by Eric Wilson
“I’m still working, still breathing. You move on. A day at a time.”
“Dang, we’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” She tried to produce a chuckle, but thoughts of the thicket slithered down her back and clamped around her waist. She could see that canister’s frosty black grin. The table began to wobble beneath her elbows. The lights flickered.
“Whoa, now.” Turney’s hand was on her arm. “You all right? Guess it’d be best if I just kept my mouth shut, what with all you’ve been through today.”
Josee pushed herself up. His hand—this man’s hand—was warm, strong. Her instincts told her to take off, yet an inward echo of her childhood vows told her it was time to identify the threat, time to stand firm. Through her skull, the morning’s images swarmed in an attempt to smother her belief. She drew her fists to her chest, tried to hold herself together.
“Please, Sarge,” she implored, “tell me more of your story. I want to hear it.”
“Josee, you are one tough woman.”
So much for her gallant facade. Although she tried to dam the flood of her fear and emotion, she felt the color in her eyes stir into liquid motion until it seemed to be spilling across the white table toward Sergeant Turney. Caught in the current, her words washed forth. “Sarge, I know this sounds crazy, but what do I do? That thing, that creature, whatever it is—it’s gonna come back for me. I can feel it. I don’t know why it came after me and Scooter. Just seems like everything’s hit the fan at once. It’s not like me to fall apart like this, to turn to someone else like I’m some charity case, to blabber on and on like an idiot, but please … I need your help.”
“S’all right, kiddo. Been hopin’ you would ask.”
It was late afternoon when Chief Braddock escorted Josee to the refuge of a nurses’ lounge. Turney had been dispatched, and, as promised, the chief had taken her to see Scooter. Despite the doctors’ confidence that they had nullified the poison before it became fatal, they remained tight-lipped as to its cause. Scoot was groggy. An IV was hooked to his arm. Still, with gauze covering half his face, he gave a faint smile when she entered the room.
Their meeting was short. Anticlimactic. He needed his rest.
At least he’s still here. I thought you were a goner, Scoot.
In the lounge, Josee burrowed through her bedroll for her art case. She ignored the droning of the water fountain’s condenser and the snoring from the nurse on the love seat. Time to draw. To drain the poison. Others often mistook her sketches as dark fantasies; they failed to understand her need to excise the gloom from her mind.
Her pencil emptied shapes onto paper. Serpentine contours. Beads of blood on twisted thorns. Tilted initials … ICV. In burnt sienna, she covered the letters with reptilian scales. Set fangs over them.
Then she shredded the paper and cast the accursed images into the garbage.
Beware of what you cannot see?
It was the things she had seen that frightened her. Behind her pupils, deep within her retinas, something had shifted so that realms invisible had become real. Battles … and evil’s face … Scooter’s body landing on the ground, fresh sustenance. Words to another poem began to form. Not now, maybe later.
She spent the next twenty minutes reorganizing her bedroll, folding and stuffing in her mildewed clothing. She rolled her art supplies in a brushed-cotton blanket. Pushed down the frypan and tin utensils. Finally, from a Ziploc bag, she extracted her birth certificate. Her umbilical cord. A lifeline. So what if her friends mocked this bureaucratic waste of paper? To her, it was a symbol. She was connected by blood, by genes and DNA, to a woman named Kara Addison. Today’s plan had been to reunite. Okay, so that had gone down the flusher, but tomorrow they’d make it happen.
Don’t bail on me, please. Wherever you are, Kara, I hope you’re okay.
She found herself praying for her mother’s safety while she tucked the document back into the bag and zipped it tight.
The van floor flexed hot and hard beneath her, the ribs of a carnivorous creature that had swallowed her whole. Kara Addison’s bones ached. She moaned, then scolded herself for announcing her pain to the driver up front. She couldn’t see him—he had blindfolded her. She couldn’t move on her own accord—he had trussed her arms and legs together behind her back and wrapped her in this itchy wool cocoon.
Lord, be with me. Where is he taking me? Why’s he doing this?
