by Eric Wilson
First things first. The Professor had arrived.
A vintage Studebaker rolled into a space at the walkway’s edge. The engine’s anguished snarl was that of an old tomcat, stirring rooks from among the trees. The birds beat the air with their wings, silhouettes against a gloomy sky.
Stahlherz approached the vehicle. “Audentes fortuna juvat.”
The Professor’s Latin put him to shame. “Audentes fortuna juvat. My son, you’re two days from the national stage. Surely you could do with a haircut.”
“More important things on my mind,” he snapped. “Is it true that she’s here?”
“True indeed. Her name’s Josee Walker.” The cracked window and the sound of rustling trees could not hide the tremor in the Professor’s voice.
He said, “Mmm, after all this time. Where is she now?”
“That’s the odd thing. Although details are sketchy, we know that she and Kara planned to rendezvous soon. Instead, according to a dependable source, Josee has been picked up by police and taken to Good Samaritan.”
“Hurt?”
“Not that I’m aware of. However, the young man she was accompanying has suffered an injury resembling a snakebite.” Touching a hand to an old wound, the Professor cringed. “I believe it has returned. It has found me one last time.”
“You’re certain? Any proof that this man was envenomed?”
A tired shake of the head. “Doctors’ll know soon enough. We can only hope.”
“That’s a positive thing, isn’t it? Confirmation that the end game is upon us.”
“Either way, Stahli, the plans have been set in motion. Tell me, has Kara Addison been removed from the board?”
“She has. Even Beau’s miscues cannot set us back.”
“Miscues?” Aggravation twitched across the Professor’s visage.
“I’m setting things right,” Stahlherz said. “I’ve taken crisp countermeasures.”
The Professor allowed him to explain, then, unimpressed, extended and waggled a forearm to entice a loitering blackbird. The rook touched down and received a directive before rising again on strong wings to advance across the cloud-checkered sky. “Be careful, Son. I know that you fancy yourself a grand master, but you’re not so impregnable as all that. Anger is a tool, yet you swing it like a weapon.”
“It is a weapon.”
“A clumsy one at best. You’re liable to injure yourself.”
Stahlherz pushed arthritic fingers along his brow. He was a scolded child, revisiting isolation and inadequacy. Why did parents undermine their offspring’s greatest gifts? Envy? Regret? Wasn’t the scope of his anger his to control?
No one will impose limits on me. Not even you, esteemed Professor.
“Stahli? Are you listening? Your job now is to get to the hospital and ensure that the facts are spun to our benefit. With our ICV members in position, that shouldn’t be difficult. And you’ll pay the victim a visit, I assume? Outstanding. We’ll use every possible resource to keep tabs on Josee Walker.”
“Her every move,” he agreed. “Attack and defend, with no fear and no regrets.”
“So long as the task is accomplished, my son. You’ll make me proud yet.”
As they went their separate ways, he wondered if that was possible.
In the van’s mirror, Beau checked the blanketed bundle on the floor. The Addison woman—she deserved what she had got. She was pretty, all right. But so what? She drove that flashy Beemer just to flaunt her money, just to taunt people like him. And those earrings? Well, diamonds didn’t make her better than anybody else. When would the world get that through its thick skull?
Never, according to the Professor. Such hopes were wasted. That’s why the cancer had to be cut away, piece by piece.
Stay cool, guy. Don’t go drawing attention to yourself.
One by one he lifted clenched fingers from the steering wheel and stretched. He eased his foot from the gas. Sixty-seven miles an hour? He couldn’t risk being pulled over. The cops would see, and they would know. Wasn’t time for that yet.
Ke-reech …
Scrapes on his knees were scabbing over with dirt and dried blood. His descent into the ravine had cost him time and energy, but Mr. Steele had insisted. All part of the plan—even if it was Plan B, even if Beau had flubbed up. “Crisp countermeasures”—that’s what Steele had called them.
Lost in his thoughts, Beau entered a graded curve. The van tilted, and the bundle behind him rotated, pounding an uneven beat against the metal floor, a drum roll played with elbows and kneecaps.
