by Eric Wilson
“Alone?” Stahlherz collected cash from a regular art customer, then hurried the woman from his basement studio. He pressed the phone to his ear as he locked the garage door. “But wasn’t Josee with him at the manor? Is she not accompanying him?”
The voice was tinny on the phone. “I don’t think so, Mr. Steele. Haven’t seen her, but she could be ducked down in the back. About an hour and a half ago, he pulled his vehicle from the garage, a forest green Tahoe, and sped by before I could get a good fix, you know what I’m sayin’? Guess where I am right now? Shadowing him from a distance, humming along Highway 20. He made one stop in Cascadia, let the attendant pump the gas.”
“Did he have a journal with him, something along those lines?”
“He had some sort of book with him last night. He took it when he left the Ramada. I didn’t see anything with him now, but the Tahoe was parked in the garage. Who knows what he loaded in there?”
“Black Butte Ranch—that’s where you think he’s going.”
“Just a guess, Mr. Steele.”
“Keep me posted. He needs to be heading back this way by early afternoon.”
Stahlherz punched the End button and stood over his onyx chessboard. The center was a conflagration of threats, combinations, and tempo-gaining exchanges. His head blurred. So many strategies. Which ones were correct? Marsh was known to use the occasional gambit, but what was he up to now? Searching for Kara? Confirming plans for their weekend getaway?
Scree-akkk-akkk!
The beast was rising yet again, refusing to grant a moment’s peace. Stahlherz wearied of combating this creature. The beak pecked at him, tearing at his sanity, shredding it bit by bit … s-a-n-i-t-y! He could feel reason taking flight.
Dark thoughts, the Professor had told him. Use them to your advantage.
Resistance was in vain, he knew. Perhaps the wiser option was to release himself. He stretched his thoughts across the powerful, soaring wings and became one with the flight of the rook. Wind flushed over him. Charged him in its superheated draft. The acid of his vengeance crackled and sizzled beneath his skin. Razor talons, his newest weapons, carved at the edges of his mind.
Unblinking, he viewed the framed photo above his desk. The man in Wranglers. Young Chance Addison, indolent and smug. In a swing of his talons, Stahlherz catapulted the photo into the air where it made contact with the suspended birdcage. Feathers and birdseed scattered. Glass broke upon metal bars in a shower of angry tears. The photo floated toward the carpet, curling and browning at the edges as though put to a flame. It disintegrated into ash.
Why had he fought so long? Resistance had only brought pain.
“Facilis descensus Averno … The descent to hell is easy,” he mused aloud.
Only one secret remained, the whereabouts of the venom vials. He would find it in Chance Addison’s journal tonight. Before the appearance of the Halloween moon, Karl Stahlherz intended to acquire the poison, using Josee as the key.
“Scoot?”
“Josee, get away! Go!” Frantic, Scooter waved his hands at her while careening down the incline. The motorcycle was gaining. Shredded by the wind, the rider’s clothes whipped violent shadows over the lawn.
“You know him?” Marsh questioned.
Josee nodded, starting to move forward.
“No,” Marsh said. “Listen, he’s trying to warn you off.”
“But he’s in trouble!”
After this morning, she wondered what had prompted Scooter to come here, but she had no time to consider it. The motorcycle engine was screaming, the tires spitting clumps of grass in aimless trajectories. In a blur of motion, the rider drove onward, clearly bent on destruction.
Marsh directed Josee into the Studebaker and handed her the knapsack. “Hurry! This is what I was afraid of. Rosie, can you get Josee outta here? Take her away from here. Or … yeah, take her back to the beach house. You two should be safe there.”
“Certainly, sir. Whatever I can do to help.”
“Move it! I’ll deal with these guys. I’ll call you later. Go!” He closed the door and slammed a hand against the side panel as though to hasten their departure.
Josee turned in the seat to catch sight of him. She wanted to see her mother, yes, but behind her was a man who’d affirmed a familial bond between them. His touch was still tingling along her arm. And what about Scooter? After all that had happened, here he was. How did he know she’d be here? Fighting his own inner demons, had he come to warn her of danger?
