by Eric Wilson
“What about Josee?” he said. “Is she with you too?”
“Thanks to you.”
He ignored the gibe. “You never intended to show up for my meeting with Stahlherz, did you? What did you plan to do with my wife?”
“Oh, I was going to send her, true to the agreement Stahlherz brokered with you, while I waited here, covering our bases dependent on the bank’s location. Stahli’s become a liability though. Dead weight. To obtain victory, I’ve had to change plans.”
“It’s not over yet.” Marsh emerged from between buildings, saw his car up the road.
“You?” She scoffed. “You’re no threat. I’ve anticipated your every move. I knew you’d skip the rendezvous and head for the beach house. Your little trick alerted me. May have fooled Stahli, but I know of your plans to fly to Paris this weekend, so naturally I wondered why you and Kara would collaborate in a lie about getting away together. An attempt to gather information, was that it? I see it worked.”
“Once a chess player, always a chess player.”
“Who’d you send in your stead? Esprit? He’s similar in build.”
“Why reveal my tactics if you won’t reveal yours?”
“Aha. Clever, Marsh. You’ve inherited some of your father’s intellect.”
“And you’ve been a positive addition at the manor—efficient, resourceful.” Marsh softened his tone. “Rosie … Trudi, I know of your history, the mistreatment you suffered. I can’t even imagine. There’s no excuse. Your anger’s understandable, but you can still turn back. You’re not locked into this course of action.”
“Let’s not wax sentimental at this point, please. Are you en route?”
He reached the Metro, opened the door. “Yes, Trudi, I’m coming.”
“No dallying, you understand, or your wife will go on a stroll from which I fear she’ll never return. Really, Marsh, is that what you desire? Devil’s Elbow. For old times’ sake, be there below the lighthouse. Call me once you’re in position.”
“No more tricks,” Stahlherz said. “Show the journal to me.”
“First,” Esprit said, “bring Kara out. Her welfare is our primary concern.”
Stahlherz silently ridiculed this man’s naiveté. With the ICV recruits surrounding the park, Stahlherz knew he could take ownership of the journal at will. However, in a show of sportsmanship, he placed the call. “Move the queen forward three spaces,” he said, using the code words. “We’re ready to exchange the pieces.”
Within ninety seconds the Professor’s Studebaker rounded the corner and pulled into the gravel lot. Two figures stepped from the car, cautious. There was no sign of the Professor. Had he misunderstood her? Wasn’t she to be present?
Stahlherz led the way to the vehicle and barked at his acolytes, “Let’s get moving.”
“The items you requested, Mr. Steele.” The driver handed over a packet.
Steele Knight tore at the padded envelope, leafed through the documents, let the scent of ink and paper arouse his desire for recognition. As requested, the Professor had provided his proof of identity. She had watched over him, shaped him, forged him with undying attentiveness. He paraded a booklet and a sheet of paper for all to see. “This,” he proclaimed to his ring of listeners, “is my ticket to notoriety—my name, my identity, all the corroborating evidence to state unequivocally that I am who I claim to be. I am Herr Karl Stahlherz. Soon the world will know of me.”
“Kara Addison?” Esprit said. “Show her to me. I want to know she’s safe.”
“Open this up.” Stahlherz knocked on the trunk. “Let’s see how she is faring.”
The ICV driver inserted the key and opened the trunk for inspection.
“Noooo!”
The sounds Sergeant Turney had generated were covered by the approach of a vintage automobile. He removed the gun from his shoulder holster and edged along the Tahoe. Based upon his earlier phone conversation, he assumed his detective wouldn’t be far behind the Studebaker. Even now the man could be watching.
With gun in hand, Turney made a visual check of his surroundings—the parking area, the tall grass and brush, the aviary. In the hospital cafeteria, Marsh had told him how he’d enlisted the help of his Trysting Tree golfing buddies, many of whom, he confided, also made a habit of practicing at the shooting range on Saturdays. They knew how to watch after their own. Armed and concealed, they had positioned themselves to take on any ICV subversives who showed up here at the scene.
