Dark to Mortal Eyes

by Eric Wilson

  “I’d be appreciative.” He stood and gestured at her. “C’mon, though, let’s take it to the cafeteria, where I can fatten you up while priming you for answers.”

  “Not me, not hungry.”

  “My tab, Josee. The department’ll reimburse me if need be.”

  “Do I look like I need a handout?”

  “Who are you foolin’? Bet you haven’t had a decent meal all week.”

  Turney turned his broad back and walked away. Josee stammered. Decided to stay put. Changed her mind, grabbed her belongings, and followed. Turney was right. She was starved.

  In her rush through the lobby, she collided with a man who groaned and turned as though ready to vociferate. Instead, he stared. His shoulders were hunched in the manner of many tall men, gray hair streaked his black mane, and a thin nose sliced vertically the way his lips did horizontally. Aside from patches at the elbows—how ’70s was that!—his corduroy jacket matched the slate gray eyes that now riveted her.

  “Got a problem?” Josee demanded. “Watch where you’re going.”

  He rocked forward, fingers plucking at the air.

  “Stare hard, retard.” Feeling juvenile even as she said the words, she shook off his predatory gaze and continued to the cafeteria with its round, white tables.

  Josee shoved a plastic tray down the cafeteria bar. Eating with a cop didn’t fit into her antiauthority framework, but that deli vegetarian sandwich did look good. So did the Sun Chips. She took swigs of iced tea so that her mouth was too full to protest each time Sergeant Turney added another item to her tray.

  The clerk at the register seemed to know the sergeant. She waved him on.

  He paid anyway, nabbing the receipt.

  At a table overlooking a courtyard, Josee plopped into the seat across from him. She didn’t want this guy thinking he controlled her. Absolutely not. Yet she did find a certain calm in his presence. Turney had been the first on the scene, the one to radio for help, and—shocker of all shockers—the only man in a long time to avoid making a pass at her when given the opportunity.

  What is it about him? Not that we click, but it’s like … Oh, forget it!

  After light chatter and fervent eating, Turney wrestled pad and pen from his pocket. “Feelin’ better already. Now, let’s start this off with your name, first and last.”

  “Josee Walker.”

  “J-O-S-I-E?”

  “Two e’s, no i,” she replied through a bite of macaroni salad.

  “Place of birth?”

  “Corvallis, Oregon. Right here at Good Samaritan.”

  “A small world. Bet you remember it like it was yesterday.”

  She played along. “Mm-hmm, every detail. Actually, I was given up for adoption. Haven’t seen my birth parents since day one.”

  “Hope things’ve worked out for you.”

  She lifted her shoulders. Sucked on a sliced dill pickle.

  “Back to my ruthless interrogation. Your age?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “I’ve got a good nine years on you. Date of birth?”

  “July 4, 1981.”

  The sergeant gave a puzzled look.

  “Stinkin’ Fourth of July,” Josee reiterated. “And you can hold the jokes, please. Got teased enough in school. ‘Were you born with only a fourth of a brain?’ ‘Miss Independence.’ Seems silly, but it irritated the crud out of me back then.”

  “Kids can be cruel. Believe me”—he rubbed his stomach—”I’ve heard it all.”

  “You’re packing lead, all right.” A quick thrust to regain her advantage.

  “Lard’s more like it. So, kiddo … uh, Josee, you got any birthmarks, tattoos, or other identifying features?”

  “Excuse me? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I’ll mark down the piercing. How ’bout that?”

  “Which one?”

  “Uh …” He faltered, made a note on the pad. “The eyebrow. There, that’ll do.”

  “Wanna see my newest tat?”

  “Tattoo? Nope, nope, we’re good.”

  With a quick gulp of Pepsi, he regained his composure and suggested that she proceed with her account. She peered out the window and gave it to him straight. He scribbled away, never looking up or contradicting her; by the end, however, she felt his demeanor shifting. Was he doubting her? He rubbed his eyes with a large fist and closed his notepad upon his knee.

  “So,” he said, “you’re sure that’s how it happened? You’d testify to it under oath?”

