by Eric Wilson
House of Ubelhaar … Sponsor of the Arts.
Armed with a bottle of water, Turney paid a short visit to the Corvallis postmaster and discovered that a “Karl Stahlherz” had signed the original post office box agreement. The account had remained in good standing for over five years. The average count of delivered mail was nothing out of the ordinary; never had a package been called into question; the box was emptied on a regular basis. In all, an unremarkable account.
House of Ubelhaar? Karl Stahlherz?
Both names were new to Turney. Sounded Dutch or German.
Scales formed a scepter that the sorceress swished down Scooter’s arm. Her fluid shape nestled behind him, writhing in an offer of unearthly comfort.
Don’t even go there, lady! Josee stepped forward. He doesn’t belong to you.
The hazy face angled her way.
Josee turned to stone. She recognized those eyes, the same flaming pinpricks she’d seen two mornings ago in the woods. She recalled Scooter’s reaction to the attack … Submissive and accepting of his fate? Or reveling in the experience?
“Scooter, you’re not alone in this,” John said. “We have friends praying for you, and we’re right here. Let us help.”
As though in response, the birds along the marble bath took wing. In staccato bursts, they swept down at the serpents, short beaks pecking at and shredding the dark fabric. The sorceress cried out, swatting at them with her scepter. They swooped in a second time; again she batted them away.
“See there, you can resist this thing,” John called.
“This? Oh, she’s nothing.” Prompted by the scepter, Scooter’s fingers brushed back through the ropes of vaporous hair, and the sorceress drew closer. “She’s a companion, one of the characters from a role-playing game I’m into. You don’t wanna get on this lady’s bad side, tell you that much right now.She’s got one razor-sharp mind and a … a wicked …” His voice weakened as she nuzzled at his neck.
“Can you see her?” John inquired. “You’re in a spiritual skirmish. Do you recognize that? We can’t see what you’re fighting, not physically, but we can feel its presence. This is a pagan entity, one you should never have flirted with.”
As Josee had suspected, only she could see the creature’s physical form.
“Push her away,” Josee demanded.
“Babe, I can’t … can’t do it.”
“You can.”
“She’s too strong. Too many … necropoints.”
“Necropoints?” Kris waited for an explanation.
“Death points,” said Josee. The birds continued to hover, striking in bursts.
“But, Scooter, you’ve given her those points,” John stated.
“She took ’em.”
“Yes, but only after you gave her control.”
“It’s a game, that’s all,” Scooter countered. “I’ll be fine, you hear me?”
A game? Fat chance. Josee thought back to a few weeks ago in their trailer by the lake. She had curled up in a beanbag with a bag of sea-salt chips while Scooter and his buddies played one such game. Some, in the spirit of the night, had dressed as warlocks and wizards, but nothing quite like this sorceress. Josee thought of the times Scoot had gone into Seattle, claiming to meet his friends for a game or two. What had he really been up to?
“You can resist. You must resist,” John was saying to Scooter.
“Nah. She … won’t let … go. Not like she’s tryin’ to hurt anyone. It’s all good. It’s cool.” Scooter’s tone had gone flat. While the sorceress’s right hand took erratic swings at the birds, her left ran black fingernails down his arm. The fingers turned to handcuffs about his wrists.
“Stand firm,” John said. “You need to make your choice.”
“I … can’t. How … Help me, man. What can I do? Help.”
John Van der Bruegge stepped in, waving his hands over Scooter’s arms. With this motion, he seemed to knock the encircling fingers loose. He looked into Scooter’s eyes. “See, you gave me the opening to step in. You made a brief decision to seek help. You can resist, so long as you retain your ability to make choices. No one takes your free will from you, but you can hand it over, and once you do so, it’s no longer free, is it? In fact, it can cost you everything.”
Scooter softened. “I’m trapped. They’re using me to get to Josee.” He looked down. “They followed me to the hospital … the snake, the snakes. They came with me.” His words were slurred, but he forced them out. “An … ambush. I didn’t mean to, Josee. I’m sorry … too strong.”
“Told you I forgive you, hon. Like John says, you can resist. Come on!”
“I … no, I can’t.”
