by Eric Wilson
She was standing now on the driftwood log, facing the waves. She was a queen at the board’s edge, waiting to be returned to the game. She turned. “Marshall?”
“Took me awhile, but I figured out your clue,” he said. “I went to the beach house, but it was too late. Saw where they’d kept you in the cellar. Are you okay, hon?” He drew alongside her. He put his hands on her arms. “I swear, if they did anything to hurt you …”
She nuzzled against him. A sob erupted from deep in her chest.
“Shhh.” He drew Kara down from the driftwood and into his grasp. They stood as one, arms around each other, listening to the pulsing life of the sea. The waves, lured by the rising moon, drew closer until water lapped at their feet.
Marsh said, “We’re gonna settle this for good. Tonight.”
“They left me here to wait for you. What’re they planning to do to us?”
“In a little bit we’re supposed to meet up by the keeper’s house.” He glanced at the cliffs, considered whisking Kara far away from here. But that would leave Josee on her own. There was, of course, the possibility that Chief Braddock had contacted the local authorities, that perhaps there would be officers at the bank to detain any suspicious latecomers. Marsh, however, refused to risk the alternative.
“Kara, how many others did Trudi bring along?”
“Trudi? So it’s all true, what Josee said about the journal. Trudi Ubelhaar.”
“She had us all fooled. She also has a team of people around her. She’s the leader of that anarchist group, ICV. I’ve seen them in the news a couple of times. So did you count any others?”
“Two, three, maybe more. I don’t know. I was taken to a car, tied up in the trunk, and brought here. I’ve thought a lot about you, darling. I … missed you.”
He paused to look at her. He moved her back so he could take her in. The wind flipped golden strands of hair into her eyes. A bruise had turned pale green on her cheek, but her skin was soft and luminescent in the growing moonlight. On her lip, a crust of blood bespoke violence. What had she been through? What agony? And to think of all the emotions he had subjected her to over the years …
With one hand slipped along her neck, he bent to kiss her torn lip.
“I’m sorry, Kara. I’ve been … I’ve been trying to find you.”
“You found Josee.”
“I did.”
“She told me about it. Isn’t she beautiful, Marsh?” Kara’s eyes were moist. “The past few days have been horrible, but seeing her has been worth it all. My baby. I was so afraid that I’d see contempt in her eyes, or judgment, but there was none of that. She looked at me as though … as though I was the most incredible thing she’d ever seen. Called me Mom.”
“I left her with Trudi. I didn’t know.”
“Josee knows it was a mistake. All along I kept holding on to the hope that you’d come. When that creepy older guy—Stahlherz, is that his name?—when he told me that you wanted the answer to where we were going for the weekend, the only thing that made any sense was that you were fishing for information.”
“I hoped you would figure it out.”
“Darling, I know how you think. Twenty-two years. We’ve been together too long for me not to have learned a thing or two about your thought processes.”
He looked into her caramel eyes. “Kara, I’ve tried so hard to see what’s going on, but in many ways I’ve been blind. Spent the past two days trying to find you.”
“That’s all I’ve ever asked.”
“There’re things I’d like to change, things in me, things with us. I’m forty-four years old, pretty set in my ways, and I’m not sure I can do it. Or undo it. Don’t know if you’ll let me.”
“I won’t stand in your way.”
“Intentionally, no. But—”
“You’ll just have to convince me, I guess.”
As she turned to face him, he thought of their last confrontation near the manor’s front pillars. After the horror she’d been through for the last seventy-two hours, it didn’t surprise him to find skittish fear in her eyes. There were deeper feelings, too: love that had been lost and found, contentment, and joy.
He reached out and took her hand. “It meant a lot to you, didn’t it?”
Kara needed no clarification. “Yes, she’s so … so grown up. Josee’s a woman.” She closed her eyes, turned her palm out to hold off the rush of emotion. “I was so scared for her, for all of us, but you don’t know how amazing it was to sit there in the dark and listen to her, to feel her near me.”
“What else did they do to you? Other than your lip and the bruise?”
