Dark to Mortal Eyes

by Eric Wilson

  “Time out. You don’t really believe this line you’re feedin’ me, do you? I ate some nasty fish—that’s what the doctor said—and it messed with my thinking, even made me start seeing things before it knocked me on my butt. C’mon, what do I expect when I’m out pickin’ up day-old food, right? If you wanna call them bite marks, babe, that’s cool by me. It’s where I bit the dirt.” He guffawed. “How’s that work for you?”

  “Since when have you trusted a doctor’s opinion on anything?”

  Scooter’s arm tightened around her waist, and his lips brushed her neck.

  She’d never known him without his beard, and it felt as though a stranger were forcing his affections on her. She pulled away. “You’re hopeless.”

  “Only under your spell.”

  “Under a spell? Maybe. But certainly not mine.”

  Stahlherz mounted the steps to the front deck. Despite trees between here and the nearest neighbors, he knew he could be spotted. Small-town life. Everyone knew everyone. He moved like a man with nothing to hide and located the key in the post knothole—one more tidbit of information he and the Professor had accumulated over the years. He unlocked a sliding-glass door that faced the ocean, slipped inside, and relocked the door before dropping the key into his corduroy jacket. You could never be too safe.

  Of course, if questioned, he would say that he and the Addisons were friends and they were letting him stay the weekend. In this town, it’d fly. Rentals and time-shares were commonplace.

  “Help!”

  The voice was a cry from the grave. Stifled. Flat.

  Stahlherz knew from whence it came. He padded past a mammoth stone fireplace, down a hall lined with driftwood curios to the trophy room in the back. Here, stretched over the floorboards, a bearskin rug protected his prize. The captured queen.

  At least Beau had managed to get this part right.

  “Please, somebody help meeee!”

  At the bar in the corner, he savored a stolen shot of Chivas Regal while rolling his glass chess piece in his palm. Marsh’s liquor burned a trail down his throat, and Stahlherz hoped it would shrivel the beast within. Or slake its appetite at least.

  “I’m down here! Down here!”

  Stahlherz smirked. Outside, the wind howled along Timberwolf Lane.

  He bent to the bearskin rug and peeled it back.

  Josee noticed new vigor in Turney’s step. Despite the dirt streaks on his pants and the sludge beneath his sleeve, he’d won a stare down.

  Thunder Turney, you go. Don’t let the naysayers drag you down.

  As though aware of her thoughts, he turned from the steps where the Van der Bruegges waited and caught her eye. He winked. No, it must’ve been a twitch. He said, “You’ll be well taken care of, you and Scooter. ’Course, you already know these’re good folks, but Scooter doesn’t look too sure.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “Duty calls. Back to the grindstone.” Turney hitched his pants.

  “Wait up, Vince.” Kris Van der Bruegge descended the steps with a generous slice of Amish friendship cake. The fresh-baked scent wafted over the walkway. “Sure you can’t spare a minute? Coffee’s brewing as we speak.”

  “Got work to do. Thanks for the cake though. Can’t turn that down.” Turney took an appreciative bite, then set the plate on the seat of the car. Josee saw him reach, almost as an afterthought, for the trunk latch. “Before I head out, we need to unload Scooter’s belongings. John, I’m ready for that helpin’ hand.”

  John gave a knowing nod and moved to the back of the vehicle.

  Josee retreated to the solid brick walkway. From here she had a distant view of the trunk. She set a hand on Scooter’s arm, felt a tremble course through him. She thought of the sounds she’d heard earlier, felt her blood throb in her ears with that same tunka-tunk-tunk rhythm.

  “Go on, I’m waiting.” John motioned to Turney.

  “It’s stuck … ooof. Yeah, won’t even budge.” Turney pulled at the latch again, then ran a hand over the back of his neck before circling to the trunk. He secured his bandages, winced, sorted through his keys. Josee could see his hesitation.

  “Heyya,” Scooter said, “take it easy everyone. What’re you all so afraid of?”

  A key turned in the lock, and the trunk popped open with the twang of springs.