Snip-a-snip-a-snappp!
Ooh, that had to hurt.
The curve shot the van back onto a straightaway, and the bundle rolled back to its original position. Beau noticed more angles in the shape now, which meant more hassles for him. He still had to carry her down into the cellar. He fought off an urge to puke. He’d never physically hurt a woman before today. What’d taken over him?
He clawed his fingers along his neck and told himself to get a grip. Just do what you gotta do, he ordered himself. I must obey to find the way …
7
Sparring Partners
On their way down from Washington three days ago, Josee and Scooter had been dropped off at Champoeg State Park by a rancher in an old pickup with a bumper sticker that read “Compost happens.”
The words summed up her feelings now. She was sweaty. Dazed. Uneasy.
“Any news, Sarge? Tell me he’s gonna be okay.”
Sergeant Turney trudged from the nurses’ station, splashing coffee from two cups. “They’ll let us know soon as they hear somethin’. You sound concerned.”
“Wouldn’t you be?” Josee collapsed into a waiting-room chair, tucked her bedroll behind her legs, then adjusted her damp sweatshirt over no-name jeans. The scents of antiseptics and tonics infiltrated the space. Medics rushed a gurney up the corridor, and at the sight of a child beneath a shiny thermal blanket, Josee imagined Scooter’s ordeal. He’d been in Good Samaritan’s ER for over two hours.
I’m here, Scoot. Hang in there.
She said, “Hospitals give me the creeps.”
“You and me both.” Turney extended a hand. “Ready for a cup o’ joe?”
“Styrofoam.”
“Say what?”
Josee pointed. “Styrofoam. Haven’t you heard of the ozone layer?”
“So that’s your shtick. Well, kiddo, it won’t hurt ya to drop the environmental martyr act and pour a little warmth into that skinny belly of yours.” To prove the liquid was harmless, he took a gulp. Sputtered. “Sakes alive, that’ll put hair on your chest.”
“Smells burnt.” She cast her words like bait. “Is that the way real men like it?”
He ignored the question, examined the drink.
“What now? Something wrong with the cup?” She underlined the question with arms crossed beneath her breasts—small, yes, but all natural. She felt no need to conform to the silicon standards. She could still provoke a lascivious response when necessary, and at this moment she wanted Turney to snap at the bait so she could cement her resentment of him. Holsters and badges. Desire. Derision. She and Scoot had faced their share of power-hungry cops.
“Doesn’t taste that bad.” He looked up. “Got a kick to it, that’s all. Go ahead and drink up. Either that, or I’ll hafta book you for resisting an officer.”
“Ooh, getting rough now.”
“Just don’t wanna see you shivering for the rest of the day.”
To Josee’s surprise, the sergeant’s eyes glowed with a clean, bright fire. Whereas most men’s eyes—even Scooter’s—burned like soot-stained lanterns, his revealed nothing dirty or disturbing. A hint of sorrow maybe. Nothing lecherous.
“Fine, have it your way.”
She took the cup, placed it against her cheek. The heat was nice. Champoeg State Park had provided her last shower, and she knew her clothes were growing musty. She thought of thanking the officer but decided against it. She popped a daily gel
capsule into her mouth, then let the vial dangle back around her neck. Beside her, Turney wedged himself into a chair with a copy of Field & Stream, his belly parting his shirt at the lowest button.
“So, how long do we have to sit here?”
He flipped a page. “Long as it takes ’em.”
“I’m a big girl. I’m good here on my own if you have work to do.”
“Actually, I’m waitin’ on Chief Braddock. Should be here soon enough, poking his nose into matters.” Turney fiddled with his badge. “Not to mention, you and I’ve got some questions to go over, to establish what went on out there. Was it a case of self-defense? Had you been in some sorta argument?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“When I walked up, you were standing over him. Did you happen to hit him with your hands or with that stick?”
“This is so lame. Why would I want to hurt him?”
“Is Scooter your boyfriend?”
“Friend, boyfriend. Whatever. We’ve hung together almost three years.”
