Dark to Mortal Eyes (21 page)

Who’ll be sniveling then, huh? Tell me that much. Who?

Chief Braddock held the elevator door so Josee could come aboard. Once they were closed in together, he turned toward her.

She edged back. “Hey, keep your distance.”

“You’re an uptight kid, you know that?”

“Scooter’s missing, and I hold you responsible. You let him escape.”

“Why don’t you zip it? I came to do a welfare check of your friend, make sure it was safe for him to be moving about, and he goes AWOL on me. We’ve searched this hospital thoroughly. No sign of your pal, so don’t blame me. Maybe you had a part in—”

“It’s my fault again?” Josee shoved past him with an elbow. “Stay away from me. You want me to scream bloody murder when these doors open?”

“Breathe easy, girl.” His eyes wandered over the front of her knit sweater before snapping back up. “I’m not here to let you stir up trouble for me. As a young man, I made my share of mistakes, but those days are behind me. We clear? You can smile big, try to look pretty, what have you. But this is business, police business.”

She faced the door, convinced this elevator wasn’t big enough for the two of them. “I’d rather deal with Sergeant Turney, if you don’t mind. Supposed to meet him here soon.”

“Obviously you have the big fella eating out of your hand.”

“Least he listens. You know, with those two things on the sides of his head.”

The chief followed her through the lobby to the patient drop-off zone beneath an overhang. Josee marched up and down the white-painted curb, watching for Turney. Or maybe she’d spot Scooter. Could he be out here? Without any clues, she wasn’t sure where to start looking.

Chief Braddock was facing her. “Okay, I’m listening. What brought you here? Why’d you and your boyfriend choose to pass through Corvallis?”

“Personal matters.”

“Personal. Ah. To see your mother, you mean?”

Josee tilted her head, threw him a blank gaze. Her mother? While the hospital was being searched, she’d made three calls to Kara Addison and had gotten an answering machine each time. So much for that. Josee knew when she was being avoided.

“What has she told you, Josee?”

“Zippo. Zilch.
Nada.
”

“Why’d you come then?” Braddock got no response. “What about your father? What do you know about him?”

“Is there a point to this, Chief? I mean, my family’s none of your concern.”

“I’m a public servant.” Braddock’s smile was irritating. “How ’bout ICV?”

“Icy what?”

“In cauda venenum. The name ring any bells?”

Josee stiffened. To hear those words verbalized brought her fears back to life. She scrounged for an answer.

“ICV,” Braddock elucidated, “is a group of local anarchists, active mostly here in Oregon but Washington, too. Like to cause trouble. They’ve instigated a riot or two, stirred up dissent on college campuses. Been keeping an eye out for their activities recently, but they’re slippery. You know zip about them—that’s your answer?”

“Never heard of it … them, whatever.”

“What about your friend? Is he connected with them?”

“Man, why’re you jumping all over me? I just want to see Scooter and ditch this town. I’ve done nothing wrong. Is that so hard to believe? Should never have come back in the first place. Big mistake.”

“You have lots of history here.”

“Got that right.”

“Is that why you’ve returned? What about the key? Do you have it?”

“Key?”

“It belonged to your grandfather.”

This detour rattled her. What did Braddock know about her family and her past? “You must have the wrong chick. Must’ve got your signals crossed, Chief.”

“Girl, you’ve got quite the attitude—”

“Couple of piercings and a tattoo don’t make me a criminal.”

“And a mouth on you that won’t quit.”

“Call it a gender attribute.”

“That’s rich. You and Turney make quite a pair. Let’s see what he does now that I’m giving him some leash to run with. We’ll see how long it takes.”

She touched a finger to her eyebrow ring. “Takes? For what?”

“For him to hang himself with it.” Braddock nodded at the police cruiser curling into the drive. “Here he is. Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy. Sad thing is, he’s let that one incident back in ’81—he was just a kid, for Pete’s sake!—lock him up inside. Guilt is a horrible thing, no matter how misplaced. Best to let it go. That’s my policy.”

“But it can still come back and bite you.”

“Sounds like something Sarge’d say. Tell you what, he’ll be stuck forever if he doesn’t deal with this psychological weakness. Don’t you do like he’s done. The very night Sarge should’ve been celebrating his freedom was the night he chained it down—Independence Day. What do you think of that? Life’s a funny thing.”

Josee wasn’t laughing. With the car door open, she met Turney’s eyes.

July 4, 1981. They’d both been here. At Good Samaritan. A baby going up for adoption and a nine-year-old boy coming down off a mixture of pills and alcohol.

