Dark to Mortal Eyes

  42

  The Vault

  Trudi Ubelhaar circled the table, offering crusts of bread and bowls of borscht on fine china. “Allow me to serve you a last meal together. Time to ‘eat up,’ as the guards were so fond of saying to me. Go ahead, Marsh. Try a bite.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Eat!”

  “Our hands are tied. We can’t.”

  “I won’t touch it.” Kara ceased her moaning. “You’ve done something to it.”

  “You’re both mistaken. Dip your heads and eat, eat! There’s nothing wrong with it. I should know. I survived on this for months in your army’s internment camp near Frankfurt. The camp’s code name? ‘Back porch.’ A fitting title, considering that they fed us scraps no better than they would feed vermin at the back door.” The old woman circled again, pushing heads into bowls, forcing mouths against stale crusts.

  Marsh felt the heat of the candle near his forehead. He meant to resist, but as the woman’s hands made contact, he found his neck muscles give. His nose dipped into the hot liquid. He came up, shook off the pain, found himself slurping at tasteless gruel. Alongside, Kara sucked up the borsch. He heard a whimper in her throat.

  “Now, please,” their host said, “have a sip of the wine. Carefully, yes. See, it’s not so difficult when you have no alternative.”

  With his mouth, Marsh tilted back the glass. The wine snatched away his breath as it seared his throat, but a second, slower sip was lush and flavorful. Over their heads, the lighthouse continued to stab long beams across the waters.

  “Isn’t that delightful?”

  Marsh nodded in reluctant appreciation. Kara, however, wore an expression of self-loathing as a rivulet spilled from her mouth down her neck. She looked away. Ran her tongue over her split lip.

  “Vintner’s Reserve, 1951.” Trudi ran the cork beneath her nose. “Your father’s gift to me.” Her fingers twined through her hair. “I do take some credit for its success.”

  “You deceived him, Trudi. The pesticide poisoned his system.”

  “The way you speak my name reminds me of him. Chance—my one and only love.”

  “You did him in,” Marsh ridiculed. “What sorta sick love is that?”

  “Your father was the only man that made me feel desire. I’d given myself to others but always for my own motives. He was different.” Trudi remained wrapped in recollections. “And then,” she continued, “he confessed that he was married. He told me that it was a terrible mistake, that our relationship could not continue. Yes, he found me passage to America, but he said that it was over, nothing more. This was unacceptable. I made arrangements—made them in ways a woman learns when she is otherwise powerless—and, with a good doctor’s help, met Chance one more time, a final opportunity for him to change his mind.”

  “And when he didn’t, you gave him a parting gift. This canister.”

  “The only one that contained the accelerant.” Trudi laid a hand on the metal, a devotee drawing blessing from a profane idol. “With this small gift, he was able to plant and harvest a bountiful crop, free of phylloxera or other pests. And thus we have our wonderful vintage.” She twirled a strand of hair, then waved the finger, unfurling vaporous streamers that spiraled down as her fingertip landed on the silver canister. “Of course, my father mixed his biochemical weapon for a different sort of pest.”

  “For Jews.” Disapproval was heavy in Marsh’s voice.

  Kara took a second deep swig from her wineglass.

  “Juden, ja.” Trudi traced the canister’s black-stenciled symbol. “The problem was that an antidote was never perfected. It’s the reason Hitler never implemented Gift 12. He’d been victim to a gas attack in World War I and, as a result, quailed at the thought of unleashing similar weapons without an available antidote. Hitler was a short man … the little corporal. That was the highest rank he ever attained in the German army. Haven’t you ever wondered how my dachshund came by his name?”

  “Li’l Corporal.”

  “In honor of der Führer.”

  The wind gusted stronger, extinguishing a candle, and their captor once more embraced her canister. The metal reflected the moon’s rays. Trudi’s face hovered in the milky glow. Her eyes were set back in darkness.

  From afar, Marsh thought he detected the sound of a helicopter. Kara turned.

