Dark to Mortal Eyes

by Eric Wilson

  “Ah, but did I not capture your queen two days ago? You’re destined to lose … Time to pay your dues. Today, CCD, I’ll have my way with your bishop.”

  Josee? Not if I can help it. Soon Esprit’ll bring her here to me.

  Marsh captured the pawn, and his foe offered another, which Marsh took as well. “What if I send you the journal?” he asked. “Isn’t that what you want? I’ve stored my father’s info in a PDF file, which I could send to you right now. Let’s get this over with.”

  “You’d risk turning over the journal before getting your wife back? I think not, CCD. I’m not so ignorant as to trust you with my e-mail address. My dear brother, what’s to stop you from releasing a virus or hiding some ‘back orifice’ program in an attempt to compromise my hard drive? Alas, your efforts are in vain.”

  “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  “Nine hours till our meeting of war. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

  “I want my queen back. Of course I’ll be there.”

  Nick was waving his hand in a circle. “Keep playing. I’m getting close.”

  The foe typed: “And you’ll bring the journal? Remember, no journal, no wifey.”

  “You’ll get what you want.”

  Marsh deliberated, made his next move. He tried to concentrate on the game while Nick tapped away on his notebook keys. He felt his excitement begin to rise as Nick’s incomprehensible mutterings intensified. Were they getting close to nailing this slime bag?

  Ker-thumpp!

  The table jumped across the cell’s flagstone floor as Steele Knight rose and pointed a finger. “I know what you’re up to, CCD. You take me for a fool?”

  Marsh feigned innocence. “Giving up so soon? Ready to resign?”

  “I believe that was my question to you yesterday. Resign? I’d rather die first. No, my gatekeeper software indicates that you’re trying to finger my location. So long.”

  A message leaped onto the screen indicating the connection had been severed.

  “Did you get him?” Marsh queried.

  “Dude saw it coming,” was Nick’s feeble response. “He deflected me.”

  Turney stared at the kitchen cupboard. From behind that door, the box of Peanut Butter Crunch was calling his name.

  John’s words came back: I just need you to fast.… One day—that’s all I’m asking.

  The phone rescued him from his ravenous thoughts. Henri Esprit was on the line. Turney had met the winemaker at a charitable function the year before and found him to be an agreeable sort. An older man, witty and wise. Now he had two simple requests.

  Turney assented, then set down the receiver, only to have it ring again.

  “Grand Central.”

  “Sarge, Chief Braddock here. We’re under the gun. No excuses, mandatory meeting in thirty down here at the station. Just got off the horn with the county boys out on the coast. Last night they found a man on Highway 101 carrying details in his pocket pertaining to an anarchist demonstration. Looks like ICV’s involved. Judging by the scribbles on the note, it appears that they’ve targeted city halls throughout the state. The plan, if the county boys’re deciphering it correctly, is for something to happen tonight. Says ‘Boom!’ across the bottom of the page.”

  “Sounds a bit over the top, don’t ya think?”

  “We’re not taking anything lightly, not after Beau’s video segment.”

  “A bomb, is that what you’re thinkin’?”

  “One possibility. Of course, with the anthrax threat, I can’t rule out anything.”

  “What about the man at the coast? Has he coughed up any useful tidbits?”

  “Zip,” said Chief Braddock. “Guy was barely breathing when they arrived on the scene. He was hit by a motorist who’s all torn up over it. Swears he didn’t see the guy lying there in the middle of the road till it was too late. Dark out, wet and all. Fifteen minutes later he was pronounced dead at the scene. Gruesome sight from what the sheriff tells me, and they see some nasty ones out on those curvy roads.”

  Turney’s thoughts turned to Kara Addison’s Z3 on the curves of Ridge Road.

  “Comin’ right now, Chief.”

  A quarter after seven, in the station’s briefing room, Turney bypassed the table of pastries and coffee and grabbed a bottle of water instead. Being good, yessir. He found a seat behind three rows of yawning officers. Chief Braddock replayed the Connors tape and explained that the kid had been shown the video feed in his cell yet still refused to divulge Mrs. Addison’s location. Beau had seen no transcripts of his speech in today’s newspaper and vowed the cops would pay if they were tricking him.

