Dark to Mortal Eyes

by Eric Wilson

  “My baby girl,” Kara whispered as she adjusted the receiving blanket.

  Marsh watched. “Taking it better than I thought you would, Kara.”

  Without looking up, she said, “I don’t want her to feel my pain. I want her to know joy.” Then, focused on little Josee, she cooed, “You’ll always be my baby. Please remember my voice. This is your mama talking to you. You’ll always be my precious girl.” Despite herself, she let the tears fall as her lips convulsed in quiet whimpers.

  Then the commotion at the door shattered the night.

  Kara was rushed to safety. Josee was rushed from their lives.

  Now, tied to a chair, Kara Addison held on to the hope of that pink knitted cap in her pocket. Out there, somewhere, Josee Walker was looking for her mother. Perhaps a twist of fate would join Josee and Marsh in their efforts to locate her.

  Not that everyone made choices within God’s will. Many disobeyed.

  But didn’t he cause “everything to work together for the good of those who love God”? Hadn’t she underlined that verse? At the moment it seemed an empty consolation, considering that her Bible was at home on her nightstand, far, far away.

  Marsh contemplated the pages. His heart was drumming. He had never imagined this book could have any relevance to his life and was amazed by its detailed description of his struggle through the past two days.

  “We are not fighting against people made of flesh and blood,” it read.

  Tell me about it! What was that thing in the shower?

  “… but against … mighty powers of darkness who rule this world.”

  Do skeletons in the bathroom count? This actually makes sense!

  “Use every piece of God’s armor to resist the enemy in the time of evil.”

  Deep within him, the simplicity of the words resonated with authority. Marsh closed the Bible and placed it on the pillow next to him. The silver filigree shimmered, and the musky scent of the leather rose as incense. Like the tomes of Homer and Sophocles, the book had its place as a literary masterpiece, as an ancient document, and yet on a deeper level it exuded a dignity and—he could think of no other word for it—a presence. A part of history. A life of its own.

  He opened the book again to the preceding passage.

  He was a man savoring each course of a meal.

  “You husbands must love your wives with the same love Christ showed the church. He gave up his life for her.”

  I’ve kept Kara at arm’s length. Am I willing to love deeply? Would I die for her?

  “ ‘A man leaves his father and mother and is joined to his wife, and the two are united into one.’ This is a great mystery.”

  Got that right! And in light of my dad’s journal, it’s a bigger mystery than ever.

  Interesting side note: Kara hadn’t underlined the verses that dealt with his spousal mishandlings; she’d underlined the one directed to wives. In typical fashion, she had taken the burden of guilt upon herself. Had he, by his actions, pounded her down one notch at a time until she was less than a woman in her own mind?

  A new determination took hold. The reading had cleared his head.

  With his thumb, he tapped at Sergeant Turney’s card on the nightstand. He needed Steele Knight’s true identity. Without it, what hope did he have of catching his opponent off guard?

  Marsh pulled on his loafers and found a pay phone in front of the hotel where he could avoid having his calls traced. He was disappointed to get an answering machine at the sergeant’s number, but he refused to turn back. He could not do it all alone.

  “Sergeant,” he said into the machine, “I spoke with you in Barkley’s today. I am taking an extreme risk in contacting you. Please keep this between us. I do not believe Beau Connors is acting alone, and I suspect you’ll agree. Earlier I received a suspicious call on my cell, but my service provider will not release the info on the blocked number. Maybe, with a subpoena, you could gain access to the user’s identity. Just a thought, but Officer Lansky told me this morning that a mobile caller phoned in about my wife’s car in the ravine. Compare the two numbers. You might find a match.”

  After providing the relevant details of his phone account, Marsh dialed Henri Esprit.

  “Did I catch you in bed?”

  “No, no. Seems I never sleep. What can I do for you?”

  “How’s your nephew doing on the computer? Has he come up with anything?”