  John’s sudden grin stood in contrast to Turney’s puzzlement. “Is this what you expected to find, Vince?” He hefted a pair of hiking boots that were knotted together by the laces. “These must’ve been what you heard clunking around back here.”

  Scooter snagged his boots. “Mystery solved. So much for all the excitement, you guys.” He pried his bedroll and bike loose and set them by the garage door.

  For a second, Josee thought she detected movement. No, it was only the cinch cords of Scoot’s bedroll coiling and twisting in the wind. Her imagination must be whacked. Playing tricks on her. When an ethereal moan snaked around the Van der Bruegges’ home, she chose to blame it on the approaching ocean squall.

  22

  Test Tube

  Strands of kelp waved in Depoe Bay’s surf, and along the seawall the tide catapulted fountains of spume and water through a spouting horn in the rocks. On one side of Highway 101, onlookers taunted the elements; on the other, tourists huddled in tiny shops and cafés. Marsh considered stopping for a small gift for Virginia, something to loosen her tongue regarding his father’s missing journal.

  No, there was little he could get her that she didn’t already have. Anyway, she’d see through that. She was no fool.

  Shoot, it can’t hurt.

  He slipped into a parking space. It’d been a while since his last visit, and she was his mother, for heaven’s sake. Let her think what she wanted. This felt nice for a change. He paid with his card, then continued to the gated retirement community.

  “Marshall.” She welcomed him in. “Punctual as always. What’d you bring?”

  “It’s nothing. Little something I picked up along the way.”

  “Son, what a beautiful candle. Gracious, look at these sand-dollar doves.”

  “Good for a stormy night like this. In case the power goes out.”

  “Practical to the end.” She set the gift on the dining table, and her short legs carried her into the kitchen. Behind mother-of-pearl glasses, she still wore the wrinkles of sorrow and hard work. In the past year, however, Marsh had noted a serenity about her. Her countenance had softened. Her eyes, too.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said. “Thought you might reconsider, busy as you are.”

  “Mother. Don’t you understand that Kara’s missing?”

  Virginia turned down the oven and, with seashell-patterned mitts, removed a Costco lasagna. A widow and a working woman, she had never taken to kitchen duties. Caterers and chefs had done the job. For her this was gourmet cooking, and Marsh expected nothing more. Tonight, food was a formality anyway.

  “I’ve a number of items that need fixing around here,” Virginia commented. “With my back being in the shape it is, I was hoping you might be of assistance.” She pointed to a list on the fridge. “There’s my honey-do list.”

  “Mom. Are you hearing me?”

  “Hearing you just fine, Son. Are you hearing me?”

  Marsh saw old patterns emerge, felt frustrations rise. “If there’s time, I’ll see what I can do. Come on, let’s eat.”

  “Has to cool first. Always rushing ahead, aren’t you?”

  As she puttered about, Marsh moved to the living room where photo albums crouched beneath a coffee table. He studied the room. Wondered if Chance’s journal was here. Flipping through an album, he saw himself in the vineyards: knee-high in mud, riding on a backhoe, cradling a basket of grapes. His mother was there too.

  In the back pages of the second album, he found Chance Addison.

  “Did you ever consider remarrying?” Marsh asked.

  Virginia came and sat primly on the divan beneath the window. “No.”
<
br />   “He died over forty years ago. Why wasn’t I allowed to discuss these things? Didn’t you ever think about starting over?”

  “Your father was enough for one lifetime.”

  Chance … The photo showed him grim faced and in uniform, lips pressed together in a long, narrow line, eyes looking ten yards beyond the photographer’s lens.

  Marsh pressed on with the issue at hand. “I know he did things that hurt you. I never wanted to think about it, but I know it’s true.”

  “Yes.” Virginia folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, there’s some truth to that.”

  “Did he write about it in his journal? Is that why you’ve kept it from me?”

  “His journal. Son, in the wrong hands, it could be destructive.”

  “Mother, you don’t understand. I’m facing a determined foe. He’s no fool, and he seems more than capable of hurting Kara. I can’t let that happen. That journal is—”

  “Lasagna’s ready.”