  “Of course, there are forces that could’ve revived Hitler’s war,” Trudi said with conviction. “I myself made an appeal to him, to reveal the powers available. No, no, he wasn’t to be disturbed by Doktor Ubelhaar’s delusional daughter. It was at that time Hitler signed papers sending me into the program. I obeyed. Blindly.”

  “Stay calm.” The recruit stared hard at Josee as they neared the entrance to Bank of the Dunes. His scowl was a tug of war between feral attraction and gender aversion. “Just don’t forget, I got my eye on your every move.”

  “Couldn’t have guessed.” Josee lowered her voice. “Eighty-nine?”

  “That’s it. Don’t botch this, hear me?”

  “Stay calm.” She patted his arm and, with a toss of her head, strode into the pristine chambers of the Bank of the Dunes with Trudi’s carpetbag in hand. She mustered her courage and advanced to an open window where a teller appeared to be organizing papers before closing time. Halloween decorations hung from the counter. Customers and early trick-or-treaters had already depleted the bowl of candy.

  The clock behind the woman read 5:47.

  “Next.” The woman looked up, uninterested.

  “Hi.” Josee glanced around. Her escort was the bank’s only other customer. In a corner to the left, at a desk in front of wing chairs, another woman typed at her computer while hugging a phone to her ear. Behind them, posted near the door, an elderly security guard flashed the relaxed smile of one who has lived life to the fullest and feels no need to hurry it along. With lips together, she smiled back.

  “Are you ready, ma’am?”

  “Yeah.” Josee spread out her birth certificate and box key. “I’m here to get into my safe-deposit box. It’s my first time. My grandfather willed its contents to me.”

  “Well, what a kind gesture. Uh, why is the number filed from the key?”

  “Greedy relatives. Coming outta the woodwork.”

  The teller gave a knowing look.

  “The number’s 89,” Josee clarified.

  The woman tapped at her keyboard, scanned the monitor through fashionably oversize glasses. “Yes, I see it here. Granddaughter of … Chauncey Dean Addison?”

  “That’s me.”

  “And your full name?”

  Josee wrinkled her nose. “Josee Melinda Walker.”

  “A nice name”—the teller perused the birth certificate—”nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart. Need to see your photo ID.”

  Josee provided her Washington State driver’s license.

  The teller compared the picture to the real thing, seemed satisfied. “Been a long time since anyone opened that box. I’ll need to have you sign in at the register.”

  Josee added her signature with an unexpected sense of pride.

  Josee M. Walker. A member of the Addison family. I belong.

  Then, as she followed the guard into the vault area, the suspicions planted by Trudi sprouted again. An inheritance—is that all her parents sought? Were they merely using her? Would the contents of the box shatter her newly discovered sense of place?

  “Hitler’s breeding program?” Marsh specified.

  “Ja.” Trudi ran a hand along the canister and up through her hair. “I resigned myself to the task, to carry children in my womb, raising them for the good of my country and for mein Führer. The children were to be my contribution to the rise of the Third Reich. I felt, at least, that I’d been given a part in the unfolding drama.”

  “But you were barren. There’s no excuse for the things they did to you. None.”

  The helicopter’s whine indicated it was not far off.

  Trudi’s eyes twitched with
uncertainty. “Ha, what do you know?”

  “I know it’s possible to put this to rest,” Marsh said. “You can move on past the turmoil you’ve put up with. You hear what I’m saying, Trudi? You’ve done so much for Kara and me at the manor. You’ve proven yourself to be a reliable worker, and I’m sure a judge would consider your case with leniency. You know me, Trudi. You know how I like to deal in facts, in tangible proof. Well, these past few days have been an eyeopener. I’m willing to accept that maybe I can’t fit all my ideas into a box. What about you? Are you ready to break free?”

  Trudi looked away. Around her, the recruits stood motionless, gas masks hiding their faces. An icy gust swatted at the cliff, and Marsh noticed that Kara was shivering in her damp jeans. He, too, was cold.

  In a frail voice, Kara said, “Trudi, God is merciful. He knows what you suffered.”

  “Too late for that!”

