at the earrings, and started cryin’. Mexican lady. Marlena. Poor thing’s shaken up real bad. How ’bout you? You okay?”

  “You know me.”

  “I’m beginning to think I do.” Turney scrambled back to safe ground. “The force is working on this hard and fast. Tracking down the kid’s address, a list of his buddies, teachers, schools, bosses, stompin’ grounds, et cetera. Couple of other things that we’re keepin’ close to the chest for now. Story hits the news at eleven, if you wanna catch my ugly mug. KMTR … channel 16.”

  “Sarge, you ever sleep?”

  “During the news? All the time. Seriously, my segment was taped earlier.”

  “Okay, but you’ve been on this since what time this morning?”

  “Mmm, who knows? Point is, I’m back in the ring. Full ten rounds.”

  “So what do you think? Did he hurt her? Is my mother safe? If this kid’s turned himself in, why doesn’t he tell where she is? Could be a wacko playing a prank, looking for his fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “Might’ve nailed it on the head, Josee. He says he’ll give us her whereabouts and sign a confession so long as we broadcast a live statement. Kid wants to see his face on the news. We’re still battin’ around the best way to approach this.”

  “Let him, if it means finding out where my mother is.”

  “That’ll be the chief’s decision.”

  “Oh, yippee. You know, Braddock was asking me personal questions at the hospital this morning. Don’t know what business it is of his.”

  “He’s got me workin’ with you on this, so he’s probably keeping tabs.”

  “How can you trust a boss like that, Sarge? A stinkin’ control freak.”

  “Wanna know somethin’? Chief paid for Milly’s memorial service.”

  “Your fiancée?”

  “Uh-huh. Took up donations around town and covered the whole thing. Her parents died years and years ago, and she had no life insurance, nothing. I was scrapin’ at the time, so things weren’t looking good. Until he stepped in.” Turney thrummed his fingers down the venetian blinds in his office. Talking about Milly hurt but in a good way—like a wound being lanced of its poison. “Josee, I know how tough things are for ya. Hang in there. Everything hit the fan after Milly’s passing, and I had to tell my heart to keep beatin’. Didn’t understand where the Lord was in the middle of it all, and next thing, I’d stopped doing the Sunday morning routine. Never stopped lovin’ him, not deep down, just couldn’t stomach any more of the baloney.”

  “Don’t you mean the—” Josee substituted her own expletive.

  “Blue-collar word for it. Fits, I guess. You like tryin’ to trip me up, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Doesn’t it get tiring?”

  “Is that what you do, try to avoid all the unknowns? That’s a lame excuse for existence.” Josee expelled a breath of frustration. “Bet you don’t even question it.”

  “Question it all the time. Lotsa questions and not many answers.”

  “Least you admit it. Am I off base, Sarge? Is it so wrong to question?”

  “Not in my book.”

  “I mean, didn’t God give us minds to use?”

  “Listen, if Jesus is the answer, there’s no need to be afraid of the questions.”

  “Exactly. Thank you.”

  After exhausting the updated info, Sergeant Turney said good-bye, and Josee told him that she’d be watching channel 16 for her favorite new television star. The comment enlivened him. Using humor was a good sign on her part. A tough little cookie, she’d had a lot to deal with in a short span. He did note, however, that during their conversation she had never mentioned her mother by name. Was Josee Walker disengaging herself? Going back into survival mode?

  Kara had given him an answer. Time to pass it on to Marsh.

  Despite his captive’s entreaties, Stahlherz refitted a gag around her mouth. He lifted her hair so it wouldn’t snag in the folds of cloth, then brushed it back down, soft as a feather, with his hands. Holding the crude handrail, he closed his ears to her pleas, turned off the light, and walked up the cellar steps.

  Actors in position! Stage lights and props.

  He speed-dialed for another scene in the drama.

  S: “Crash-Chess-Dummy. I’ve spoken with your wife and have an answer regarding your weekend getaway.”

  A: “Tell me then, where are we headed?”