  “Steele Knight is registered in the gaming zone. That much he’s confirmed. The Webmaster refuses, however, to release any personal info without a court order. With a valid e-mail address—and, as you’re well aware, those are a dime a dozen—technically, just about any wise guy can register in the zone.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “Not at all. Nick’s wondering if you intend to play Steele Knight in the morning. I told him of your online habit, and he thinks such a match could provide a chance to trace the modem connection and pinpoint a phone number.”

  Marsh scanned the walkway. “We meet at 7:00 AM in the zone. I don’t know if Steele Knight’ll show up tomorrow, but it’s worth a try.”

  “From there, Nick theorizes, he can track down his mailing address. Unless, of course, he’s operating from a public site, such as a library or phone booth.”

  “That seems unlikely. We’ve been playing nearly every day for years.”

  “The other possibility is a mobile phone. That could also put us off the scent.”

  “True,” Marsh conceded, “but as long as he shows up online, it’s worth a try. I’ll pull a surprise from the game book and give him a fight he won’t forget.”

  Where was Darius?

  After grimacing through a fifth refill, Stahlherz weighed the option of returning to the Addison beach house to take charge of the Professor’s parked Studebaker. He disliked the idea of abandoning a network member, but he knew he must act. He slapped down his payment on the Formica tabletop and brushed past his waitress, who looked ready for a break. Droopy mouth, dark-ringed eyes, weary stare.

  We’ll be doing her a service tomorrow by putting her out of her misery.

  With a tail of sand, a van swung into the diner parking lot. Before Darius had time to shut off the engine, Stahlherz was out the door and climbing into the vehicle.

  “Say, Steele-man—”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Look, I met this chick pumpin’ gas. She start hittin’ on me hard. Asked if I wants to meet up after her shift. She got some bud from a friend. Uncut stuff, da bomb—”

  “Give me the keys.”

  “Whaddya want? Here, ain’t I?”

  “The keys!”

  With one hand, Karl Stahlherz grasped at the ignition, and with the other he latched on to the driver’s neck and dug clawlike fingers through cotton fabric. He felt acetous rage drain through his talons, sour and raw, then reveled in the man’s slumping posture. Stahlherz’s eyes formed unblinking orbs that scanned the van’s perimeter. A tidal breeze swirled sand over the vehicle’s hood. A light patter of rain splayed over the glass and ran in rivulets through the residue.

  No sign of witnesses.

  In a sudden movement, Darius jerked upright and thrust open his door. He ripped himself free from Stahlherz’s grasp, and putty legs carried him to the sidewalk where he collapsed. Straining to look over his shoulder, his face was full of confusion.

  A man in a cook’s apron peered out the diner’s window.

  Kre-aaawk!

  Stahlherz staggered from the van. Palpable anger had turned his bone marrow to ice. He fell to his knees beside the driver and said, “Get up! You have a job to do.” When the man showed no response, Stahlherz set his hands on the mane of brown hair and tried to summon obedience. “Audentes fortuna juvat. Rise, you fool! Onto your feet!”

  “You know this guy? He a friend of yours?”

  Stahlherz looked up into the face of the diner cook. “He … Yes. I need to get him into the van. He’s going into insulin shock. Case of diabet
es, see.”

  The cook helped shoulder Darius through the van’s side panel and onto the bench seat. “You got it handled from here?” he asked, lifting his voice over the pounding of surf and wind.

  Nodding, Stahlherz thanked the man and climbed behind the wheel.

  A few miles out of Yachats he pulled to the side of the highway. As he waited for a pair of cars to pass, he scribbled notes on a piece of paper and then stuffed it into the wallet in Darius’s back pocket. He’d already planted the anthrax sample as a deflection, causing the authorities to spin their wheels while he and ICV proceeded with their schemes. Why not spin a few more?

  Deflection, ha! With a human twist.

  Grunting, he dragged the unconscious man from the van and into the middle of the pitted coastal road. The pavement dipped here. Headlights jumped. Oncoming vehicles would have little chance of spotting the prostrate figure.

  Another pawn sacrifice. Road kill.

  Back in the van, Stahlherz concentrated on the dash, gripped the wheel, and eased down on the gas. It’d been a long time. He had to do this right, a peerless driver, a model citizen. No reason to risk their schemes over a piddling traffic infraction. He might have some difficulty explaining. You see, Officer, I have no true identity. I’m a man without a father. On paper I don’t exist.