With a flurry of ideas and emotions chasing questions through her head, she admitted that she had ignored these correlations. Too much. Too bizarre. She remembered Turney’s quizzical reaction to her birth date. His retelling of the snakebite. His guilt over the lady who’d been shot and the vanished baby.

Could it be? Josee’s heart beat like a jackhammer.
How-can-I-know-how-can-I-know-how-can-I-know?

There was one way: If her birth mother could show her a bullet scar in her hip.

Fat chance. Wherever Kara was, she’d obviously lost interest in their happy little reunion.

“Show and tell,” said Officer Graham. “Let’s see it.”

The patrol car was at the foot of the estate, passing through the stucco archway. Behind the divider, Marsh was uncertain about the ivory envelope. The initials made this personal. CCD? Only zone players knew his user name, and Steele Knight alone addressed him by those initials. Reasoning told Marsh this note was important. He had not ordered that painting in the parlor; therefore, this thank-you note was one of two things: a mistake … or a message.

So as not to arouse Graham’s suspicion, Marsh obliged. The same fingers that had fumbled with Kara’s restraints dipped into the slit and produced a handwritten note. Then he tucked in the flap fastidiously and turned the envelope back over on the seat.

Twice he read the note. Tried to show bafflement on his face.

“Well? If you didn’t order the painting, as you claim, what does the note say?”

“I’m lost. Here, read it for yourself.” As Marsh handed it through the divider, he theorized, “Maybe it’s a gift from one of my investors. The vineyard’s been doing well of late.”

Graham read the note aloud, as though pronouncing a courtroom verdict.

“Your own set of life mysteries?” Officer Lansky repeated from behind the wheel.

“My wife’s missing,” Marsh said. “That’s more mystery than I want.”

As pines soared along Ridge Road and the temperature dropped, Marsh replayed Steele Knight’s gaming zone messages. Yesterday, October 29:
Next, I’m coming after your queen
. This morning:
I’ve captured your queen … Wish to resign?
Now, in his own home, a canvas of a threatened queen raised related questions. He wasn’t sure how or why, but he was convinced that his longtime opponent had now shifted from prosaic online skirmishes to the battlefield of flesh and blood.

Was the explanation inside that envelope?

With a herculean effort, he ignored the object on the seat. A sense of purpose had permeated the words of the official note. What more was written on that thinner scrap of paper he had spotted and left inside?

The car was a mess. Marsh peered over the tangled guardrail at the white convertible Z3, a snagged shark stretched upon the stones below. The engine cooling vents were the gills, the coolant and transmission fluid were the entrails bleeding from the torn belly. Thankfully, the shark’s belly—the cockpit—was empty.

Where are you, Kara? No one could’ve survived this
.

Beneath towering Douglas firs, he waited in stunned silence. When Officer Lansky had opened the rear door for him, Marsh had slid from the seat while slipping the envelope into his waistband. Graham had circled to the front of the car and stood watching, as though he expected Marsh’s actions to betray culpability in the day’s events.

“This is it, mile-marker four,” said Lansky. “Here’s where she went over.”

“Thought your partner said there was no body.”

“I meant the car, Mr. Addison. Sorry. She jumped the rail right there—see the dent and the paint chips?—and bounced down into the ravine.” The officer swung his leg over the yellow tape along the rail and lowered himself through clumps of fern. “Wanna take a look? Might catch a clue we wouldn’t expect.”

“She’s not down there? You’re positive?”

“No guarantees. The brush does get pretty thick. We did conduct a preliminary spiral check earlier—covering, I figure, a forty-foot circumference—but contacting you was the next logical step since you were just up the road.” Police boots sent stones clinking into the gully. “We were hoping your wife’d be home with a ready explanation.”

Marsh’s usual business-quick responses had fled him.

Had Kara been in his study? Had she been in the car when it went over?

A cold sweat broke out around his collar. Surely, after years of benign Internet chess, there was no reason for his online adversary to intrude upon his marriage. True, Steele Knight’s name sounded ominous, but so did most of the zone’s monikers. Money—was that the motive? A hefty ransom? Or was it more base than that? Was his opponent some sicko hoping for a little—

Okay, that’s enough. For all I know, this guy lives in the Midwest or Boston or Venezuela. Chess is our only connection
.

But the official note had alluded to the threatened queen … His wife?

It had also mentioned an absent king, and a hidden journal.

The journal! My father’s journal!

“Mr. Addison?” Officer Lansky was staring up at him from a spit of stone.

“Yes, I’m right here,” he said. “I’m coming down.”