by Eric Wilson
“Twenty-two years, Josee. That’s a long time.”
“My entire lifetime, Dad.” She breathed sarcasm into the final word.
“You’re sensitive right now, I understand that, but let’s not overstep our bounds.”
From the far end of Barkley’s, Ms. Wilcox shrugged and held up a finger to indicate one more minute till they could be seated.
Josee’s patience was running low. “And what gives you the right to decide my bounds? Didn’t you relinquish those rights when you signed the adoption release forms? Maybe you don’t think you’re my father, but Kara seems to have no doubt. Says you signed the same papers she did.” Josee snorted. “She warned me you wouldn’t want to see me. I mean, how stupid can I be? For a split second, though, back at the station …”
Marsh stopped. Looked up from the menu.
“I guess … Well, when you walked toward me, Marsh, for one tiny little moment I thought maybe something had changed.”
“How so?”
“Okay.” She picked at the sleeve of her sweater. “Here it is. I thought you might actually want to talk to me. Meet with me, same as Kara. Get to know each other, as if that’s a crime. I hoped that—”
“Enough.” The storm deepened in his eyes. “Let’s stop right there. I’m sorry, but this is bad timing. Terrible, in fact. Things’re going on here that can do nothing but cause trouble for you. Best thing, in my opinion, is that you go now before you get hurt. I’m saying this for your sake.”
“For my sake? Unless you count my foster fathers—one of whom was a wife-beating alcoholic, a real loser!—I’ve spent almost half my life without a dad. Obviously, you have no clue what that’s like. Zilch.”
“Actually, my father died when I was five months old.”
“Your father? Oh.” She sucked air through her teeth. “I … didn’t know that.”
“His name was Chance. I have no more than a handful of pictures of him. He kept a journal, but my mother’s never let me see it. I’m not even sure it still exists.”
Ms. Wilcox was returning. The waitress in her wake wore black slacks, a white shirt, and a bolero tie. “We’ve cleared a quiet space in the back. Is your party ready?”
Josee said, “Maybe you’re right, Marsh. Time for me to say good-bye.”
She slapped her menu into his hand, snugged her sweater, then pushed out onto the sidewalk where she rescued her cigarette from the brick sill and touched it to her lighter before heading up the street. Time to go. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.
“Whoa now, where’re you off to in such a hurry?” Sergeant Turney was surprised to find Josee strutting along the curb. “Thought you were with your father.”
“Who says he’s my father?”
“Kara’s your mother, isn’t she? They’re married, so I assumed that—”
“You assumed. Know what happens when you do that, mister? You make an—”
“I know the saying. Cut me some slack, would ya? I’m not feelin’ so hot.” The gelatinous mass on his arm was draining him. Like a leaky spigot, it dripped from his scars. He felt depleted. With a hand rested over his belly, he said, “Now’s no time to be runnin’ off, Josee. Glad I caught ya out here.”
“Sure, yeah. Glad to see you, too. Whoop-de-do.”
He cleared his throat. “Let me talk to your … to Mr. Addison. Then I’ll meet you back at the station. Ask for Rita. She’ll show you into my office. Should be safe there.”
“Safe? You make me sound helpless.”
Turney thought of Scooter’s backpack in his cruiser. “Little concerned, is all.”
“Liar. I bet you’re worried sick over me.”
“Only this much.” Turney held up two fingers that almost touched. “That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.”
“Nice to know someone cares. Past two days’ve been whacked-out. Kara’s missing, Scooter’s gone, and my father—or whatever you wanna call the jerk back there—refuses to claim me as his own. Like I care! Just be nice to hear the truth.”
Truth? As a cop, Turney reminded himself that it was his duty to search for and defend it. In every conflict, every love scene, every birth, and every death, truth was a silver cord that bound that moment in time. Falsehood caused those cords to unwind.
“What’d Mr. Addison tell you? Does he know where his wife is?”
“Heck if I know. The man’s cold-hearted. Forget him.”
