by Eric Wilson
Or had someone taken her? Steele Knight?
“Kara,” he cried out again. “If you can hear me, say something.”
A voice. Weak, but distinct. Whispering from the stream. “Marshall …”
“Is that you! Kara, honey, speak louder.”
He was skeptical; she couldn’t have survived a crash such as this.
From high above, winged seedlings fell in lazy helicopter spins. Against the October sky, it looked to Marsh as though they formed black and white links that came looping around his neck. He winced and, lowering his eyes, strained to hear his wife’s voice. He thought of all the times he had tuned her out.
“Over here, Marshall,” the stream whispered again.
“I’m here. Where are you? Talk to me.”
“Here. Please, don’t leave. Please.”
Stahlherz clambered up the stairs to a two-bedroom apartment over a Chinese restaurant. Though the Golden Dragon would not open for another hour and a half, scents of broccoli and ginger filled the single-light-bulb stairway.
He reached the landing, cursing his mortality and the tightness in his limbs. The talon wound on his forearm throbbed, a reminder of his feathered friend and its burst of unruliness in Café Zerachio. Stahlherz had never allowed his rooks to seize control. An isolated incident. Yet, like an isolated pawn in a game, he felt weakened.
In the apartment, three recruits were gathered: two men, one woman. A Trailblazers blanket was tacked over the main window, lending the apartment a dark, crimson hue.
“Fortune favors the daring,” the trio chanted.
Stahlherz reciprocated, then drew back an edge of the blanket to verify Darius’s position in the lot below. His driver was wired and happy, a sentinel armed with a quad-shot white mocha. The girl at the drive-through espresso booth had taken his order with a flirtatious smile that said she was impressed—in more ways than one.
“Is the Professor coming?” the woman recruit asked Stahlherz.
“No.” He dropped the blanket. “Is that a problem? Am I incapable of delineating your task?” He tried to fix each individual with a stare; instead, with the flaring of his social anxieties, he blinked. No, no, no. Control. He must guide these pawns, exhibit strength. “Thank you for gathering on short notice, my friends. The time is upon us.”
From far-flung Roseburg, Astoria, and Umatilla, these three political dreamers had converged upon the city of Salem with the pillars of the capitol in their eyes. The years, however, had picked apart their ideals, and at their first tête-à-tête he had instructed them: “Don’t try to remove the splinter from your friend’s eye. First remove the pillar from your own. Here in Salem, as you’ve discovered, that pillar is the system. It has blinded you. Or tried to. You must pluck it away, with no fear and no regrets.”
They’d hung on every word. Ulcerating in the bosom of the political monster.
In cauda venenum!
From his carpetbag, Stahlherz removed a canister and set it on the coffee table. “Don’t let its simplicity disappoint you. This vessel is a means of storage and dispersion, nothing more. Tomorrow evening you will bring it with you to the site I’ve designated. From that point, then, you understand your instructions?”
The woman said, “Of course. We’ve been reconnoitering for the past year.”
The older man said, “Will it be safe, Mr. Steele? For us, I mean.”
“Safe? Did you learn that word from brown-nosing politicos? Radical change comes by veering from the path of comfort and security. It’s time to strike before being struck, don’t you think? Only last month a handful of al-Qaeda sympathizers confessed their guilt before a judge in Portland. Did they accomplish their goals beforehand? I think not. Will you, too, shrink from the dangers inherent?”
“We wouldn’t be here if that was the case, sir.”
“You—we—are threads in the garment of revolt.” Stahlherz warmed to his oratory. “Here are some samples from history’s tapestry: 1940 … the Japanese start an outbreak of the bubonic plague by dropping ceramic pots of contaminated rice and fleas on China’s Cheking Province—”
“That does it for me, no more meals downstairs.”
“In 1763, the English give smallpox-laden blankets to those Indians loyal to the French. In 1346, in what is now modern Ukraine, the Tartars attack a seaport by catapulting diseased carcasses over the city walls in hopes of starting an epidemic. Finally, and particularly apropos, is the story of Hannibal in 184 B.C. While fighting a naval battle in Pergamum, he orders earthen pots to be hurled onto the decks of the enemy ships.”
