Dark to Mortal Eyes

by Eric Wilson

  “Just one pill?” she had confirmed. “That’s all?”

  “One each day, Josee.” Her adoptive father had smiled at her wonderment. “Take it with some bread, something to absorb it and ease your tummy. Soon it’ll be second nature. But of course we’ll be here to remind you.”

  “Do I have to go, you know, back to that place anymore?”

  “The clinic? Your days there are over.”

  “No more transfusions?”

  “No more. Nope, Josee, that was it.”

  With arms stiff at her sides, she leaned into his embrace and let tears spread over his shirt. She tried to lift her arms around his middle, but her arms had never learned that maneuver. Hugs were not part of her repertoire. Maybe with time.

  Now on the grass, amid traffic sounds and exhaust fumes, Josee clutched the capsule in her hand and hoped her adoptive parents weren’t too worried about her. She’d given them more than their share of grief. Wasn’t really their fault she left when she did—she knew that at this point, accepted responsibility—but it’d broken their hearts. She’d seen it in their eyes, heard it in their voices.

  The prescription. One each day, Josee … We’ll be here to remind you.

  She reached for the bread crust, lifted the capsule. These were her elements of survival. Like the elements of communion, the Lord’s Table … His broken body. His spilled blood.

  That sound again, very close. Tunka-tunk-tunk … hsss!

  She chewed through the bread, set the gel capsule on her tongue.

  Tunka-tunk-tunkkk! Tunka-tunk-tunkkk … hssssssss!

  The movement beside her arrested her attention. First, noting how Turney’s vehicle swayed on its struts, she thought passing cars were causing the disturbance. Then, decimating that theory, the trunk’s side panel began bulging as though giant knuckles were rapping against the metal. Something was in there, and it seemed to want out. Seemed to want her.

  “Whaddya doin’? I told you I’d be right back.”

  Josee looked straight into Turney’s chocolate-kiss eyes. She said nothing.

  “Josee. What is it? What’d you see?”

  She shoved her hands into the rose-embroidered pockets of her jeans. They were standing inside the station’s entryway. She felt so awkward here. This was the last place she would ever find Scooter; she was sure of that.

  “Don’t you hold out on me.” Turney’s voice was raised. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s eatin’ at ya.”

  She pressed her eyes shut and leaned into the cold wall. Into the ropes. Sparring partners? No, she had to keep up her guard and ride out Turney’s flurry of questions. Here it came—the suspicion and judgments he had harbored all along. The prizefighter was back in the ring. Prancing. Swinging.

  “Josee!”

  That’s right, big boy, throw a punch.

  “Don’t do this, please. Don’t box yourself in.”

  Box? Yeah, you know what’s going on here.

  “Josee, are you listenin’ to me? Best to talk these things out.”

  Bring it on. This girl can take it.

  “I need to know. Did it do somethin’? Did it try to hurt you?” He touched her arm, and she opened her eyes. He softened his tone. “Sorry I’m so riled, but I should’ve warned you. Somethin’ in Scooter’s pack, I could just feel it. Could hear it hissing. By the time I got it into the trunk, my old scars were swollen like ticks and oozing again. Hurried back in there to clean it up best I could, but it wasn’t much use.” The sergeant removed his hand to reveal the pus and blood that had matted beneath the chevron on his sleeve.

  Josee’s fear robbed the air from her lungs. A convulsion shook her body.

  God! I need you here. Where are you? Where’s Kara? Where’s Scoot? Did I come down here for nothing? Do something to let me know you’re here. I want to believe! Please, help me believe.

  She wanted to look back at Turney, but he would see right through her. His soft eyes might cause another meltdown. She wouldn’t let that happen; tears would do no good. She swung her gaze and noticed a clump of people near the main entry. Two police officers stepped away so that she found herself facing the person they had brought in.

  There was something familiar …

  16

  Seeing Ghosts

  Marsh could see Kara shivering. Her usually gleaming hair was plastered to her face and neck, and her torso was twisted toward him. Beneath the torn fabric of her blouse, a wound went to the bone, colored blue-purple by the frigid stream. Had a branch punctured her chest? Or a piece of metal? In the cavity, her pulse throbbed.

