by Eric Wilson
That thing’s gotta go. No more messin’ around!
Turney took a breath and vaulted toward the silvery object in her hands.
Vaporous poison had stripped away Marsh’s clarity. He was sullen. He worked his hands free from the duct tape and sat wringing his fingers. Fading, drifting. Through drooping eyelids, he watched his wife and daughter take action, yet remained paralyzed on the bench. This entire scenario was impossible. Ropes of creatures swirling about Trudi’s face? Orbs of poison in the air?
No. Madness setting in. Losing touch.
He could always crawl to the cliff’s edge and let go … like Karl Stahlherz. Do it!
Then spotlights came on. In his mind. The words from Kara’s Bible: “We are not fighting against people … but against … mighty powers of darkness.… Use every piece of God’s armor to resist the enemy.”
God, give me strength to stand—to stand firm!
Marsh pulled himself to his feet, drilled his eyes into Trudi, and spotted vipers directed at Josee and Kara. Josee was down on the table; Kara was standing. The creatures stabbed toward them. Banging the table’s edge with his knee, Marsh clawed over the wood to thrust himself between attackers and prey. His arms flung forward.
Sets of scimitar fangs carved through both hands. Nailed him in place.
Impaled above the table, he groaned, then fell onto the planks as fangs retracted. Beads of blood and venom pushed through the holes in his skin. His nerves began to riot. Quivering in the poison’s grip, he realized that this was a picture of Christ on the cross. Marsh could only follow the example: “Love your wives with the same love Christ showed the church. He gave up his life for her.”
But I’m only a man … a mortal.
Each nerve was screaming now. Each cell a torch. A million torches … running their flames beneath his skin. An unholy fire, consuming him.
Then the fire shut down. His nervous system threw the switch.
No more signals. No more pain. Nothing.
Ignoring Trudi’s stale cinnamon breath, Sergeant Turney moved in. He set aside his fear and doubts and determined that he could show no more pity for this wretched old woman who’d made choices to impose her will on the world around her.
He wrested the canister from her grip and jerked his head away from the hair that beat in the wind and slapped at him.
With an outpouring of strength, he launched the metal object out over the fence, toward the precipice, toward the mist and the waves that crashed far below.
Josee’s voice was useless on her swollen tongue. Flashes … venom … needles and bright lights. All the horrors of childhood came back: the transfusions, abuse, neglect, the search for her birth parents. Now her future was fading before her eyes. Kara was crouched alongside the table, coughing. Marsh was sprawled over the bench with mouth gaping, eyes unblinking. Spasms arced through his limbs. Tiny drops formed in his tear ducts. Thinning blood.
The elements of survival …
Groggily, Josee plucked at the braided cord around her neck, emptied the red gel capsules from the vial into her hand. Three of them. She was so weak. She set one on her tongue and watched the others drop through her fingers.
Convulsions … in gathering waves. Locked jaws. Wetness at Marsh’s tear ducts. Drops of blood hit the grass before his eyes. Whose blood was it? His own? Kara’s?
No. Gel tablets … Josee’s saving grace … doctor’s orders.
With his last vestige of awareness, he forced one into Kara’s mouth, the other between his own clenched teeth. The medication tasted metallic. Pungent on his tongue.
Midair, the canister reflected moonbeams in somersaulting patches. Trudi’s scream, in Josee’s ears, turned into the hiss of multitudinous serpents. The old Nazi’s hair slithered out into the wind, snakes reaching over the fence in an attempt to snatch back the coveted object. They formed a net that draped beneath the canister, caught it, and bounced it once and again before a huge viper snagged it between pale-lined jaws.
“Ah, you sssee,” said Trudi. “I give for no one! I thrive in the night. I drink it in like a tonic. The darkness is on my breath, in my sssweat, in the very ssspit of my mouth.” Her lips closed over her withdrawing tongue.
“The darkness,” Kara whispered, “cannot extinguish it.”
“What?” Trudi looked down at her in bewilderment. “Extinguish what?”
“ ‘God is light.’ Guess you’ll never understand.”
“Game’s over,” Marsh said.
