Dark to Mortal Eyes (25 page)

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.

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 attorney 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.

“Should hope so, since you won’t be covering Mr. Addison’s lodging expenses or his business losses. Call my practice as soon as you get the all clear.” Wilcox reached into a pocket of her fitted suit and, from a monogrammed holder, presented Lansky her card.

He used it to dig beneath a fingernail. “Will do, Mrs. Wilcox.”

She dismissed him and turned to Marsh. “You need a ride,
mon cher?
I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

“Have any sage advice, lawyer lady?”

“Corporate and criminal law—I practice both. But let’s keep them separated in our relationship, shall we? Don’t make me party to anything illegal.”

“Have I ever before?”

“Nothing more tawdry than land disputes and workman’s comp claims, but don’t think for a moment I’ll choose you over my job. Job’s numero uno, and I mean that.”

“Relax, Casey. I know you play by the men’s rules. You always have.”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “Let’s see, we need to find you a hotel …”

To Marsh Addison, her words became side chatter. He looked across the lobby. For years, Josee had been a blur that haunted his mind; this morning, in a brass frame on his vanity, she had taken on substance and form. Here, compared to the photo, Josee looked older, more womanly. He was shaken by her presence less than twenty feet from him. What was she doing in the police station? Would she know who he was?

Do I want her to?

“Marshall?”

“Uh.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I should talk to that girl over there.”

“You know her? Your ghost have a name?”

“Ghost is right. I haven’t seen her since … Well, let’s just say it’s been a long time. Doubt she’d even recognize my voice. Her name’s Josee. Don’t know what she’s doing here, but I intend to find out. She may be the last person to have seen my wife.”

P
ART
T
HREE

One piece … 
I greatly desire to find.…
I must go … and learn what I can.
But the Enemy has the move.

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

As you read what I have written,
you will understand … about this plan.…
So please don’t despair.

Ephesians 3:4,13

“Josee.” His clipped tenor voice wavered. “Did I get it right?”

She felt her insides melt away. Two weeks ago she and her mother had exchanged photos through the mail in order to recognize each other at the park. In one photo, this very man was digging through an ice chest on a pier, while Kara smiled thinly from the yacht behind him. In another, he was strolling along a fairway, a golf club tucked under his arm. Wavy black hair. Strong nose and jaw. Sun-bronzed wrinkles.

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Marsh. Marshall Addison.”

Beside her, Sergeant Turney’s quiet presence gave Josee courage to scrutinize Mr. Addison’s eyes. She ran her routine lantern check. Soot stains? Cracked glass? What kind of fire burned within? Storm gray and intense, the eyes were steady.

“You do know who I am, right? My wife’s Kara. Your mother.”

“Thought you didn’t want to see me.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “Nothing personal.”

Nothing personal? Oh, that’s priceless
.

“I believe in moving forward,” he clarified. “Life’s too short to live in the past.”

“Hey, you don’t have to rationalize it for me. Do what you want.” Her flippant rejoinder did nothing to hide her wounds. His words were sharp. She redirected the conversation. “Who’s the lady over there?”

“Ms. Wilcox? She’s my attorney.”

“Hmm. Well, why hasn’t anyone answered my calls? Is Kara avoiding me? You talked her out of it, didn’t you?”

“Out of what? Meeting with you?”

Josee tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.

“I tried, Josee, I’ll admit that. But she wouldn’t budge. This reunion is all she’s thought about for the last two weeks.”

“Then why’s she ignoring me? First, it was the housekeeper lady, then the answering machine. Hitchhiked all the way down here, and all I get is the shaft.”

Sergeant Turney stepped forward. “Josee, somethin’ I need to tell you—”

“So”—Marsh cut him off, his eyes still on Josee—”you haven’t seen her?”

Turney persisted. “Josee, you gotta hear this—”

“Wait a sec.”

“It’s about your mother.”

Josee wasn’t registering his words. She was fixed on Marsh. “You know, I’m a grown girl now. If Kara was going to write me off again, she could’ve told me straight up. I’m big enough to handle it. Mind at least telling me how I can reach her?”

“I was hoping you could tell me the same thing.”

Josee stared. Saw the storm gather in Marsh’s eyes.

“Kara left yesterday,” he said, “with plans for taking you to our beach house. Until this morning I thought you two were together. After everything else that’s happened, I was surprised to find you here.”

“Everything else?” Josee took one step back.

“She’s disappeared.”

“Kara? When?”

“Cops found her car this morning at the bottom of a ravine. No sign of her.”