Dark to Mortal Eyes

  “If you say so.” Marsh dipped a spoon into hearty vegetable soup.

  “Had a rough few days, haven’t you, Marsh? Between Kara, Josee, and Scooter, you’ve been put through the wringer.”

  Dip, slurp. Dip, slurp.

  “You haven’t been real helpful from the police’s point o’ view. Lawyered up, acting suspicious, but I can see that your mind’s racing. So this Connors kid says he has your wife. Whaddya think about that? Has someone threatened you? A ransom maybe? You have an image of wealth that could be temptin’ to some.”

  “The vineyard’s doing well.” Slurp. “A lotta hard work. Not as lucrative as you might expect, but, yeah, I’m sure there are those who think we live in the lap of luxury.”

  “More to life than money.”

  Marsh looked up, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’ll admit, I’ve had reasons for avoiding certain people in your department. Personal business. Goes way back.”

  “Somethin’ between you and Chief Braddock?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The truth? Heard rumors about the chief’s ways in the early years, when he was a detective—rumors about one party in particular. Not gonna beat around the bush. I’ve got issues with the chief myself. Still, I’m committed to my job.”

  Marsh buttered a roll and took a bite.

  Turney averted his gaze. “Marsh, tell me this. Do you know where Kara is?”

  “Wish I did. Did you track down that phone number for me?”

  “Assigned to the House of Ubelhaar. Some art supply and review company.”

  Marsh dropped his spoon. “U-b-e-l-h-a-a-r?” He spelled it out.

  “Bingo. Name Gertrude Ubelhaar mean something to you?”

  Mean something? For crying out loud! Gertrude … Trudi!

  Marsh’s mind raced through his father’s journal, aligning the facts. The US Army had provided Trudi personal living quarters in Benton County, Washington, across the Columbia River from the Umatilla Army Depot, where she had worked as a consultant. A crafty woman, she had found a way to survive all these years.

  But is she still alive? She’d be in her seventies by now. Still seeking revenge?

  “Mean something to me?” Marsh said. “Yeah, Sarge, you might say that.”

  “Then let me be of assistance. Why don’t ya tell me what you know.”

  Marsh surveyed Sergeant Turney’s face. In the business world, Marsh had honed his ability to detect subterfuge. What about this cop though? Turney seemed aboveboard. Josee, too, seemed to trust this guy. Maybe it was time for a little help. Facts are power—even the power to care, if needed. Isn’t that what he’d told Kara’s image in his study? With the facts between them, perhaps he and Turney could piece this puzzle together. Worth a try.

  “You ready for this?” Marsh pushed aside his soup bowl, crossed his arms on the table. His watch told him it was a quarter to three, less than two hours before the rendezvous at the Camp Adair marker. “Sarge, this is between you and me …”

  Marsh highlighted the history of Chance’s betrayals and Trudi’s abuse, of the imported biochemical weapons and the gift Trudi bestowed upon her former lover—a gift of spite, Gift 12. “In German, the word means poison. And now,” Marsh said, “it’s as though the poison of old wounds has resurfaced.”

  “Boy, tell me about it.” Turney tugged at the sleeve of his shirt.

  “When I read my father’s journal,” Marsh went on, “I assumed Trudi was dead. But what if she’s still here, masterminding my family’s demise, like the final moves of a chess game?”

  “A jilted old woman, you think? With a hatred for men.”

  “Look at what the guys in her life did to her—the SS officers, her father, my father. She’s gotta be one determined old crone. Where is she though? Did you find an address for this House of Ubelhaar? A name to contact, anything to help us?”

  “Sure did. Dug around and found out they’re billed monthly for the phone through a local PO box. Dug deeper and got a look at the name on the box’s original lease. Funny thing is, although the name’s not in the phone book, the account’s been gettin’ paid on time for over five years. In cash, mind you. Good thing I could read the signature on the receipts.”

  “Whose was it?”

  “A Mr. Stahlherz. Mister Karl Stahlherz.”

  Steele Knight? Karl Stahlherz? Are we talking about one and the same man?

  Marsh observed the police sergeant as he took a swig of his water, gave the container a disappointed look, and pushed his elbows against the chair’s arms.

