Dark to Mortal Eyes

  “A caution?” Marsh snorted. “About what? You make it sound so ominous.”

  She pushed ahead. “Marshall, you may be unfit for fatherhood.”

  “Unfit?” He forced a laugh. “Who said anything about kids?”

  “Your risk’s high. You’ve been contaminated, and it’d be wise to have a doctor—”

  “What crazy talk is this, Mother? What’re you going on about?”

  She screwed her eyes tight as if to block a chimera of horror. “One day you’ll see.”

  “I’ll see? Oh, very cryptic! And helpful, I might add.”

  “One day it’ll make sense. We can only pray that such a day never comes, that perhaps you’ll be spared. It’s a matter your father involved himself in at the end of the war, something bound to endanger your offspring.”

  “My father was a good man.”

  Virginia sniffled. “Duty called him into military aspects of chemical research. Son, you need to understand this. Please don’t disregard it.”

  “What’s the point here?”

  “Contamination. Your father suffered from his work. Only later did he realize the long-term effects.”

  “What? Was there an accident? A chemical leak? What’re you trying to say?”

  “It was no accident.” Virginia clenched her fingers in her lap. “I’m trying to protect you from a portion of the pain that I’ve gone through.”

  “Yeah? That’s something every parent says. You ask me, this is insane.”

  “We must break the chain.”

  “You bet, Mom. I’ll start working on it right away.”

  Infuriated by his mother’s gall, he had refused to broach the subject again. He wouldn’t yield himself to this curse she had tried to drop at his feet. Later, however, when Kara’s obstetrician announced the ailing status of her unborn daughter, Marsh stewed in uncertain blame. The tiny baby did not deserve this. A blood disorder. An unknown form of hemophilia threatening her very life? He did not need this encumbrance on his time and finances. Surely he was not responsible for her sickness. Or was he? Had his own father passed along a genetic anomaly? What had actually happened at the end of the war?

  Maybe his mother’s words were true; maybe he had afflicted a child with his own defective genes.

  Unfit, indeed.

  Stretched out in the hot tub, he felt a droplet of sweat sting his eye. He blinked twice. In his peripheral vision, he thought he saw a figure at the end of the cedar deck, and he shot up from the water. Called out in warning. Armed himself with a beer bottle and prowled the planks till he was convinced he was alone. Whatever it was, it had vanished.

  9

  Scars and Stripes

  “Oh, brother,” Chief Braddock chided. “Not this story again.”

  Turney bristled. His superior had arrived with measured strides, keys swinging in rhythm from his belt. Although white hair showed at his red temples and wrinkles carved his rawhide cheeks, he moved like a younger man. Turney stood and let his sleeve drop back over his arm. “Hello, Chief.”

  “Tell me, Sarge, whose ears are you twisting this time?”

  Shoving in his shirt, Turney felt his cheeks grow hot. He’d faced ridicule before, learned to keep his trap shut, but with Josee at his side he felt an urge to defend himself—an urge he hadn’t experienced this strongly since before his fiancée’s passing.

  Milly. Josee. Different in lots of ways, but both had that feisty streak.

  Time to speak up. He opened his mouth. Stood there like a confounded fool.

  “Full of the usual wit, I see.” Braddock turned. “And you must be Josee.” His eyes flashed reproach, then dalliance as they roved from her attire to cheekbones to upturned eyes. “Josee Walker?”

  “Maybe. Who are you?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re buying Sarge’s drivel.”

  “You know, we were having a private conversation here.”

  Sergeant Turney gave a silent hurrah. He knew what it was like to be on the other side of Josee’s attitude. Let him have it, kiddo.

  The chief rested his hand on a belt buckle where shiny flint letters spelled Big Juan. “I’m Chief Braddock. You know what that means? It means I come and go as I see fit. I’ve been around this area a long time, and nothing’s private, not to me, not in this city.” He spun a chair and straddled it.

  Turney said, “Josee and I were just finishin’ up a report.”

  “That so? Looked to me like you were about to launch into one of your stories. Let me guess, the one about the snake?”