  “We can’t ignore this kid’s vitriol,” Braddock stated as he turned off the monitor next to the podium. “ ‘Allhallows Eve’ is what he says. That’s today … Halloween. We now have two separate sources indicating that a violent demonstration will take place. Officer Flynn? You tuned in to what I’m saying? You think this is child’s play?” Braddock studied the roomful of people. “This is no joke. Even if it is, which I doubt, we cannot afford to shrug it off. In the past, ICV has shown anarchic malice, and this country’s war on terrorism doesn’t allow us to ignore credible threats. You want me to light a fire under your tired butts? Take a look at this.”

  Canary yellow papers circulated through the room. Turney held one to his nose so that the fresh ink warded off the pervasive aroma of donut glaze.

  “This,” Braddock elucidated, “is an excerpt from an early ’90s congressional report. According to the Office of Technology Assessment, a small plane dispersing about 220 pounds of anthrax spores could be more lethal than a hydrogen bomb. On a clear night, in an area such as Washington, D.C., it could kill upward of three million people. Is young Mr. Connors bluffing? Could be. But if this hits the fan, I’ll be the first one dragged through the blades, and I’ll take all of you with me. We clear?”

  The mood had turned somber. “Yes sir.”

  On a rolling chalkboard, Braddock diagrammed the tasks before them. He would meet with the mayor and the Benton County sheriff to coordinate local emergency services and request discretionary funds. The Investigations Unit would partner with the FBI Regional Terrorism Task Force. Oregon’s Chemical Stockpile Emergency Preparedness Program would be brought in to guide their efforts, while the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention would be requisitioned for early-warning field kits. The American Red Cross would be alerted, pharmaceutical people, too. “Get ahold of anthrax and nerve gas antidotes,” the chief ordered. “Those disposable types, the auto-injectors. Jamison, you make the calls, and don’t take no for an answer.” He also demanded that Beau Connors’s past be combed “like a lice-ridden scalp” for any terrorist, anarchic, or militia-group connections. Meanwhile, they would shake down the streets for rumors of weapons caches or chemical labs or anti-American sentiment.

  “Get moving. You all know your assignments. If not, you weren’t listening.”

  Turney pushed his way to his office and hunkered down to the tasks at hand.

  Phone calls. Paperwork. Printouts and press releases.

  To break the drudgery, he rummaged through yesterday’s uniform, now wrinkled and draped over his dented file cabinet. From the shirt pocket, he collected and tagged the items in evidence bags, inserted them into a padded envelope with an official CODIS request form, then dropped it in the mail pouch.

  By noon it would be headed to the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System.

  “Not giving up. Not yet. More than one way to ensnare a fish in the Net.”

  Despite this assurance, Nick’s hubris had diminished visibly with the disappearance of Steele Knight. He muttered and tinkered, tapped at the folding keyboard in his lap, then checked the monitor on Marsh Addison’s desk.

  “I’m no computer genius. I’ll leave it to you,” Marsh said.

  He stepped to the study window and watched migratory workers arrive in the company van. They milled about and joked alongside the warehouse, then snapped to attent
ion when the foreman marched from the tasting room and shouted orders in Spanish. The carpool of household staff—two women and a man—pulled up. They entered the manor through a side door, their voices floating up from the kitchen downstairs.

  Rhythm and routine. Addison Ridge Vineyards was back in gear.

  But where was Josee? Would Esprit be as efficient at finding her?

  Josee Walker. Biological daughter or not, she was the one with access to the safe-deposit box at the Bank of the Dunes. She was an integral part of Steele Knight’s plan, and without her, the journal and bank key would prove useless. Marsh had directed Esprit to get her whereabouts from Sergeant Turney, then bring her to the estate.

  Marsh saw a pale lemon sun squeeze over the ridge. A new day.

  Questions tumbled through his head. His heart. He was adroit at handling business uncertainties but less comfortable with these emotional concerns.