  “To add to the mystery,” Turney said, “this same phone number came up in a conversation in the administrator’s office.”

  “Here? You mean the hospital administrator?”

  Turney nodded. “Guess he’s been commissioned to call that number anytime someone shows up at Good Samaritan with snakebite symptoms. Little more complicated than that, actually, but you get the idea.”

  Snakebite? Marsh considered that pattern over Scooter’s legs and chest.

  “I’d say you’re onto something, Marsh. This phone call you got yesterday. Was it a threat? What can you tell me about it?”

  “Guess I’ve told you this much.” Marsh divulged the details of the meeting with Steele Knight, including his own steps to counter any trap. He baited Turney’s attention, watched him angle his head and push his eyebrows together. He asked for unofficial, off-duty, out-of-uniform help.

  “And I’ll have Henri Esprit call you with the final details,” he finished.

  “Marsh, I hope you know what you’re doin’. Can’t say I approve on the official end, but I understand your desperation. Where’s Josee in all this?”

  “She’s safely tucked away. Far from the action. Our household overseer, Rosamund Yeager, drove Josee over to our place in Yachats.”

  “Josee’s not exactly a pushover. One tough little cookie.”

  “You noticed that too.”

  Turney grinned. “Think Ms. Yeager can handle her?”

  “Sure. Rosie’s still got energy. She can hold her own, doesn’t let any of our staff push her around. That’s part of what I appreciate about her. Give her a task, and she’ll see it through to the end. Do or die—that’s her motto. Don’t worry. She’ll keep an eye out for Josee. One thing Rosie’s always wanted was a child of her own.”

  “What about you? You glad to have your daughter back?”

  Words stuck in Marsh’s throat. Although he was tempted to challenge the paternal bond, the words sounded cheap and hollow in his own head. Sure, Kara had made her mistakes, but what had he done in return? He had used them against her to shirk the burden of child rearing. He had answered his father’s mandate by pouring his energies into the vineyard at the expense of all else.

  “It’d be nice to have proof that she’s my flesh and blood,” he responded. “But, yeah, all doubts aside, I am glad.”

  Turney flashed a wink. “And so am I.”

  Sgt. Vince Turney escaped the cafeteria with his tummy grumbling overtime. He’d watched Marsh eat. Smelled the rich soup. How did people do it, thinking on an empty stomach? How about John Van der Bruegge? Odds were good that he’d fudged somewhere along the line today. Anyway, what would one little nibble hurt?

  John’s appeal: Some evil spirits would only be conquered by prayer and fasting.

  Well, it’d have to be God’s power, all right. Turney could scarcely function.

  He pulled alongside the Willamette River and, from the warmth of his patrol car, watched the waters eddy northward. Time, like the current, was continuing to move, and he had things to consider before the clock ticked to zero.

  Beau Connors? After hearing charges of abduction and attempted assault, a judge had set bail at twenty-five thousand dollars, which Beau’s father refused to post.

  House of Ubelhaar? Turney had been unable to find a phone-book listing, nothing in the state of Oregon. Calls to local art galleries profited little. They had brochures but not much
else, other than the phone number already established. He had assigned a detective to keep watch over the PO box at the downtown post office. As of yet, the box had not been emptied for the day.

  Henri Esprit? Per Marsh’s request, the winemaker had contacted Turney earlier and enlisted his help for a four-thirty meeting near Camp Adair. Did Turney think he would play the hero in this? Now that he knew the details in full, he questioned his wisdom in agreeing to join Esprit at Fred Meyer’s supermarket at a quarter to four.

  John Van der Bruegge? Though relieved to hear that Josee was safely away, John was worried about Scooter. John promised to visit the kid at the hospital, sit by his side, pray for recovery. He confessed that he, too, was struggling with hunger but felt it was important to see this through. Over the phone, he asked, “And how’re you doing, Vince? Staying strong? Remember, we’re in a battle. Keep your eyes and ears open, and for the sake of all things holy, keep your mouth closed!”

  If it was meant to be funny, Sergeant Turney forgot to laugh.

