Dark to Mortal Eyes

by Eric Wilson

  Not that he’d be with them. Not one of them had invited him to a party.

  Skee-reeech!

  Well, he’d have the last laugh. Ha! If ICV’s plan pulled together, his former classmates would be watching his face on the news instead. Yeah, buddy, he could hear them now. “Isn’t that Beau Connors?”

  “You ever suspect he’d do something like this?”

  “Isn’t he the one those jocks messed up and threw into a locker, found him the next morning sniveling like a baby?”

  Pressure exploded in Beau’s head. His arms whipped back like broad wings and threw him back in the library chair so violently that he hit the floor and turned heads. He ground his palms against the high-pitched squawks in his ears.

  “Sir, do you need me to call someone? Are you all right?”

  On his knees, he scrambled from the librarian’s touch. Pocketed the earrings.

  “Maybe you should step outside, get some fresh air.”

  “Leave me alone!”

  Beau staggered down the library’s front steps, fleeing curious eyes but wanting to stay close so he could recheck his e-mail. Mr. Steele’s instructions might arrive at any time. One of two phrases: “Game Adjourned” or “Pawn Sacrifice.” If he was told to sacrifice, Beau would walk into the police station tonight and turn himself in for Kara Addison’s kidnapping. When they matched the ravine’s evidence with his jacket and shoes, when he waved these teardrop earrings, they’d go ape wild.

  Who’ll be sniveling then, huh? Tell me that much. Who?

  Chief Braddock held the elevator door so Josee could come aboard. Once they were closed in together, he turned toward her.

  She edged back. “Hey, keep your distance.”

  “You’re an uptight kid, you know that?”

  “Scooter’s missing, and I hold you responsible. You let him escape.”

  “Why don’t you zip it? I came to do a welfare check of your friend, make sure it was safe for him to be moving about, and he goes AWOL on me. We’ve searched this hospital thoroughly. No sign of your pal, so don’t blame me. Maybe you had a part in—”

  “It’s my fault again?” Josee shoved past him with an elbow. “Stay away from me. You want me to scream bloody murder when these doors open?”

  “Breathe easy, girl.” His eyes wandered over the front of her knit sweater before snapping back up. “I’m not here to let you stir up trouble for me. As a young man, I made my share of mistakes, but those days are behind me. We clear? You can smile big, try to look pretty, what have you. But this is business, police business.”

  She faced the door, convinced this elevator wasn’t big enough for the two of them. “I’d rather deal with Sergeant Turney, if you don’t mind. Supposed to meet him here soon.”

  “Obviously you have the big fella eating out of your hand.”

  “Least he listens. You know, with those two things on the sides of his head.”

  The chief followed her through the lobby to the patient drop-off zone beneath an overhang. Josee marched up and down the white-painted curb, watching for Turney. Or maybe she’d spot Scooter. Could he be out here? Without any clues, she wasn’t sure where to start looking.

  Chief Braddock was facing her. “Okay, I’m listening. What brought you here? Why’d you and your boyfriend choose to pass through Corvallis?”

  “Personal matters.”

  “Personal. Ah. To see your mother, you mean?”

  Josee tilted her head, threw him a blank gaze. Her mother? While the hospital was being searched, she’d made three calls to Kara Addison and had gotten an answering machine each time. So much for that. Josee knew when she was being avoided.

  “What has she told you, Josee?”

  “Zippo. Zilch. Nada.”

  “Why’d you come then?” Braddock got no response. “What about your father? What do you know about him?”

  “Is there a point to this, Chief? I mean, my family’s none of your concern.”

  “I’m a public servant.” Braddock’s smile was irritating. “How ’bout ICV?”

  “Icy what?”

  “In cauda venenum. The name ring any bells?”

  Josee stiffened. To hear those words verbalized brought her fears back to life. She scrounged for an answer.

  “ICV,” Braddock elucidated, “is a group of local anarchists, active mostly here in Oregon but Washington, too. Like to cause trouble. They’ve instigated a riot or two, stirred up dissent on college campuses. Been keeping an eye out for their activities recently, but they’re slippery. You know zip about them—that’s your answer?”