  “I knew you’d write me off.” Josee bounded to her feet, slung her bedroll over her shoulder. “Never should have opened my mouth in the first place.”

  “But I’m buyin’,” he cajoled. “Every word of it.”

  She planted a hand on her hip.

  “Looky here.” The sergeant began rolling up the left sleeve of his blue uniform. He looked like a heavyweight boxer preparing to throw a punch. A prizefighter. With every jab Josee had thrown, Turney had ducked or parried with equal force. Although in need of conditioning, he seemed to have a few good rounds left in him.

  “Josee, you all right? Hello? Anybody home?”

  Without realizing it, she’d again locked on to his gaze—those warm eyes.

  “Yeah,” she said, “just thinking.” She was thinking that it wasn’t weakness that had softened his brown eyes; it was empathy gained by ordeals endured. Turney, too, had a scrapbook of shredded pages and photographs. She could sense it. See it. If she observed him long enough, she thought she might even identify his pain.

  Oh, this is crazy. Like I can trust this guy? Nope, not gonna go there.

  Turney’s sleeve was now rolled to the shoulder, and he was pointing to a biceps wasted beneath a layer of flab. “True, these arms ain’t what they used to be. Back in my prizefightin’ days, though, I even won myself a purse or two.”

  “I was just thinking how you reminded me of a boxer.”

  “I was a big kid. Thunder Turney—that’s what the gym rats called me.”

  “Has a ring to it,” she ribbed him. “You know, as in, a boxing ring?”

  “Yuk, yuk.” He flexed his arm. “C’mon and take a closer look.”

  “Just a joke. Please don’t hurt me, mister.” She dipped her head for a peek and nearly choked. “Wait! This can’t be coincidence. Are those what I think they are?”

  “They’re fang marks.” Spaced two inches apart on his freckled biceps, pale green scar tissue capped wounds that had once oozed blood and pus for weeks. Or so Turney claimed. He said the marks were twenty-two years old. “You were just a little thing, Josee,” he kidded, but his eyes watched hers, intent on her reaction.

  “So now you’re a math whiz. Good for you, Sarge.”

  “Easy to figure, really. Happened on the day you were born.”

  “Fourth of July? Okay, that’s freakin’ weird.”

  She studied his arm, recognized the bite pattern. Same as Scooter’s. The scars confirmed her instinct to come clean with this cop. Yep, he must’ve been testing her, determining the things she had seen and what she attributed them to. Sergeant Turney might even have a clue as to what had gone on out there in the woods.

  Or maybe … Maybe he’s still looking for answers himself.

  Either way, she sensed an opportunity for a connection. Sparring partners. Training for what, the big match? Against a stinkin’ vapor, a serpent being? Things were getting fuzzy, as though she’d taken one blow too many to the head. Maybe she should hang up the gloves before things got worse. Best thing to do was get Scooter out of here and return to the original plan. She’d call to see her birth mother Thursday afternoon, play the part of long-lost daughter, then head back to Puget Sound.

  In other words, get far away from here, get on with life.

  Turney was tapping his scars. “I told ya I believed every word. So, Josee, you wanna hear how I got these buggers?”

  She was a statue in her seat. Afraid to know. Afraid not to.

  T
he arrival of Chief Braddock stole that decision from her.

  8

  Empty Space

  Marsh crossed the parking area to the winetasting room. The meeting had gone well. Routine was taking over. While Kara pursued her pipe dreams, he’d continue with the day’s demands. Let her do her thing, go to the beach house, whatever.

  Mark me down in case I don’t show back up …

  Her words ran through his mind. And that sadness on her face.

  He’d been harsh; he could admit that. Offering sparse sympathy. Shutting her off. How though, he wondered, could he show her that he did care? What would be meaningful to her?

  “Afternoon, Mr. Addison.” Straddling a tractor, a mechanic greeted him.

  Marsh nodded, then pushed through huge doors into an area lined with oak barrels. Bottles in wine racks wore gold medals around their necks; T-shirts and etched glasses displayed the Addison Ridge name. In the warehouse things also looked presentable, and he spent an hour monitoring fermentation levels. He thought of calling Kara, even hit speed dial on his cell phone, then rejected the notion for fear of being coerced into a conversation with Josee.