  “Marsh,” she said, “can you … just hold me?”

  “We need to get you some help. We don’t have—”

  “Please. I just want … to have you near. You understand?”

  “Later, honey. Right now, I need to—”

  “Wait. Where’re you going?”

  “I’m right here.”

  She must be hallucinating; he wasn’t going anywhere. A stew of emotion rose in his throat. He tried to fight his panic. So this—he tried to prepare himself—was how it would end, with a tragic finale in the shadows of this gully. Sure, they’d had occasional problems but nothing they couldn’t work out. Even an amicable divorce, if such a thing existed, would be a better ending than this.

  Or was this the way she wanted it? Had she driven off the road intentionally?

  Refusing to accept that scenario, he urged her to stay with him, to keep talking. “Tell me,” he said, “where it hurts most. We’ll get an ambulance here ASAP. We’ll fill them in over the radio, get you all the help you need.”

  “I told you … before. Told you already.” Kara’s voice was feeble. Fading.

  “Told me what?”

  She’d told him nothing, not a lousy thing. Great, she really was hallucinating. Not surprising, considering she’d been out here through the night. If only she could provide some solid info—to empower him, to help him care for her. Isn’t that how it worked? How many times had he tried to get through to her?

  “Stay with me, Kara. Don’t give up now.”

  “It’s … no use. You’re not hearing me.”

  “I hear you fine.”

  “No, darling. You’re not … listening.” Her light lashes closed, squeezed out droplets that ran from her cheekbones into her ears. “Marsh, just hold me. I don’t need … your answers or solutions or … any advice. I need you to be here … with me.”

  Stretched over the rock, the butterfly stopped struggling.

  Gotta hurry. No time to lose!

  “Don’t let go, Kara. Hey, I found you. There’s a reason for that, right? Don’t give up. I’m going to get help.” Water splashed around his legs as he turned to head back. Knowing that her chances for survival were in his hands galvanized him.

  “Hold it right there, mister.” Officer Lansky’s command broke through the canopied stillness. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “She needs help. Looks serious.”

  “Who?”

  “I found her, found Kara.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Who else?” Marsh displayed the chiffon scarf.

  Lansky stretched to take the evidence. “Where? I don’t see her.”

  “Back here.” Annoyance filled Marsh’s voice as he maneuvered the uneven streambed. “We have to hurry.” With numb feet, he stumbled forward, threw his arms out for balance.

  “Stop right there! Back off a step.” A drawn pepper-spray canister prompted obedience. “What’re you blabbering about?”

  “Kara. She’s right here.”

  “Is that so?”

  Lansky waved him to the side and sloshed ahead, boots stirring silt and pebbles. Marsh followed the officer’s eyes to the rock where Kara had been. She was gone! In her place, on the flat stone, lay a frosted glass chess piece, the queen that was missing from his study. Sparkling and wet, the figurine bore a deep crack in her side.

  “Am I mistaken, Mr. Addison, or is that a piece fro
m your own chess set? Did you bring it along in the patrol car? For your sake, I hope this isn’t some psychotic gesture, some sick version of a confession.”

  Marsh broke his astonished stare from the stone and lurched barefoot toward his accuser. “You pathetic wannabe! Tell me where my wife is!”

  Their eyes locked. Lansky’s fists tightened.

  A sudden movement forced both men to duck. In the trees overhead, a wind gust scattered leaves, and a black-winged rook swooped down like the Grim Reaper’s sickle, seizing the sparkling queen in its beak. As swiftly as it had appeared, it cut upward into the forest’s tangled fabric and vanished into shadow.

  The rook’s cries, to Marsh’s disbelieving ears, formed syllables as they faded away. Kaw—kaa—ka—kar—kara—Kara!

  Four towns left to visit. Springfield was next.

