Scooter collapsed on the floor with a grunt.
Josee dove across the bed and turned on the other lamp. She crouched there on the floor, breathless, and watched him pick himself off the carpet.
“Scooter!” she gasped. “You’re supposed to be my friend. I’m supposed to be able to trust you!” Tears swelled at the corners of her eyes and burned trails down into the collar of her shirt. “What’s got into you? You try to deny what happened yesterday morning, but I saw it. You were poisoned by … by something evil. You’ve never done this to me before. Never! Scoot, I can’t handle this. I’m not gonna put up with it. Are you hearing me? Say something!”
“Josee, it’s not me.”
“What is it then?”
“I’m trying to hold them off. I really am.” The shame in his eyes was real, yet as he lifted his countenance into pink illumination, the bite marks on his cheek bulged, and cords rippled beneath the skin, knotting his face, tugging at his lips. He avoided her eyes, then locked on to them with brown irises ablaze. “No, that was not nice of me. I didn’t want to. But they’re … telling me things to do.”
“Well, don’t freakin’ do them!”
He whispered, “You know, you were right about what you said. I did see what happened yesterday. Right as that snake reached my ring, it turned on me.” He twisted the moonstone on his finger, and a pallid light swirled in the stone. “I don’t know what to do, Josee, don’t know how to deal with it. I mean, how did you stop it?”
“I called for help. That’s what I did.”
“Nobody can help.”
“It was a prayer of faith.” A withered seed … Please, Jesus … save us.
“To God? Jesus?” His words turned colder, a glacial wind sweeping over the bed. “Where are they now, huh? Tell me that. I don’t see anyone. And you know why? Because God’s not here, that’s why. Don’t tell me you’re falling back into that.”
“But that’s what faith is, believing in something you can’t see.”
Scooter gripped his face in his hands as the poison coiled beneath his cheeks. He began to whimper. “Sorry, babe, I don’t wanna do it. They’re telling me things. Bad things. They want your help. They want the key.”
“The key?” Josee recalled Chief Braddock’s enigmatic remarks in the elevator.
Scooter said, “Maybe together, we can … No, I can’t do this.”
“Scooter, please go back to bed.”
“You hate me. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t hate you, but don’t ever do something like that again. I mean it.”
A knock at the door caused them to turn. John stepped in and said, “Everything okay in here? I was lying in bed when a cold sweat broke over me. Got a feeling I should check on you. Scooter, it might be wise to return to your room now.”
Scooter shrunk away, his hands trying to hold together the contortions of his face, the ring on his finger guiding him in a death march down the hall.
Josee’s lips were cold. Her heart, too.
Breathing deeply against a suffocating sense of danger, she went into the bathroom and locked the door. Double-checked it. Climbed into the shower. She reflected on those first weeks after she had opened her heart to the concept of a personal God. She was nine, maybe ten. Experiencing a peace she couldn’t explain and an assurance that she was no longer alone. Put up for adoption, yes, but never truly abandoned.
Prince of peace. Mighty God. Father to the fatherless.
At sixteen, all that changed.
One evening after a game night in the church gym, the youth minister had offered her a ride home. It was late, he said. Dangerous out there. Josee, apprehensive about walking the dark streets of Renton, succumbed.
The streets would have been safer.
What she saw in the man’s eyes that night was frightening. Evil. Like spilled ink, it shaded his face and, by the time he was done, scrawled an indelible hate letter on her heart. In the corner of an abandoned lot, she witnessed the spiritual dark side of a man who claimed to be in the light. Begging her silence, he apologized with tears, explained how lonely the job was, how attractive he found her.
Which only deepened her hatred.
Josee never returned to that church. And she never told a soul.
Only you know, Lord. Where were you, huh? And what about Scooter tonight?
As she had those years ago, she stood under the shower’s stream and cranked up the heat until it was almost unbearable. Back then, she had taken two, three, sometimes four showers a day. Scalding away the dirt. Burning the filth from her skin.