  What would he say, for heaven’s sake? After two decades, words were cheap.

  As he entered the manor, an idea struck him.

  The parlor … Stodgy and staid, his mother’s Hepplewhite antiques and dour-faced daguerreotypes lined the room. Kara’s additions, inherited from her grandmother, were perfunctory: velvet drapes, ruby-colored carpet that begged admiration but offered only minimal functionality, and the pièce de résistance, a walnut-grained organ that was polished more often than played.

  Why not clear the room? Create a parlor suited to Kara’s interests?

  Harebrained, but I like it. Maybe Kara will too.

  With a phone call, he enlisted help. Before dinner, the space was emptied, the bric-a-brac transferred to a downtown storage unit, the carpets and drapes stripped away, the organ covered and preserved by a specialist who fawned over the craftsmanship. There was no doubt in Marsh’s mind that his mother would lament the removal of her “precious heirlooms,” but Virginia had moved into a coastal retirement community, and for over two decades this had been his and Kara’s home.

  So be it. Till death do us part.

  In the late afternoon, he saw Rosie arrive from town in the vineyard’s company van. After directing the unloading of kitchen supplies, she followed him into the parlor and scanned the space without comment. When he took a broom to the baseboards, she shooed him away and took over. Later Marsh found her heading down the hall into the two-room area she occupied with her dachshund. She had started her duties early and, as scheduled, was now ready to retire for the evening.

  “Rosie, thanks for your help.”

  “All in a day’s work, sir.”

  “I’m putting together an idea for Kara,” he said, fishing for female feedback.

  “As I’ve observed.”

  “Yeah. I think the room’ll look better, more Kara’s style.”

  “Rather sparse, if I might be candid.”

  “I’ve got some ideas, stuff that she’ll appreciate. Or maybe I should wait until she gets back and let her choose for herself.”

  “She’s mentioned on more than one occasion how she loves the piano.”

  “Really? But the organ, she never even played it while it was here.”

  “Hardly the same thing, sir. The piano’s more whimsical, don’t you think, in keeping with Kara’s temperament.”

  “Hmm, not a bad idea.”

  “Will that be all?”

  “Sure. Thanks, Rosie. Have a good night.”

  With her inimitable style, she turned down the hall.

  Marsh slipped into his study at the top of the grand staircase. Thunderclouds were gathering over the Cascade foothills, and he watched claw-footed lightning shred the night. Behind him the door slid closed, and a beep signaled the activation of the electronic lock. Henri Esprit was the only other person with access to this room. For security reasons, the keypad was reprogrammed on a quarterly basis.

  Marsh went over the previous week’s spreadsheets on his desk while his father’s picture gazed down from a bookshelf. Chauncey Addison. His dream lived on.

  “Chance … Dad. I’m taking this place up a notch. Wish you could be here.”

  As he pulled his eyes from the photo, a discrepancy demanded attention. Here, where he orchestrated his affairs with precision, here, where he knew the position of each Escher original on the walls and the precise formation of combatants upon the chess table, something was amiss.

  His frosted glass queen … She had vanished from the board.

  For crying out loud, why couldn’t people leave things alone? His father, as a young infantryman, had purchased this chess set more than five decades ago in the weeks following the Nazi surrender. The set was irreplaceable. The fact it had arrived on American soil without a mark was testimony to its value.

  Now a piece was gone. The inner sanctum had been violated. The question was, who had been in his office? Rosie, Kara, Henri Esprit …

  Someone else? Or … something else?

  He admonished himself for irrational suppositions. Time to get a grip.

  After a thorough check of the carpet and the space under the furniture, he plunked down on the black leather sofa. Moonlight sparkled amid the chessboard regiments, but the queen’s space remained empty and dark. Kara’s parting words played once more in his ears. Had she been trying to tell him something? No, he was reading too much into this. Of course she would show back up. Always did.

  He changed into swim trunks, grabbed a towel and a Black Butte Porter, then headed for the back deck Jacuzzi.