Hurry, Scoot. Don’t let them get to you. Run!
The Studebaker was gaining speed. “We mustn’t wait,” said Rosie.
Through the rear window, Josee watched Marsh Addison assume a combative stance at the curb, ready to face Scooter and the approaching marauder. Marsh’s shoulders were broad, his jaw set, his stance courageous and challenging.
But his imposing figure could do little to help Scooter.
“Babe …” Scooter’s yell was fading. “Nooo!”
Rosie glanced into the mirror and met Josee’s eyes. “Might be best not to watch. This whole matter is ugly, Josee. I simply don’t understand.”
But Josee could not pull away. She marked Scooter’s dash through the display of prehistoric bones, his lateral jigs and his hurdling of an obstacle. The bike roared down the knoll, vaulted a gap in the sculptures, swerved in the soft turf, then continued in pursuit. Scooter skidded across the sidewalk and landed curbside in a sprawl.
“Get up!” Josee’s fingers gripped the seat. She could see his gaping scream, but the sound was muted. He was looking in her direction. His mouth formed her name.
Too late.
Hunched over the handlebars, the driver propelled his machine into Scooter’s fallen figure so that the front tire folded Scooter’s legs into unnatural shapes. Leaping, the motorcycle came down upon him, then, with tires finding purchase on his crumpled form, spun sideways to evade Marsh Addison’s angry arms. An iridescent tail of green grass and dirt clods whipped the air, spattering the parked Metro and Marsh’s clothing. In a plume of smoke, the machine caromed onto the pavement and sped off in the opposite direction of the Studebaker.
“Go back!” Josee told the elderly woman at the wheel.
“We mustn’t,” Rosie insisted. “You heard Marsh. I need to take you away.”
“Scooter’s hurt!”
“Marsh’ll look after him. Truly, I can’t risk any harm coming to you. What then would I tell your mother?” Rosie put the car in gear and followed signs toward Philomath and Highway 34. “She so desperately wants to see you.”
“Where is she?”
“At the Addisons’ beach cottage, of course.”
“Does Marsh know that?”
In the airflow from the vents, Rosie’s honey-tinted curls shifted. “No, of course not. And Kara prefers that it remain so for the time being. They’ve had their troubles, as I told you on the phone. This is to be a private meeting.”
Josee’s waning attachment to Scooter gave way to her overwhelming desire to see Kara. This was what she’d come for, wasn’t it?”
Josee’s desire to see her birth mother overrode her fundamental distrust. The Studebaker was comfortable enough, and she pretended to nap with her head against her knapsack for much of the journey.
Only eight miles to go, according to the last sign.
The images from Avery Park gnawed at Josee’s heart. Although she tried to switch her attention to the vast swells shimmering in the October sun, the picture of Scooter tumbling beneath those screaming tires remained. She felt a craving for a cigarette; instead she slipped a red gel capsule from her vial into her mouth.
As the town of Yachats came into view, Josee saw a sea lion bobbing in the ocean. Trees swayed before the bellows of surf and sky, and she lifted her head to sniff the salty air. Her eyebrow ring turned cold against her skin, but she kept her face windward and latched on to Marsh’s rekindled interest in her. She would tell Kara of it. Previously he had tried to talk h
is wife out of making the connection with their long-lost daughter, but maybe his new resolve would melt the ice between them.
Between Kara and Marsh. Between Kara and Josee. One big happy family?
Stranger things had happened; Josee knew that for a fact.
“We’re nearly there, dear,” Rosie cooed. “Left at the sign and half a block.”
The car crunched over gravel past a sign for Timberwolf Lane. Josee ran a hand through her hair, tugged at a few strands with her fingers, then ran the other hand through. What would Kara think? Would the life-size view repulse her?
“This is it, the Addisons’ beach house.” Rosie followed the half-circle drive and parked behind another car. “You’ll feel right at home, I’m certain.”
“Kara’s here?”
“She is.”
“Are you gonna be hanging around? I mean, no offense but—”
Rosie’s look turned cold, then she tilted her chin in a play for sympathy. “You prefer that I go? I made this drive for your sake, Josee. I had hoped that you’d find a soft spot in your heart for this lonely old woman. Never had a child of my own.”