Josee heaved a sigh. The water ran down her face in huge drops as she remembered the day she’d heard the news that the youth pastor had been caught. She hadn’t been the first victim, or the last. The church was torn over it, and two of the council members resigned, saying that when they had seen disturbing signs and called out a warning, no one had responded. Had God been trying to work through those two members?
Maybe he had been there all along.
Yet the senior pastor had sloughed off the council members’ concerns.
Okay, so people had free will. God wasn’t going to force them to listen and act; he hadn’t programmed people like robots to carry out their master’s every whim. Still, if the heavenly plan was to work through earthly servants, it was no wonder things got so messed up. Could she pin all of that on God?
Josee felt the myrtlewood cross wet against her chest. She clutched it and closed her eyes. The spraying water drilled against her eyelids. She thought: To hold on is to believe; to believe is to wrestle with my doubts and questions; to wrestle is to risk injury from a God who seems large and strong yet distant.
But hadn’t he also risked injury—even death—to draw near?
Jesus, was it hard for you down here? Not on the grandiose scale, but in the day-to-day things. I’m so tired of it all. Only twenty-two. Does it get any easier?
Timberwolf Lane led Stahlherz through the storm’s aftermath back toward the highway. He stepped over fallen branches, trudged through piled sand. By the time he reached the Sand Dollar Diner, his leg bones had turned into cinnamon toothpicks—hot and ready to snap.
He saw no sign of Darius or the Aerostar van.
Stahlherz remained calm. He had instructed his driver to check back every half-hour. A quarter to eleven now. A fifteen-minute wait.
He went into the diner to keep watch from the window but found himself in a haze. Two burly men in red-and-black flannel shirts smoked at the bar, tapping ashes into their water glasses while glowering at the sitcom on the television above the food-prep station. At a corner table a teenage couple held hands and giggled.
“Just one, or you got more comin’, sweetheart?”
“One.” Stahlherz held up a finger for the waitress. “Nonsmoking, please.”
“It’s all nonsmokin’,” she told him. “Don’t mind Donny and Red.”
“The smoke irritates me, ma’am. Would you mind—”
“They’d mind, and our regulars get special privileges. If that’s a problem for you, you’ll have to take it up with the management.”
“Where is the manager?”
“Home. Sleepin’.” She teased her bangs, went cross-eyed for a second as she assessed the results, then handed him a plastic menu. “Find yourself a spot to get comfy, and I’ll be with you in a minute, sweetie.”
Stahlherz sipped coffee for the next ten minutes. Still no sign of Darius.
The news, however, provided satisfactory distraction. He warmed to the face of young Beau Connors on the television. The news anchor reported that a respected and well-liked Corvallis woman had vanished, her car had been discovered in a ravine, and this young man had turned himself in only hours ago, claiming to be her abductor. The police were investigating the claim, as well as his threats against the citizens of Oregon. A live feed took viewers to a condemned shack in Philomath where detectives had discovered a van linked to Beau Connors. A bomb squad had ruled out any attach
ed explosive devices, but a Detective Randolph had found in the glove box an envelope laced with white powder. In light of similar scares after 9/11, investigators were sending the envelope to a lab to determine whether anthrax was involved. As for Mrs. Kara Addison, she had not yet been found. The anchor instructed viewers with any information to call the number on the screen.
Stahlherz leaned back in satisfied appraisal. “Deflection”—that’s what chess players called it. The anthrax was a ruse, nothing more. A means of deflecting the authorities’ attention. And it was working.
The public was just as easily fooled. Stahlherz eavesdropped on the men at the bar.
“Get a load o’ that, Red. Anthrax. That’s some downright nasty stuff.”
“Whadda they expect?” Red took an extended drag, let smoke curl through his nostrils and ruddy beard. “I seen it on 20/20, Dateline—one o’ them shows. Can buy the stuff through the mail, you believe that? Universities, whatnot, they study it—guess it’s got somethin’ to do with some animal disease—and they’ll send ya samples like it’s shampoo to rub through your hair.” He chortled and dropped his cigarette butt in his glass.