“You can! You’ve gotta take a stand. Why do you do this? Why do you back down? Listen to me, Scooter, you have to fight!”
“Too late, babe. She’s … she’s gonna eat us alive.”
His words pressed the Replay button in Josee’s memory. Scooter … a prey numbed, yet alive, heart still beating to provide fresh sustenance on demand. Josee had sensed impending danger in the thicket. Here it was again, insatiable, grasping for more. Although she wanted to hug Scooter, to comfort him, she also wanted to flee. She pressed down her fear. “Scooter, you have to make a stand to get rid of this thing, this … enemy.”
“Enemy, huh?”
“The enemy of our souls,” Kris joined in.
The scepter hooked Scooter’s mouth and a paroxysm of laughter shook him. “Oooh, sounds spooky.”
“Scoot, it’s nothing to kid about,” Josee said. “You think you’ll survive by letting this thing hang around, but it’ll take you down. You have to stand up to it.”
Though sagging on weak legs, Scooter raised an eyebrow. A flicker of hope?
Briefly the apparition loosened her grip as she ducked from a new onslaught of darting birds. Beaks tore fiber from her fabric, tatters hung lifelessly from the cloak, and Josee began to believe that this thing could be defeated. Perhaps the Van der Bruegges’ circle of friends was beginning to prevail; perhaps their prayers were taking effect. With feathery attack, the birds were providing shelter from the sorceress.
Shelter, Josee recognized, in the shadow of the Almighty’s wings.
“God is on your side, Scooter,” Kris said. “Call on him boldly. Jesus is freedom, but you must take hold of him.”
“Hold o’ what? What can he do?” Behind Scooter, his captor spewed doubts into his ear. Her cloak clung at his legs, seemed to sap his strength. His face clouded as he said, “Jesus doesn’t give a rat’s tail about me. It’s … no use … too late! You know the saying, ‘Live fast, die young, and leave a good-lookin’ corpse’? Well, maybe that’s all I am, huh? Nothin’ but a walking corpse.”
“You’re not dead,” Josee insisted. “Keep fighting!”
“After what I did last night … I can’t risk it, babe. Get away from me. I can’t let them hurt you.” He gathered his bedroll in his arms. “I’m no good. Unclean. I’ve gotta get away—from you, from them. Just leave me alone!” He shoved his way past John and Kris and stalked along the house to the front walkway. “And don’t come after me.”
Josee ignored the Van der Bruegges’ appeals and followed, jogging to keep pace. “What now, Scoot? You’re going to take off like usual?”
“Told you not to come after me!”
“It won’t solve the problem. If you leave, I’m afraid that—”
“Afraid? See, you are afraid of me! Don’t blame ya, not one friggin’ bit. Heyya, what if I am a corpse? You don’t deserve that, and you never have.” He broke into a wild-eyed sprint, trailing tatters and threads. Against the sky, the birds flitted but made only one or two attempts to further weaken the viper-spun fabric.
Josee found herself falling behind. Her lungs and eyes burned.
Scoot, you’re a stinkin’ idiot! Why do you always refuse to fight?
She doubled over to regain her breath and felt a knot of sorrow tighten in her throat. He was going to get himself killed,
she just knew it, and there was little she could do to stop it. She let him go. Around the corner, out of sight. She trudged back up the block, past store-bought gnarled witches and huge black plastic spiders.
Ahead, she saw that a car had pulled up at the Van der Bruegge home. An older man conversed with John and Kris on the walkway, then turned as she drew near.
“Josee. I’m Henri Esprit.”
She wiped a drop of sweat from her chin, then lifted her fingers to her eyebrow ring.
“He’s okay,” John clarified. “He’s been cleared by Sergeant Turney. He’s here to take you to your father.”
“As in Marsh? Marsh Addison? Yesterday the man told me to get lost.”
“He’s feeling a bit lost himself,” Esprit said. “He’d very much like to see you.”
“Oh, goody. Glad to know he can finally pencil me in.”
The gaming zone confrontation was over. Back to the scuffle of human pawns and motivations. In the basement studio, Stahlherz tapped at his keyboard, checked the appropriate addresses in his database, then pressed Send. Unseen, the messages sliced through cyberspace. A call to arms.
