Dark to Mortal Eyes

by Eric Wilson

  Ephesians 6:13,16,18

  38

  Ready to Strike

  Marsh knew that he’d been duped by the enemy queen. Time to change plans.

  Far out to sea the sky glowed with the warmth of a dying ember while Marsh parked the Metro at a Yachats convenience store. It seemed silly to sneak up on his own beach property, but he was counting on the element of surprise.

  Here, on the edge of the Pacific, on the edge of the chessboard, the battle for his family was about to take place. Back in Corvallis, at the board’s center, Sergeant Turney and Henri Esprit would play out their strategies, yet the focus of the battle had shifted. Shifted back, Marsh realized, to where it had all begun.

  Would he find his wife and daughter, the queen and bishop, here?

  Would his credit trail keep Trudi off balance? Or would she be waiting for him?

  As he loaded a clip into his Glock nine-millimeter, Marsh decided to make the call he’d been avoiding. He could no longer do without the help of law enforcement; he had drafted the sergeant, and now it was time to go after the chief. With the rash bravado of a nineteenth-century chess player, Marsh jabbed at the numeric pad.

  After a series of holds, Chief Braddock’s gruff voice broke through. “Hello?”

  “Braddock, this is Marsh Addison.” He checked the safety on his weapon, then shoved it into his belt beneath his light jacket.

  “What can I do for you? If it has to do with Kara, I’m listening.”

  “As if you have any say in what happens with my wife.”

  “We’re both concerned for her safety. It’s my job, Marsh. You’ve been under a lot of stress, I’ll give you that much, but at least your name’s been cleared.”

  “What about yours? I should make you pay for what you did years ago!”

  “Everyone pays a price. Do you think I haven’t?”

  “Listen. I don’t know, I don’t care. Right now, we have a serious problem.”

  With wind gathering at his back, Marsh walked along the highway and found a break between outdated motels. He couldn’t let personal vendettas get in the way, not at this point. He plugged through the sand, feeling dune grass poke at his legs as he explained to Braddock what he needed. He informed him of a biochemical weapon hidden on the coast in a safe-deposit box. This could be part of a larger scheme.

  “You’ve got my attention, Marsh. You ever heard of ICV?”

  “The local anarchists? Sure.”

  “Well, if you’ve seen the news, you know about the anthrax alert. Threats’ve been made, and I have teams working overtime on it. Camp Detrick, a longtime center of chemical warfare research, one of their classes had a motto: ‘We seek something which cannot be seen, smelt, or felt, discovered by means which we do not have.’ That might give you an idea of the challenge we face.”

  “Can’t you simply tell the bank what’s going on and seize the deposit box?”

  “No, I can’t just walk in and demand free access. Despite any snide remarks you might have, my badge is not a license to do as I will. I’ve learned that much.”

  “Bank closes at six, Braddock. If I want to free my wife and daughter, I have no choice but to turn over the key and box number to people intent on using those vials. I’ll delay them as long as I can, but I refuse to lose Kara and Josee. Of course, I don’t want others hurt. All I’m asking is that you’ll intervene. You can do that much for me.”

  “I don’t know that there’s time to secure a warrant. Without the key, I’d have to drill that box. Not the wisest choice, in light of the alleged contents. We have nothing to counter the hemotoxins.”

  “You’re making this more difficult than it is. Honestly, if—” Marsh stopped walking. Through gnarled branches and over a dune crest, he could see the vaulted roof of his beach house. “Braddock, I didn’t say anything about hemotoxins. Where’d you come up with that word?”

  Braddock’s silence served notice of forthcoming secrets. When he did speak, there was defeat in his voice. “Got some things I should share with you, Marsh. I know about the box. I know about Josee—”

  “Know what? How could you—”

  “And I know about Trudi Ubelhaar, leader of ICV. For over a year, I’ve had a paid informant among the ranks of In Cauda Venenum. He’s been trying to identify her, but he was killed last evening, left as road kill just north of Yachats.”

  This revelation pumped cold sweat onto Marsh’s brow. Had he driven past the spot on his way here? Hadn’t he noticed spillage on the opposite side of the highway?