The sergeant rolled his wide neck, took a breath, and eased into Josee’s gaze. Like a child losing his footing on a rope climb, his heart slipped. One notch. Then two. This woman … Sakes alive, was this what they meant by “chemistry”? Could it be chemistry if only one person felt it? Not that he had much to offer.
“Josee? C’mon, you gonna tell me what happened, what’s got ya so riled?”
She shrugged. “Nothing worth telling.”
“And that’s why you’re poundin’ the pavement.”
“Did I say I wanted to talk about it?”
“Didn’t say either way. Am I supposed to read your mind?”
“Like to see you try, Sarge.” She set her hands on her hips.
“Oh, no you don’t. See, if I could read your mind, you’d change it.”
“Smart man.” Her half smile boosted him up a notch. “But that’s not the point, women don’t want you to know what we think.”
“What is the point?” Turney pretended to dig for his notepad. “Mmm, let me write it down. This could make me millions.”
“Simple. We wanna know that you care. Just ask and just listen.”
“Ask and listen.”
“Really listen.” Josee dragged a hand through her hair and left it there. “If you quote me on this, I’ll deny every word, you hear me? Thing is, it’s not even about reading minds, okay? Guys can be so ignorant—it’s about the heart.”
“Then let me ask you one more time …”
18
No Rest for the Wicked
Marsh Addison knew he had a reputation for sniffing out vulnerability. He was the king, sizing up his foes and his latest acquisitions. Whether in a boardroom or on the golf links, he could smell it like crushed grapes: tannic and tangy, with the promise of fermented surrender.
But this was different.
As he watched Josee retreat through the doors of Barkley’s, he heard no call to arms. Questions swarmed in, and melancholy coated his mouth. In his chest Josee’s vulnerability evoked an uncommon response. Long-submerged emotion rising from an abandoned shaft, cranked upward from deep waters, attached by a tattered rope. A water bucket. Swaying, sloshing, splashing …
And icy cold! I could drown in this stuff.
He released the crank, letting the bucket plunge. He could not indulge himself. Josee had misunderstood his reticence and, no doubt, hated him for it, but what option did he have. Anything he said would not only place her in danger but would also threaten Kara’s release. Sure, Josee had made an impression. A decent kid. Sad beauty in her eyes. A wide, thin mouth that—
He touched his own lips and tucked away an observation. Not now.
With a commitment to the task at hand, he pivoted and traced Casey Wilcox’s steps between the tables to a spot in back. Eased into a seat. Placed his order.
As the waitress moved on, Marsh excused himself to the men’s room.
He was a man in control, a man with a plan. Time to call his mother. Hadn’t she hinted at dark secrets all these years? If Virginia couldn’t point him in the direction of Chance’s journal, then Steele Knight would bring this game to a hasty end.
No. It’s not over until I get Kara back.
“Mother, I need answers ASAP. Can you tell me where—”
“I knew you would call.”
Virginia’s flat response halted Marsh. He closed and locked a stall door, leaned against it with his eyes shut. “What else do you know? Now’s the time to tell me everything … Dad’s journal, your cryptic words over the years, everything.”
“Did you try c
alling earlier? I was out playing tennis with Barbara.”
“Don’t brush me off. This is deadly serious.” His thoughts thrust him back to that day as a thirteen-year-old in the drawing room, thumbing through the family keepsakes. That journal’s so faded, so scribbled—looks like the tattered remains of an old pirate’s map … One day, Marsh. One day.
He said, “I think today is the day you tried to warn me about.”
“Have they contacted you?”
“Who? Mom, what is going on? Have you heard from Kara?”
“Not since she told me about her plans to see Josee. That’s when I suspected.”
“Suspected what?”
“They want the journal, I s’pose. Am I right about that?”
A urinal flushed. Whooosh. Marsh popped his head from the stall, saw that it was an automated system on a timer. He was alone in the rest room. “Do you know where it is, Mom? I need to get it. I could drive over this evening.”
“The ramblings of a dying man. Hogwash, most likely.” Defeat filled her words.