  “Actually, she—”

  “Listen, he’s yanking your chain, Josee.” Braddock wagged a censuring finger. “Sarge tells a good story. Don’t get me wrong. But he’d be better off saving his ideas for some campy late night TV show, X-Files or somethin’.”

  “TV?” Josee gibed. “I yanked the plug on the great surrogate mother years ago.”

  “Surrogate mother?”

  “Yep. Baby-sitting America’s kids, telling them how to look, how to act, how to—”

  “As I was saying …” Careful to leave his badge visible and gleaming, the chief folded his arms and flicked aside her interruption like lint from his starched uniform. “Years ago the famous Thunder Turney met his match in a hospital corridor. This very place, in fact. He was just a kid, you understand, but he couldn’t hold his own. Ever since, he’s fabricated these stories to salve his conscience. Truth be told, a woman was shot, and her newborn baby was lost. Unfortunate. Wasn’t his responsibility though. You’d think he’d move on and let it rest, but, oh no, not our boy Vince.”

  Josee said, “Bet you just love belittling people.”

  Braddock’s laughter was a stone skipping over the cafeteria tables.

  Turney bit his lip. Jabbed at the crust of his hamburger bun.

  The chief said, “Now don’t get your shorts in a wad, Sarge. We’ve got work to do. I’ve just come from the Rotary Club, and I’m meeting with the hospital administrator shortly, but in the meantime I’ll keep Miss Walker here company. As for you—”

  “Josee hasn’t seen her friend, sir. She’s worried. I was plannin’ to take her—”

  “Just told you the plan. I’ll make sure she gets her visitation time. Now you’ve got paperwork to go through at the station. Need you to set up next week’s swing-shift schedule and have Rita post it today. And while you’re at it, if you’d be so kind as to arrange tonight’s lodgings for the young lady here, I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

  “Don’t need it,” Josee piped up. “I’ll sack out here in the waiting room.”

  “It’d be better if—”

  “I’m not leaving, not till I see Scooter.”

  “You’ll see him. Then you gotta trust the sergeant to set you up. That clear?”

  Josee massaged her earlobe. “Sure, I guess I can trust him.”

  “Well, well, score one for Sarge.”

  Turney looked straight ahead, his heart slowing to a stop.

  “So,” Josee carried on, “why don’t you trust your own officer to stay here and take care of business? He seems like a good guy, despite the junk you’re flinging at him. I’d rather we just keep things the way they are.”

  Braddock dragged a hand over his sun-wizened cheeks, fixed his eyes on a fluorescent light overhead. “Girl, I’m going out of my way for you as it is. I’ve even requisitioned benevolence vouchers for you, something to tide you over while your friend’s healing up. Am I wrong in assuming that you’re strapped for cash? Take what’s offered, and knock that chip off your shoulder.”

  “But I can’t help it,” Josee said, her words dripping with sincerity. “It’s an extra appendage. Had it since my day of birth.”

  “Then maybe, just maybe, you need to go back and start over.”

  “Maybe that’s exactly what I’m trying to do! What do you know anyway?”

  Turney placed his hand close to Josee’s tray. He could see her leg jittering beneath the table. He hated to admit it, but the chief
’s brusque manner couldn’t hide the truth in his words. Turney said, “Josee, things’ll be all right. You just sit tight, do as the chief says, and we’ll get you a place to lay your head for the night.”

  “What’s wrong with staying here?”

  “First off, the hospital’s not real wild about runnin’ a hotel. Through the department, we’ve got a list of homes ready to open up whenever we need a bed.”

  “You mean whenever someone like me needs a bed.”

  “These’re kindhearted people. They’re not judging you. Neither am I.”

  “So Josee,” Braddock broke in, “you ready for some news on this Scooter kid?”

  Her eyes batted in coy machination. “Pretty please, Chief, with a cherry on top.”

  “Knew that’d please you. You girls’re always easy to figure.”

  Turney held his breath for fear of what he might say.

  “Hold tight, you two,” Chief Braddock directed, “and I’ll be right back.”

  Josee watched the chief plow between tables and chairs. “What a jerk.”

  “That’s the man’s style—always gotta stay on top.”