  Marsh said, “You knew that Trudi was masquerading as my employee?”

  “Trudi? She worked for you?”

  “Used the name Rosamund Yeager. She’s managed our housekeeping staff for over three years. You might’ve warned us. Now Kara’s gone, thanks to you.”

  Braddock’s voice brimmed with indignation. “I didn’t know of this. I never knew. She’s had us all fooled. Should’ve guessed she’d be right under our noses, but things’re always obvious in retrospect. Barely four years ago Trudi completed her job at the Umatilla Army Depot and received a government pension. Here she is again.”

  “Wish I’d been brought into the loop. This is—”

  Braddock jumped in. “Are you going to give me the number of this deposit box?”

  Marsh considered the campus party so many years ago, reflected on Kara’s teary couch-side confessions. This man’s actions had been a stain on their marriage. Then, in contrast, scenes from the Good Samaritan stairwell clouded Marsh’s mind. Braddock rushing up the steps, offering aid.

  He leaned into the bole of a tree. “Why should I trust you?”

  “Strange question, Marsh, considering you’re the one who called me.”

  “But who gave you the right to push your nose into my family’s business?”

  Braddock’s laugh was deep and cheerless. “Do you want my help or not?”

  “You owe an apology at least. Or a—”

  “Next subject, Marsh. Right now, we need to stop the contents of this deposit box from being distributed, am I right? I’ll do my best. Now, tell me its location.”

  From the trees, Marsh studied his house. Emotion surged in his chest, and he knew that his mother had been right when she had said that love was a powerful weapon.

  I’d do anything right now—anything!—to ensure Kara’s and Josee’s safety.

  “You still there?” the chief asked. “Don’t have a lotta time.”

  He said, “The box is in Florence. Number 89, Bank of the Dunes.”

  “Thank you, Marsh. Hard as it might be to swallow, I am on your side.”

  “Yeah? Sure hope calling you wasn’t a mistake—”

  The chief had already disconnected.

  Lights off. Zero movement. No vehicles in the driveway.

  From here, the beach house looked deserted, but Marsh kept wide of the motion-activated lights near the back entry and angled through the scrub brush. He gripped his gun, buttoned his jacket. He skirted the house and ducked beneath a bedroom window. Poking up at the windowsill, he saw no movement inside. Two more windows. Same results.

  Had he misinterpreted the clues? Were they even here?

  Rosie … Trudi. She was at the heart of this, and she had transported Josee here from the park. Kara had used a wordplay to guide him to this same site.

  He was too late; that must be it.

  At his trophy-room window, between sailboat curtains, he glimpsed his liquor bar and the mirrored shelf of decanters. By the sink, a single shot glass sat empty. He never left those out. And if Rosie were innocent, she would’ve straightened it in her cleaning routine.

  Someone’s been here. That’s a fact!

  Feeling cavalier, Marsh followed his nine-millimeter around the house, into the activated circle of light on the front porch. The door was unlocked. He clicked off the safety on the Glock and stepped inside. The dining room was still, the kitchen clean. By the hall light, he scanned the living room, bedrooms, bathroom
, on down to the final door.

  The trophy room.

  Aware of the evidence on the bar, he pressed his back against the linen cupboard, turned the trophy-room doorknob, and kicked open the door.

  He found no resistance. No intruders. Only an odor wafting from within. With sweat beading under his arms, Marsh stepped in and turned on the light. Beside the bar and the wayward shot glass, he noticed the bearskin rug had a wrinkle along one edge. He unrolled the rug. Lifted the door to the cellar.

  They were gone. His gamble had backfired.

  In the light, he counted two empty chairs—that explained the vacant spots at the ends of the dining table upstairs—and a paint bucket in the corner. Perhaps that was the smell he’d detected. But there was nobody down here. Sure, he’d set the trap for Stahlherz; sure, he’d deduced Kara’s location. On the other hand, he’d sent Josee to her fate with Trudi and wasted valuable time trying to help Scooter at the park and hospital. Not that he should’ve abandoned the kid, but he’d fallen behind, lost a tempo.

  “So what now?” he called into the emptiness of the cellar. “What now!”