“You’ve read it! You knew this would happen, didn’t you?” In the event someone should walk in, Marsh held the phone between shoulder and ear, ran the water, and slapped paper towels at his wet palms. “What’s so important? Some war secret, a treasure, what?”
“I’m not so certain you’re ready for it, Marsh. Chance feared this day would come and held himself accountable, but he was quite clear in his stipulations that the journal remain hidden. A last recourse and nothing less.”
“Kara’s gone! This is beyond worrying over a dead man’s wishes.”
“Marshall Ray Addison!”
He lowered his voice. “Sorry, but we’re talking about Kara here. Someone’s taken her, and I’ve gotta show up with the journal tomorrow night if I want to get her back. You never remarried, Mom. You never moved past his death. That’s your business. But I’m not about to let your antiquated loyalties keep me from protecting my wife, is that clear?”
“Clear as it’s always been. I shoulder my share of the blame. I used bitterness like a shield, holding even my own son at bay. For that, I owe you an apology.”
“An apology?”
Marsh had never heard such words from his mother’s mouth. After Chance’s death in early 1960, Virginia Addison had nurtured Addison Ridge Vineyards through numerous setbacks until its grape yields carved their niche in the Oregon wine industry. She raised Marsh with all the care she could muster, his playgrounds ranging from warehouse floors to muddy vineyards to the burgundy carpet in the manor’s wainscoted boardroom. She was there, albeit with little show of emotion, as his growing hands switched from Matchbox cars to Tonka trucks to John Deere farm equipment. In the early ’80s, multiple hip surgeries had prompted her to relocate to a retirement community in Depoe Bay, but only recently had her emotional backbone begun to soften. Like the other war widows, her parenting years had been an amalgam of devotion and detachment.
Not that Marsh had minded. He respected her. He’d often heard her say that it was good for a kid to have a thick skin. Accordingly, he kept his own distance.
Just as she’d taught him.
“Apology accepted,” he said. “Does this mean you’ll help me?”
“You’re not ready for this, Marsh. You don’t yet know that which you face.”
“I’ll be ready. In a dog-eat-dog world, I’m the one they run from. Don’t worry about me. What about you? What time should I come?”
In the receiver, Virginia’s deep sigh was the cry of an inclement wind. “Be here around suppertime, why don’t you? I’ll have food on the table, and we can discuss it then, the manner in which your father’s choices have returned to haunt us.”
“No, Mom, my father died with honor. He was awarded posthumously.”
“His journal tells the other side.”
Next he contacted his winemaker. “Gotta make this quick, Esprit. Can’t tell you all that’s going on, but it’s urgent that you help me out here. You know, of course, that the police have taken over the manor. They suspect me in Kara’s disappearance.”
With the timed urinal flushes as their soundtrack, Marsh and Henri Esprit strategized responses to the inevitable media meddling and the potential gossip of the employees at Addison Ridge. They resolved issues regarding the vineyard’s harvest schedule and suspended a number of lesser decisions.
“Our first priority, it seems, is to locate this Steele Knight character.” Esprit’s voice was heavy with resolve. “Let me assist you on this. I have an idea.”
“I’ll take all the help I can get,” Marsh said. “Steele Knight’s a frequent player in the gaming zone. Chesszone.com, I believe it is. Not a lot to go on, I know,” Marsh said, “but it’s all I’ve got.”
“Has he done something … untoward with Kara?”
“That’s what I need to find out. That’s all I can say for now.”
“Well, I’ve a nephew who might come in handy. He lives on campus at Oregon State, and if I understand the rumors, the kid’s a certified computer whiz.”
A father and son entered the men’s room. Marsh ignored them. “A hacker?”
“Hacker, slacker, the terminology’s lost on me. A good kid. I’ll call him.”
“Great. Okay, here’s another idea. Call up the billing department at AT&T Wireless, and get today’s activity on my phone, all incoming numbers. Tell them whatever. Tell them we’ve been getting prank calls that we don’t want to be charged for, anything. You have full access to my account info, so you can act on my behalf.”
