Dark to Mortal Eyes

by Eric Wilson

  “Yeah, you showed me, remember?”

  “But I don’t even know what killed him. Isn’t that weird? I mean, I should know something like that, shouldn’t I?”

  “Maybe it’s better you don’t.”

  “Better?”

  Scooter scratched at his bearded chin. “Sometimes the truth hurts, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well, thank you. Why do men feel like they have to protect me, like I need their help? I think I can handle the truth. ‘The truth shall set you free,’ isn’t that what the Bible says? Heard that somewhere, way back when.”

  “Wouldn’t know. Sorry. You ask me, it’s better to free your mind. Little somethin’ to take the edge off, if you hear what I’m sayin’. Less pain that way.”

  “That’s it, just tune out altogether? That can’t be the answer.”

  “Comes highly recommended.”

  “Not gonna happen. I’d rather feel pain and at least know I’m alive. Aren’t you even a little curious about things? There are so many unknowns, things that just don’t add up. Maybe it’s a part of being adopted … looking for, I don’t know … identity.”

  “Least you’ve got this link with your mom. Today’s the big day, right?” Josee rolled her neck. “One get-together’s not going to erase twenty-two years of separation. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Hey, don’t think like that. I know what this means to you. We didn’t thumb it a coupla hundred miles to see you skip the big event. This is connection at a root level.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Good stuff, think about it. Kara’s your blood, your family. From what you’ve told me, she sounded nice enough on the phone. If she’s even a little bit like you, she’ll be good by me.”

  “Now you’re getting sappy on me, Scoot.”

  “What, who me? Must’ve been in a daze. Scratch every word. Lies, all lies.”

  “That’s more like it.” She smiled and reached to squeeze his hand.

  “Okay, Josee, so what about that?” He indicated the canister. “You got me curious. See any buttons or latches, see a way to open the thing up?”

  “Nothing obvious.” She looked down to find the skull’s same chilling stare from last night. And what was that smell? Sweet but spicy, with a bite to it. “Maybe you were right,” she confided. “Maybe we should leave it alone.”

  He brushed it with his hand. “C’mon, don’t leave me hangin’.”

  “Forget it. Don’t mess with this thing, okay?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Sure, babe. Hands off.” Yet his fingers tarried, and Josee would’ve sworn that his moonstone ring surged with a pallid gray glow.

  After generic cornflakes and powdered milk, Josee took hold of Scooter’s bike. “That little market’s just up the road, right? I’m gonna ride over and give my mother a call, make sure everything’s still a go.”

  “Got change for the phone? I’m all out.”

  “I’ll figure a way. It’s this feeling, I guess, like I need to see what’s going on.”

  “Worried she’ll cancel, huh?”

  “No.” Josee disengaged the kickstand. “Just wanna touch base.”

  “You are worried.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Be careful, babe. Road’s narrow out there.”

  The bike was a symphony of squeaks and sighs. Two days earlier Scooter had haggled for it at a local garage sale. Josee’s feet just touched the pedals, and by the time she reached the market, the sun was winking hello through trees thick as lush lashes. A scene worth drawing. She wiped the sweat from her chin and thought how good it was to be back in Oregon—her birthplace.

  Inside the market, by a rattling ice machine, she saw a flier tacked to a corkboard. Some institute, the House of Ubelhaar, advertised art lessons and supplies as the pathway to fulfillment. Probably where Scooter got her case.

  “Morning,” said the cashier, whose thighs hid the seat of her stool.

  Josee mumbled a reply. So much for flirting with a guy clerk for a chance to use the phone. “Think I can make a call?” she asked. “It’s local.”

  “Pay phone’s out front.” The woman’s eyes never left the television behind the register.

  “Yep, I know, but see, I’m out of change. Not a dime on me.”

  “Sorry. Store policy.”

  She stared past the woman at rows of locked cigarette cartons. “It’s a Corvallis number, I promise. Please, I’m trying to get ahold of my mother.”

  “I don’t make the rules.”

  “And you won’t bend them, not even to help someone in need?”