  “Never heard of it … them, whatever.”

  “What about your friend? Is he connected with them?”

  “Man, why’re you jumping all over me? I just want to see Scooter and ditch this town. I’ve done nothing wrong. Is that so hard to believe? Should never have come back in the first place. Big mistake.”

  “You have lots of history here.”

  “Got that right.”

  “Is that why you’ve returned? What about the key? Do you have it?”

  “Key?”

  “It belonged to your grandfather.”

  This detour rattled her. What did Braddock know about her family and her past? “You must have the wrong chick. Must’ve got your signals crossed, Chief.”

  “Girl, you’ve got quite the attitude—”

  “Couple of piercings and a tattoo don’t make me a criminal.”

  “And a mouth on you that won’t quit.”

  “Call it a gender attribute.”

  “That’s rich. You and Turney make quite a pair. Let’s see what he does now that I’m giving him some leash to run with. We’ll see how long it takes.”

  She touched a finger to her eyebrow ring. “Takes? For what?”

  “For him to hang himself with it.” Braddock nodded at the police cruiser curling into the drive. “Here he is. Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy. Sad thing is, he’s let that one incident back in ’81—he was just a kid, for Pete’s sake!—lock him up inside. Guilt is a horrible thing, no matter how misplaced. Best to let it go. That’s my policy.”

  “But it can still come back and bite you.”

  “Sounds like something Sarge’d say. Tell you what, he’ll be stuck forever if he doesn’t deal with this psychological weakness. Don’t you do like he’s done. The very night Sarge should’ve been celebrating his freedom was the night he chained it down—Independence Day. What do you think of that? Life’s a funny thing.”

  Josee wasn’t laughing. With the car door open, she met Turney’s eyes.

  July 4, 1981. They’d both been here. At Good Samaritan. A baby going up for adoption and a nine-year-old boy coming down off a mixture of pills and alcohol.

  With a flurry of ideas and emotions chasing questions through her head, she admitted that she had ignored these correlations. Too much. Too bizarre. She remembered Turney’s quizzical reaction to her birth date. His retelling of the snakebite. His guilt over the lady who’d been shot and the vanished baby.

  Could it be? Josee’s heart beat like a jackhammer. How-can-I-know-how-can-I-know-how-can-I-know?

  There was one way: If her birth mother could show her a bullet scar in her hip.

  Fat chance. Wherever Kara was, she’d obviously lost interest in their happy little reunion.

  14

  A Glimpse of Pain

  “Show and tell,” said Officer Graham. “Let’s see it.”

  The patrol car was at the foot of the estate, passing through the stucco archway. Behind the divider, Marsh was uncertain about the ivory envelope. The initials made this personal. CCD? Only zone players knew his user name, and Steele Knight alone addressed him by those initials. Reasoning told Marsh this note was important. He had not ordered that painting in the parlor; therefore, this thank-you note was one of two things: a mistake … or a message.

  So as not to arouse Graham’s suspicion, Marsh obliged. The same fingers that had fumbled with Kara’s restraints
dipped into the slit and produced a handwritten note. Then he tucked in the flap fastidiously and turned the envelope back over on the seat.

  Twice he read the note. Tried to show bafflement on his face.

  “Well? If you didn’t order the painting, as you claim, what does the note say?”

  “I’m lost. Here, read it for yourself.” As Marsh handed it through the divider, he theorized, “Maybe it’s a gift from one of my investors. The vineyard’s been doing well of late.”

  Graham read the note aloud, as though pronouncing a courtroom verdict.