The sagging magazine in Turney’s lap seemed to match the gloom that tugged at his face. “A lot can happen in three years.”
“Am I a suspect, Sarge? Is that what you’re getting at?”
Turney sucked in his lips until his heavy jowls puckered. “Josee, if his wounds indicate your involvement, you could be looking at an assault-four. What with the APA and all—the Assault Prevention Act—we’d have to separate the two of you. Is that what you want? Please work with me here.”
“I … did … not … hit … him. There, you satisfied?”
She rebuked herself for lowering her guard earlier. Turney was a freakin’ bacon strip. She knew better than to trust a cop, particularly one with Y chromosomes.
Stahlherz named the hospital as their next destination. Darius complied with a turn of the steering wheel. His nut brown hair, tied back over his shoulders, matched the Aerostar van’s nondescript exterior.
“A reasonable speed, please. No need to draw attention our way.”
“Hey, Steele-man, be cool. I’ve done the driver’s-ed thing. Passed every test they could throw this boy’s direction. You be safe with me.”
“I be safe? Well, you be careful.”
“Shazaam.”
Stahlherz knew the minced lingo belied his driver’s intelligence. He liked the kid and compensated him—in cash, nontaxed—for mileage and road hours. Thus motivated, Darius bore his cell phone at all times, responsive to his employer’s whims. Saving up for filmmaking classes, Darius confided. Here in town at Oregon State University.
Well, well, this boy was driving his way to the stars.
Not that Stahlherz was unable to operate a vehicle. Please, he was not that incapable. To steer clear of governmental records, he’d chosen to forgo a driver’s license. Footpaths and bike lanes, drivers, and CTS bus passes purchased at the Rite-Aid—he made do. It’d be incomprehensible to risk exposure for the sake of speedier transport. Too much at stake.
To Darius, he’d told a different story. “A leg injury—that’s what impedes me. Bone spurs suffered in a city-league soccer match.” Truth be told, arthritic aches and worsening migraines had forced him from the team. Further evidence that his genius was leeching off his body’s resources.
He removed and reapplied the Band-Aid over the talon wound on his forearm. That insolent beast. Always trying to wrest control from him. Last night’s memory made his scalp twitch like the lid on a boiling pot. Bitterness rose in his gullet. No, I’m the one in control! Rationing myself. Not much longer to go.
Allhallows Eve …
Two nights hence, while others paraded in ghoulish costumes, he would peel away the mask for all to see. Karl Stahlherz would become a household name. The forsaken one no longer. He imagined that somewhere in the raging flames of his own mind an effigy of Chance Addison was burning.
Long ago chessboard rooks had been fashioned after soaring castles, and as Good Samaritan Regional Medical Center loomed ahead, Stahlherz decided that this structure was a modern incarnation of the medieval fortress. Situated on a hill, with towering walls and an imposing entrance, it gazed upon the city below. Spoke of sanctuary and hope within. An empty hope for many.
Without insurance or wealth, the peons still groveled outside the castle gates. And society’s cancer continued to spread. The time had come to storm the walls.
“Never been in thurr.” Darius propped a leg on the dash. “Sick people smell.”
Stahlherz loosened his seat belt. “It’s been ages for me, the early ’80s.”
The last time he’d stalked through this hospital lobby he had carried a gun. He’d confronted Marsh Addison and his fiancée, Kara, but failed at his task. Parental castigation was the result. The Professor demoted him to his basement existence—alone with turpentine and oils, cages and rooks. Art and warfare molded him there. In solitude. Then the dawn of the Internet brought reconnection, granting access to the mind-set of the human animal. Feeble beings. Far from their evolutionary apex. Pandering and lonely, they allowed a plethora of addictions to rule them.
“Yo, Steele-man, you gonna jump out, or’s I gotta kick you out?”
“I’m paying you, aren’t I?”
“Don’t have all afternoon, brah. Got’s me a date. A brunette.”
Stahlherz stepped from the van, then slipped a fifty-dollar bill across the dashboard. “Here, Darius, a bonus. Enjoy the time you have … before it’s gone.”