Kara’s motherly instincts spoke fearful things in her ears. Did her abduction have to do with Josee, with their reunion? The timing suggested so. What would her daughter think when she failed to show up? They’d made the arrangements on the phone; they’d started to reconnect their torn bonds through hesitant stories and chuckles; they’d exchanged photos.
If it weren’t for her indignant dread, Kara was sure she would cry.
A screech tore through the van’s interior.
Why does it keep doing that? Goodness, I wish whatever it is would shut up!
This time she was unable to stop her whimpers. They welled from her throat, sputtered between bruised lips. The cords were cutting into her wrists. Her back was knotted, and cramps twanged through her calf muscles. She could still taste the blood from her attacker’s blows.
Seconds after she had skidded across Ridge Road and careened into the guardrail, the kid she recognized had raced toward her. She’d thought he was coming to help. In shock, she had watched steam billow from the hood of the BMW and wondered what had just happened.
Moments before she’d been celebrating the day, and the next thing she knew this kid was there trying to wave her down, standing in her way, and she knew his face from the work he’d done at the vineyard, and she didn’t want to hurt anyone, so she pumped the brakes the way Marsh had taught her to do when it rained hard or snowed, but he said this car had antilock brakes so she didn’t have to worry about it now, and the scarf flapped at her throat where Marsh had wrestled with her earlier, and all this was going through her mind when she slid into the rail, and she sure hoped he had insured the car, which was a ridiculous concern since Marsh always saw to such things, but he’d be upset anyway, and she didn’t know how she would explain it to him …
Ka-baaam!
Leaning into the Z3’s cockpit, the kid had struck her with such force that she thought her head would twist off her shoulders. Through a veil of steam and shattered light, she watched him walk around the car. Ranting. Slamming down a fist. Pleading into a cell phone. Then injecting her with something that made everything fade.
How long had they been driving now? Kara had no idea. The van was dark, yet the blindfold’s cloth allowed her to see shapes and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath the tires. A slight curve in the road tilted her over so that her hip banged against the wheel hub.
Owww! Her left hip. The one still tender from an old bullet wound.
Two slow turns and the van coasted to a stop. What would come next? Hope and terror fought for space in her head.
God, don’t let him violate me in any way. Guard me, please! Oh, Lord, why did you let this happen? I don’t understand. I was going to see my baby girl today.
Before departing the estate, Kara had tucked a commemorative item into the pocket of her jeans. She’d dressed down so as not to intimidate Josee. Now Kara begged God that her attacker wouldn’t search her well enough to discover the item. It would mean nothing to him. It meant everything to her.
She found strength in her will to see Josee, comfort in her knowledge that Marshall would search for her and do everything in his power to see that the wrongdoers received justice. True, he was not adept at sharing emotion; true, he had acted peculiar this morning. But he was a trusted provider and protector.
He’ll come for me. Somehow.
As the rear doors opened, Kara’s hope faded with the realization that her husband would not even suspect anything until she failed to show up sometime Thursday. As far as Marsh Addison was concerned, she and Josee were spending the night at the Yachats beach house. For a few h
ours at least, she was on her own.
Sergeant Turney returned in the early evening, and Josee suppressed her desire to bound from her seat. That friendly face. His kind eyes. He’d been making arrangements—for her. Though she felt guilty leaving Scooter alone at the hospital, she longed for the embrace of a real bed. How long had it been? Almost a week?
“You’re gonna like these folks,” Turney promised her. “Real down-to-earth.”
“They don’t mind? It seems like—”
“Not in the slightest. The Van der Bruegges have got big hearts and a house to match. John’s a music instructor out at Linn-Benton. His wife, Kris, is a retired elementary school teacher. With two kids off at college and the other one married, they miss warm bodies in their home. In fact, they’re even settin’ up a room for Scooter. Doctor says he’s stabilizing and should be released by noon tomorrow.” Turney handed her an envelope. “Here’s the vouchers, like the chief told ya. Good as cash. Should get ya through the next few days.”