  Mr. Addison, thank you, thank you, a million times over for your patronage. This piece boasts startling originality. This artist is brilliant in his use of color, pulling drama from every hue. One institute, the House of Ubelhaar, reviewed it thus: “The artist draws the viewer into the queen’s dilemma and leaves him asking: Does she fall? Is she impaled on the waiting spears? Where is her protector, the king, in all this? There is a true sense of urgency. And, if one is attentive to the cubist touches, he will note the hidden journal in the rampart’s thorny foreground. Was this the object of the queen’s attention? Was this the cause of her misstep along the ramparts? Perhaps, one wonders, the king might’ve saved her by offering up the mysterious pages.” Obviously, Mr. Addison, you share our belief that this art piece has poignant significance. May it inspire you to search for and share your own set of life mysteries.

  Again, thank you.

  Tattered Feather Art Gallery.

  “Your own set of life mysteries?” Officer Lansky repeated from behind the wheel.

  “My wife’s missing,” Marsh said. “That’s more mystery than I want.”

  As pines soared along Ridge Road and the temperature dropped, Marsh replayed Steele Knight’s gaming zone messages. Yesterday, October 29: Next, I’m coming after your queen. This morning: I’ve captured your queen … Wish to resign? Now, in his own home, a canvas of a threatened queen raised related questions. He wasn’t sure how or why, but he was convinced that his longtime opponent had now shifted from prosaic online skirmishes to the battlefield of flesh and blood.

  Was the explanation inside that envelope?

  With a herculean effort, he ignored the object on the seat. A sense of purpose had permeated the words of the official note. What more was written on that thinner scrap of paper he had spotted and left inside?

  The car was a mess. Marsh peered over the tangled guardrail at the white convertible Z3, a snagged shark stretched upon the stones below. The engine cooling vents were the gills, the coolant and transmission fluid were the entrails bleeding from the torn belly. Thankfully, the shark’s belly—the cockpit—was empty.

  Where are you, Kara? No one could’ve survived this.

  Beneath towering Douglas firs, he waited in stunned silence. When Officer Lansky had opened the rear door for him, Marsh had slid from the seat while slipping the envelope into his waistband. Graham had circled to the front of the car and stood watching, as though he expected Marsh’s actions to betray culpability in the day’s events.

  “This is it, mile-marker four,” said Lansky. “Here’s where she went over.”

  “Thought your partner said there was no body.”

  “I meant the car, Mr. Addison. Sorry. She jumped the rail right there—see the dent and the paint chips?—and bounced down into the ravine.” The officer swung his leg over the yellow tape along the rail and lowered himself through clumps of fern. “Wanna take a look? Might catch a clue we wouldn’t expect.”

  “She’s not down there? You’re positive?”

  “No guarantees. The brush does get pretty thick. We did conduct a preliminary spiral check earlier—covering, I figure, a forty-foot circumference—but contacting you was the next logical step since you were just up the road.” Police boots sent stones clinking into the gully. “We were hoping your wife’d be home with a ready explanation.”

  Marsh’s usual business-quick responses had fled him.

  Had Kara been in his study? Had she been in the car when it went over?

  A cold sweat broke out around his collar. Surely, after years of benign Internet chess, there was no reason for his online adversary to intrude upon his marriage. True, Steele Knight’s name sounded ominous, but so did most of the zone’s monikers. Money—was that the motive? A hefty ransom? Or was it more base than that? Was his opponent some sicko hoping for a little—

  Okay, that’s enough. For all I know, this guy lives in the Midwest or Boston or Venezuela. Chess is our only connection.

  But the official note had alluded to the threatened queen … His wife?

  It had also mentioned an absent king, and a hidden journal.

  The journal! My father’s journal!

  “Mr. Addison?” Officer Lansky was staring up at him from a spit of stone.

  “Yes, I’m right here,” he said. “I’m coming down.”

  While Graham watched him from the patrol car above, Marsh clutched taproots and muddy rocks and descended twenty feet into the ravine. By the time he joined the policeman next to the mangled wreckage, his loafers were ruined, and his hands were smeared with the earth’s gritty scent.

  “Warned you it wasn’t pretty.”

  Marsh took a deep breath. “I need to know what went on here.”

  Nearby, a stream played over polished gray rocks. Marsh ventured a closer look, saw the Z3’s front window frame jutting out like a dorsal fin while the oval snout pointed into the water. The shark wanted back in its element.

