Dark to Mortal Eyes

by Eric Wilson

  PART FOUR

  We may stand, if only on one leg,

  or at least … upon our knees.…

  A pawn? Perhaps;

  but on the wrong chessboard.

  The Return of the King by J. R. R. Tolkien

  “Don’t sin by letting anger

  gain control over you.” …

  Anger gives a mighty foothold to the Devil.

  Ephesians 4:26–27

  26

  Matriarchs

  Marsh Addison’s mind was a raging pyre. Confusion, anger, fear, betrayal—they were bundles of straw tossed onto the flames. The balls of his feet burned in his Mundazi loafers, and a sheen of perspiration lay across his forehead.

  Yes, his discovery of the journal had offered hope, but it torched everything he’d grown to believe about his father.

  The call from Steele Knight had further stirred his turmoil. Marsh wanted to snap the man’s neck; he wanted to strike vengeful blows that would stray far from the love Virginia spoke of.

  If I could just get my hands on that bag of scum … One minute, that’s all I’d need!

  Marsh paced the hallway in his mother’s seaside condo. From the kitchen, the sand candle’s light brushed the walls in gold. He thought of Virginia’s assertions: Your love can soften and free her.… Your pent-up anger … will be nothing but a detriment.

  The words were all backward. His world was upside down.

  The thought came to him that perhaps he’d been studying this whole mess from the wrong angle. From board level, the chess pieces were a mob of motion; from above, however, they were parts of an intricate overall strategy. Josee, the bishop—drawn into battle by the hopes of meeting her mother. Kara, the queen—used as a hostage so he would track down and relinquish the journal. Marsh, the king—dictating the counterattack, yet helpless at so many points.

  And Sergeant Turney—he was part of this. What had Casey called him? Blue knight.

  “Marsh?” The front door opened, and a blustery wind chased Virginia inside. Her cheeks were red with exertion. She bent to loosen her shoelaces. “Oh, my feet. They’re swollen like balloons.”

  “Why’d you make me jump through hoops?” Marsh interrogated.

  “The journal. You found it.”

  “Might not have! Might’ve headed home without it and put Kara at greater risk.”

  “Had to know your heart first, to know that you’re ready to face what’s ahead.”

  “So I passed the test. You think I’m ready now, huh?”

  “No. But neither do you. That’s really the whole point, don’t you see?”

  “Mother! You’re speaking in riddles—”

  “My way of life,” she said. “Has been for far too long.”

  In sweats and jogging shoes, Virginia appeared to shrink. She was no longer the iron-girded matriarch who had raised him with aloof affection, no longer a dedicated entrepreneur dragging her son in her wake. She was, Marsh recognized, a woman and a mother but also a wife who’d been dishonored by the husband of her youth. For the first time, her graveside photo came into focus for him. The look of a woman betrayed.

  He stepped toward her. Enfolded her in his arms.

  “Mom,” he said. And he could say nothing more.

  When he pulled away, she told him he was welcome to stay. He told her it was time for him to return to Corvallis and take care of business.

  “The vineyard?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Family business. Time to be the father I never had.”

  Over wet and treacherous roads, the rental car carried Marsh back toward the Ramada Inn. The journal and the key sat wrapped in the glove box. His mental gears whirred. Josee Walker, his biological daughter? Inflicted with his defective genes?

  But I want proof. I need it.

  His enemy seemed convinced. Steele Knight had synchronized his schemes with Josee’s arrival in town. Josee had sole access to the safe-deposit box at the coastal bank, and she had a birth certificate to satisfy the bank’s needs for identification. With the number and location of the box, with Josee as the key, Steele Knight could seize the Nazi-crafted poison. No wonder he was desperate for the journal.

  But what did the man intend to do with the venom vials?

  Marsh squinted through the high beams of a nearing car, then found himself alone again on the dreary road. He thought of the warning: Don’t grow too fond of young Josee Walker … it’d be better if she had never found you. Something stirred within; strategies began to form. He could not leave her to be picked off by his foe.

  Twenty hours. Counting down to the exchange at the Camp Adair monument.