  S: “Your lovely lady says Black Butte Ranch, the resort in central Oregon. I’m afraid that’s all she would reveal. Are you pleased? Have I passed the test? I’ve upheld my end. Time for you to follow through on yours.”

  A: “Yes. But first I have a request.”

  S: “Hold on, now. That’s not in the rules of chess, my friend.”

  A: “Do you want the journal or not? The request is simply this: When we meet tomorrow evening, please bring along Kara’s headscarf. She was wearing it when she left yesterday. It’s multicolored, hard to miss.”

  S: (turns to audience and thinks aloud with finger on chin) “A sly maneuver, Crash-Chess-Dummy. Very sly.” (wheeling to face opponent) “She wasn’t wearing one that I recall. I suppose you thought you would stump me on that one?”

  A: “Just tell me that you’ll release her as promised.”

  S: “Absolutely, so long as you provide me with Chance’s journal. In no time, the news will be on to verify my pawn sacrifice. You’ll be free from suspicion. If there’s any trouble whatsoever, though, I’ll discredit his role, and you’ll rot away in a state penitentiary, defecating five feet from where you lay your head to sleep. Everyone suspects the husband in these cases. They’ll all want to believe that you did it. Much cozier than accepting that persons such as myself walk the streets.”

  A: “You’re scum! If you do anything to harm her, you’ll spend the rest of your days looking over your shoulder because I won’t be far behind. I’ll hound you to the grave.”

  S: “You just be there at four-thirty. Oh, one last thing …”

  A: (apprehensive) “What is it?”

  S: “Don’t grow too fond of young Josee Walker. One way or the other, this’ll be the last game she plays on your side of the board.” (bursts out in maniacal glee) “For both your sakes, it’d be better if she had never found you.”

  (end of scene)

  Karl Stahlherz relished the drama of it all. He was at the mammoth stone fireplace in the Addisons’ beach house, the queen was in his possession, and the king was beholden to locate that journal. The tactics played out so effortlessly.

  He was heading for the door when he heard footsteps on the front deck.

  The Lincoln County sheriff? Had she returned, baiting him even as she had passed by him on the lane, waiting to catch him red-handed?

  His fingers wrapped around the dagger in the pocket of his corduroy jacket. He inched toward the sliding-glass door. One part of him resented this complication, while another welcomed it. At the chessboard, these were the things that stimulated him—the-edge-of-your-seat awareness that a game may be won or lost on the finesse of a simple pawn maneuver, something unexpected yet obvious.

  Scritchh,
scritchh … Footsteps scraped over the sand-dusted wood.

  Stahlherz paused, his nostrils piqued by the odor of his traveling companion, the intrusive rook. With the hiss of a steam-pressure valve, the black presence lifted his arms, tugged at his extremities. He felt a desire to lift and lower his arms, lift and lower, then to open his lips and release the shriek of this proud beast.

  No! Don’t distract me now, you fool. Stay where you belong.

  Outside, on the planks, the feet ceased their shuffling.

  Stahlherz felt his breathing stop. Then in a movement beyond his control, he cracked his hand to his forehead in the manner of a salute. No! Must harness it. He clamped the hand back to his side, determined to master this creature that had become far too unruly. Fuming, Stahlherz shook the thoughts from his head and drew his dagger. Poised to deliver a blow.

  He watched a figure move toward the door handle, heard a meek voice call out.

  “Hello, is anyone here? Hello, it’s me … Rosie.”

  Stahlherz slid the door open, gripped Rosie’s hand, and pulled her in from the porch.

  “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, grasping a carpetbag to her stomach. “Show an old woman a little respect. You startled me.”

  He closed the door and edged her toward the monstrous fireplace. Safe from outside detection, he helped her with her coat. “I didn’t expect you so soon. Glad you arrived unharmed.”

  “Thank you, Stahli,” she said without fear. “Audentes fortuna juvat.”

  “Yes, Professor,” he responded. “Fortune favors the daring.”