  She turned and saw Turney’s eyes sinking deeper into cookie dough, melting in the heat of his self-reproach. “Tell me what happened. What did he mean about the lady and her baby?”

  The sergeant dropped his head, clasped his hands in back of his neck. “I lost the kid. I was there and tried to stop it, and I failed. The baby disappeared, and that was that. Don’t know if it was a kidnapping or what. Maybe some child-custody thing.”

  “But you were just a kid yourself, right? Why are you to blame? I don’t get it.”

  “Neither do I. Just one o’ those things I can’t get outta my mind.”

  “Does this have anything to do with those fang marks?”

  With a sigh, Turney met her questioning eyes. “See, Josee, I’d been up the whole evening with a coupla my school buddies. I’m talkin’ fourth grade here. My mom was gone—that was pretty normal—at some Independence Day party, and we’d gotten into her liquor cabinet. Drunk ourselves silly. I’d once heard my mom’s friends talk about poppin’ pills and stuff, and being a dumb kid, I figured I’d swallow a few aspirin to impress the guys. When I went comatose on ’em, one of them panicked. Called the paramedics. Next thing I knew I was laid up in a hospital bed.”

  “Here? This hospital?”

  “Ain’t life funny.”

  “Where does the baby come in? I’m lost.”

  “It was gettin’ late, and my mom was finally on her way. She’d talked to me on the phone. Not a real happy camper, considering the cops had tracked her down and given her flak about leavin’ us kids on our own.”

  “Sounds like one or two of my foster homes.”

  “If you can survive childhood, you can survive anything.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Josee stared into her lap.

  “So this lady on the next floor—the nurses were talkin’ about her, saying how she was real pregnant, ready to pop any minute, and they wondered if her baby was okay. They had reason to be concerned. Guess a coupla hours earlier someone had shot at the lady while she was pacing up and down the stairwell. Cops were swarmin’, talking about how a bullet had gone clear through her left hip. Missed the baby by six inches … two inches … a millimeter. Story got better every time they told it. Strange thing was the administrator had found this note on his desk, unsigned, that vowed this lady’s baby wouldn’t live to see the light o’ day. The nurses were abuzz. ‘You hear about the note? Strangest thing. Says to beware of what you cannot see. How spooky is that?’ ”

  Josee flinched. In cauda venenum. The canister whipped across her vision.

  “That’s messed up,” she said.

  “Tell me about it. There are some certifiable sleazeballs roamin’ our streets.”

  “Was there a motive? Did the note explain?”

  “Not that I know of. I was only going by what I could overhear. My mom still hadn’t showed, so I wandered up a floor, thought I might peek in on this brave lady, see a real-life bullet wound, what have you. I was only nine, okay.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “There was a cop posted outside her door, drinkin’ a cup o’ joe, reading an Edgar Rice Burroughs book. I told him how I wasn’t much for reading, but I loved the Tarzan series. While he showed me the pictures, I heard a baby’s cry from that room, which just made me even more curious. Silly boy stuff. Always wanted to be a hero ever since I can remember. Before I could weasel my way in there though, the cop and I both heard somethin’ moving down the hall. Turned and saw a doctor’s jacket flutter around the corner, then this silver canister—ring any bells?—came bumpin’ up against our feet. Knocked over the cop’s coffee mug, made a big ol’ mess.”

  “Let me guess. It had a skull and crossbones on it.”

  “Bingo. Stenciled in black.”

  “Any writing?”

  “Writing? Not that I recall.”

  “The one this morning had Gift written across it.”

  “Well, this was no gift, let me tell you. Not that I had time to study it real close. Soon as I reached to pick it up, it came alive in my hands.” Turney’s jowls sagged. “I found myself holdin’ on to a monster.”

  Josee twisted her eyebrow ring like a dial to calm her nerves.