  I’m no king. I’m nothing but a pawn in this game …

  It was helpful to couch this fiasco in the metaphor of a chess game; it served as an emotional buffer. Pawn promotion, Marsh told himself. Hadn’t the old master Philidor said that pawns were the soul of chess? He had to find Trudi. He would go as a pawn, marching to the board’s back row to give himself up.

  Self-sacrifice. A pawn for a knight, or a bishop … or a queen.

  He ducked beneath a strand of cobwebs and circled the damp space one more time. Facing the first chair, he tried not to think of the anguish Kara had been through. What had they done to her? He saw stains and sliced strips of cloth.

  Then he saw the note.

  Four thirty. The Camp Adair historical monument. A private rendezvous.

  “Shame, shame,” Stahlherz whispered. “The end of the game.”

  He parked beside the forest green Tahoe in the gravel lot. Though the dying sun revealed little evidence of others nearby, he was certain his ICV network was dispersed within fifty yards. No doubt they could see him even now and were relieved by his arrival. As instructed, they would be prepared to detain any unwanted intruders.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, he emerged from the van. He had seen a picture or two, but this would be the first face-to-face encounter. How he’d longed for this day.

  Marsh Addison. Crash-Chess-Dummy. His lifelong foe.

  “You’re here, Stahlherz. I was beginning to wonder.” The voice carried over the grass from beside a marble marker bearing the timberwolf symbol of World War II’s 104th Infantry. The speaker wore slacks and a sports jacket over a cable-knit sweater. Beneath the brim of a homburg, his face was shaded.

  “Marsh? Marshall Addison?”

  “Here as requested. Where’s Kara?”

  Steele Knight was cautious. “Tell me, what opening did you play this morning?”

  “The Sicilian Defense,” came the reply. “But you disconnected.”

  Stahlherz grinned, for even as he detected an unfamiliar tone, he spotted the object in his opponent’s hand. Thick and clothbound. The long-sought journal? He moved down the gravel path to join Marsh. Once the journal was in hand, he would phone the Professor and tell her to drive from her waiting spot only moments away at Adair Village. The exchange would be made, and then—with or without his mother’s approval—he would carve his pound of flesh from this man who’d usurped all that was rightfully his.

  Marsh, you wish to meet your father? Well, you can join him—in hell!

  In the breeze, an American flag fluttered, its fasteners clanging against the metal pole. Stahlherz’s coat, too, flapped about him as his strode over the path. He palmed his dagger, kept its hilt pushed from view in his black sleeve.

  Doubled rooks. Taking wing. Harnessing the darkness.

  He scanned the park’s perimeter, where shadows moved. On one side a fence bordered them; on the other, Camp Adair Road. Ahead, a crumbling concrete structure spoke of a former military presence, while at his back a wildlife sanctuary teemed with cooing pheasants and quail.

  Or were those imitated bird calls?

  “Marsh.” Stahlherz arrived at the marker. “Let me see the journal. If it’s the real article, if it’s not been tampered with, I’ll call to have Kara brought forth without delay.”

  “Where is she?” The brim of the man’s homburg lifted.

  Skre-accck!

  “Who are you? Where’s Marsh!” Stahlherz tapped his fingers so that the dagger slipped into his hand. A curved talon. Ready to strike.

  With strips of gas-scented cloth over her eyes and mouth, Josee kicked at the heavy duct tape around her ankles. The trunk held her captive. Cold and cramped, she listened to the hum of the road beneath her. Through her gag, her intermittent cries went unnoticed.

  Where were they taking her? Where was Kara? Even as she had declined into unconsciousness, she’d found comfort in her mother’s nearness. Now that was gone.

  Fighting panic, she worked her ankles and wrists against her restraints. She found a metal ridge, a part of the trunk’s structure, against which to rub the tape, but then the car lurched to the side, thwarting her efforts and tossing her back into the wall. She tucked her head to avoid serious damage and braced herself against the motion.

  Lord, help me here. Protect Kara. Don’t let it end like this.