In the trickery of the fading sunlight, Turney welcomed their presence. Keeping low, he inched forward to lock in his angle of attack.
Karl Stahlherz was staring into the Studebaker’s trunk. “Noooo!”
The burst of vehemence sent the ICV recruits back to their seats in the car. They looked nervous. Ready to run.
Empty? The trunk is empty!
Stahlherz felt his nostrils flare. He harnessed his fury and punched in the Professor’s number on the cell phone. “Where are you? Where is the queen? She’s not in the trunk.”
“My son, do you have the journal?”
Stahlherz was dazed. He rocked on his feet. This wasn’t what they’d outlined.
“Demand that Esprit show it to you, Stahli.”
“I. How do you know Esprit’s here? You are close, aren’t you?” Now his suspicions seemed juvenile; he should never have questioned her.
His mother emitted a high laugh. “Marshall fooled you, didn’t he? After years of playing him over the board, you still allow him to subvert your authority. Stahli, when I first began nurturing your bitterness in childhood, I never realized how deeply it would root. You’ve let it corrode you, let it distort the truth before you. By attempting to control it, you’ve turned it into something perfidious.”
Steele Knight, short of breath, swallowed against the beak in his throat.
“Marsh is headed to Europe this weekend for an international wine festival,” the Professor elucidated. “He’s had it planned for quite some time. I might’ve suspected he’d use it to his advantage. He manipulated you to help determine Kara’s location. Even at this minute, he’s coming my way.”
“Where are you?”
“With Kara. With Josee. When you called earlier and I realized Marsh’s scam, I decided it’d be best to keep them nearby.”
“You deceived me, Mother?”
“Only as a part of the overall design. Did you get the documents I sent?”
Stahlherz looked at the identification papers in his hand, stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket. “So this is it? I’m no more than a pawn in your schemes?”
“Our schemes, Son. The goal must be kept in sight. Now, with your identity officially established, you can shoulder the legal repercussions for ICV’s actions. Time to be a man, to take the blame. After tonight’s deadly results, after thousands have partaken of the tainted waters, I’ll simply disappear, a free woman at last.”
“You’re leaving? Abandoning me? I thought tonight was your new beginning.”
“Oh, but I’m getting old. Time to enjoy the fruits of my labor.”
“And I’m left to face the consequences. This was never part of our agreement.”
“Stahli, Stahli, never underestimate the power of a pawn.” And she hung up.
She disconnected! She’s manipulated me to play the fool!
He called back. No answer. The subterfuge seemed clear. He’d been told all along that he was a master of the game, but he was nothing but a plaything. He’d been given identity so as to make his mark, only to uncover this deception, which tore all other concerns away. In a flash, his years of work and solitude had become scraps of meat in the claws of the rook. He’d been sliced and fed to the Professor’s monstrous designs. She’d used him from the start.
The Professor … Trudi Ubelhaar … Mother.
In Cauda Venenum: “Beware of what you cannot see.”
A zephyr of anger billowed his black jacket about him and lifted his arms—his wings—in a gesture of aggress
ion. He whipped his dagger to Esprit’s throat. “Very slowly,” he commanded, “let me see the journal.”
The man unwrapped the book with painstaking care, as though to honor and protect the contents. The oilcloth folds fell open over his hands, and he turned the tan, faded volume for Steele Knight’s approval. “Marsh thought you might find this handy, even wrote an inscription. See here …”
Stahlherz watched Esprit open the cover for his viewing.
Steele Knight,
I hope this book brings you all the success and knowledge you seek.
Without it, I fear your game is beyond hope.
Better luck next time …
Crash-Chess-Dummy
A flicker of hope quelled Stahlherz’s anxiety. Perhaps this was authentic. By some means, he might yet race his mother to the venom vials and stand victorious.
With his free hand, he turned to a dog-eared page. What would Chance Addison’s handwriting look like? This man who had risked his life to save a fellow soldier, then, on the other hand, discarded one so helpless. Left him to die. What would Chance have to say for himself? Would there be apologies, regrets? For Stahlherz, this journal carried personal significance far beyond its value to ICV.