“World’s a sick place anymore. Line up the head cases, and I’d mow ’em down.”
“Free o’ charge,” Red agreed, “with my Peterbilt.”
“We got families to feed, bills to pay. Save the taxpayers some moola.”
Stahlherz ingested the exchange with a growing sense of justice. See, these men had no clue. They were uneducated, backwoods screwups blind to the fact that they added to the system’s sickness. Talk, talk, talk. Was that all they could do? Let them gag on their self-righteous blabber. Tomorrow the talk would be over.
Time for action.
Throughout the Willamette Valley and along the Oregon coast, ICV cells now waited with the twelve canisters he had disbursed. Each canister was a binary weapon composed of two chambers. Boomslang hemotoxin filled the first. Tomorrow night, with Josee Walker’s help and the assistance of other recruits on standby, Stahlherz would supply the other ingredient. Crafted by Nazi biochemist Doktor Ubelhaar, the nerve gas accelerant would fill the secondary chambers of each canister.
Serpentine malice and human endeavor—a deadly concoction.
Fill your cup … Drink up!
On its own, the hemotoxin was hazardous, but the accelerant multiplied the potency a hundredfold. The result: a highly concentrated biochemical weapon capable of poisoning tens of thousands. Perhaps more.
Huddled in the armchair, Josee pulled the bedspread tighter.
How could she trust Scooter? The grind of his mouth, the stale breath. He had violated a boundary long established between them. He’d not only tried to force himself on her, he’d also written himself into those inky memories she wanted to forget.
Forgive and forget.
She couldn’t forget. How could she ever? But then, maybe forgiveness was simply the first step on a road leading away from the darkness. Could she learn from the past and still walk into the future? Was forgetting nothing more than releasing her rights to seek punishment for the wrongdoers?
What they did was so wrong! Lord, how can you sit by?
“Vengeance is mine. I will repay those who deserve it.”
She knew that was God’s line somewhere in the Bible. One day he would deliver justice. A judge, weighing the evidence. And all were guilty—every last one. Black ink. Whether scrawled or printed painstakingly, the ink was still a stain on white paper. Only the sacrifice of one could erase the hate letters of the many.
Jesus, I don’t want to hate. Not anymore. But I can only take so much.
With sleep elusive, Josee advanced the CD player to the fourth track and absorbed the syncopated bass and delicate cymbals of U2’s “Walk On.” The lyrics drew her feelings and thoughts into a soothing embrace. She began to drift off, the words holding her by the hand as they led her down a path of dreams.
30
The Game Book
“Might want to see the news, Marshall. Come on out.”
Marsh unlocked the door and stumbled from the bathroom’s darkness with a towel around his waist. Before him, Casey Wilcox was lean and radiant, her clothes dry, her hair styled. On the television, a commercial was playing.
“You slip on the floor, mon cher? Sounded as though you fell, and then I heard mumbling but couldn’t tell what you were saying. You took forever in there.” Casey scooped up her heels and purse. “Go ahead, I’m a grown woman. You were avoiding me, is that to be my assumption? A change of heart?”
“Something like that.” He edged her through the hotel suite door. “Time for you to go. Let’s just pretend this never happened.”
“Nothing did happen.”
“Exactly. Good night.”
Casey braced a foot against the door. “Marshall, there is some good news to share. While you were in the shower, I checked my office messages. The sergeant called to say that Corvallis PD’s pulling the crime team from your estate. As of tomorrow morning, you have the all clear to go home.”
“Home?”
“I thought you’d be glad. You’ll have back the manor and your Tahoe.”
“Kara’s not there.”
Casey set a finger on his shoulder. “Then, Mr. Addison, I suggest you do your best to get her back. I wish you—and your wife—all the best. Genuinely. Guess I misread you earlier. My error. I see now that you do love her. It’s sweet actually.”
“Bye, Casey.” Marsh chained and deadbolted the door.