  Was Josee in danger? Where was Kara? What had she meant by the Black Butte Ranch clue? Who was Steele Knight? How did he factor into the schemes of Trudi Ubelhaar? Who was tailing him? Were they still out there, ready to hound his every move? The journal had mentioned a protector, one commissioned by Chance Addison to watch over the Addison household. Who and where was this protector?

  Not that Marsh intended to sit around waiting for protection.

  Come on, Esprit, bring Josee safely to me. I have a plan of escape.

  33

  The Sorceress

  They located Scooter in the backyard at the base of a walnut tree. The rabid look in his eyes caused last night’s terror to rise in Josee’s throat. She slipped behind John as he advanced over the spongy grass. In a corner of the yard, birds that had been chirping now settled into vigilant stances along a marble birdbath.

  “Back off,” Scooter said. “Came out here to get away. Gotta keep movin’.”

  “Where’re you headed?” John’s face grew solemn.

  “Anywhere but here.” He pointed to Josee. “You have to get away from me.”

  She bent to his level and said, “It’s okay, Scoot. I don’t hold anything against you.”

  “Stay away.”

  “I forgive you. For last night. At least let John help you.”

  “I’m poison.” Scooter’s eyes brimmed with self-loathing. He rocked with his bedroll in his arms. “You’re my closest friend, and look what I did. It’s because they’re trying to make you …”

  “Make me what?”

  “Trying to reach you”—his rocking accelerated—”through me. Wherever I go, they follow. They want you.” He mumbled to himself, pressed his hands to his eyes.

  John Van der Bruegge stood tall at Josee’s side. “Scooter, I’m here to help. I know what you’re dealing with. We saw the hatched eggs.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “You think you’re able to handle this on your own?”

  “Maybe. Dang it, I don’t know! What do you care anyway? I don’t know you from Adam. Okay, so we shot some pool, ate some food together. That doesn’t mean you know squat about me. Yeah.” He nodded and stood to his feet. “I can handle it.”

  Josee felt water drip from the walnut branches into her hair. She tried to keep her composure as a twitch flexed through Scooter’s cheeks. She said, “Don’t brush us off, Scoot. You said they were trying to get you and you couldn’t hold them off. What are they? Snakes, like the one we saw the other day?”

  “Stop looking at me, babe. They’re after you! Aah, I hate this, hate this! Till last night I was maintaining. What happened? Everything got worse when we came to this place. Why?” He was pacing. “I thought they’d leave me alone. That’s what they told me. But they’re eatin’ at me. I can feel it.”

  Kris emerged from the back of the house and joined them beneath the tree. “I made some calls, and word’s passing around,” she told John. “We’re not alone.”

  Josee said, “Let John and Kris help you. They’re good people.”

  “They’ve only made it worse. Somethin’ about this place.”

  John took his wife’s hand. Along the marble bath, the birds quieted and kept watch over the proceedings. John said, “The reason you feel that way, Scooter, is because Kris and I try to let our home be a place of refuge, of grace. Not that we’re perfect, not at all. Don’t believe us? Ask our kids. But where mistakes abound, grace also abounds. Nothing unclean is welcome here. It must either run and hide or show itself. That’s why you want to run. You think you’re trapped and there’s no way out.”

  “Sheesh, what’s wrong with all of you? I’m fine. Look, I cut off the scraggly long hair and beard. What more do ya want?”

  “Scooter, that’s not the point. God looks at your heart.”

  “Try tellin’ that to some of the creeps Josee and I’ve run into.”

  Kris said, “What’ve they told you? You think God’s put off by Josee’s eyebrow ring? By the way you wear your hair or the clothes you put on? Fairly superficial, if you ask me. No, God’s much bigger than that, and if he’s not, we’re all wasting our time, aren’t we?” She elbowed John, threw Josee a mischievous grin. “Why, maybe I should get that tattoo I’ve always wanted.”

  The grin washed over Josee with cool acceptance. No fronting here.

  “Let them help,” she implored Scooter. “Come on, hon.”