Despite his ragged tone, Josee recognized it as a declaration of faith. The moment the words left his mouth, a spoke of Heceta Head’s light caught the viper more than fifty feet off the ground and swung it in a circle. As the incandescent beam panned back along the wooded hillside, it dragged its prey and lifted Trudi on her aging tiptoes. Her hair and the flailing serpents stretched and circled over the sea, then inland, bumping through the trees, over the ground. The serpents spread out in an effort to escape—until alternating spears of light skewered each of them in turn.
For a millisecond that Josee thought she might have only imagined, the golden spokes retracted, leaving the snakes suspended. Then, in a blaze of heavenly rage, the light shot out again, flinging canister and creatures far out into the brooding sea.
As far as the horizon.
As far as the east from the west.
Trudi Ubelhaar, broken and bruised, tried to rise to her feet. On the third attempt, she collapsed on the grass. Most bizarre of all, above her wrinkled brow and blank, reptilian eyes, she was totally bald. Not a strand of hair remained on her head.
Through hazy eyes, Marsh looked from the table and saw Trudi’s cyclical journey in the skewer of light. The wind gusted. The spinning beams of the lighthouse seemed to accelerate, slicing the gloom as with a cognitive purpose. About Trudi’s head, each serpent strand stretched taut to impossible lengths. The old woman’s pale lips opened in a scream as the wind yanked away her sheaf of hair.
She tumbled to the earth. Tried three times to stand. Fell unconscious.
On the tail of the breeze, the lighthouse probed the night and discovered a slowly falling object.
Trudi’s wig …
Captive to the upthrusts of air, the wig tossed and peeled apart, then fell seaward, eventually dipping from view beneath the ocean’s vast blanket of mercy.
EPILOGUE
Hidden Things
Addison Ridge Vineyards, Thanksgiving Day
“I’m so pleased that you could join us.”
“But, of course,” Virginia said. “This is a time for families to come together.”
Kara nodded at her mother-in-law over a platter of sliced turkey. Her community dinner was only an hour away. Her orange fliers had drawn over two hundred responses from individuals and underprivileged families that would be bused from downtown Corvallis to the Addison Ridge warehouse. Directed by John and Kris Van der Bruegge, teams of servers made preparations: filling punchbowls and coffee carafes, placing decorative centerpieces, heaping silver tureens with holiday standards.
Virginia sighed. “Goodness, I don’t know that my heart could’ve handled what you went through a few weeks ago. Glad to have that behind us.”
“Trudi put you through quite a lot as well. We have much to be thankful for.”
“I knew it’d rain,” Marsh grumbled. “Typical Oregon weather.”
“A little rain? Bright side is, those without shelter were even more thankful to be here,” Kara said. “Glad to see Virginia made it. Been a while since your mother turned out for a social event. She’s cornered Esprit on the back deck for his version of the confrontation at the memorial marker. They’re swapping stories from the good ol’ days. They seem to be getting along fabulously, better than ever.”
Good ol’ days?
Marsh frowned. Sure, in the past month his future had brightened—he’d been cleared of suspicion, he’d found his missing wife and long-lost daughter, he’d nurtured a budding faith—but his view of the past wa
s dimmer than ever. The pillars he’d built his life upon had crumbled. His own father had deployed him and others as pieces in a real-life game. Even Josee’s adoption had been instigated by Chance’s indiscretions.
Kara’s prayer had opened Marsh’s eyes. He knew that as a fact. Thankfully, the apparitions had ceased, but he understood his misdeeds as never before. So many hurtful words over the years, careless actions.
And there would be more. He wasn’t perfect.
He recalled the words of reconciliation he and Kara had exchanged on the beach, and the words of spiritual adoption, of the breaking of cycles. Where, though, was the joy in the process? Hadn’t he extended and received forgiveness?
A thought struck him: I haven’t forgiven myself.
The rain was clattering along the portico, pooling in puddles. Cleansing.
“Hon?” Marsh took Kara’s hand. “I know we have a lot of straightening up to do, but why don’t we leave it for a few minutes? I have something else in mind.”
She shot him a glance. “Nowadays I don’t know what to expect from you.”