But the words were not handwritten. Fresh black ink underlined faded type.
By threatening to promote to a queen, an isolated passed pawn can dominate an otherwise clinical ending. If the opponent ignores the march of a passed pawn, he sets his own head upon the executioner’s block.
“What’s this?”
“A warning,” Esprit stated. “To you from Marsh.”
“This is a chess book!”
“Appears to be,” Esprit agreed, motionless at the dagger’s tip. “Modern Chess Tactics, sixth edition, 1939. Purchased today at a used-book store downtown. Is it true? Have you ignored Marsh’s march into the light?”
Stahlherz lifted his gaze, dropped his weapon to his side. In his chest, the warning burned. Where was Marsh Addison, the passed pawn? Victory was fading, and Stahlherz saw all else as meaningless. Pointless. Emptiness deeper than he’d ever known.
Closing the book, Esprit took a step back. “The game nears its conclusion, and you find that you’ve been taken advantage of all along. You can still choose the right path.”
“The right path? Ha! And you think I’ve taken the wrong way?”
“There is a path before each person that seems right, but it ends in death.”
Acid churned to the surface, a maelstrom of wrath. His bones ached. Although this winemaker’s words carried hints of reprieve, Stahlherz saw no room for turning back. He’d come too far. Worked too hard. Invested his soul and identity in a lie.
Why? Oh my … but to die!
The setting sun chopped tree shadows into strips of deep mauve, stacking them across Marsh Addison’s path. He’d parked the rental car at the top of the road leading into Devil’s Elbow State Park. Now, on foot, he reconnoitered the stretch of sand that was embraced by knobby-fingered cliffs. The wind tasted of brine and seaweed. From here, at the tree line, he viewed a woman’s silhouette.
Kara? Without a doubt.
A lump formed in his throat. He could see the soft curve of her back, the roll of her shoulders, the manner in which she rested her weight on one leg, favoring it over her scarred hip. She took a few steps, sat down on a section of driftwood.
This was his queen. Where, though, were his enemies? And Trudi Ubelhaar?
Marsh controlled the urge to call out to Kara, to run to her. He stood studious and calm, surveying the environs for any hidden threat. The mauve shadows made investigation of the woods difficult. Across the waves, the sun was a sliver of gold.
He hit the Redial button.
From this angle at Stahlherz’s back, Turney could see that the man had dropped his dagger to his side, but his stance remained aggressive. Beyond him, Esprit’s eyes had the calm of a dove. For an older gentleman, he handled himself well. Around the park’s perimeter, Marsh’s accomplices would have to cover while Turney made a dash past the recruits in the Studebaker and intervened on Esprit’s behalf.
An inhuman scream ripped over the gravel lot.
Esprit stumbled back as Stahlherz’s dagger made an arcing swoop. The winemaker collided into the marble marker before collapsing in a bed of flowers.
“Skerr-reeechh!” Stahlherz had gone berserk.
Should’ve moved quicker, Turney chastised himself. Curse this lard belly!
“Aah!” Pistoning his legs, he left the Tahoe’s side. As the black-coated foe lifted his dagger a second time, Turney became a battering ram that slammed him against the monument in a rush of pebbles, sweat, and gross tonnage.
Rough hands half dragged, half lifted Josee from the trunk. She found herself propped on cramped and tingling legs and winced as the constraints were torn from her ankles. Her arms remained taped. Still gagged, she stumbled forward, feet slipping on sand-dusted asphalt. In her left sock, she could feel the bank key against her heel. She angled her head back and saw two cars. Beyond them, stepping through the sand, a pair of figures held Kara between them.
Kara … Mom.
A brief look passed between daughter and mother, then they were torn apart.
“Press onward,” Trudi said. With a walking stick, she prodded Josee along a path between trees and brush. Up ahead, bathed in the sun’s last rays, the Queen Anne–style lightkeeper’s house shone on a cliff. In the darker section of sky, the moon was already present. “Soon enough, Josee, Marsh will arrive. I hope you’ll forgive our searching through your knapsack, but I’m pleased to see that you brought along your birth certificate. Isn’t it nice to know you’re part of a family?”