“I always do, Marshall.” Esprit’s convivial nature could not mask his fervency. “I also act for your better half, Kara, a lady in every sense of the word. We’ll bring the two of you together again if it takes every last resource at my disposal.”
Highway 34 was carrying them over the coastal range toward the bay at Waldport. From there, it branched north to Newport and Tillamook, south to Yachats and Florence. Stahlherz calculated that, depending on the flow of logging trucks and motor homes, they’d arrive in an hour. Tack on a brief detour in Tidewater.
The ocean was beckoning. He could feel its damp and mystic pull.
Fifty-eight years ago—shortly before his birth—the canisters had arrived upon these very shores. The rugged Oregon coast. A fateful incident for all involved, and a moment of surrender for one young woman.
Why then had First Lieutenant Chance Addison turned against him? Stahlherz felt his mouth twist at the thought. Fatherless and nameless, he’d had his own identity tossed to the wind. Who was he really? Mr. Steele, Karl Stahlherz, Steele Knight—did any of these draw upon his true lineage? Yet he had risen above these questions; he had set forth a strategy for the network and was now implementing it, directing the pieces into position. He would channel the poison of resentment down the throats of his enemies. He would—
Kree-acckk!
A rook’s cry cracked like a whip between his ears. Stahlherz ground his molars, refused to make a sound. He couldn’t let his driver view his vulnerability; he was a man in control. “Darius, I’m going to rest for a bit,” he said, “in the back.”
“Sure thang. That be cool by me. Radio gonna bother ya?”
“Keep it in the front speakers. That’s my only stipulation.”
Stahlherz maneuvered to the furthest bench seat, where he stretched out on his back. As he admired his captured glass queen, he was surprised to hear strains of Mozart; perhaps young Darius was imagining a soundtrack for his first feature film.
From beneath the window’s weather stripping, a breeze sliced over Stahlherz’s exposed neck and bent knees. He shifted to his side. Put a hand over his throat.
As they say, no rest for the wicked.
A movement feathered over his arms and sent tremors through his body. The space above him clouded. There was something there.
A question fired through his head. Where have you been?
He knew the answer. He had never been alone. With a musty stench
, black wings collapsed upon his face, and talons pried apart his lips. He fought against it. These beasts had been clamoring for dominion, and he would not give in. Karl Stahlherz was the authority here. He was—
“Urrraaaggh!
He choked on his own voice. He gulped. A thick presence descended into his throat—the poison of resentment?—and he hung his head over the seat to spit viscous yellow discharge into an old espresso cup. Stahlherz fixed the lid in place and set the cup on the floor.
Kee-ke-reeeacch!
Darius was rolling down his driver’s window. “Yo, what that smell?”
Motionless on the bench seat, Stahlherz clenched his neck muscles and bit back on the gag reflex. Despite the classical strains from the front speakers, torturous shrieks bounced through his skull for the remainder of their coastal journey.
Marsh knew that Casey Wilcox was watching him with concern. Like an automaton, he ignored her and focused on his torte. One bite … chomp, chomp. Another bite. His mind was racing, fueled by thoughts of tonight’s trip to his mother’s place on the coast. He lifted the coffee to his mouth and saw Sergeant Turney step through Barkley’s front entry.
This was the man Josee had said he could trust? A cop? Well, that was a joke to Marsh, considering what had occurred in the months before his and Kara’s wedding.
Nineteen eighty-one … In wine terms, it had been a “bad year.”
“Well, well,” Casey greeted the cop, “if it isn’t one of the blue knights.”
“Knight?” The sergeant’s chest swelled. “Been called worse. That’ll work.”
“You’ve already met Mr. Addison. Marshall is my client and a fine man.”
Marsh felt her polished nails graze his wrist as she slid a hand along the white tablecloth. His mind, however, was on Steele Knight’s warning that he not involve the police. What option did he have? If he shoved away from the table, it would make him look guilty. Keep it short and sweet, he told himself.