  “Geez, okay.” The cashier dragged a rotary phone into view. “I’ll have to do the talking for you, pass on a message or whatnot. Gimme the number.”

  Sitting in a van parked among the pine trees off Ridge Road, Beau shivered. He swallowed a yawn, then wiggled his toes under the blanket wrapped around his legs. What was he doing here? His brain felt disconnected from his surroundings. Maybe that’s what the cold did to you—like hypothermia. During the night he’d run the engine a few times to get the heat flowing again, but Mr. Steele had warned him to keep the lights off. Not like anybody’d see him back here.

  Skreech!

  The wind clawed branches across the rooftop, a sound that set his teeth on edge. Or maybe his ears had caught the far-off shrill of a bird.

  Ske-reeech!

  He winced at the ache in his temples and wondered where he’d picked up this headache. Pounding again, worse than last night. Had to keep on task. Stay dialed in. Yesterday’s meeting in the café was a little fuzzy, but as Steele had promised, Beau was now wearing a denim jacket with specific items in the pockets.

  Yeah, buddy, the details were coming together.

  When the Motorola cordless chimed at his side, Beau answered and confirmed his position. The signal might come at any minute, he was told. He was to sit tight and keep from nodding off. Committed to this task, he loosened his jacket and spread his arms like wings to welcome the morning chill. Anything to keep awake.

  Lonely out here. Still, it felt like something was hovering over him.

  Through gritted teeth, to boost his courage, he stole a villain’s line from half of the cheap DVDs he’d watched at home. “Let the games begin,” he said.

  “Babe?” Scooter wrapped an arm around her. “What happened?”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “What do you think?” Josee appreciated Scooter’s concern but pulled away when he tried to touch her cheek. “She stinkin’ bailed on me. Stood me up.”

  “Kara called it off?”

  “Well, not exactly. Guess some housekeeper lady answered, said there’d been a disruption and I’d have to call again tomorrow. Not like I’m going to waste my time.”

  “Don’t let it mess with you, babe. Didn’t Kara warn you this could happen?”

  “She said that if it didn’t work out, we could try again for the day or two after. What does she think, that I’m going to just sit around and wait? Like I have nothing better to do? ‘Oh sorry, Josee, today doesn’t exactly work either. How ’bout the day after next or—’ ”

  “No hurry, we got time on our hands.”

  “Or how about never!” Josee regurgitated the events from the market for him, then tossed back her head and dragged both hands through her cropped black hair.

  “But you didn’t even talk to her,” said Scooter. “Not in person. What, you’re gonna believe some cow behind the counter? Just call back mañana. It’ll work out.” He tried to meet her eyes, produced a pack of cigarettes, and dropped it in her lap. “That’s it—the last of our stuff.”

  “Thanks, hon.” She lit one and leaned back to expel smoke over her shoulder. “I just keep getting this bad feeling. Why should I even expect her to care after all these years? Maybe she’s like my father, having second thoughts.”

  “Sucks, I admit
, but she wouldn’t agree for you to come down unless she meant it. Here, want some croissants? Stale, but better than nothing.” When she shook her head, he added, “Sorry about the limited menu. You deserve better.”

  “It’s fine, Scoot. Upset tummy, that’s all. Nerves.” Her eyes scanned the thicket. “Speaking of which, where’d that thing go?”

  “The canister thingamajig?” Scooter moved to the tent’s edge and lifted the object from behind the flap. “Thar she blows. Thing was giving me the creeps, so I stashed it away.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was gettin’ hot to the touch, like there was somethin’ inside.”

  Josee took it and ran her hands over the metal. The burnished surface seemed warmer than was natural.

  “See what I’m sayin’?” he said. “Bizarre, isn’t it? Like it’s—”

  “I told you not to—”

  “Like it’s alive.”

  She challenged him with a look and tapped her cigarette over the pit. “You’re not worried, are you?” By aiming the fear at him, she could pretend it wasn’t her own.