“Pots? What was in ’em?”
“An ancient evil. A creature known to spark fear and enmity.”
“Snakes?”
Stahlherz grinned. “He made sure they were filled with ‘serpents of every kind’ so that his enemies caught a glimpse of the pain they had coming.”
“Not to question your plan, Mr. Steele, but a couple of snakes?” The oldest recruit frowned. “Honestly, how many does this canister hold? Am I missing something?”
Marsh saw nothing at first. A gust of wind wrenched the Z3’s chassis against the river rock. Between boulders, the stream narrowed and gurgled, then fanned into a pool that reflected iron-bellied clouds and protruding tree limbs.
“Kara?”
“Sir, what’re you doing?”
He kicked off loafers and dress socks. Ignoring Officer Lansky’s inquiry, he stepped into the water. “I’m right here, Kara.” He waded to his knees. Wetness crept up his pant legs as he picked his way over moss-coated slabs. A crayfish raised its pincers, then spurted out of sight.
“Here, Marsh.” A thin cry of pain.
A splash of color arrested his attention, and he reached for it, gathered chiffon material from the tugging nubs of a tree. Kara’s scarf. He remembered her tying it on before her departure on Wednesday morning.
“Here … over here.”
“Coming.”
He ducked his shoulders beneath a canopy of branches and found himself enveloped by shaded silence. And there she was. Kara was a shimmering butterfly, emerging from the stream’s watery cocoon onto an extruding rock. Her arms were like wings, beaded with drops of water as they tried to stretch. She was created for flight; she was struggling to position herself.
“Kara! What happened? Are you okay?” Marsh steeled his emotions, surveyed the scene. “You must’ve lost it on the curve. The car’s ruined.”
She pulled herself another foot from the water and struggled for a secure purchase, for a point of takeoff. For her first—her final?—flight.
Marsh splashed toward her, and as he set a big hand on her shoulder, she moaned under the weight. He told himself he’d have to be the strong one. She needed him, needed his poise at this moment. To his astonishment, there wasn’t any visible blood; the branches must’ve somehow cushioned her fall into the stream. To this point, she’d survived. But he had no delusions. She would need immediate medical attention.
“Can you move your legs?” he asked. Was it safe to lift her?
She shook her head.
“Anything broken?”
“Don’t think so. But … not sure that I’m … going to make it.”
15
The Elements
Josee watched Sergeant Turney brush a Burger King wrapper and a dog-eared manual from the seat to the floor. He said, “Sorry ’bout the mess. Are you gettin’ in?”
“Scooter’s gone.”
“Chief told me over the radio.”
“He left a message with this nurse lady, said I’d know where to meet him.” She stood frozen at the open door. “As if I have a stinkin’ clue.”
“What’ve you got in your hand there?”
“Jesús Cristo,” she mouthed in Spanish, her pinkie tracing the figure on the wooden crucifix in her palm. She slipped the object over her spiked hair onto her neck and tucked it beneath her sweater so that it hung between her breasts. “Nurse gave it me.”
The cross a
nd her vial of gel capsules. Nestled together above her heart.
Turney’s brown eyes watched her.
“What’re you staring at, mister?”
There she went again, tossing out her sticks of dynamite. She was such an idiot. This man had been so kind yesterday, sharing not only his own self-doubts but an understanding that they were battling something unusual and unnatural. Supernatural? Most likely. How long, though, had it been since she’d entrusted another person with her well-being? And a cop, of all people. Dangerous ground. She’d been lured before into positions of trust and had them melt away like quicksand beneath her feet.
Turney checked the dash clock. “Concerned about you, Josee, that’s all. Let’s find Scooter, then get you over to Avery Park to meet your mother. You get ahold of her?”
“Nope. Listen, it’s your lunch break. Don’t let me waste all your time.”
“Chief’s freed me to do what needs to be done. He wants the best for you too.”
“Oh, right. Just enough leash to hang ourselves.”
“What?”
“Forget it.” She dropped into the seat. “Just wish I knew where Scooter was.”
“How ’bout the park? He knew you planned to meet your mother, right?”