  In chess terminology, it was time to begin prophylactic maneuvers, to open his anticipate-and-aggravate-your-opponent’s-every-move file.

  Crash-Chess-Dummy vs. Steele Knight.

  Stahlherz looked his mother over. Rosamund Yeager, known to ICV conscripts as the Professor, was standing here beneath the vaulted rafters of the Addison beach house while Kara sat roped and gagged in the cellar down the hall. The irony did not slip by.

  The drama of it all—worthy of a canvas, of a stage. The chessboard of life.

  “Did I surprise you?” Rosie said. “Forgive me, Stahli.”

  “Things’re proceeding, Professor. So far, so good.”

  Stahlherz’s voice was cool. Even here without witnesses he felt compelled to address her formally. Within the network, he and Rosie seldom displayed affection or forsook titles; in fact, for the sake of security, they avoided appearing together. Yesterday’s meeting in the park had been their first in weeks. True, she was his mother, but she was also the Professor—a woman to be revered, a woman with a plan. The cell members had bestowed the title upon her, looking to her for instruction and advice as well as motivation. She was their catalyst.

  Yes, all fine and well. But he was due some respect too. Didn’t she see that?

  “How’s Mrs. Addison faring?”

  “Still lively,” Stahlherz said. “Bladder relieved and belly filled.”

  “She’s not to be harmed, you understand. She’s our means of reeling in Josee and Mr. Addison—and, at all costs, the lost journal. Please, I don’t want Kara to know I’m here. If anything goes awry, she must not be able to identify me.”

  “Imagine her shock to discover her housekeeper-turned-kidnapper.”

  “A misnomer, my son.” Rosie wagged a finger and settled onto a settee with her carpetbag in her lap. Light honey hair played over her ears. “Actually, I’m the kidnapper-turned-housekeeper.”

  “You didn’t kidnap me. You rescued me.”

  Rosie’s head bowed in contrition. “Try convincing the authorities of that.”

  “Well, our secret, of course. But you saved my life. You raised me as your own. That’s to be rewarded, not punished.”

  “I did what had to be done, Stahli. To think that anyone could abandon a child.” Rosie slipped off her shoes and began massaging aged feet. “Oh, my. Seventy-six years and these bones have taken a pounding. I feel perpetually cold to the marrow, and my joints grow stiffer by the day. The price of an old woman’s musings, I guess.”

  He knelt and touched her shin. “Let me ease your bitterness, Professor.”

  She pulled away. “Too late for that.”

  Kre-aaack! Why do you shrink from me? Don’t I make you proud?

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “Even now the network is maneuvering into position. Soon you’ll have hundreds hailing you as their leader, their ideological matriarch. Soon thousands will taste from the roots of your pain. You will be avenged.”

  Rosie patted his shoulder. “You’re kind, even to an old woman.”

  In deference, Stahlherz kissed the age-marked hand. He thought of the photo over his desk and the combatants on his onyx chessboard. He forced his eyes open, knowing that to close them would be to amplify the crackling in his head. Despite this attempt, the agony continued. Feathers, black as sin, flapped ceaselessly in his skull.

 
Vengeance. Hold on till tomorrow … To endure is the cure.

  As the wind bent the trees outside, Rosie and Stahlherz rehearsed their plans, coordinated schedules, arranged for contingencies.

  “So tell me,” Stahlherz said at last. “What’re you hiding in the bag?”

  “Hiding?” Rosie smoothed her carpetbag in a simulation of innocence. “This? Oh, very well then, I suppose I should share the good news. It seems, Stahli, that Josee Walker’s not only reappeared at a propitious time, she’s also managed to stumble upon another long-lost item of mine. Or, in a far likelier scenario, the item threw itself in her path.” Excitement seemed to fill the elderly woman’s hair with electricity, lifting and separating it strand by strand. She said, “It has that power, I assure you.”

  Kaw-ka-screech! I have power too, you understand.

  “Please, Professor,” Stahlherz said. “Tell me, what do you have?”

  From the carpetbag, Rosie withdrew a metal canister.