  The imagined response wrinkled his thin lips.

  Now more than ever he wanted his birthright. And he wanted Marsh—that usurper!—to be stripped of all he held dear. His wife, his daughter, even life itself.

  Kre-acck!

  Pain, in the form of a massive black wing, slapped across the backs of Stahlherz’s eyeballs, tearing at the optic nerves as if to disconnect his sense of sight. He reeled back with a spasm, held that position, then doubled over, rocked by a set of gaffs that stabbed from his ear canals.

  Kaw-kaw-kawntrolll! Screechh!

  Stahlherz slammed on the brake pedal and felt the van fishtail. He brought the vehicle to a stop on the highway’s shoulder. With a firm hand, he latched on to one of the hooks and began to wrestle the orange talon from the pounding orifice in his head. Then a wild nip sent a jolt through the base of his left thumb, and he let go. Back into his thoughts the blackbird floated, a thunderhead of acid rain.

  PART FIVE

  I go on a path appointed.

  But those who follow me do so of free will.…

  I shall take the Paths of the Dead,

  alone, if need be.

  The Return of the King by J. R. R. Tolkien

  Though your hearts were once full of darkness,

  now you are full of light.… Take no part

  in the worthless deeds of evil … expose them.

  Ephesians 5:8,11

  31

  In the Balance

  Friday, October 31. Halloween. The city was on the edge of its seat.

  Along the block, amid the wisps of dawn’s breath, Josee could see black-and-orange flags and bumper stickers parading OSU’s colors for tomorrow’s gridiron battle. Rabid fans would converge upon Reser Stadium to cheer their team and berate their opponents. In fitting parallel, seasonal decorations of witches and skeletons and bats promised an eventful evening for the neighborhood kids.

  From a mailbox across the street, a glow-in-the-dark skull stared at Josee.

  She stepped back from the Van der Bruegges’ front window and thought of the canister she’d found in the thicket on Tuesday. Since then, her world had come undone. Her mother was missing. Her father was dismissive. Scooter was … not himself.

  Wonder if Sarge’s heard anything new. My sparring partner, he’d better call.

  Before breakfast, Josee did receive a call. From no one she expected.

  The darkness held him in a barren womb.

  Sergeant Vince Turney knew this was a dream, fears and memories stalking the borders of his mind, but that made it no less real. He was running between alley walls, searching for a suspect. He slowed as he neared a garbage container where tentacles of sewage spread from the rusted bottom. Footsteps. Coming close.

  He drew his police weapon and skirted the container.

  From behind, something brushed his face, and he turned.

  Glistening in the moonlight, a blade swept by, and he dodged back. A hulking, toothless man sniggered as he pointed to the side where a newborn slept in a car seat at the base of the alley wall. Knife in hand, the man sprinted toward the baby, and the sergeant aimed his gun. Pulled the trigger. Felt the recoil. The .38 projectile spun through the air with all the speed of a spit watermelon seed.

  As the man stretched for the infant, Turney fired another round.

  This time the barrel of the gun gagged on the bullet and sagged like a limp reed. Useless. Impotent. Again he had failed at his task. A baby gone …

  No, I can’t let her down. Not again.

  “Josee!”

  Turney bolted up in bed. He was breathless, drenched in sweat. He checked the time. Yesterday had taken its toll, but he saw no point in trying to go back to sleep. He pulled on a robe and padded into the kitchen, where he poured himself a bowl of Peanut Butter Crunch. He fetched the nonfat milk from the fridge and unscrewed the cap. Waved off a fly.

  But the fly refused to be ignored. The creature circled in random patterns.

  Turney peeled back his bathrobe and saw discharge leaking through bandages. Tingles ran from his shoulder down to his fingertips. The fly droned closer to his ear.

  “Would you quit that?” he snapped. “Buzz off.”

  The pest lighted on the gauze; tiny feet tiptoed through the sticky green stain.

  “Shoo!” Turney flicked his finger, but the fly took evasive action. Landed again.