He lifted a glass and squeezed a tube over the water’s surface.
One drop … drippp!
The blue food coloring swirled, indigo tendrils coiling into the crystal depths.
One drop … polluting, permeating, poisoning the entire glass.
The plan was devastating in its simplicity. Tonight, once Josee had utilized the safe-deposit key, ICV would distribute the long-hidden venom vials to members posted along deserted logging roads in the coastal mountain range. By midnight they would pass on the toxic payloads to fellow units throughout Oregon’s westerly half. Specially trained, these units would fill the historic silver canisters with the accelerant to form a deadly biochemical agent. A few liters, nothing more. Drops. Dissolving into invisible evil. For the past year, recruits had reconnoitered reservoirs and water storage facilities, narrowing the targets to a dozen.
Twelve targets. Tens of thousands of potential victims.
“Come. Let the thirsty ones come,” Stahlherz said, parodying that which was sacred. In one extended gulp, he drained the glass of tinted water. He wondered, would tonight’s victims have time to alert their loved ones before all their bodily functions went haywire?
34
Telltale Signs
“An escape plan,” Josee said. “That’s why you brought me up here?”
“Basically.” Marsh stood beside her beneath the portico as they watched Henri Esprit and his nephew drive down the hill between grape trellises still beaded with last night’s rain. “Short notice, I know. Thanks for coming.”
“That’s not what you said yesterday.”
“Yesterday I was dealing with the fact that my wife is gone.”
Josee’s eyes locked on to him. Piercing. Discerning. “Maybe you’re to blame.”
“True, I’ve made mistakes, but it’s time to deal with the problems at hand. The clock’s ticking as we speak.”
“First, tell me what’s wrong between you and Kara.”
“First, tell me what you know about a key to a safe-deposit box,” Marsh said.
“A key? Wait, that’s the same thing Chief Braddock asked.”
“Chief John Braddock? Once again sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Josee’s lips. “Least we agree on something.”
Marsh met her eyes and felt his heart thump against his ribs. Josee reminded him of Kara. Different coloring, sure, but similar features. She was younger, rougher. Her shirt was untucked, black, with tiger’s-eye buttons; her jeans loose, brown, with a peace symbol patch on one knee. And she was beautiful. He could see that now. Why hadn’t he noticed yesterday? What had he missed out on all these years?
“Josee,” he said, “I’m sorry for my abruptness at Barkley’s. I was worried about you, and I thought I could protect you from getting involved. I was wrong. You, me, Kara—we’re all part of this. We’re being watched, even now. By tonight, one way or another, this issue’ll be resolved.”
“You know where Kara is?”
“No, but I think I know who’s responsible. Not that Beau Connors kid either.”
Josee shot him a quizzical stare. Looked as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t let it out. She hefted the knapsack she’d brought along.
“So,” Marsh said, “are you ready to get muddy?”
“Excuse me?”
Donning a daypack that he had stuffed with clothes, tennis shoes, and his nine-millimeter semiautomatic, Marsh led Josee down the grand staircase. She said little. He could see her assessing the manor, weighing the life that might have been hers. Her hands kneaded the loose ends of her shirt; her teeth pulled at her bottom lip.
“Ever been in a wine cellar, Josee?”
She snorted. “Me, an uptown socialite? Talk about a whole different world. When I was growing up, my version of a wine cellar was chugging Boone’s Farm with my friends in their garage.”
“I shudder at the thought.”
“Can we spell pretentious?” she chided.
“But Boone’s Farm? Around here that’s heresy.”
He led her through French doors onto the back deck, past the hot tub, down cedar steps. Set into the earth at the base of the house, the cellar door was padlocked. Marsh let them in and hit a switch on the wall. One bulb sparked and died, but others revealed wooden racks and discarded oak barrels. He said, “My father’s humble beginnings. Chance stored his vintage here, half a century ago.”
“He’s the one Kara told me about? The one who died after the war? How’d it happen? He wasn’t that old, was he?”
“Be easier if you read it for yourself, Josee. I have something for you to see. In here.” Marsh patted the daypack. “First, let’s give ourselves some space to breathe.”