  In Corvallis, he stopped at Kinko’s to copy his father’s journal. He placed the original and the copy in protective envelopes, stamped the original, and dropped it at the post office in the indoor receptacle. He carried the copy to the hotel and instructed the concierge to put it in a safe. At the front desk, he found that Sergeant Turney had delivered his belongings as promised.

  Bolstered by a pot of hotel coffee, Marsh picked up his phone. Rosie was safe in Yachats; others wished him well; but no one—not the fitness club owner or the BP gas attendants or her friends or relatives—had seen or heard from Kara today.

  Conversely, Henri Esprit was full of steadfast assurance.

  “Marshall, I spoke with my nephew—his name’s Nick—and he’s enthused about the chance to utilize his skills. He’s logging into the gaming zone, dragging the Internet to see if he can’t ‘get a byte.’ ” Esprit chuckled. “That bit of his humor I picked up on, though, in general, his jargon leaves me scratching my balding head. Nick tells me he’s also contacting the Webmaster to see if he can’t get a list of game users registered under the last name of Steele.”

  “Good thinking. I like this nephew of yours already.”

  “He did warn that the Webmaster is under no compulsion to provide such a list, and even if he does acquiesce, the users are under no obligation to verify their Web-site registrations. Steele, therefore, could be an alias.”

  “Figured as much. Any help from customer service at AT&T? Were you able to use my info and get a log of my phone calls?”

  “Incoming and outgoing. Numbers, yes. No names though.”

  Marsh took down the numbers that fell within the timespan of his conversation with Steele Knight. If only he could pinpoint the person behind that blocked number. In all likelihood, the person paying the bills on the account was the one holding his wife.

  He thought of Sergeant Turney and the help he could provide here.

  “Listen, Esprit, this guy could be from anywhere on the globe, I know that. But the circumstances imply someone local. In state, at least. Do me a favor and check with the authorities, see if they have a record of any registered sex offenders by the last name of Steele. Narrow it to Lane, Linn, and Benton counties. If I’m not mistaken, the information’s available to the public, even the offenders’ addresses.”

  “Marshall, some advice. Not that you’ve ever been inclined to listen to this doddering old man, but I’ll say it anyway. Maybe now’s the time to let the police in on this. You’ve remained ambiguous about all that’s going on, but I can only assume it involves Kara. For her sake—”

  “For her sake, I can’t.”

  “Perhaps there’s a way.”

  “Drop it, Esprit. I’ll handle it, okay? Let me know what you find out.”

  Marsh disconnected and dropped into the bedside armchair. He glanced at the clock.

  God, if you’re out there, somewhere, would it hurt you to get involved here?

  Killing time until the eleven o’clock news, he flipped through the cable lineup. His mind went blank; his heart tapped its regular rhythm against his chest. Monster trucks, classic movies, CNN, VH-1 … Nothing of interest.

  A face flashed by, and he went back to fawn over an actress with Kara’s looks.

  What had she meant by her clue, Black Butte Ranch? Or was it a clue? Had she misunderstood Marsh’s attempt to trick her abductor and thrown out her answer in sarcasm or wishful thinking? Surely, he reasoned, she was not actually in their time-share condo at the ranch resort. If so, Steele Knight would never have passed on the message. No, on some level, she must have weighed Marsh’s question against his scheduled departure for Europe and played along with the subterfuge. Otherwise, she would have told the truth, that they hadn’t made romantic plans. Hadn’t in ages.

  Black Butte Ranch …

  B. B. R. Were the initials the clue? Maybe she was near a butte. A ranch.

  Of course, and Marsh hated to admit this, it could be she had no idea where she was and had thrown out an answer to avoid punishment from her abductor.

  Tired and testy, he removed his shoes at the foot of the bed and emptied his pockets onto the nightstand. Marsh glimpsed the sergeant’s card and thought of Turney’s invitation to call anytime. But hadn’t Steele Knight warned him against any police intervention?

  He turned off the light and, in the television’s glow, stripped down to silk boxers.

  A knock startled him.