  What was this thing doing? Laying eggs? Turney knew wounds were ideal cesspools for breeding. Could maggots feed off him? Hatch from his skin? Now that he thought about it, flies had been pestering him pretty much since the reemergence of his scars. What was the deal?

  Beelzebub … Lord of the flies!

  Like a blow to the midsection, this biblical description of Satan and his activity stole the sergeant’s breath away. Yessir, more going on here than met the eyes. Not that he thought this housefly was the devil incarnate, nothing so crazy as that, but the fly symbolized the evil that had been Turney’s bane.

  These scars … Were they God’s ways of warning him to remain humble, alert?

  Betcha that’s it. Just like the verse says, “When I am weak, then I am strong.”

  Spreading through his bandages, the pus threatened to erode his resolve. Then he felt a prayer rise from his chest—a lifeboat of faith carried on a tenacious current. The words came as neither shout nor whisper; they came as silent command.

  Get outta here, you filthy, unclean thing.

  The fly, in the act of rubbing its feet together, froze.

  Turney thought of Josee and her Wednesday morning confrontation. Hadn’t her prayer halted her foe in its tracks?

  “In the name of Jesus,” he said, “I’m tellin’ you, get lost!”

  He aimed, then snapped his stubby finger. The fly shot into the side of the cereal box and fell dazed to the table. Turney finished it off with a crumpled napkin, which he flushed down the toilet. A surge of excitement brushed over his scalp. Surprised, he smiled. He thought he’d buried that feeling years ago, thought he’d buried it for good.

  The phone jangled from his stack of phone books by the Gevalia coffee maker.

  “Howdy,” he answered. The stove’s clock read twenty after six.

  “Vince, hope it’s not too early. John Van der Bruegge.” They exchanged banter, then John said, “I’ll make this quick. You’re a busy man, and I’ve a class to teach, but I want your help. Actually, I need your help.”

  “Josee? Is she okay?”

  “Hanging in there. A likable young lady, but I can see that she has a lot going on behind those eyes of hers.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Beautiful eyes, too, or haven’t you noticed?”

 
“Uh-huh.”

  John laughed. “Vince, how long do you intend to hold the opposite sex at arm’s length? I’ve known you long enough to understand your caution, but it’s been three years, and your grieving won’t bring Milly back. She would’ve told you to walk on, to keep living life. Am I wrong?”

  “I’m hangin’ in there.”

  “You’ve substituted food for love.”

  “Whoa, John, that’s goin’ too far—”

  “It’s the truth, isn’t it? Your fear of getting hurt is jeopardizing your health.” Sympathy tamed John’s voice. “We all have our weaknesses, Vince. I’m not trying to point fingers, just trying to be a friend. Which brings me to the purpose of my call. Situation is this: Krissy and I’ve discussed it, and we’re convinced that Scooter and Josee are wrestling with some weighty issues, some strong spiritual forces. Last night I caught Scooter in her room, and Josee looked petrified—no other word to describe it. We need to join together. Need to fight on their behalf. At the risk of sounding sensational, I believe their lives could be in the balance.”

  Turney ran a hand down his tummy and swallowed his indignation. John’s reprimands were dead-on. He said, “What’d you have in mind?”

  “You remember Jesus’ words to his disciples? He told them that some evil spirits would only be conquered by prayer and fasting. I’m sure that’s what we’re dealing with here, and I think it might be time to make a stand.”

  “A stand?”

  “You and Kris and I, committed to seeing this thing through.”

  “Hear what you’re sayin’, but I’m on duty in an hour. Bit difficult to hit my knees while pounding the streets. Not that I won’t help, but—”

  “I just need you to fast.”

  “Fast? As in, don’t eat?”

  “Think of it as a health regimen. Fasting flushes toxins from your system, and in the unseen realm it has similar effects. What about it? Are you with me on this?”

  Turney leaned his forehead against the refrigerator door. No food? This was like asking a bear to hibernate in the heat of summer. His arm throbbed as he weighed John’s request. He knew the fight of which John spoke. Knew the opponent.