“Thanks for the ride. Nothing against you. Just want some time alone with Kara.”
“Certainly, I can understand that.” Rosie patted Josee’s leg. “Forgive my silly notions. Time alone? With Kara? I’ll be certain you have that opportunity.”
Josee trailed the older woman onto the porch. Her pulse pounded. One part of her wanted to throw open the door and find her mother’s arms, while another part said to click off the emotions and take things as they came. No more disappointment.
Rosie knocked twice on the sliding glass door, paused, knocked three times.
“Who knows?” Josee said. “Maybe she went out for a walk.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
The curtains shifted behind the glass, and a hand brushed into view. The lock disengaged, the door slid open, and a guy about Josee’s age stepped before them.
“Good afternoon, Wade,” Rosie said. “Are you going to allow us in?”
He held back the curtain and ushered them into a room with vaulted ceilings, open rafters, and a stone fireplace. Would she have played here growing up? Josee wondered. Would these have been her stomping grounds? The dim surroundings surrendered no sign of Kara, but there were others in the house; their shapes took on distinguishing features as her eyes adjusted. What were they doing here?
“Meet Josee,” Rosie told Wade.
He gave a slight nod. “Josee.”
“She’s here to see her mother,” Rosie said. “Would you be so kind as to show her down the hall?”
“Now?” Wade was hesitant.
“Maybe now’s not a good time,” said Josee. “Doesn’t seem like she’s exactly hurrying out to see me. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.”
“Nonsense, dear,” Rosie said. “Don’t be silly. Wade, show her the way.”
The young man indicated for Josee to go ahead of him. Some reception, Josee thought, trying to suppress her doubts. As she started down the hall, Rosie issued a final instruction from the living room: “Wade, make sure that they won’t be disturbed. Josee and Kara aren’t going anywhere right away, but they’d like the chance to talk, to have some uninterrupted time together. Make sure they get it.”
“As you say, Professor.”
Professor?
Josee turned even as additional weight creaked and sagged the floorboards behind her. A cloth pressed over her face, jabbed her eye, and caused it to water. Then the hallway spun away, revealing a whirlpool of strobe lights that faded into black.
36
Timberwolf
Turney almost hit the gurney as he prowled down the Good Samaritan corridor. He swung his wide frame aside, trying to skirt along the wall. Flanked by a team of medical personnel, a heavily bandaged figure was prone beneath bloodstained sheets.
“Excuse me,” Turney mumbled. “Sorry.”
“Sarge?”
Turney heard the voice but ignored it. He was still agitated by the meeting in the administrator’s office. This roller coaster of a day had hit some real highs and lows, and he was feeling queasy. Not to mention he was starved.
“No! Go back. Hey, Sarge!”
“Sergeant?” A hand on his shoulder. “Sorry to bother you, but this kid here seems to know you. Spare a sec? Gotta make it quick.”
Turney discovered Scooter hidden beneath bandages that capped a lopsided head; the bandages were caved in on one side, slightly discolored. Scooter’s voice was weak, his one uncovered eye a mere slit. A nurse held an IV bag beside his arm.
“Where’re they taking me, Sarge? Couldn’t get away. I tried,” he said in a strangled voice. A spasmodic chuckle brought blood to the front of his mouth where it pooled behind his lips. “It got me, no doubt about it. Nailed me good.”
“What’re you talking about?”
A wet cough. “Josee okay?”
“Josee.” Turney looked up and down the hall, saw no sign of her. A paramedic gave an impatient shrug to indicate he knew nothing. “Yeah, she’s okay. You know, kid, you should’ve never left here without the doc’s permission.”
“I’ll be fine, big guy.”
“Rest easy.” Turney set a hand over Scooter’s. “You hang in there, okay? Your voice’s full of mush, and you’re not even thinking straight. Believe me, I know the feeling.” Turney rolled back his uniform sleeve to reveal gauze that was crusty and discolored along the edges. “Looky there. See what I mean?”
“You got tagged too.”