  Through the peephole, he saw a slightly distorted Casey Wilcox in a cream-colored dress, her legs streaming down to black braided pumps. He poked his head through the door, met a cold wind. Casey was clutching a black purse with a pearl-lined flap that matched the string around her neck. Earrings nuzzled in her brunette hair. Marsh said, “What’s going on?”

  “Marshall. Thought you might want some company.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “Raining like crazy, brrrr.” Casey stepped past him. “Don’t you believe in lamps, or are you just sitting here in the dark?” She clicked on the bedside light.

  “Thinking things over.”

  “In your boxers?”

  “I was about to take a shower. It’s getting late, if you don’t mind.”

  “Marshall, don’t pretend you don’t want me here. You know that you do.”

  “Not in much of a joking mood, Casey. Why don’t we talk tomorrow?”

  She fingered her string of pearls and laughed. “Who said anything about talking?”

  27

  Trick or Treat

  Kris Van der Bruegge turned back a pink bedspread, fluffed the pillows, and set a towel and a new bar of soap on the bureau. Outlining a full-length mirror, faded stickers stood as mementos of Annalise’s childhood. “I miss that girl,” Kris told Josee and Scooter as they watched from the doorway. She touched the stickers. Drops of rain pelted the window. “Thanksgiving this year won’t be the same without her.”

  “What about Halloween?” said Scooter. “Tomorrow’s the day.”

  “She’ll miss that, too. No goodies for her, I guess.”

  “Halloween can get downright bizarre around our place,” Josee said. “Past few years Scoot and his friends’ve dressed up in medieval garb and sacked out all night at our trailer for role-playing games. Me? I stay as far away as I can. With all the sugar and herbs flowing through their veins, they start bouncing off the walls.”

  “Herbs?”

  “Yeah.” Scooter shot Josee a stern look as a roll of thunder shook the house. “You know, supplements … ginkgo biloba, guarana, ephedra. Nothing man-made. All natural for us. We slug down Sobe and Red Bull like water.”

  Josee stuck out her tongue. “All sugar water, if you ask me.”

  “You two lost me at the medieval garb,” Kris said. “Anyway, you’re all set for the night, Josee. As for you, Scooter, you know where your room is. You’ll have to share the bathroom in between. Just let me know if either of you needs anything.”

  Josee nudged Scooter. “See you in the morning, hon.”
r />   He kissed her lightly, his breath moving cold and stale over her lips.

  “Night.”

  Touching the corner of her mouth, she watched him tread down the hall. Her fingers moved to her eyebrow ring. She said, “Kris, thanks for, you know, letting us use your place.”

  “Our pleasure.”

  “And I really didn’t mean to spill that hot cocoa—”

  “Uh-uh. I warned you not to bring it up again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Kris pointed to a CD system by the corner armchair. “You’re welcome to listen to music if you like. Annalise left most of her collection here. A moderate volume, that’s all we ask. John’s already asleep upstairs since he has first period in the morning. And, Josee?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re allowed to sleep under the covers.”

  “I know.”

  “Annalise used to thrash and turn till every corner was untucked. It’s okay.”

  Josee rubbed her chin against her shoulder.

  “Sarge explained to me what happened to you out in the thicket,” Kris said from the doorway. “Not to make light of it, but I have confidence that you’re going to pull through this. You’ll be all right. Remember what we talked about earlier? Music’s a powerful tool. Go ahead. You might find something there that’ll touch you.”

  Josee squatted to look over the CD titles. “Art and music’ve always touched me. You think that’s God? I mean, it’s like his fingerprints are there if you just look from the right angle. Scooter thinks I’m crazy when I talk like this.”

  “Granted, it’s not always a divine touch. But God’s always willing to reach out.”

  Josee withdrew a CD. I want to feel you, Lord, the way I used to. Sometimes, it’s just too stinkin’ scary. Been touched in all the wrong ways.

  “You need your rest, Josee. I’ll leave you with one last thing. Of course, you know the story of David and Goliath. Well, David knew how to fight with more than a slingshot. He was summoned a number of times to play music in the king’s court. An evil spirit was tormenting the king, but each time David played, the spirit left, and the king was appeased. The music, by God’s grace, drove the darkness away.”