  Set on silent mode, Marsh’s cell phone vibrated against his chest as he browsed through a used bookstore downtown. The blocked number doubled his pulse rate.

  “Karl Stahlherz,” he announced.

  “Well done, Marsh. You’ve tracked down my full name. Busy at work, I see.”

  “Are we still on for our meeting? I want my wife back.”

  “Do you have your father’s journal?”

  “I do. And you’ll have Kara there? Let’s get this over with, clean and simple.”

  “You uphold your end of the bargain, and I’ll uphold mine. See you shortly.”

  An hour and forty minutes, Marsh reassured himself. He could make this work.

  Before returning to the rental car, he made a book purchase. Pricey but worth it. The book was wrapped and left behind the counter. He was coasting beyond the city limits when the phone vibrated again, a different pattern from the first. He had missed an earlier message. The display read “Timberwolf Two,” the phone’s ID at their time-share condo at Black Butte Ranch. The condo was situated in a cul-de-sac called Timberwolf Circle. In light of his father’s military history, the name’s significance had instigated Marsh’s purchase of that specific property. A sentimental link. A sign.

  The voice mail was from Henri Esprit.

  “Doubt anyone’s been to the condo in a while.” Esprit’s tone was apologetic. “I found the place empty and in immaculate shape. Checked at the resort office, and they confirmed that the last visitor left weeks ago. Things quiet down this time of year, they say. As for this afternoon’s plans, I’ll proceed as discussed. Got a call from a Sergeant Turney, a trustworthy sort. The decision to include him seems a wise move on your part. Sorry nothing panned out here, Marshall. Waste of a trip? Your call.”

  Not at all, Marsh thought. Just part of his plan.

  He took a second look at the alphanumeric display: Timberwolf Two.

  There it was, spelled out right before his eyes! For heaven’s sake, how could he have missed it? This was Kara’s clue to her location. Timberwolf Two was at Black Butte Ranch on Timberwolf Circle. Timberwolf One was the phone’s ID in Yachats, the beach house on Timberwolf Lane. Indeed, she had tried to communicate with him through her answer to the weekend getaway question. Unable to tell him directly, she’d conveyed her location with a near-identical designation.

  Timberwolf One … Timberwolf Lane.

  You’re in Yachats, aren’t you, Kara? Should’ve known you’d give me a clue!

  The jubilant pounding of his heart crashed to a halt. Rosie. Hadn’t she spent the night in Yachats?

  A dark realization clamped around his ribcage. He laid the facts from his father’s journal over the grid of his own experiences and charted the corresponding reference points. On his hands he counted out the years, while Rosie’s soft accent purred in his ears.

  Good grief! Rosie? Could it be you?

  But, of course, he’d made the observations to the sergeant less than an hour ago: She can hold her own.… Give her a task, and she’ll see it through to the end. Do or die … One thing Rosie’s always wanted is a child of her own.

  Trudi Ubelhaar was alive, he felt convinced. She’d been there beneath their noses all this time. Toying with them. Playing this game Chance had instigated so many years ago. With Josee’s arrival on the scene, Trudi was ready for end-game maneuvers. Rosie … Trudi. The same lady.

  And he’d sent Josee off with her! Practically packed her into the car himself!

  Marsh made quick calls. His chess game needed some new tactics.

  Sergeant Turney pulled into his driveway as the phone rang.

  “Sarge,” said Henri Esprit, “I may be a few minutes late, but I still intend to meet you in front of Fred Meyer’s. Be patient if I’m not as prompt as I’d like to be. I have something to pick up.”

  “I’ll be there. Gonna change outta my uniform, then head out.”

  “I have other news. My nephew Nick—he’s a computer whiz, a student at OSU—he’s been monitoring Marsh’s opponent online. Don’t expect me to decipher the lingo, but I guess this man’s logged on and off a couple of times in the past twenty-four hours so that Nick, by process of elimination, has managed to identify his modem. With an unspecified computer program—that for now I will assume is legal—Nick’s gained access to the man’s hard drive and copied his e-mail address base. He believes the information could prove indispensable to your department’s investigation of local terrorist threats.”