She was speechless. Couldn’t even get a thank-you through her lips.
Within fifteen minutes they arrived at the Van der Bruegges’ brick and timber two-story home. Along the landscaped yard, a row of potted evergreens guarded the sidewalk. Turney made introductions, then left Josee in their care.
Quick to recognize her exhaustion, John and Kris showed her to her room. On the dresser, a towel with a bar of Dove. On the bed, a peach-and-cream comforter with extra pillows at the headboard. Shaded lamps on matching nightstands. And a bottle of McKenzie Mist artesian water.
“Let us know if you need anything, Josee,” said Kris Van der Bruegge.
“Omelets and waffles for breakfast,” John said. “You prefer coffee or tea?”
“Uh.” Josee was overwhelmed. “Anything’s good. More of a coffee drinker.”
Mrs. Van der Bruegge tried to gather her into an embrace, but when Josee stiffened, the lady switched to a soft pat on Josee’s shoulder and followed it with a shushing sound. “Go on then, Josee. Don’t let us keep you. I hear those pillows calling your name.”
Through the night Josee Walker remained atop the comforter, afraid to mess up the bed.
PART TWO
The Enemy …
is about to open his full game.
And pawns are likely to see as much of it as any.…
Sharpen your blade!
The Return of the King by J. R. R. Tolkien
The mighty prince of the power of the air …
is the spirit at work in the hearts
of those who refuse to obey God.
Ephesians 2:2
10
Be Prepared
He needed results. No time to waste. Before the bombardment of the alarm’s Top 40 cacophony, Marsh Addison jumped from bed, wrapped himself in his bathrobe, straightened his side of the comforter, and ignored his wife’s unruffled portion. No doubt Kara and Josee had stayed up late into the night, swapping memories, catching up, doing that heart-to-heart thing girls did so well.
Well, more power to them, but he had his own concerns. Such as online piano shopping. Oh, that dreaded S word. He must really love her to make the sacrifice to shop—so much easier to let Rosie or someone else do it. But no, he wanted to make this gift his own.
The black leather chair squeaked as he took a seat in his study. It’d been a while since he’d felt this twinge of excitement. Had to get this just right. Something to match Kara’s style. Shopping wasn’t his thing; perhaps, though, if he placed a computer order through a local place, he could have a piano selected and paid for and delivered before her return. With the recent growth of Addison Ridge Vineyards, he could afford something nice. She deserved it. Plus, the piano might figure nicely in next month’s photo shoot for Wine Spectator’s feature on Oregon wineries. He grinned. Perhaps a stem glass and a grape cluster perched on a baby grand …
A Google search stirred his anxiety again.
Steinway? Kawai? Grand or upright? Ebony polish? Mahogany or white?
Narrow the options—that was the best strategy. As if he had a clue to Kara’s preferences here. They hadn’t talked about this stuff recently. Hadn’t talked much, period. She’d been right about that.
When Rosie buzzed at the door with his breakfast tray, Marsh keyed the release from the button at his desk and continued perusing the onscreen choices. It took him a moment to realize she was asking him a question. About Kara’s whereabouts. Was this going to be a pattern, Rosie wanted to know. And, if he didn’t object, could she call to confirm the day’s schedule with the lady of the house?
“Sure.” He waved a hand. “Whatever you like. She’s probably still at the coast.”
“The house in Yachats? I’ll try her there.”
The aroma of Guatemalan coffee turned his head. “Rosie.”
“Sir?”
“Is Marlena in today? Is she baking up any muffins?”
“Orange walnut, made fresh on the premises.”
“I’m sold.” He tamped down his ego, decided to elicit her opinion. “Hey, take a look at this, and tell me what you think. Kara likes white, and I’m leaning toward a baby grand, but my knowledge of brand reliability is limited at best.”
Rosie moved behind him, started to respond, then her voice caught.
He glanced back to find her staring. He gathered his robe around his legs. “There a problem?”
“Are you feeling well, sir?”