“Worth a try, I guess.”
She guessed wrong. By one-twenty, Avery Park still showed no sign of her missing friend or her mother. Not that Josee expected any different. Despite the Subway sandwiches they had picked up, her stomach was knotted. She used Turney’s cell to place a fourth and a fifth call to the Addisons, left two messages, then put her head against the window. On their way back to the Van der Bruegges, the sergeant suggested they stop by the police station downtown to pick up Scooter’s bike and belongings that had been stored since yesterday.
“Maybe you’ll find somethin’, get an idea where he’s run off to.”
“You mean go scrounging through other people’s stuff? Excuse me, Sarge, but I have a little respect. Scoot’s stuff—I don’t touch it.” Actually, she had reached for his backpack once and been startled by Scooter’s harsh rebuke.
Turney pursed his lips. “Hmm. Blame it on my cop instincts. I’m shameless as they come.” He turned into the station parking lot. “You comin’ in? Can’t leave you in the car unattended. Nothin’ personal. Just strict guidelines.”
“I’ll sit outside. Need some time to think. Some air.”
Ten minutes later Turney wrestled the rusty bike and Scooter’s pack into the trunk. He grunted and grabbed a hand to his biceps as a flash of pain crossed his face. With an apology, he headed back into the station. Said he’d be right back.
One minute later she heard the noise.
Tunka-tunk-tunk … hsss!
Turney’s knee struck a wayward chair in his glass-partitioned office, his feet slipped on old newspapers and Snickers wrappers, and he scrambled for balance. An empty Dr Pepper can clinked against the desk leg. He fell into his seat. One hand clutched at his arm; the other waved away a fly.
How many years had it been? This hadn’t happened since he was a kid.
“Lord, don’t leave me now.”
On the wall, certificates and plaques offered vain praise. More fitting, Turney thought, was the Weekend Warrior poster that fellow officers had given him on his last birthday. The Warrior cradled a bag of chips and a six-pack, a fishing pole and net, and boasted a cartoon belly that distended an old wrinkled T-shirt. His eyes were apathetic.
Turney related. In this job he tried to sympathize. Tried to care. “The job’s a struggle for me,” he’d told his minister. “Sometimes it’s easier to just apathize.”
“Apathize? Is that a word?”
“It is now.”
From boyhood, Turney had wanted to help others. Wanted to save the day. Be a hero. He’d worked out in the ring. Read Tarzan books beneath the bedcovers. With a little help from his mom’s liquor cabinet, he’d even found a way to feel larger than life. But when push came to shove, he had failed in his role. Let that snake stare him down. Lost a baby. He should’ve pulled that cop’s gun and stood guard. Stopped anyone from steppin’ foot through that hospital-room door.
And as a grown man, where had he been when Milly needed him?
He’d earned his badge and the privilege of driving a car with a siren and spinning lights, but it did her little good. Maybe if he’d been there at the scene …
“Daydreaming again?”
“Chief.” Turney straightened in his seat.
Chief Braddock stiff-armed the door shut, rattling partitions on three sides. “You drop off that Josee girl back at the Van der Bruegges?”
“Not yet. Swung by here to pick up her friend’s stuff.” Turney hid a grimace.
“Well, let’s talk about her, shall we?”
“Can it wait, sir? I’ve got her sittin’ out by the car.”
“You know who she is, don’t you? Don’t tell me you haven’t put two and two together. You wrote the report. You marked down her birth date. This is your big chance. The girl’s here in town again, and look whose arms she’s come running to.”
“Jumpin’ to conclusions. That’s not the way it’s been.”
“Oh, it’s not? Listen, Sarge”—the chief hooked his thumbs into his belt buckle—”I’m happy for you. Don’t you back off the way you usually do. No. Let fate play its hand here and get back in the ring. Let’s see ol’ Thunder Turney go a couple of rounds. Put this behind you, grow up, and maybe you’ll have a shot at taking my position someday. ‘Chief Turney.’ You’d love to see me retire. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t.”
“Sir, what makes you so sure that Josee’s the same kid?”