They wound through a series of tunnels, then up stone steps into a boiler room.
“We’re in the warehouse now, nearly two hundred feet from the manor. Around the corner, docking doors face the woods out back. We can escape unnoticed.”
In the equipment room, he mounted a Honda quad and fired it up. Josee joined him, but he had to direct her arms around his waist and her feet onto the proper pegs. The sputtering engine shook the vehicle. It’d been some time since he’d taken a spin on one of these. In times past, he’d ridden the estate’s perimeter, spot-checking for ripeness and signs of blight. Nowadays, financial ventures consumed his schedule.
“Eh, jefe.” No doubt drawn by the engine, the foreman found them, waved, dipped his head. “You go get dirty? You have good time, Sí. Sí, señor, we still work hard for you. Mucho trabajo.”
“Thanks, Alex. Even the boss has gotta have a little fun every now and then.”
Alex gave a knowing nod. “Hasta luego.”
Marsh cranked the throttle and released the clutch. Josee’s grip tightened as the quad rocketed down the ramp. He waggled the handlebars so that the tires spun and spat bits of quartz and wet dirt. She cried out. In no time they had bypassed the old pump house and zipped between fir trees that spilled down from the ridge. Old paths carried them over fallen timber and moldering leaves. Despite a wrong turn and a detour around a flooded gulch, Marsh knew they were still on schedule.
As he navigated the quad, a renewed vigor took hold. The roar of the engine precluded conversation, but Josee’s nearness communicated ideas he had shoved away for twenty-two years. She was a woman. Surely she’d gone through first grade, had her first kiss, found talents and interests, faced heartache and pain.
I’ve seen it all there in her eyes. And she’s seen it in mine.
His mind sharpened. The task, he reminded himself, was to get Kara back. Wife and mother, she was at the heart of all that had gone on. Marsh replayed the events of the past two days. Specifically he mused on Kara’s answer to his question regarding this weekend: Black Butte Ranch. Marsh envisioned a map of Oregon. Had she gi
ven him a directional clue? Black Butte was located near the town of Sisters, right? Or maybe that was it. Maybe she was trying to share that she was near her sister’s place. That seemed unlikely, considering her sister lived in Colorado.
Stabs in the dark. That’s all he had.
By the time they reached their destination—a gravel road on the border of the McDonald-Dunn Research Forest—their clothes were mud caked. With a turn of the key, the forest fell silent again. The engine ticked. From his pack, Marsh loaned Josee a set of Kara’s brushed corduroy pants and an aquamarine pullover. Then, behind a thick tree trunk, he changed into pleated Dockers, deck shoes, and a maroon, collared shirt and a light jacket.
“Sorry, Josee, I know I’m not much on fashion, but it should keep you warm.” He shook open a plastic trash bag. “Dirties can go in here. So tell me, what’d you think?”
“Of your driving? You’re insane.” Josee grinned. “Best ride I’ve ever been on.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Would’ve been even better if I had been driving.”
“Have your license handy? Here’s your chance.”
They turned to see Esprit pull roadside in a white economy rental car. At Marsh’s direction, he handed the key to Josee. “Long time no see,” Esprit quipped.
“A Metro?” She wrinkled her face at the prospect. “A real speed machine.”
Marsh gave a hearty laugh. Then, pointing to the quad, he said to Esprit, “She’s all yours. Have fun riding back. When you get there, put on one of my ball caps and one of my coats, then take the Tahoe for a spin. In fact, I want you to drive over to Black Butte and check out our condo. Make sure that nothing’s been disturbed and that Kara’s not there.” He saw Josee twitch but went on. “Call me once you’ve arrived.”
With one long breath, Esprit straddled the filthy quad. “That’s a four or five hour round trip, Marshall. You wish for me to go today?”
“Paid time off. Grab a bite to eat while you’re there. Here, use my AmEx card.”
“If you insist.”
Following Josee, Marsh folded himself into their four-cylinder escape vehicle. He relished the idea of his pursuer still twiddling his thumbs back on Ridge Road. Would he fall for the trick and follow Henri Esprit? Maybe, maybe not. But Marsh and Josee would be long gone by the time he recognized the hoax.