  Mouth agape, Marsh stared at Virginia’s retreating back. This was ridiculous. His own mother was holding hostage the journal’s whereabouts. What did she want from him? What would it take to win her compliance? He calmed himself and decided to play along. One thing he had learned, Virginia never talked till she was ready.

  He was deep into his third helping of lasagna—not bad, not bad at all for a store-bought meal—when she made her dramatic introductory statement: “You are ensnared in a deadly game, Son. Quite literally, a game of Chance.”

  Wooden beams groaned under the weight of the wind-battered house. The cellar’s temperature had dropped, and the last vestiges of light had withdrawn. Cars crunched over gravel. Kara’s jeans were cold and damp against her body.

  Where was she?

  In the dark, her senses sharpened. Through the oily gag, she tasted a hint of salt. Despite her tomb of concrete and dirt, she heard the slow-motion heartbeat of the surf. She knew that sound. A storm brewing. The sea was rising from sleep and pounding at its restraints. No wonder she hadn’t heard it until now.

  Ku-whumppp-whump … ku-whumppp-whump.

  The ocean. The Oregon coast, most likely. Why had he brought her here?

  Here in the cellar, Kara had replayed every phone conversation with Josee. She’d imagined caressing her daughter’s face, touching her short black hair—black like Marsh’s and thick. Why had Marsh always doubted her, his own wife? He’d closed off that section of his heart rather than face the sting of her mistakes.

  She had tried to convince him.

  He had climbed into a tower of stone and mortar. A self-exiled king.

  God, for the millionth time, forgive me. I’ve hurt everyone close to me. Is this my punishment, down in this place? My father was right. I shamed him as a deacon. And you, the all-powerful God … you must be so disappointed in us. Waiting to pour out your wrath.

  Ku-whumppp-whump!

  Still, Kara thought, there were things her father hadn’t shown her. He hadn’t hiked with her along these dunes to see the stunning Pacific sunsets. He hadn’t stopped at the tide pools to admire the colors of the sea anemone and starfish. God had another side, so clearly visible once she left the harsh contours of man’s creation.

  She loved the psalms. She even caught Marsh reading them now and then. The psalmists knew what it was like to question and struggle, yet wake to a new day beneath a fresh coat of dew.

  Ku-whumppp-whump!

  The psalms spoke of the Lord’s fingertips on the mountaintops and his tears in the rain.

  God must spend a lot of time crying—in this state anyway.

  Kara was hungry. Dehydrated. Her last full meal had been Tuesday’s baked salmon and Pinot Gris. That night she had fled in tears to the pillars beneath the portico because she had felt so exasperated with her husband. Now she would give anything to have him here, flaws and all.

  No food, little sleep, the stink of her own body. How easily she was brought low.

  Survival instincts shoved aside her other musings, and she struggled again at her restraints. With her tongue scraping against parched lips, she worked the rag from her mouth, bit by bit. The cloth ripped at her swollen wound. She tasted fresh blood. She pulled in her chin until the gag that had stretched in the wet air scraped down around her neck.

  “Help!” she called out. It was a whisper actually. Her voice was weak.

  “Help!”

  Ku-whumpp-whump!

  “Please, somebody help meeee!”

  To her amazement, she got a response, a foreign sound disrupting the auditory patterns of the day. She stopped. Listened. Footsteps. These were heavier than those of the kid who had carried her in. A slow shuffle.

  “I’m down here! Down here!”

  The trapdoor creaked open, and a middle-aged man hobbled down on stiff legs. Through the gap, Kara could see her husband’s dartboard on the wall beside a poster from their ’97 wine festival. Here? She had been brought to their beach house? Marsh had excavated this wine cellar but never completed it; she had poked her head in but never stepped down. Still, she felt foolish for not having recognized her location.

  “You can stop yelling now, my queen. I already knew where you were.”

  What did that mean? Was this man here to rescue her?

  He flicked on a light bulb and moved to her side. He rocked on his feet, tapping fingers at his pant leg. He pinched his nose against the stench so that he sounded like a man with nasal congestion. “What sublime timing. To think that you started calling for help even as I arrived. In cauda venenum.”