“Don’t give in to it,” Turney insisted. “If you give it an inch, it’ll take a mile.”
Another chuckle. “Too late now.” Blood spilled over the young man’s lips, and his one visible eye began blinking rapidly.
A doctor rushed up. “Sorry, Officer. This patient’s going into OR now.”
“Understood. Stay tough, Scooter.” But there was no response.
Turney watched the team regain steam and burst through double doors at the end of the hall. He wondered if he’d see the kid again. Whatever this fasting from food was supposed to accomplish, it didn’t seem to be working. John Van der Bruegge had described it as a form of joining together in battle. Was it worth the effort?
Please, God. Looks for the life of me as though Scooter’s losing the war.
A shell-shocked soldier keeping watch, Marsh paced the hospital waiting area.
He felt little connection with Scooter, but at the Avery Park curbside, responsibility for the kid had fallen upon his shoulders. Josee’s friend had been lying dazed in a pool of blood and contorted limbs. With a quick call, Marsh had beckoned an ambulance; the eleven-minute wait had allowed him time to assess Scooter’s wounds.
One detail, in particular, caught his attention.
Where he expected to find deep tire tracks and rubber burns, he found instead a pattern that resembled overlapping scales. Tattooed across Scooter’s chest and legs, the pattern was one to match the belly of a serpent.
Marsh wanted to write it off as another apparition—that would be so much easier to deal with—but he knew he was beyond filing away the facts for future consideration. No, the truth was, he’d been viewing things through some otherworldly filter. A spiritual lens. Try as he might, crazy as it seemed, he couldn’t purge this line of thinking.
Okay, then. The facts, as he’d experienced them firsthand.
One: He’d seen his own necktie corded around Kara’s throat. Two: He’d found her bound and gagged in his desk chair. Three: He’d talked to her at the stream before a glass figurine took her place. Four: He’d spotted Josee on the sidewalk, only to find a chess bishop on the pavement. Five: He’d wrestled with some apparition in the shower and watched his wife’s image suffer while his own dirty secrets burned into her skin.
And now this? Scooter’s physically wounded, that’s a fact, but he seems wounded at a deeper level, at a … soul level.
Marsh snatched a sports m
agazine from the waiting-room table. He was losing touch with reality; he must be. A soul level? Where did these thoughts come from? He flipped the pages, almost tearing them. Not seeing a thing.
Now seeing everything.
Kara’s prayer: Please, God, open his eyes.
His own prayer: God, forgive me. What’ve I done?
The magazine plummeted to the carpet, and he lowered himself into an armchair where he sat with fingers wrapped through his wavy hair and deep breaths flaring his nostrils. He, Marsh Addison … One: He had choked his wife by not letting go of her sins. Two: He had bound her, gagged her with his self-promoting and self-fulfilling career. Three: He had stayed by her side, yes, but he’d lost sight of who she truly was. Four: He had tossed aside their daughter in the process, in this very hospital. Five: He’d deceived himself into believing his own indiscretions had no bearing on his family.
A king on a chessboard. The central figure. The weakest piece.
He had played his part to perfection.
Marsh heard a door open and saw a doctor approach with a solemn gait. The waiting area was suffocating. Marsh retrieved the magazine from the floor, then shook the doctor’s outstretched hand.
In words that both sanitized and underlined the horror, the doctor relayed the news of the surgical team’s success in saving Scooter’s vital organs and stanching his internal bleeding. “He has, however, sustained massive head trauma. At 2:27, we believe he slipped into a coma on the operating table.”
How, Marsh asked himself, would he break the news to Josee?
Marsh was convinced he had shaken his pursuers. He and Josee had escaped.
With that in mind, when he spotted Sergeant Turney in the corridor, he invited him to a short powwow in the hospital cafeteria. They found a courtyard table surrounded by plants and pale October sunlight. They were alone. The hefty sergeant filled a chair, wringing his hands around the neck of his water container, then wiping the condensation on his police trousers.
“Not hungry?” Marsh said. “I could’ve grabbed you something.”
Turney’s jowls shook beneath his deep-set eyes. “Food’ll come later. Still got battles to fight.”