  Scarcely able to breathe, Josee felt a peace beyond her own understanding wash over her. The helplessness of the situation negated any schemes of escape, and in the trunk’s inky space, she surrendered herself to the events of the past few days. She thought of the viper in the woods; of Sergeant Turney’s fang marks and his warm Hershey’s kiss eyes; of Scooter’s fleeing the slithering sorceress and later coming to the park to try to warn her away from Trudi. How had he known to find her there? She thought also of the nurse—the angel?—in Room 223. She remembered the Van der Bruegges’ kindness; the flexing muscles in Marsh’s back and his pine-and-cloves scent as she held on to him during their ride through the mud and trees; the light shining down the stairwell onto Kara’s face, and the lilting tenderness of her mother’s words: No matter what happens … you’ll always be my baby.

  She could die knowing her mother’s warmth and her father’s strength.

  But I’m not ready! Did Scoot survive? We can’t just let this hag carry out her plans, whatever they are. Where’s Sarge?

  Sergeant Turney wiggled his toes. Okay, he still had some movement.

  He maneuvered so he could see over the Tahoe’s seats into the park where Stahlherz and Esprit were talking. He’d heard the van arrive and watched Stahlherz head across the grass. Good time to make his exit through the released hatch. He swiped his sleeve over his mouth to remove the last remnants of chocolate and failure, then eased his bulk under the door. His right leg stretched down to the gravel. Left leg.

  Thunk. Click.

  The hatch bumped him in the head as he completed his exit, then landed on its catch with a metallic sound. As he tried to regain his balance, rocks shifted beneath him.

  Focused on the moment, Turney ignored the brief head pain and the gathering moisture around his scars. He was ringside, prepared to jump into the fray

  All 238 pounds of me. You still in my corner, God? Or have I ruined everything?

  “Who are you?” Stahlherz could feel himself shaking. “Where is Marsh?”

  “I’m Henri Esprit, the winemaker at Addison Ridge.” Although the man looked to be in his late sixties, his wide shoulders and strong face bore a passing resemblance to his employer. “Marsh is far from here, I can assure you. He sent me to deliver this.”

  “Impossible. He was here, here in town not long ago. I checked.”

  “Oh, you mean this?” Esprit waved a card.

  Stahlherz snatched it. American Express, Marshall R. Addison. He had been monitoring this credit card’s activity, and to
think that it’d been in the hands of this impostor before him. Disbelief hammered against his temples. Bile filled his throat. The dagger was a talon in his grip, poised to inflict damage. The creature had control.

  Esprit said, “I’ve been enjoying the privileges of that account, Mr. Stahlherz—”

  “Herr Stahlherz! It’s German, you idiot. Ich heisse Karl Stahlherz.”

  “I’m quite fluent in many languages, Herr Stahlherz. From the beginning, Marsh suspected that you would monitor his moves. A diversionary tactic, that’s all this was. From your reaction, I gather that little card did the trick.”

  “But he has to be here. Marsh has disregarded our agreement. With a single call, I could have Kara killed. I would take pleasure in ripping away all he holds dear!”

  Esprit lifted an object wrapped in oilcloth. “Here, isn’t this what you’re after?”

  “Unwrap it. Show it to me.” Stahlherz tightened his grip on the blade.

  39

  Beyond Hope

  Marsh plowed through the trees and dune grass, back toward his car at the convenience store. He huffed into his phone. “I found the note. I called this number. Now what?”

  “Tell me, sir, would you enjoy a stroll along the beach at Devil’s Elbow?”

  “Devil’s Elbow?” He shuddered. Trudi’s voice sounded so familiar, yet so foreign. “I can be there shortly. Will you have Kara with you?”

  “Will you have the journal? Do you have the key and the information I need?”

  “You know that I do. It’s how I put the pieces together. You’re Trudi Ubelhaar.”

  “Marsh, did I ever tell you how much your voice sounds like your father’s?” She sighed into the phone. “Chance loved me, you know. Simply wasn’t strong enough to turn against his dear wife. Men are weak, mere pawns in the hand of a determined woman. So, in answer to your question, yes, come along, provide that which I need, and I’ll allow you and your precious bride to reunite along the shores of the Pacific.”

  The edge of the board. The eight row. Almost there.

  Forgoing emotion, Marsh found strength in the chess metaphor.