  With a dagger from his pocket, he plucked at her loosened gag and sliced it away.

  Even as Marsh’s hopes surged, Virginia shifted back to the mundane. She scooped her paper plate into the trash beneath the sink, then removed the lavender cellophane from her new candle. She held a match to the wick. It spit. Caught flame.

  “Marsh, at my age, I s’pose it’s only natural to mull one’s shortcomings, but I failed you in so many ways. I showed you how to make a living, how to work hard and apply yourself, yet in the process I gave you no example for marriage.”

  “Twenty-two years, Mom. I think Kara and I have done just fine.”

  “You’ve made it work, yes. But you’ve had only the persnickety ways of a bitter old woman to draw from. You never saw the intimacy that a wife requires.”

  “You’re a woman. You survived without it.”

  “Survived.” She nodded. “That’s an apt description.” The candle sputtered. Beyond the window the October night was a sprawling black-and-blue bruise. “Survived much the same as Kara has.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “You’re distant from her. Arm’s length. Have you created a space for her—”

  “Yes!” He celebrated a minor victory. “I’ve just emptied the parlor for her so she can set up her own place. An outlet.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate the gesture—for now I’ll leave aside the question of my heirlooms’ whereabouts—but I’m speaking of an emotional space.” She tilted the candle so that wax beaded over the edge in hardening patterns. “Son, you let your passion spill over her, but then you pull back, and she feels buried beneath your rigid designs. Kara’s one of these doves. Fixed in place. Beautiful and decorative—”

  “Okay, Mom, I understand the metaphor.”

  “But marriage isn’t always meant to be tidy. Life’s flames shape each relationship differently.” Virginia swiveled the candle, this time allowing hot drops to roll into the sink until a sand-dollar dove floated free from its wax mooring. She caught it in her palm. “If you let yourself go, if you forget trying to preserve the outward image, your love can soften and free her. That’s the sort of space she needs.”

  Marsh ran both hands through his hair and leaned back in his chair. The concern for his wife’s survival pressed at his throat, tumorous, choking off oxygen. “Mom, I get the gist of it, okay? I see what you’re trying to tell me. Do you understand that it’s all pointless without ha
nding over that journal? Kara’s out there, as we speak. I’ve gotta get her back. Whether you think I show it or not, I do love her.”

  Virginia’s face softened behind her mother-of-pearl glasses. “Oh, Marsh, I know that you do.” She set the sputtering candle on the table and poured him a glass of water.

  “Not that I’m perfect. I know I’ve made my share of mistakes. She’s my wife. Right now, I’d do anything to find her.”

  “Love is a powerful weapon.”

  “Weapon? Guess I’ve never thought of it in those terms.”

  “Son, I’ve kept you from the light of understanding. In my ignorance, I hindered your view, fashioned you into a pragmatic man with goals and agendas. But there’s much that you don’t know. It may sound melodramatic, but hidden things are at work here. Elements that remain dark to our mortal eyes.”

  Dark to mortal eyes? If she only knew! How do I make sense of all this?

  Marsh felt Kara’s words blurt from his lips. “Please, God, open my eyes.”

  Virginia flinched. “Is that a prayer of your own?”

  “Something I heard. Sounds crazy, but my eyes are opening. On some level.”

  “Marsh, use caution.”

  “Caution?”

  “You may not like what you see.” She changed gears. “Others have tried to find the journal, you know. I’ve reason to suspect that this place has been broken into on more than one occasion. The authorities have discounted my suspicions. I’m sure they have their fair share of fretting old women, but I know beyond a doubt that things’ve been tampered with.”

  “You’ve never told me about this.”

  “I s’pose not. You have your own concerns. Would you have believed me?”

  “Does it still exist?” Marsh pushed. “You’ve hidden it somewhere else, I bet. Your heirlooms, the ones I had put in storage yesterday! Is it in one of them? That’s it, isn’t it, right under my nose all these years?”

  “We’ll have to continue this later, Son.”

  “Later? I drove all the way here, and you’re not going to tell me?”