  In the Aerostar van, Stahlherz shifted his cramped muscles and bones. He felt drained by the human interaction at each stop and the miles between. He preferred the buffered contact of the Internet, yet the Professor had stipulated that he meet his recruits face to face. No better way to motivate them, my son.

  At the wheel, Darius was alert. His third white mocha was in hand, his eyes wide and jumpy. By permission, he was tuned to the U of O’s independent radio station.

  Stahlherz consoled himself with the obvious. Although Crash-Chess-Dummy had deserted today’s match, he had joined Steele Knight in a much larger game, one put in motion by Marsh’s own birth in 1959. Fifty-nine … a superlative wine?

  Marshall, I’ll pour you out like the inferior vintage you are.

  As if to hasten the day’s inexorable march toward victory, a shape crossed the window and hovered along the van’s passenger side.

  Tappity, tap, tap …

  “You’ve been absent since last night,” Stahlherz said. “Thought you might never return.” He reached to lower the window, but flapping wings curtailed this action. Beak first, a rook materialized through the glass, a primal force conquering the laws of physics and nature. The window remained closed.

  “Steele-man,” exclaimed Darius, “you see that? Time to lower my java dosage.”

  “Eyes on the road,” Stahlherz said.

  The rook’s ebony beak was clutching a small, glittering object.

  “What do you have there?” said Stahlherz. “A gift for me?” Black wings brushed the air, caressing his sunken cheeks before receding in descent. The bird surrendered its captive to his beckoning hand.

  Kaw-kaw-reech!

  Stahlherz smiled. “Job well done. Look at this magnificent queen.” He studied the chess piece and, with his sleeve, wiped away the moisture from the creek.

  Surely Marsh had been stunned to find her in the ravine. Placed by Beau, as part of their countermeasures, the piece had been waiting. The rook had also waited to confirm Marsh’s encounter before swiping the queen back. Pleased, Stahlherz turned the figurine with a jeweler’s attention to detail. Using the dagger from his pocket, he picked at the crack in her side. “Is this your doing, Marsh?” He clicked his tongue, then dug the dagger deeper so that chips of glass fell like frozen tears to the van floor.

  Kaw-kaw-kaa …

  “Yes, my friend. This queen represents Mrs. Kara Addison.” Stahlherz corralled the rook in his hands. “Now you must wait for your next task.”

  The blackbird clamped its beak onto a handy finger, and Stahlherz yelped. Fluttering in a smoky haze, the creature flew into a tantrum of feathers, sparking eyes, and curved claws.

  “You little devil!”

  Scrrreech!

  “I’m the one choosing the moves,” Stahlherz said. Fumbling for the automatic window switch, he snatched at the bird and scooped it from the van. He choked down the bilious substance in his throat and dropped the glass queen into his jacket pocket.

  Four more canisters to go.

  He speed-dialed his cell phone. The display read: Crash-Chess-Dummy.

  Kara must be dead.

  Based on the accident scene, based on her unaccountable appearances and disappearances in his study and the ravine, it made the most sense.

  In the patrol car’s caged backseat, Marsh was miserable. His feet and pants were wet and muddy; his head was spinning; his chest was pounding like a drum. In the whirl of questions, he latched on to the one thing he trusted most: his intellect. With cold logic—or was it shock now moving through his thoughts?—he faced the finality of the moment.

  Earlier, while awaiting the crime team back at the manor, Lansky and Graham had allowed him to make inquiring phone calls, and not one of Kara’s friends or acquaintances had seemed to know where she was. They’d all promised to call with any news, but according to the team now monitoring the message machines at his estate, there’d still been no word.

  So this was it. Death. A fact of life.

  Kara: Sign me out like a piece of your equipment.… You don’t want me around.

  Had she seen it coming? She must’ve died in the crash, thrown from the Z3. Out there somewhere. On his fingertips, Marsh could still feel the chiffon scarf, an indication that she’d been in the car when it went over. Only a matter of time before they located the … before they found her. Would he be required to identify her? Would they suspect him of foul play? What would this do to the vineyard’s recent growth?

  So who had he seen in the study? In the stream?