She shook her head.
“Because whatever happened, hon, we’ll work it through. I’m right here.”
“Mostly,” she said, “I’m just hungry and thirsty and in dire need of a bath.”
Marsh stared out over the waves that curled, crested, and flattened, then receded in a timeless cycle. He pulled her forward. In an act that seemed so appropriate, yet so ludicrous, he asked Kara to join him in removing their shoes. Then—not without a sideways glance from Kara—he tossed both sets of shoes and socks up onto dry sand and led her toward the next wave. They were ankle-deep in the October surf. She squealed at the freezing waters and gave him a look that said he had surely lost it.
And maybe he had. What did it matter? He knew Trudi was up there on the cliffs, probably following his movements and deriding his intelligence.
File this one under you-only-live-once.
They stepped over the next roller and landed knee-deep. With the stress of the past three days, he let out a yell. It felt good. He opened his mouth wide, found his tongue wet with salty foam. He spit it out. Laughed aloud. Kara joined in.
“Marsh, what’s come over you?”
“Good question,” he called out.
“This is cold. Insane. You sure you’re all right?”
“Isn’t it great?”
He had noted her embarrassment regarding her soiled clothes; now he saw her give in to the washing of the sea. Hand in hand, they jumped and shivered and giggled at the absurdity of the moment. How was it, Marsh wondered, that the craziest actions sometimes seemed to make the most sense of all?
The edge of the waves … the last row … a pawn for a queen.
He knew that historically servants had washed their masters’ feet. Knew also that Kara’s Bible spoke of the washing of feet as an act of humility and love. The image took on new significance as the water swirled about them. He caught Kara with both arms in a splashing spin.
Knee-high water, freezing and foaming. Cleansing. Pure.
“Kara”—his eyes fixed upon hers—“can we forgive each other and start over again? We’ve been at this too long to quit now. Let me learn how to love you.”
Sea spray mingled with the tears in her eyes. The froth of the waves curled at their knees as they faced one another in an embrace. Numb legs aside, this wasn’t so bad, Marsh thought. And then he saw fear flash over his wife’s face.
He turned back to face the beach and saw a pawn storm.
Swooping down from the woods, a quartet of youth advanced in long-snouted gas masks and head-mounted lamps. Cycloptic creatures of the dusk, each held a sleek metallic container. Where sea and sand met, they formed a half circle.
The ringleader said through his mask, “I need you to follow us.”
From his seat, Turney could see the fuel gauge’s decline. The dagger was still pressed to his throat, with Stahlherz holding him from behind.
“Told you, but you wouldn’t listen.” The pilot muttered choice names for his abductor and fingered the gauge, his gesture crude and emphatic. “Already dipping into the reserve tank and we’ve just cleared the range. Bet you feel stupid.”
Sergeant Turney felt the arm tighten around his neck.
“Just get us there in one piece,” Stahlherz said.
“Why’re you doing this?” Turney asked. “What’ve you done with Mrs. Addison?”
>
“You expect me to confess all now that you have a witness? You’re about as asinine as they come, Sarge. You think I’m a blubbering fool, is that it?”
“Forget I asked.”
Which was all the invitation Stahlherz needed to proceed. “You realize, of course, that Marsh’s wife has been the bait all along. In chess, a player can often harass his opponent’s queen until the opponent crumbles to the pressure and loses another piece, a different piece. In this case, Josee is the piece we’re after. The key to our plans.”
“Kara’s still alive?”
“Safe and sound. At present.”
“You had Beau kidnap her, then drive her car into the ravine to throw us off the scent. Should’ve seen it right away. But the blood they found at Marsh’s place. How’d ya manage that? Was that your doing? Did you send him the painting too?”
“I was the artist. And I had to buy it myself to see the plan set into motion.”
“And the blood?”
“Nothing but a sample taken from dear Mrs. Addison. Beau left it by the guardrail for Trudi to pick up. Later, right behind Marsh’s back—ha!—she found an opportunity to apply it to the chair. Dropped his belt and robe sash, as well. But she really had him going when she wiped the blood on his face. She told him she was wiping it off. He thought it was his own blood.”