  “Josee, you’re the one who said it was sort of spooky, and you’re the one who knows this stuff, right? Like with my sculptures, you’ve always got the words that fit.”

  True, Scooter had always given her the liberty to christen his work. Now, in her hands, the canister begged to be christened as well. It weighed upon her, its corporeal need for attention draining her even as its title made itself known.

  In cauda venenum …

  The Latin words scrolled across Josee’s mind, remnants from some first-period lecture. As she plumbed her memory for a translation, fingertips of anxiety brushed her neck. Literally, it meant “In the tail is the poison.” Referring to a scorpion’s whiplike tail, the words were loosely paraphrased “Beware of what you cannot see.”

  She sniffed along the cylinder’s seam. “Whoa, hold on a sec. You smell that?” She thought she detected spiced cinnamon sticks. Or stove-cooked applesauce. Or the holiday potpourri the workers used to spread out at the group home the weeks before Christmas. She’d pronounced it “pot-pour-ee” just to bug them.

  That’s when it grabbed her.

  Pain seized her chest, squeezing until she dropped the cigarette. Her eyes bulged. She dry-heaved. Tears boiled along her eyelids, blurring the pine needles at her feet.

  “Babe, what’s wrong?”

  She coughed through a mouth full of cotton, spit into the coals. Spit again.

  “Tell me you’re kidding,” Scooter said. “This isn’t funny.”

  Josee gulped, rubbed her face and neck. Fever heat scorched her ears, and the shaft of pain that had spiked between her ribs felt permanently lodged there. She dropped her head between her knees and tried to see beyond the swirling flecks of light.

  “Was it the food last night?” Scooter grasped for an explanation. “You checked the dates, yeah? The fish wasn’t overdue, was it?”

  “Only a day.” Her voice was hoarse. “But it’s not that.”

  “Should’ve known better and just left the fillets where they were.”

  “You did your best, Scoot. Not your fault. It’s that … that freakin’ canister.” As though identifying the problem was a remedy of sorts, she felt warmth settle over and coat her with a sense of protection. Oxygen rushed back into her lungs, and her eyes began to clear.

  The canister … Oh, no! Where’d it go?

  Josee scanned the carpet of roots, leaves, and twigs. She must’ve dropped the thing when the pain grabbed her. There—it had made a half circle around the firepit and bumped into Scooter’s feet.

  He scooped it up. “See, what’d I tell you? This thing’s hotter than sin.”

  “No, don’t! Put that down!”

  4

  The Opening

  Turquoise eyes watched him from a five-by-seven framed picture. Chaffed by this manipulation, Marsh dropped the photo facedown on the vanity countertop. Kara should’ve known better than to try such a tactic. Asinine, that’s what it was.

  “Maybe I went too far,” she had admitted. “I hoped only that it might touch something inside you. Thought it might find a soft spot.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  Though he’d been tempted to slam the master-bedroom door, he had let it click into place instead. Restrained anger. Always more effective. He’d discovered that certain business maneuvers paid dividends here on the domestic front. Of course, when Kara had pulled on jeans and a sweater and threatened to leave, he hadn’t taken her seriously. She’d insisted that his mood would not contaminate this momentous day and had stridden out to the car. Strapped herself into the Z3’s cockpit. Lifted her chin.

  And she actually did it, actually left!

  It’d been years since Kara had done such a thing; he could almost respect her for that.

  The brass frame sparked his ire anew. To prove his immunity to it, he flipped the photo back up beside the faucet and pondered the young lady’s face. Unfamiliar, yes, but he knew who this was. She had Kara’s chin, petite and strong, eyes the same shape, set wider and deeper. On her eyebrow, a silver hoop clung like a question mark that refused to go away.

  Josee Walker …

  Her likeness was supposed to twist some emotional knob, but that just wasn’t going to happen. As though to convince the man staring back at him in the mirror, he shook his head and combed through his wavy black hair.

  For crying out loud, Josee, I have questions too. You’re not the only one.