  Turney went on. “I don’t think the cop saw what I saw. Should’ve listened to him in the first place. Might’ve saved myself a lotta trouble. Might’ve saved the baby.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He told me to hand it over, said it might be a tear-gas canister, a diversion to get at the woman in the room. That baby was crying again, like it was trying to scream and just couldn’t muster enough sound. And then … bam! Smoke started curlin’ out of the canister, like a living, breathing creature that’d been locked inside. Wrapped around me, gave me the heebie-jeebies. I froze, looked down, and this thing was just staring at me. To this day, I’d testify under oath that it was a snake. And a big one! It was like a stare down before a fight. I’d been boxing at the gym since third grade—to keep me outta trouble, according to my mom—and what with my big arms they were already callin’ me Thunder Turney, like I told ya. Well, I’d never blinked first in a stare down. Never. This time around, though, I lost it, and soon as I showed fear, the thing struck. Hard and fast.”

  “And it bit you.”

  “You kiddin’ me? Felt like red-hot railroad spikes rammed clear through my arm. My head started spinning, and I dropped like lead. The cop was on the ground beside me, eyes rolled back in his head, coughin’ and spittin’. Later, they said his coffee’d been poisoned, found residue in the mug.”

  “But you didn’t drink the coffee. What about you?”

  “They said I made it all up. For attention. Pointed to the trouble I’d gotten myself into, fooling around with my mom’s liquor, and discounted everything I tried to tell ’em.”

  “What about the scars? They couldn’t explain those away.”

  “Sure they could.” Turney pressed his hand over the sergeant stripes on his sleeve. “Chief Braddock was a detective at the time. He said that I must’ve slipped on the coffee and landed on the cop’s mug, the two ends of that broken handle puncturin’ my arm. ‘End o’ story. No questions asked. Go on with your life, boy.’ Come to think of it, Josee, you might be the first one’s ever heard me all the way through.”

  Josee met his gaze. “And this is why the chief mocks you.”

  “Any excuse’ll do.”

  “Then let it go, Sarge. You were a kid. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Easy to say. Thing is, when I came to, that baby was gone. Some hero, eh?”

  “Who knows what went on? Least you’re still around. This morning that thing would’ve killed Scooter if I hadn’t jumped in. It was out for blood, I’m convinced.”

  “Whoa now, Josee. You don’t think it was you that saved him, do you?”

  “I must’ve done something. I was out there a
ll alone.”

  “Were you?”

  “I guess. No, not exactly. But if I hadn’t—”

  “Hadn’t what? You gonna try telling me you fought it off with your smarts and bravery? Or your good looks? No, it was the same thing that saved me: prayer. From down the hall, this nurse rushed right to me and hit her knees. Can still hear her cryin’ out, ‘Deliver him, Lord. He’s one of yours. Oh, please keep him safe in your arms.’ ”

  “Well, glad it helped. Just not sure I buy into that stuff anymore.”

  “Not exactly somethin’ you buy into. When it’s real, it’s free.”

  “For a small monthly donation.”

  Turney’s gaze tipped her way, a scale weighing its verdict. “Okay then, what stopped that serpent inches from your face? Soon as you called out, it froze. Ain’t that what you told me? Sounds to me like an answer to prayer.”

  “I don’t know, Sarge. Everything happened so fast.”

  “Whoo boy, now it’s gettin’ deep in here. Up to your eyeballs in excuses.”

  “Just not sure what to think. I used to be, you know, hard-core into all that stuff. That was a long time ago.”

  “Afraid to trust again. I know just how ya feel. Never too late to turn back, you know?” He leaned forward with his elbows on his table. “You mind if I set aside my position here for a moment to tell you a verse I read? From the Bible?”

  “If it makes you feel better.”

  “Well, it says”—Turney cleared his throat—”says we’re allowed to make U-turns every now and then, says God’s mercies are new every morning.” He let his words trail away as though they’d caught even him by surprise. “Anyhow, that’s the way I read it. Only tellin’ you as a friend, you understand.”

  “We’re friends now?”

  “Just sharing what’s been a comfort to me. See, about three years ago I lost someone close to me … my fiancée. Be three years on the eighth of November.”

  Josee slunk in her chair, struck by how myopic her own misery had become—childhood garbage, teenage scars, the horror of today. She wasn’t the only one carrying unseen weights. “Sorry,” she said. “Man, must’ve been a nightmare for you.”