  With her sleeve, Kara brushed the wine from her chin. “He sees your heart—”

  “Precisely. Therein lies the problem.”

  “I’ve got my own burdens, Trudi. Things I regret, things I’m still dealing with. But he sees past all that. That’s the hope that keeps us going.”

  “Enough! You’ll say anything to try to save your daughter.” Trudi turned from their pleas to the unfathomable recollections of an SS barracks. Her pale lips spit words with Teutonic precision. “In the eyes of my leaders, I was unfruchtbar, infertile, of no purpose to the Fatherland. I became no better than the Untermenschen. And who was going to stop the men of the SS from violating a mere subhuman? My own father would not come to my defense. Es macht nichts. The past is the past. Must it linger with us always?”

  “No,” said Marsh.

  “Yessss! It mussst!” Her eyes glowed, and her face grew livid, a map of twisted memories. Her hair bristled. “That’s the whole point. I could not bear children. Despite my faithfulness, I became worthless. I gave and they took—till there was nothing left.”

  “But this happened long ago—”

  “In whose mind, Marsh? Yours? You self-centered fool, you weren’t even born yet. I’ve been patiently holding on for this opportunity to be fruchtbar, to be fruitful. And in so doing I’ll let others eat of their own dark fruit. I am hastis humani generis.”

  “The enemy of mankind?” Kara translated. “Only one deserves that name.”

  Trudi’s face hardened. “Beware, the House of Ubelhaar shall no longer crouch in the corners.”

  “The House of Ubelhaar?”

  “A sponsor of the arts, Kara. Private art lessons have been our means of weeding through young, malleable recruits. With simple fliers in grocery stores, we’ve harvested people with a common vision throughout the Northwest, training them to drive away the oppressors who attempt to shape us for their own self-serving devices. I’ve instructed some within the very walls of your own manor—”

  “At Addison Ridge?”

  “All in the name of the arts.”

  “Your weekly lessons—”

  “Yes. In cauda venenum: Beware of what you cannot see. Indeed, we shall demand payment for the wrongs society inflicts.”

  Cresting the northerly crags as though responding to the old woman’s threats, a helicopter beat the air with powerful rotors. The sound grew louder. As the metal bird approached, the engine hiccuped, and the entire thing dipped. The pilot was coaxing every last bit of elevation from his machine, climbing, climbing from the chasm over the sea. Beside him, a large man was seated.

  Sergeant Turney? Could it be?

  Marsh’s thoughts raced. What had transpired at the monument?

  Behind the door of reinforced steel bars, the vault was still and cold. Tomblike. The guard’s shoes clicked on the marble floor as he directed Josee and her escort toward the appropriate box. He inserted the master bank key into the left slot, let her turn hers in the right. The reinforced door opened as though this were a daily occurrence.

  Over Josee’s shoulder, the ICV escort was intent upon her actions.

  “I’ll be just outside,” said the guard. “Lemme know when you’re finished.”

  “Actually, sir?” She set her chin at a demure tilt as the guard turned back around. “I’d like to view the contents alone. Do you mind if …” She blinked twice.

  “Yes?” he said.

  Through her sweatshirt, the ICV man was pinching her back.

  She put this to use, allowing a tear to well in her eye. Every word she spoke was true. “Well, not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings, nothing like that. It’s just that … this is private. My grandfather’s gone”—she saw the guard’s eyes soften—”and this is all that he left to me. I’m … I just need a moment, if it doesn’t sound too silly.”

  “Of course not, dear. We’re closing up just now, but don’t let that hurry you. I can let you out, no problem.” The guard took the ICV recruit by the arm. “Come along, young man. Certainly we can understand a lady’s request for privacy.”

  Her escort shot her a look as the guard led him back into the lobby.

  Alone in the cryptlike chill, Josee carried the safe-deposit box from the locker to a viewing table. She set the carpetbag alongside, noticed overhead cameras recording the moment. She lifted the top and peered into the rectangular space.

  Josee left one item in the deposit box, shoved another into the front of her jeans. She clipped shut the carpetbag and slid the box back into its slot. Closed the door, heard it click. She was turning for the security guard’s assistance when a fierce tug on her wrist caught her unawares.