  From the sunken shower enclosure, the sweet scent of Kara’s Shalimar lingered in Marsh’s nostrils. He’d been hard on her, maybe too hard. Didn’t she see, though, the folly of traipsing back into the past? She was not only driving a wedge between them, she was gambling her daughter’s stability.

  Within the photo’s gaze, Marsh ran a triple-bladed razor over his stubble and swirled the residue down the drain. He slipped into gray slacks and Arin Mundazi loafers, buttoned his shirt, draped over his chest a silk J. Dunlary tie.

  Almost seven o’clock. Only minutes till his daily chess match.

  His tie fit the chess motif, with random white squares against a field of black.

  In his study he stood waiting at the window as a tangerine dawn squeezed over Addison Ridge. Below, in the brick-encircled parking area, Japanese maples swayed in the breeze. Within the hour the manor and vineyards would stir with activity; migratory grape pickers and machine operators would clock in; Rosamund, the Addisons’ lone live-in employee, would manage the daytime kitchen and custodial staff. At the moment, however, the estate lay subdued. Marsh was sure that, aside from Rosie downstairs, he was alone.

  Alone? Well, that was Kara’s choice, wasn’t it? Not his.

  He punched the intercom button. “Rosie, you there?”

  “Sir?”

  “Bring my breakfast up to the study. Buzz to get in.”

  “The usual?”

  After a string of capricious personnel, he had hired Rosamund Yeager for her European efficiency and attention to details. At seventy-six years old, beneath honey-tinted hair and powdered wrinkles, she remained unflagging, meticulous, attentive to his patterns. To keep her on her toes, he said, “Throw in an egg overeasy—salt, pepper, and a dash of paprika.”

  “I’ll bring it up myself, sir. And will your wife be joining you?”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Oh? Is she … keeping an appointment? Should I prepare her meal in advance?”

  “Appointment?” Marsh watched a repair truck pull up the drive. “Yeah, set something aside. Why not? Of course you know what she likes.”

  “I’ll see to it, Mr. Addison. You’re certain she’ll be back?”

  “She’ll be back.”

  Marsh hoped that Kara’s morning away would give her fresh perspective. She’d saunter in, sporting independence like some imitation fashion design, but experience assured him that she would return. That much he could count on.

  “She’s making
her move.”

  “I’m all over it.” Beau jutted his chin, rolled his eyes like marbles in their sockets. “How do you chess masters say it? ‘Guard your queen’?”

  “A superfluous warning. A worthy player has no need for it.”

  “Was just a comment, Mr. Steele.”

  “Keep those eyes peeled. That’s your priority.”

  Beau folded his arms over the van’s steering wheel and studied Ridge Road. Nothing yet. The cold had constricted his hands into talons as they gripped the Motorola. He gnawed on the rubber antenna and wondered how Steele maintained his cool. With patience and a plan—those were the keys.

  Ske-skereech!

  That stupid bird. Still shrieking. Why didn’t the thing shut up?

  As sunlight sliced through the trees, Beau blocked the rays with outstretched hands. His fingernails turned deep orange, as though he’d scratched at the burning sphere and got its rinds beneath his nails. Even dropped into his lap, the fingers retained a numinous glow that empowered him.

  Enabling. Enervating … Ha, there was a big word for ya! In cauda venenum.

  Still no sign of the queen. Where was she?

  At the foot of the vineyard’s curved drive, beneath the stucco archway, Kara sat in her Z3 and let the sun run its fingers through her hair. The light caressed her face, soothing and warm. She looked back to ensure that she was out of sight of the manor, out of sight of Marsh’s study on the second floor.

  She needed this. A moment of peace before facing Josee this afternoon.

  With head tilted against the headrest, she looked at herself in the mirror. Despite the fashion sense she displayed at social events and the airy demeanor she pasted on during winetastings, she felt timid. Did others see through the facade? Did they detect her insecurities?

  Look at me. I can’t even work up the will to leave the property.

  She watched the day advance while whispering prayers to stifle her ebb and flow of emotion. She smeared a tear from her cheek and laughed. Was this the plight of the female species: slavery to estrogen and to men who did not understand?