“How about getting all wet?”
She looked out at the downpour. Smiled. “Oh no, Marshall, not again.”
Addison house rules: no smoking inside. Josee stepped through the front doors, hoping to light up. Dinner had been great, but the mob of people, overwhelming. She was still outfitted in her long gingham dress. A wreath of fresh flowers circled her hair. On a leather necklace she wore her myrtlewood cross.
“Marsh? Kara? What’re you doing?”
Josee hadn’t seen any visions of late, but this was strange enough. The couple was dancing in the white-pebbled drive, drenched with rain and laughing like a pair of fools. And she was supposed to belong to this gene pool? She grinned. She tossed the unlit cigarette to the ground and dug it in with the toe of her sandal.
“Afraid to get wet?” Marsh gibed. “Can’t handle the cold?”
“This?” Josee gestured at the dimpled puddles and the clouds that crawled over the hills. “This is nothing compared to some of the stuff I’ve been in. Been in even worse with Scooter.” She fell silent. Removed her wreath and poked at it.
“Still no word?” Kara said.
“Nope.”
“Hasn’t come out of it yet, huh? Have you gone to see him?”
Josee held up a finger. “One time.” Since that visit, she’d made a point of avoiding Good Samaritan. Once had been enough, sitting beside Scooter’s comatose form, receiving zero response—as if he’d died and left a breathing corpse. She shook her head and reset the wreath. “Not ready to deal with it just yet. I mean, maybe after I’ve sifted through all that’s happened. A lot to process, you know?”
Scooter had violated her trust; he’d refused to make a stand and had allowed his own demons to turn him against her; he’d stinkin’ ratted her out to Trudi.
Of course, he’d also thrown himself in harm’s way to warn her at Avery Park.
I will visit again, Scoot. Give me time.
Her eyes brightened as a police car came up the driveway.
“What do you know,” Marsh said. “Looks like Sarge has decided to show up.”
Sergeant Turney parked the cruiser beside the company van and jogged through the rain, splashing water. Though his pain had lessened, bandages and scabs still covered his arms and face, testimony to the wounds he’d endured in the helicopter crash.
“I come bearing gifts,” he said.
“How generous,” Kara said. “But isn’t it a bit early for Christmas?”
Josee met him on the steps. “How’s it going, Band-Aid Man?”
Turney smiled. “The inquiry cleared me. That’s a good thing. Ruled Stahlherz’s death as a suicide. Sorry, Marsh. They haven’t found a body, which means there’s little chance of ever gettin’ your answer on his connection to you—if there ever was one. Could’ve been one big lie. The station received your father’s journal, the original you dropped in the mail, and with the account matching the events we’ve been through, my guess is that Ms. Ubelhaar’ll be spending the rest of her days behind bars. We can all breathe easier. She’ll be out of our hair.”
“Sarge, you have a sick sense of humor,” Marsh said. “What about Beau Connors?”
“Seems he was nothing but a—”
“Pawn sacrifice.”
“Yup, stole the words right outta my mouth. The kid’ll be facing psychiatric evaluation, if the judge has his way. So far, we’ve found three separate safe houses for the ICV network and have broken things up, but we’ll still be keeping an eye out, just in case. With the e-mail database that Esprit’s whiz kid snagged on the Internet, the members the detective rounded up near Camp Adair, and the cars that got tailed on Halloween, we’ve listed more than ninety people involved. We have star witnesses ready to go on the stand if this ever goes to trial—the espresso-booth worker and Suzette Bishop, art curator. Suzette, as you know, suffered a blow to the head, but she’s okay.”
“Quite a little network of terror.”
“You’re tellin’ me, Marsh.” Turney raised a finger to make a point. “Wanna know something scary? The thermos things those kids threatened you with on the beach had actual poison gas in them. Somethin’ close to tear gas but authentic juice all the same. As for the canisters with the truly dangerous stuff, all but one of ’em have been recovered and transported over to Umatilla. They’ll be slated for the incinerator—if the authorities ever get that thing up and going.”
“What about the missing canister?” Josee’s concern was obvious.