“Fine. Should’ve dressed, I know, but I was anxious to get this taken care of.”
“Have you visited the washroom yet?”
“What? Why’re you delving into—”
“Your face, sir. It looks as though you’ve been injured.”
“Injured?”
“Should I ring someone?”
Though Marsh tried to dismiss her concern, grave eyes fixed him in place as she balled a cloth and dabbed at his cheek. “Hold it, Rosie. What’re you doing?”
She studied the material in her hand and said, “It looks like … blood.” Her tone was as wispy as her hair, her slightest movement lifting strands from her forehead. Her fingers ran along his jaw. “And it’s … oh my, it’s in the shape of a question mark.”
“A question what? Okay, Rosie, go on. I can take care of myself.”
“Mr. Addison, I think it’d be wise to—”
From down the hall, the phone summoned.
“Better get that,” Marsh said. “I’ll be fine.”
With a handful of Kleenex, he wiped away the remaining smear and considered himself in the vanity’s glow. He ran his hands through his wavy hair and sighed. Nothing sticky or bruised or injured. That was a relief. His face, too, was okay. No wounds, not even a razor nick along his sometimes treacherous cheekbones.
“Okay”—he dropped the tissues in the toilet bowl—“what gives?”
Although he’d slept alone last night, he was sure the blood was not his own. Then whose? Goose bumps lifted along his arms. Pinpricks of guilt? Had he—
Hold it. Standing barefoot on this cold floor—it’s no wonder I’ve got the chills.
See, one mystery solved. He refused to waste any more time fitting together these puzzles with missing pieces. Not that he’d forget them entirely; for now, however, they’d go into his need-more-hard-facts file. He’d blame the blood on a nocturnal spider bite. Why not? Stranger things had happened. He needed to get on with his day.
Battle positions. Nearing the seven o’clock hour.
Buttoning slacks and a brown denim shirt with the vineyard’s emblem on the pocket, Marsh cut back into the study. He slipped his feet into his Arin Mundazis and waited for the task launcher to pit him once more against his foe. In moments Steele Knight and Crash-Chess-Dummy would rumble. The royal game, may it reign, would whisk his thoughts from yesterday’s unfathomable events.
He called Rosie to assuage her concerns. “Sorry if I worried you earlier. Figure I must’ve cut myself shaving.” He forced out a laugh.
“Was a bit s
tartling, sir. Forgive my intrusion.”
“Not at all. Thanks for caring. Guess things get dangerous when you leave me and a razor alone before the break of dawn.” Watching the intercom light fade, he felt shaken. He’d lied only for lack of solid answers.
He crouched to the floor. At his back, the computer stirred to life while he made a quick search of the carpet, certain he would locate the glass queen he’d noticed was missing last night from the chess table. He must’ve overlooked her in the dark.
Swish …
“Rosamund?” Surely the muffins weren’t already done.
Squeak …
The sound of leather creaked through the room.
Whew. What was that smell? A rank odor permeated the space and settled like a mildewed tarp over his back.
Still in a crouch, Marsh had the feeling that he was not alone. He gripped the crystal chess table and clenched his teeth. His heart drove a blow into his chest, then retreated as a hollow ache settled over him. Again that image of Kara’s porcelain neck, his black and white tie. The squares of the chessboard melded with his thoughts, gripping him with a sense of guilt.
Which he rejected. He wasn’t the only one with secrets in this house.
Please, God, Kara had called out, open his eyes …
What had she meant by that?
This is silly, he told himself. Turn around and play your chess match.
Instead, he shut down his external senses and tried to perceive something—or someone—on a level he rarely explored. Events had propelled him toward this. The unexpected. The otherworldly.
No! What was he thinking? He didn’t believe in that stuff. With a splash of cold logic, he jarred himself back to his domain, the concrete world, which he scheduled, comprehended, controlled. Time to take charge. He gritted his jaw in combat mode, stiffened his hands into chopping implements. He dug his loafers into the rug, rose, and swiveled back toward his desk. Prepared for anything.