  A ghost, he decided. Kara was dead, and he’d been visited by her departed spirit or whatever you called such things. He wasn’t sure how to classify this. He’d never bought into the idea of nirvana or some secondary existence as a soaring eagle in the vast Alaskan wilderness. Nice concepts, sure—concocted to shelter and sedate the masses. No. When he was gone, he was gone. He could accept that.

  But now Kara might be gone.

  How could that be? What about heaven? Did it promise something different? A scene of final judgment sat well with Marsh. This life had its demands, and people should reap what they had sown. One life, one shot. Cash in your chips.

  What had Marshall Addison sown?

  Lots of grapes. Some darn good wine. Enjoyment to others around the country. He supported Kara’s charity work. He gave. He paid fair wages, always on time.

  Please, God, open his eyes …

  He echoed Kara’s words for himself. He could use a little help here. He believed there could be a God out there somewhere, omnipotent but removed. Did the Big Guy ever get involved? Did he make exceptions?

  Please, God, open his eyes …

  Perhaps, in some inexplicable way, Kara’s words had triggered within him a psychosomatic reaction. Perhaps the mind, with its untapped powers, was fabricating these incidents. Interesting theory. But it had gaps. How could he catalogue the physical evidence? The knotted J. Dunlary tie, the question mark of blood, the online messages, the missing glass queen, the bloodstains on his chair, the thieving blackbird that had swooped down at the stream, the painting in the parlor, and the note …

  The note!

  Officers Lansky and Graham were talking in the front seat. The downtown Corvallis police station was nearing. Marsh set his jaw. Eased his fingers into his waistband. Pretended to adjust in the backseat. With the envelope now slipped under his leg, he tugged the small scrap from within.

  Our imperiled queen, isn’t she lovely?

  I’ll call with the details of our transaction.

  Let’s see how you play the real life game. Steele Knight

  Marsh’s first reaction was relief. Kara must be alive! Whatever was wanted, he would get it. Anything to bring her back. He discarded the notion of police assistance as quickly as it came. On the chessboard, Steele Knight didn’t succumb to flimsy traps and swindles; in real time he would be no less cautious.

  Plus, Marsh had reasons for distrusting the local force. Personal reasons.

  The policemen flanked Marsh from the car into the station, then paused at a desk to secure an unoccupied interview room. Before they could go any farther, a sharply dressed, manicured at
torney rose from the orange chairs along the wall and strode toward them with all the confidence of a promo for the newest Grisham flick.

  Over a handshake, she said, “Your message found me at the country club, Marshall. Didn’t even tee up. Changed and shot right over.”

  “You are on retainer, Casey. I’d expect nothing less.”

  “I’ll charge my green fees to your account.”

  “Been a long morning,” he offered as an apology. “Appreciate your getting over here. I’m sure you’ll straighten out these boys in blue.”

  “Afternoon, gentlemen.” Defense attorney Casey Wilcox faced the officers. “Are you charging my client with an offense?”

  Lansky eyed her with distaste.

  Graham piped in, “Shouldn’t take long, ma’am. Just a couple things to clear up.”

  “You’re new, am I correct?”

  “I’m a trained officer of the law. But, yes, my first year full-time.”

  Wilcox gave him a deprecatory wink. “Read up. Your job’s done here. Unless you’re actually charging my client, you’ll have to practice your good-cop-bad-cop routine somewhere else. Let’s go, Marshall.” Her Stanford class of ’87 ring threw ruby flecks of light at the lawmen’s eyes as she gestured to the exit. “Ciao for now, boys. Why don’t you go drum up some legitimate work for me? I’m sure it’s out there.”

  Marsh prodded her. “I need a time frame.”

  “Time frame?”

  “When do I get back the house and my Tahoe?”

  “Officers? Could it be that you’re searching my client’s living quarters? And what about his vehicle? I hope, for your sakes, you can produce a warrant.”

  Lansky assured her that proper procedures had been followed and suggested the crime team could be cleared out by Saturday, possibly tomorrow if all went well.