On the news the wreckage of Kara’s BMW Z3 was filling the screen. Marsh clicked the volume button. The anchorwoman gave a chronological rehash of events surrounding the disappearance of Kara Addison, wife of Corvallis vintner and owner of Addison Ridge Vineyards. The anchor mentioned the initial questioning of Marshall Addison, then Sergeant Turney appeared with news of a young man’s confession to the woman’s abduction. The police force, he said, was investigating and looking for anyone with pertinent information. “When we return,” the anchor promised, “we’ll bring you the story of a related terrorist threat and how it could affect you, and we’ll take a closer look at the local political race as things heat up for next week’s election …”
The sacrifice had been made. Beau Connors. A measly pawn.
Marsh felt the burden of suspicion lift from his shoulders, yet Steele Knight’s maneuvering served notice that he was in this game to the death.
As he faced the barren room, Marsh saw his night bag opened at the foot of the bed. Casey must’ve been searching for his cologne. In defiance of her advances, the leather corner of a Bible protruded from his folded clothes.
A Bible? Strange. He didn’t own a personal copy.
His fingers touched the cover and tightened as a current issued forth from the weathered book. Kara Addison. In silver filigree, her name commanded attention. Had Turney scooped this into the duffel bag while at the estate? A simple mistake?
As opposed to the bathroom’s apparition, the nearness of Kara’s Bible lent Marsh a sense of calm. Wherever Kara was, he realized she was not alone.
He thumbed the pages. The book fell open.
Hoping for a glimpse into her world, he began to read.
Thubba-hisssh, thubba-hisssh …
Trapped in the dark hole beneath her husband’s trophy room, Kara woke to the grating sound. In her mind, she could see the prickly arm of a ponderosa pine bumping and dragging against an outer wall above.
Thubba-hisssh, thubba-hisssh …
Years ago, in the dark stairwell of Good Samaritan Hospital, she had heard a similar sound as she worked the steps, hoping to hurry the delivery of her daughter. Was it an old wives’ tale, or would this work? One step, then another. Marsh, her fiancé, was holding one hand while she gripped the guardrail with the other. Her belly was swollen and heavy, her legs bowed. This was her first child. Had a baby ever dropped straight out? It seemed imminently possible. Her lower back was a cord of knotted muscle that squeezed down with e
ach step.
Footsteps … thubba. The brush of a jacket … hisssh.
Thubba-hisssh …
This time they both heard it. Kara turned her head in time to see a white-jacketed figure arrive on the landing above. She couldn’t see the face; from this angle, she saw only a silver blue object with a gaping black mouth. Behind the figure, she saw the door open. The gaping mouth roared.
Ka-boommm!
The crack of thunder echoed through the stairwell, deafening. She felt a tug at her hip. A bullet? She was falling, clutching at Marsh for support, crumpling into a heavy ball. He braced his legs and gripped her elbow with one arm, her waist with the other. The baby! He let her down gently. She winced, felt hot sticky fluid pumping from the hip wound. Above, the landing had cleared, and the door had closed them off. Marsh was speaking soothing words. She was getting blood on his clothes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Then her voice failed her. Sorry.
Like salt on a wound, Detective Braddock was the first on the scene. The tension between Marsh and the detective was palpable.
Sorry, sorry.
After preliminary treatment of the bullet wound, an emergency Cesarean ushered a daughter into the world. Little Josee. Six pounds, eleven ounces. Perfect, Kara thought. In her arms, the tiny form sparked to life, awash in the color bursts of the Independence Day fireworks outside. A pink cap warmed the infant’s head.
Marsh stepped in. “You beat the fireworks,” he said. “Just like you wanted.”
Kara’s hair was plastered to her cheeks. “Here. Say hi to her.”
“No use getting attached, gonna have to let her go. We already agreed—”
“I know, I know.” Tears pooled on Kara’s eyelids. “Just let her hear your voice before you say good-bye for good. You can do that much at least.”
Marsh said, “Hi there, little one. Uh, how are you?”
Together they stared transfixed by the infant’s ribbon-thin lips and pudgy nose, by a band of turquoise that twinkled through moist, squinty eyelids.