  The Tattered Feather Gallery specialized in Native American art. Suzette Bishop owned the shop on SW Second, and though she carried other items—sand candles, myrtlewood clocks, Mount St. Helens ash-carved statuettes—it was the tribal imagery that connected her to the beating heart of mother earth. She told customers she had Nez Percé blood, and she’d begun to believe it herself.

  Hadn’t she smoked peyote in college? That made her one of them. In her haze, she’d felt the brush of feathers on her skin, heard the scream of a soaring eagle.

  Thus, her self-given native name: Tattered Feather.

  Through dream catchers strung along the gallery window, Suzette watched the sun complete its circuit. With closing time at seven, she had just over an hour to go.

  A sharp tone sounded at the entrance, and tree shadows leaped through the opening shop door.

  “Still open?”

  “Why, yes, yes, absolutely. Come on in.”

  A stooped, middle-aged man entered, toting a paper-wrapped canvas as large as himself. Suzette retreated behind a long glass display case. A premonition? She wasn’t certain. What had the electric eye seen that made it cry out so?

  “How’s your evening? Any questions I can answer for you?”

  “I’m an artist.”

  “Wonderful, that’s wonderful.”

  The man ran his hand along the paper, up and down, up and down, while his eyes scanned the showroom. “Didn’t mean to startle you. My apologies.”

  “Oh, no, no, not at all.”

  “Audentes fortuna juvat,” he said.

  She pulled a hand to her chest and wrinkled her mouth. It’d been weeks since her last meeting with ICV. She loved the Pacific Northwest for its natural resources, and this group claimed to fight for environmental concerns. They gathered and inspired artists, taught awareness, and collected and donated funds. More recently, however, they’d segued into anarchist activity under the guise of civil disobedience.

  In her last meeting, she’d seen one recruit—only one—decry such means.

  ICV’s retaliation was swift. Anything but civil. And she hadn’t gone back.

  “Ma’am, I know it’s been a while. I’m seeking your help, hoping to sell my newest work on consignment.” The man stripped away the paper to reveal a white chess
queen upon her castle walls. She was reaching for something, losing her balance. Concealed among thorns in a cubist foreground, a book was open, pages flapping. Was this the object of interest? A saffron streak marked the painting’s edge.

  “My, my, my. Very original. Is this yours?”

  The artist gave a nod, his aura draping him like a buffalo blanket.

  “Striking. And quite good.” Suzette Bishop’s misgivings crumbled before her passion for creative expression. “I like its brooding magnetism. I’ll make a space.”

  The man looked her in the eye for the first time. “Sounds trivial, I’m sure, but do you make deliveries of purchased works? That’s been my understanding.”

  “Why, on occasion I’ve made such arrangements.”

  “With a piece this large, it might be a necessity. My asking price is $3,999.”

  She propped the canvas beside a shelf of amulets and bear-claw necklaces, mentally calculating her commission. If it sold quickly, she could attend the upcoming psychic fair. All was coming into alignment. Tattered Feather would have a chance to fly. “I can guarantee delivery,” she told the artist. “Not to worry, not at all.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. In cauda venenum.”

  “In cauda venenum.” The phrase spilled so smoothly through Suzette’s lips.

  With the porter thick on his tongue and chlorine heavy in the air, Marsh let a waterjet drill at the tension in his back. Tomorrow he’d start fresh. He had hurt Kara with his words, but he would make it up to her. With any luck, she’d be happy with the changes in the parlor. He would let her tell of her encounter with Josee, and then maybe she would calm her hormones, and the kitchen staff could serve them a candlelight dinner in the dining hall, and they’d laugh and act as they had during their engagement in his junior year at Oregon State.

  Before the pregnancy. And the doctor’s grim prognosis.

  Before his mother’s enigmatic warning that had served as precursor to both …

  “Son, I cannot tell you everything. Wish that I could, but Chance wouldn’t want it that way.” In his memories, Virginia’s voice was always shakier than in real life, as though the decades-old conversation were taped and wearing thin. “You need to know, though, a few things at least. Now that you and Kara are considering marriage, I’m obligated to issue a caution.”