  He tucked his chin into his chest and continued pacing. “I’m not about to jump through any hoops, you hear me? ‘Do this’ and ‘do that.’ Nah, we’ve heard all that before. Thanks, but no thanks.” The cinch cords on his bedroll seemed to unravel as he moved. “Maybe I’m not good enough, but hey, at least I don’t pretend I got it all together. What about you, Josee? You gonna conform? Let’s get away from here.” The cords spiraled down, brushing against Scooter’s legs, curling along his sleeves.

  “Scooter,” John admonished, “please give me that bedroll.”

  “Back off, man! This is my stuff.”

  “You won’t be free until you let go.”

  Scooter rocked again. His voice took on a deeper tone. “I’m free, free to roam. Who are you to hold me down?” He halted to remove a cord that had slithered between the buttons of his shirt. “Why won’t this thing let go?”

  “Because somewhere along the line it’s found a foothold.”

  “A foothold? Yeah, man, whatever.”

  “Something little. That’s all it takes. A spot of unresolved bitterness. This enemy you’re fighting is a thief, and he’ll take whatever you give him.”

  Scooter ignored the rejoinder and tugged at the bedroll’s cover flap.

  Ker-popppp!

  Josee and the Van der Bruegges started at the sound. The clasp sprung open, and Josee watched threads of snakes unwind over the lip and drop to the grass. Baby vipers spilled over the legs of Scooter’s khakis; together, the threads wove themselves into a single dark entity that coiled back up his body and poised over his shoulders. It was a sorceress, a haughty queen on a chessboard.

  Was this for real, Josee wondered, or some comic-book apparition?

  “S’okay.” Scooter dropped his belongings. “Back off, I’m okay.”

  “Scooter, it’s a lie,” said Kris.

  “This thing that you’re fighting,” John said, “is a deception, nothing more.”

  The fabric of intertwined serpents formed an undulating cloak behind the sorceress. Once more Josee’s eyes seemed open to an unseen realm so that she doubted her own clarity of mind. Was she going wacko here? Yet, clearly the Van der Bruegges were aware of an additional presence as well. They might not be able to see it, but they seemed to know it was there.

  Scoot said, “Uh-uh, everything’s cool. Just back off.”

  The morning’s tedium was about to drive Turney bonkers. Facing bomb threats and terrorist acts, he was irritated to no end by the details of the job. What he needed was a little pick-me-up, a sugar rush. He thumbed through the case files on his desk, lifted the morning paper, but found nothing to satisfy his urge.

>   The top drawer? Nope. How about the middle one?

  Yup, there it was.

  Even as thick fingers closed around the tin of almond roca, his vow to John Van der Bruegge reasserted itself: Fast? As in, don’t eat?… I’ll give it my best shot. Why’d he ever agree to such an idea? Sure, he saw its value, but what difference could he possibly make? This was why he shied away from New Year’s resolutions; they practically begged to be broken.

  He opened the tin, caught a whiff of rich—

  Nope! Gotta honor my agreement. For John and Kris, for Scooter … for Josee.

  Time for a change of scenery, otherwise he’d cave to the candied temptation.

  Turney wandered through the station’s hubbub to the mail slots near the water cooler. He sucked down a double helping of water—better than nothing—aimed the cup into the wastebasket, then scanned his three most recent messages.

  The first referred to an employee at a drive-through espresso booth in the nearby town of Philomath. Apparently, the young lady had seen this morning’s news report about a man hit and killed by a car on coastal Highway 101. She recognized the picture. She knew the man. She’d served him white mochas every now and then. He always drove up in a family-type van, a tan one, and always had an older guy with him in the passenger seat.

  Turney noted at the bottom of the paper that the lady had been put in contact with police counselors. She must be pretty shaken up.

  The second message, from Chief Braddock, demanded his appearance at Good Samaritan Regional Medical Center. Twelve o’clock in the hospital administrator’s office. Don’t miss it; drop everything.

  Hoo boy, what now?

  The third, per Marsh Addison’s earlier inquiry, provided the cell number of the motorist that had called in Thursday morning’s accident on Ridge Road. Under the cloud of a potential police investigation, the phone company had released the name and billing address attached to that number. The address was of no immediate help—a local post office box—and it appeared that the phone belonged to a business account. The name, in a slanted scrawl, looked misspelled.