He faced the hospital entryway. Josee Walker was in there. She was the key. For now, though, others would monitor the little drummer girl’s movements. He had additional factors and players to consider before she could unlock the final combination for him.
Combination. The definition was known to any true disciple of the game of chess: a series of forced moves, often initiated by sacrifice, that lead to a winning advantage.
“Listen, Josee, I need details. Gimme some facts to work with.”
“Why should you buy anything I tell you? Just some drifter’s take on things.”
“Is that what you are, you and Scooter?” Sergeant Turney adjusted his uniform.
“What if it is? Scoot and I, we refuse to be pawns in some capitalistic kingdom. Look at our cities, cushy little incubators growing babies with dollar signs in their eyes.” The waiting area magnified her voice. “No thanks! If that makes us drifters, so be it.”
“ ‘Not all those who wander are lost.’ ”
Josee lifted an eyebrow. “That’s Tolkien. Are you a fan?”
“Not much of a reader, to be honest. Think I saw it on a bumper sticker.”
She hid her amusement by digging through her pockets. “You smoke?”
“Nosiree.” He gripped his belly. “Already got this to deal with. And none of your wisecracks, please. Not a day goes by that I don’t have someone tryin’ to feed me horse manure in shovel loads.” The sergeant cinched up a pant leg. “Can get pretty deep, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah? Must explain the smell.”
“Want me to round you up a pair o’ hip waders?”
“Funny.”
“Put it to you this way, kiddo. I consider myself a decent judge of character, and I see somethin’ in that face of yours. Behind the anger and fear and attitude, you seem to be an honest woman.”
“Which is it? Woman or kiddo?”
Turney laughed and scraped a hand over his blond crew cut. “You got me there. Here’s the thing. I just wanna nail down the truth for my report. Already Mirandized you back by the railroad tracks, so you’ve got a choice to speak up or keep quiet.”
“The truth? You know, it might not be what you expect.”
“Even in a city this small, nothing surprises me anymore.”
“I didn’t do it, bottom line.”
“Then who did?”
Who? Or what? She quivered, recalling curved fangs and dripping venom. “You’ll think I’m blowin’ smoke. You may as well cuff me now, book me, and print me. Like I ca
re. Just promise me that the doctors’ll take care of Scooter in there.”
“He’s in good hands. They hounded me about the lack of insurance, but I’ve been in this city long enough to pull a few strings. That’s a good thing.” His voice trailed off as though a number of bad things had risen to challenge his claim.
“What’ve they told you? You’re keeping something from me, aren’t you?”
Turney closed the magazine. “Do yourself a favor, Josee, and remember who you’re talking to. My job’s to uphold the law. Is that clear? Some o’ my partners, they’d take one look at you and judge you before ya got a word out. That’s not me. So why don’t you cut me some slack and show a little trust here, a little faith.”
Trust? Faith? One prolonged hardy-har-har to those concepts. In Josee’s experience, they were brainwashing terms used to shape the weak-minded.
She said, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“That’s fair, since you hardly know me. But you oughta know that faith is … well, faith is believing in somethin’ you cannot see. Goes beyond the human level.”
“A spiritual thing—that what you mean? You think I should send up a prayer?”
“Not that it’s my place to say, but, yeah, it couldn’t hurt.”
Josee pushed back a lock of hair. “Already tried it, Sarge, out there in the thicket. And look where I’m sitting now.”
“You prayed in the woods? Why?”
She huffed. “I was afraid, I guess. Desperate.”
“Afraid of what? Tell me what you saw.”
Although she shook her head at the picture of fangs pumping venom into Scooter’s cheek, the image held fast. Exasperated, she fixed her eyes like drill bits on the sergeant, but instead of bracing himself with frustration or indignation, he let his eyes melt into hers—Hershey’s chocolate kisses. Josee sensed something melancholic about him. No, not his weight. She could look past that. Something in his posture. In his face. As if he’d witnessed his own demise and left behind a shell to carry on the functions of life.
Survival mode. I know it well.
“Okay, fine,” said Josee. “You wanna know what happened? I’ll tell you.”