  “Follow me, you little wench!” The ICV escort dragged her along the floor. He was wielding his revolver. “Think you’re real clever, huh? Well, take a look at gramps over there. You proud of yourself now?”

  In a sitting position against the wall by the entry, the older man had his head on his chest. His palm was turned outward at his side, his hat upturned on the floor.

  Josee shoved at her captor, tore from his grip. “You didn’t have to hurt him!”

  “What’s done is done. Come on.”

  Josee saw the teller peek around the counter, undoubtedly with her finger on a silent alarm. It was a minute past six. Closing time. The accounts manager was hiding, invisible save her high heels protruding from the side of the desk.

  Her escort grabbed the keys from the fallen man and unlocked the door. She trailed him outside to the waiting Buick. The other recruits breathed sighs of relief.

  “Get it all?” The escort plucked the carpetbag from her hands, looked inside.

  “Should be twelve vials. In that padded tray.”

  The car carried them to a side road on the north end of Florence, ferried them through puddles to the edge of a lake. There, under cover of dusk, a dozen vehicles of all makes and colors crouched in waiting. With little fanfare, the Buick’s driver visited each one, distributing the vials and instructions. She saw one of the contacts stretch from a window, unscrew a thermoslike container, and slip the vial in before capping it.

  The entire maneuver took less than five minutes.

  One by one, the vehicles went out the way they’d come in, dispatched to their clandestine tasks. Josee thought of escaping into the lakeside trees, but the two men in the back relieved her of that idea. The driver returned and yanked open her door.

  “You did it, cutie. All there, no tricks.”

  He called Trudi to let her know they were heading back and the vials had been sent forth. “No, Professor,” he said before hanging up. “Haven’t done that part yet.”

  Josee thought she saw movement in the trees.

  “Okay, Josee.” The driver’s snub-nosed revolver appeared in his hand and directed her to exit the car. “Appreciate the help, but it’s time for your treat.”

  “Looks like someone’s down there,” the pilot said.

  On the headland, a lightkeeper’s house stood protected high above the surf, hosting a group of stick figures around a table on the lawn. To her credit, it appeared that the Prof
essor had kept to her plan and led the troops to this spot. The point of origin. Here, in 1945, the canister had escaped, then come back to her on the beach below. Soon, a loop extending over five decades would come to its conclusion.

  “Set her down there, and your job’ll be done.” Stahlherz pointed to the skirt of grass within the white fence. His ribs and arm were aflame. The bullet that had grazed his chest had drawn blood that now affixed his shirt to the wound. The dagger had left its talon beneath his skin.

  “Good thing,” the pilot said. “We’re running on fumes as it is.”

  In confirmation, the engine coughed and issued an obvious burp.

  “I’d better set this bird down, and quickly!”

  43

  Momentum

  Turney’s heart thumped along with the beating of the rotors overhead. Below, the sea was angry. Steep rocks shot upward, grasping for the failing machine.

  “What do we do?” he blurted. The thought of an ejection seat rambled through his head. Wouldn’t that be a pretty picture?

  The pilot was intense. “Hold on and shut up!” Cursing in an unbroken stream, he skimmed beneath the beams of the lighthouse, fought an upsurge of air from the tide below, and rounded the crags toward the keeper’s house.

  Sputt-sputt-whirr-whirr-whirr … sput!

  With the rotors’ remaining motion, the pilot coaxed a last spurt from his machine and cleared the cliffs, twisted the tail around and over the fence, dropped, bounced once along the grass, then planted the skids. Turney saw him, in the same motion, thumb a switch marked Fuel Interrupt to ward off an explosion from residual gas.

  The contraption’s momentum was too much. In his effort to vault the fence, the pilot had squeezed the final drops of fuel into the engine, and the resulting thrust was not to be denied. As the skids caught and the engine died, the weight of the machine continued forward, dipping the nose. Turney felt his seat lift. Felt his head strike the windshield as the helicopter smashed its bubble-eyed cockpit into the grass.