Josee marched on, sucking breaths through the gag. One step at a time.
Trudi touched her arm. “Have they told you of your portion in the inheritance?”
Inheritance? Josee’s eyes flickered in the old woman’s direction.
“Yes, dear, your grandfather left you the contents of his safe-deposit box. Of course, that’s nothing new to you—if you’ve seen the journal—but it’s no wonder that Kara and Marsh abandoned you at birth. They haven’t mentioned the fortune to you, I surmise. Of course, why would they?”
The accusations fought for a hold in Josee’s mind. Was this true?
Trudi caressed her honey-tinted hair. Her face was a mask of powdered wrinkles. “Is it any wonder that Kara’s allowed you back into her life? You’re the key. That’s all you are to her. To be used and tossed away. Quite simply, she sees you as the means of expropriating her fortune.”
The cloth was cutting into Josee’s lips. Duct tape held her hands.
Trudi was toting a wicker picnic basket. She described the family meal they would share together—soup and bread and vintage wine. She pulled an item from within. “Do you recognize this?” She was holding a metal canister.
Josee’s eyes widened. She choked against the cloth in her mouth.
Stahlherz was stunned. Esprit had shielded himself with the thick chess book so that the dagger plunged deep into the heart of the pages. Nevertheless, the force had rocked him back into the marble, where he stumbled into a backdrop of flowers.
Infuriated, Steele Knight arched his arm for another blow.
Behind him, gravel crunched, and a pile driver rammed him into the monument. The dagger struck the bronze description plate. The blade snapped. Caromed back into his own shoulder. Sprayed blood.
A talon … You filthy beast, you’ve turned on me!
Stahlherz landed facedown, shook off heavy hands from his back, and twisted to confront his attacker. Dressed in a camouflage jacket, the man was bulky. He was balanced on one knee. Aiming a gun. Across the grass Stahlherz saw a grappling trio of men and realized his recruits were also under siege, unable to come to his aid. An unmarked car skidded into the lot, and a detective hopped out with his weapon trained on the front seat of the Studebaker.
In the aviary, the squawking of birds reflected the aftern
oon’s burst of activity.
Warm blood. Spilling around the dagger’s tip in Stahlherz’s shoulder.
“Give yourself up,” said the man facing him. “I’m Sergeant Turney, Corvallis Police Department. We’ll getcha some help. Looks like you cut yourself deep.”
Surrender? No, it’s all or nothing!
Stahlherz gripped the blade. With blood spurting from the wound and his hand, he plucked it out and raised it in defense. The pain was nothing; the game was everything. A “spite check,” they called it in chess. His chance to spread the agony.
“Set that down.” The sergeant’s gun was unmoving. “Put ’em up nice and slow.”
Stahlherz wagged the blade at an oozing spot on the sergeant’s jacket. “What happened there? One of my recruits get to you? Or did the beast catch you, too?”
“The beast?”
“Ha! See, I’m not the only susceptible one.”
“These scars? They’re my way of knowin’ when trouble’s around. A reminder.”
“Double the trouble.” Stahlherz chuckled.
“I’ve been sittin’ on the sidelines long enough,” Turney said.
The sidelines … The horseman was sliding from the side toward the center. From the muck into the fray … Out of shape as he might be, he seemed determined to do his part. “You’re the one,” said Stahlherz, shifting to a perched position. “You!”
“Stay still!”
“But you’re the knight, the one on my board. The kid who got in the way years back. This is the cruelest of all jokes. You!”
With his laughter as a cover for his coiling body, Stahlherz planted both feet beneath him. He launched forward, jabbing the bloodied dagger tip at the center of the sergeant’s arm wounds. The hefty man swiveled away so that the blade caught but a sliver of skin as it tore through his sleeve.
The gun in Turney’s hand roared. Amid the acrid scent of detonation, a bullet grazed Stahlherz’s ribs. He growled in torment but used his momentum to spin around and lock one arm around Sergeant Turney’s wide belly, the other around his throat. He pressed the wet and jagged blade to the man’s corpulent neck.