“Went up in flames. We’ve confirmed that now. The ICV boys had a little run-in with a tanker on Highway 126. Sad thing is, at least thirteen people died within a mile of the site. Lotsa animals, too. Pets and livestock. A couple of wisps of the stuff must’ve gotten into the air, but we haven’t had any casualties since the week after the collision. The poison’s dissipated, thank heavens.”
Marsh nodded. “Life goes on. We’re all falling back into our routines.”
“I’ve been thinking. What with all the sleaze bags runnin’ around, I’m not so sure I wanna keep workin’ a beat. Might switch to consulting for criminal investigations.”
“Would that be any safer?” Josee asked.
“Least I could call my own shots. Anything for a chance to go a few more rounds.” Turney turned to Marsh and produced a sparkling glass chess piece. “Here, this is yours. It’s from the evidence they’ve released. Found it near the spot Stahlherz went over the cliff. Little dinged up but otherwise ready to go. Your queen, I believe.”
“I’ll take good care of her.”
“You do that. Oh. One last thing.” Turney handed a plain white envelope to Josee. “Ran the tests, a little side job, just to settle things once and for all. Between the saliva from Marsh’s lunch fork and a piece of your hair, Josee, it didn’t take the labs long to determine a paternal match. Don’t worry. Go on, you can take a look.”
Josee scanned the results, folded the paper with care, and reinserted it.
“Sarge called me earlier,” Marsh told her. “Said it was official. You’re my daughter.” He reached for her.
Turney watched for Josee’s reaction. With arms at her side, she leaned into Marsh’s embrace. Inch by inch she melted until at last her thin arms lifted around her father in return.
Monday morning. Back to the grind for her parents, Sarge, Henri Esprit, and the operations at the vineyard. Which meant Josee had some time alone.
Soon after that night on the cliffs, she had made a trip back to Washington, where she refilled her dwindled prescription, where she made an impromptu visit to her adoptive parents. She had needed that. So had they. For the past three weeks back in Corvallis, she’d been sharing an apartment and working part-time with Suzette at the newly renovated art gallery on SW Second. The gallery was closed on Mondays.
Time for a solo excursion.
Borrowing Marsh’s Tahoe, Josee headed for the coast. She pressed a hand to
her collarbone where, under her turtleneck, she bore a small tattoo. She smiled, recalling Turney’s uneasiness. Out of uniform, on their second lunch alone together, he had put an arm around her shoulder. “Somethin’ I been meaning to ask you, Josee. You’re gonna think it’s stupid.”
“Probably.”
“Well, it’s what you said that first day we talked. You remember? In the hospital cafeteria?”
“Oh no, don’t hold that against me.”
“You asked if I’d like to see your newest tattoo.”
“And?”
“I would.”
Grinning, she’d shown him the butterfly on her collarbone. Silly man. Thirty-one years old, and he turned brighter than a beet. Sarge was quite a guy. He’d had stinkin’ three years since Milly’s passing; it was time to move on and live a little. That boy needed a girl in his life.
And maybe, just maybe, that girl will be me.
In Florence, she lurched to a stop at the Bank of the Dunes, hopped out, and twirled the key chain on her finger. One of the keys went to safe-deposit box 89.
The vault felt less cold this time, and her fingers had no difficulty with the lid on the box—her box, her inheritance, her sole connection to the grandfather she had never known. What was she going to do with the one item she’d left wrapped inside? She had no clear direction. She’d mentioned it to no one. And no one had asked.
If, as Trudi had accused, her parents were primarily interested in an inheritance, why had they not even fished for information? It was as though they knew nothing about it. Yep, she was sure this was her secret and hers alone.
One more look so I know I’m not going wacko.
Her eyes weren’t deceiving her. She drew the object from a felt bag, marveling at its exquisite shape. She had read about such treasures. Doubtlessly ransacked by the Nazis from an imperial museum or palace, the four-inch Fabergé egg was encased in translucent turquoise enamel. Gold cabriole legs lifted the object on a garnet-encrusted stem, where a stamp with the initials H. W. spoke of hidden things. Even in the vault’s bland electric light, a band of rose diamonds glittered with sophisticated elegance.