“Besides the obvious? Well, let’s tick off the facts—”
“Can we play this game later?” Turney pushed himself from his desk. Cupped his arm. “If you don’t mind, I gotta get out there.”
“Katherine Davies. Remember that name?”
Turney lurched. The lady who’d been shot years ago. The baby’s mother.
“You want confirmation of Josee’s identity? Well, there it is. I’m handing it to you on a platter. Ask her the name of her birth mother. Then, while you’re at it, ask her what her mother’s married name is now. The lady’s shortened her first name, but you’ll recognize it. She’s a prominent philanthropist, a respected community member.”
“Chief—”
“Ms. Davies got married soon after that ugly incident. Did you know that? Or doesn’t a nine-year-old kid read the wedding announcements? Ms. Davies is now Mrs. Kara Davies Addison.”
“As in Addison Ridge Vineyards? Those Addisons? They don’t have children.”
“Why do you think Josee’s here, Sarge? A reunion—that’s what it is. Except we have a problem. Lansky and Graham found Kara Addison’s vehicle this morning, a heap of metal at the bottom of a ravine. No sign of her. They’re pulling in Mr. Addison to ask some questions.” Braddock dropped a file on the desk. “Read all about it.”
Turney shook his head. “Hold up. Why drag me into this?”
“Thought you’d like to keep abreast so you can mull it over with that imagination of yours. As for our little friend outside, I’ll leave it to you to break the news.”
Cross-legged on a strip of lawn beside the cruiser, Josee was filling her lungs with the scent of approaching rain. Even the blades of grass, infused with emerald luminescence, seemed to breathe it in. A seagull floated across the darkening sky, and Josee decided a squall must be headed inland; as a girl, she’d learned that gulls in the valley indicated stormy weather from the Pacific.
Hope you’re somewhere safe, Scoot. Somewhere nice and warm.
Time for her prescription. As good a time as any.
With a saved chunk of Subway bread to help it down, she tapped a red capsule into her hand. She noted her vial was running low. Refill orders were shipped special delivery to her through a medical courier. This month’s order had failed to arrive before her trip south. Would it be there when she went back
to Washington? Without it, something as minor as a bruised heel could have serious consequences. She would bleed internally. She could bleed to death.
Tunka-tunk-tunk … hsss!
Behind her, a horn blared and tires squealed. Had someone blown a tire? She whipped around. Cars were streaming through a yellow signal, and an elderly couple in a Dodge Duster sat trapped in the intersection, afraid to turn, afraid to reverse.
Tunka-hssss … tunka-tunk-tunk.
The noise irritated Josee. She saw no sign of a damaged tire or collision, no explanation for the sound that seemed within arm’s reach.
In the warmth of her palm, the gel capsule was turning soft.
Ignore the noise. Just stick to your routine.
Josee had hemophilia. She had read of others with similar conditions; nearly a century ago, young Alexei, the son of Russian Czar Nicholas II, had almost died from a standard nosebleed. Josee knew that her particular type of disorder had stumped the professionals. As with the other four hundred hemophiliac babies born each year across the country, her blood lacked essential clotting proteins. To further complicate her condition, she had developed inhibitors in utero that blocked the activities of clotting treatments such as recombinant factor VIII.
The doctors had tried everything. Only with constant blood transfusions had she been able to function with some safety and normalcy. State funds and foster homes handed her around like the damaged material she knew she was.
Then, after her ninth birthday, a local specialist had offered her and her newly adoptive parents an experimental treatment—one final transfusion plus concentrated capsules to regenerate daily the protein-rich blood that would pump through her veins.
Just like that, a new world had opened before her.
For the first time, Josee Walker was able to affix fresh pages in her vandalized scrapbook of memories, writing new captions to cover the past. Lights and needles, probes and scalpels—they were history. She felt big and reborn, no longer a damaged child with blood that ran thin as water through her veins, no longer a mistake rejected by nature, by biological parents and foster homes, by twisted fate. She was a girl who could now play with kids who had always been bigger, stronger, and less likely to bruise and bleed to death. She was a very grown-up nine-year-old with a vial of gel capsules that tasted like metal-tinged blood.