“Pretty slick. Gotta hand it to ya.” Turney paused, not wanting to push his luck. “Stahlherz, I figured out your identity at the post office with your signature—”
“I’ll give you credit for that.”
“But I don’t get the connection between Trudi and the Addisons. How’d she get into their place?”
“Not so clever after all, Sarge. You’re boring me with these superficial insights—as if sitting in a helicopter with a knife to your neck indicates any great ability on your part. Now, if you’d be so kind, shut up!”
Above the mountain range, the pilot reinitiated his diatribe on domestic ills and, as an afterthought, turned on the cockpit heater so that condensation peeled back from the center of the curved windscreen. Turney, as a bonus, regained some movement in his limbs, but sat stock-still for the majority of the flight. Although his knife wound was superficial, his sense of defeat was debilitating.
Should never have bought that chocolate. I broke my promise to fast.
“In your weakness—”
I know, Lord, I know. But now what? What good’ve I done?
“You can never triumph by your own righteousness. By my grace alone.”
The engine spluttered. A small cough. A hiccup.
Turney clamped a hand over his arm where the fang marks from so long ago continued to remind him of his weakness, of his failure. These wounds, he believed, could be windows into others’ struggles. He could either focus on their pain and wallow along in self-pity, or he could see their needs and fight for them.
He gritted his teeth against the stinging slice along his neck. Just one more, he decided. Thunder Turney would wait for his opening, for one final blow.
Marsh debated pulling his gun. His hand inched around his back. He and Kara could escape and rush to the Bank of the Dunes with the box number in his head. Sure, Josee had gone ahead, but if they could catch her before—
“Get rid of your weapon.”
Marsh’s hand stopped at his spine, fingertips on the grip of the Glock.
“If you refuse, we’ll release our containers’ contents.” The leader’s hand clamped around the cap. “You and your wife are woefully ill-prepared for this. Highly concentrated, it’d kill you both in minutes.”
“The wind’s blowing inland.”
“You can take that risk.” The man’s hand circled the cap.
“First you’d have to get them all open.”
“You think you’re so accurate with a gun? Think you can take us all down while standing in the ocean, with the waves, the wind, and your wife right beside you?”
“You’re bluffing. You don’t even have the vials yet.”
“This is one of the Professor’s newest concoctions.”
“And what about you guys? You think some lousy, outdated masks’ll protect you? Shouldn’t you be wearing Tyvek suits or something?”
In the masks, the four ICV members wore blank, bug-eyed stares. Their leader voiced their unanimity. “We’re prepared to die, if need be. Audentes fortuna juvat.”
“Audentes fortuna juvat!” a muffled chorus swelled around him.
Marsh felt Kara press closer, clasp tighter. She said, “No matter what happens, darling, I’m glad you came for me.”
“So am I.”
From the descriptions in his dad’s journal, Marsh knew they could not afford to take this risk. He had no desire to breathe in even a minute particle of poison, new or old. In the journal, with scientific exactitude, his father had detailed the formula for a chemical weapon’s aerosol effectiveness: L(Ct)50, the lethalness to 50% of the population, based on concentration and time. How long could they hold their breath? Could they dive under the waves and swim away? None of the options seemed viable.
“Your weapon,” the leader demanded. When Marsh drew the gun into view and ejected the clip, the long-snouted man was not fooled. “I know you still have a chambered round. Toss the whole thing. Do it!”
With posture erect so as not to reveal his trepidation to Kara, he flung the Glock into the pounding tide. His strategies had been stripped away.
Here we are, God. At your mercy. And I’m all outta bright ideas.
Side by side, bound at the wrists by ample lengths of duct tape, and guided by the group’s mounted lamps, Marsh and Kara made the ascent to the top of the cliff.