  “I have no official comment. Off the record? Sounds like he hit the ol’ jackpot.”

  “More significantly, he says he should be able to identify the user’s physical address, as well as others from the database. Particularly those within Oregon.”

  Karl Stahlherz? Is this our guy? I’ll bet the addresses read like an ICV roll call.

  “Here, Esprit, let me give you a number that Nick can call to hook up with some guys on the state level who specialize in trackin’ Internet-related crimes. Being as we’re under the gun, they’ll be able to speak his language and jump right on it, get the ball rolling.” Turney dictated the appropriate info.

  “Thanks, Sarge. I can only hope Nick follows through on this. He’s a loner, not much of one for working with the powers that be. He might resist on principle.”

  “People’s lives are at stake.”

  “I’ll urge him firmly, but gently, to get over it.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Turney signed off and climbed the carport steps that led into the kitchen. He closed the door, loosened his belt, and slipped off his shoes. What was he missing? Some crucial element had eluded him.

  At the fridge door, his stomach rumbled like a concrete mixer. He set fingers on the handle, felt its cool comfort.

  That’s when the second call came to his aid.

  “Sarge,” said the detective, “we have a visual at the House of Ubelhaar PO box. Short, college-age Caucasian male with a bleached crewcut, wearing loose-fitting corduroys and an off-white, button-down shirt. He emptied the box. Now he’s hanging around at the corner. Waiting, it seems. He was dropped off by a tan Ford Aerostar.”

  “Could be the van,” Turney said, releasing the fridge handle. “The one the espresso-booth girl mentioned. Don’t let him outta your sight, you got that?”

  “Yes, sir, but he’s. Hold it, a vehicle just pulled up. An old Studebaker, Sarge, you believe that? I didn’t know there were any still around. Okay, looks like the kid’s handing stuff through the window. Unable to view the driver from this angle. Should we tail them?”

  “You betcha. You go after the Studebaker. Have your partner follow the kid. I’ll be dropping below radar for a while, but you can keep me posted on my voice mail.”

  “Consider it done, sir.”

  “And, Detective? Call for backup if you sense any trouble. With the threat of an attack tonight, I don’t need ya takin’ any chances.”

  He turned from the humming mechanical pr
eserver of all things cold and delicious and headed to the bedroom where he changed clothes, cleaned and re-dressed his seeping scars, then slipped on his shoulder holster.

  Maybe there was something to this fasting exercise.

  Thunder Turney was feeling lighter on his feet. Ready to fight.

  Ten minutes after three.

  Stahlherz wrapped himself in a long black coat, swelling his chest and stretching his arms into the loose sleeves. He repositioned the curved dagger in his pocket, then dropped the phone and stolen glass queen into another.

  Years ago he had signed the PO box contract in his own name, protecting his mother’s identity, since his own could not be linked elsewhere. Apparently, Marshall had put together the facts, calling him by name in their phone conversation.

  I knew you to be a worthy opponent. Alas, your plans’ll shatter like glass.

  Stahlherz wrapped himself in the coat’s folds and stared into the mirror across the room. His was the form of a shiftless black rook. He drew on his chess parlance and selected the term “doubled rooks,” two castles working in unison.

  Yes, he and the rook had become one.

  37

  Necessary Evils

  “Josee?”

  Her name. Being called. From another planet.

  “Josee?”

  With a massive effort she pried her eyes open. Saw nothing. When she closed them again, remnants of bright colors whisked around and connected to the dull throbbing in the middle of her skull. She kept her eyes open this time, detecting a movement in the nothingness. An indefinable shape.

  “Hello there.” A woman’s voice. Familiar. Like a piece of music heard long ago.

  “That you?”

  The response was gentle. “It’s me, Josee. Your mother.”

  “Kara.” Her tongue formed the word with difficulty. “I can’t see you.”

  “No windows down here. We’re in a storage cellar.”

  Josee reoriented herself. The beach house. Town of Yachats, on the Oregon coast. “Can’t we turn on the lights?” Even as the question left her lips, she realized she couldn’t move. She was propped in a wooden chair, hands cinched behind her back, knees taped together, feet tied between two posts.