  Funny, the things that go through your mind at a time like this.

  He moved to the cockpit. Yes, same tannin red dash and interior, same chrome accents. On Kara’s sheepskin seat covers her initials—KDA—were handstitched. He could still see her on her birthday four weeks ago at the sales lot in Eugene. From the driver’s seat, she had tossed back golden hair and gazed over her shades at him with lighthearted passion. His response? He’d whipped out the checkbook and marched to the sales office, buying her favor in the manner he knew best.

  Here, staring into the wreckage, he felt a surge of anger. It seemed that some cosmic force was out there laughing it up, relishing his discomfort, branding his efforts with a big stamp of disapproval.

  Kara’s unknown whereabouts and the details of this accident dropped into his stomach. He doubled over. Growled. Slammed down his hand on the tilted chassis.

  “What now?” said Officer Lansky, with a surreptitious glance.

  “Who is behind this? You have any ideas, any at all?”

  “Still weighing possibilities. It is her car, isn’t it?”

  Marsh nudged aside a half-deflated air bag. From a jumble of papers spilling from the glove box, he retrieved a pumpkin-colored flier that announced a community Thanksgiving dinner and named his wife as the coordinator. News to him. How would he write it off at year’s end if she didn’t keep him in the loop?

  Stop. Business can wait.

  He rolled the paper in his hand and looked up. “It’s hers, no question.”

  The officer cleared his throat, tossed a glance up the cliff where his partner stood ready at the guardrail. “Any reason she might’ve done this of her own volition?”

  “Done what?”

  “This. The accident.”

  “Are you … What’re you asking me exactly? Cut through the bull.”

  “Was she experiencing any depression, taking any medication?”

  “Suicide, Officer? Is that what you’re getting at?”

  “Simply covering all the bases, sir.”

  “Who do you think you are? You have some nerve, you know that?” Marsh’s broad frame led him back around the car where he aimed the rolled flier at the policeman’s chest. “Did you bring me down here to see if I’d crack, to pressure me into spilling some dirty little secret? Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m in the dark here, same as you, and it’s my wife who’s missing. That make even one iota of sense to you?”

  “Back off, Mr. Addison.” On the rocks abo
ve, Graham stood with legs apart, a hand on his holster.

  “Listen,” said Lansky. “We want to find your wife, same as you. At this point we’re treating it as a routine accident investigation. But there are some curious facts we need to face.”

  “I deal in facts. Lay it all out. Go on. What do they tell us?”

  Lansky ticked them off. “First, based on the info at our disposal, we could have a straightforward accident here, driver not yet located or identified. Could be a suicide attempt—now hear me out on this—and the body may have washed downstream. Another possibility’s a life insurance scam. Not uncommon. She might’ve hoped the car would catch fire, destroying any evidence. Looks good on television.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “It’s been tried more than once.”

  “Okay, fine, the facts could lead to several possibilities. I know my wife though, and Kara’s not a destructive person.” He handed over the flier. “There, that’s more her style. I’m forty-four years old, I’ve known her over half my life, and I’ve never seen her try to hurt anyone—not physically, not intentionally. Believe me, it’s not her nature.”

  “I’m sure that’s the case, sir. Of course, there’re other theories linked to the scene in your study, which you have yet to explain.”

  “Well, I sure wish someone would explain them to me. You know, I don’t give a rip about your insinuations. I have the right to remain silent, remember?” Marsh knelt by the stream and scrubbed his hands in the rippling water. Was she out here somewhere? Dead or injured?

  “Kara,” he called out.

  The stream’s draft carried her name through a tunnel of overhanging limbs and foliage. On the opposing bank, a squirrel darted across a fallen hemlock; in the trees, a rook called out, then took flight. Where was she? Who was it he’d talked to in the study? Had to be her, of course, but that didn’t explain the accident. With his own eyes, he’d seen her leave in the Z3 yesterday. Had she survived and returned to the manor on her own? Was she down here somewhere?