“Well, well, my distinguished guests …”
From the path between the trees, Marsh and Kara arrived to the beckoning arms of Trudi Ubelhaar. The gas-masked sentries positioned themselves about the candlelit picnic table that had been set not far from the keeper’s house. Trudi nodded, then gestured for them to join her for dinner alfresco.
Marsh took a seat, noting the metal canister at the head of the table.
Kara broke in. “These are our dishes, Rosie. Trudi. Whoever you claim to be.”
“And I’m serving you dinner,” the older woman said. “Is it not the routine you’ve enjoyed for over three years now? Only I’m no longer relegated to silent subservience. Truly, Kara, you should know the feeling of which I speak. I’ve observed your relationship, seen you abdicate your personality by playing humble wifey. Well, learn from my example, dear heart, for this time I shall speak my mind.”
“I want to know that Josee’s okay. Will she be coming back?”
“First, she’s fetching a gift for us all.”
Gift 12. Marsh caught the play on words. Poison. Vials of venom.
A half block from the bank, in the lee of a sand dune where spikes of grass waved in the wind, the ICV driver parked and tapped a knuckle against the radio clock: 5:39. “Hope your papa has some numbers for us,” he said to Josee, “or you’ll be a little orphan girl. Of course, I’d be more than willing to watch after you.”
“In your dreams.”
The driver shirked her rebuttal and dialed his cell phone. With pen in hand and a notepad on his knee, he waited for a reply. “Professor? We’re here, no problems. Still open, yeah. Not many cars in the parking lot. Nothing out of order. I’ll stick to her like glue, you betcha. You got the numbers for us?”
Josee, for her parents’ safety, fought the impulse to dart from the Buick with the box number he scrawled down. Problem was that her parents were stuck with Trudi. For the time being, she would have to cooperate.
The driver was scowling into the phone. “Are you sure that’s what you want—” He stopped short. “As you say, Professor.” With a set jaw, he stretched an arm over the backseat, gestured, took possession of the snub-nosed revolver.
“What’s that for?” Josee inquired. But the driver did not answer.
Trudi answered her chiming phone. After a s
hort dialogue, she shot Marsh a look, and he checked his watch: 5:39 PM. “The box number, Marshall? No time to squander, knowing that Josee’s life rests upon your reply.”
Marsh touched Kara’s tightly taped hands beneath the table. “Number 89.”
Trudi repeated the digits into the phone, her fingers tracing the skull and crossbones on the canister before her. She issued a last order: “And once Josee’s retrieved the contents, remove her from the board … Yes, do it without delay.”
From the wooden bench, Marsh tried to stand. “What do you mean, ‘remove her’? What about our agreement?” At his side, through the fence, he caught a glimpse of billowing waves below.
“You’re not that naive, sir. You should know that every game exacts its toll.”
“You said we’d see her!” Kara shouted, wide eyed. “What’d she ever do to you? Leave my daughter out of this! You can’t do this! Whatever grievances you have with Marsh and me, let’s sort them out, but for goodness’ sake, let Josee go. Please, Trudi.”
“You’ve always been the innocent bystander, Kara. My heart goes out to you.”
“Then call them back. Tell them to leave Josee alone!”
Marsh grabbed for the phone with taped hands. Maybe if he hit the Redial button, he could undo this unthinkable wrong. What he really wanted to do was wrap his fingers around Trudi’s neck, wringing from her any possibility of further damaging his family, but an assault would be counterproductive now that she’d issued the order.
Trudi swiped the phone from the table and stepped back. Her hair whipped about her face in the breeze. Marsh, caught short by his thighs against the table’s edge, stumbled and knocked over a candle. Strong hands grasped him from behind, and masked men planted him back on the wooden slab. Others subdued Kara, and after a valiant struggle, she eased into a rocking motion made all the more troublesome by the droning moan that escaped through her lips.
“Kara.”
She continued to rock, showing no reaction to Marsh’s voice.
God, please—after all that she’s gone through … What’s going on?
Trudi was on the phone again. “Yes, you must hurry,” she said. “The key is in Florence. Have the couriers rendezvous at the designated point north of town. All twelve of them, yes.”
