Dark to Mortal Eyes (28 page)

With the timed urinal flushes as their soundtrack, Marsh and Henri Esprit strategized responses to the inevitable media meddling and the potential gossip of the employees at Addison Ridge. They resolved issues regarding the vineyard’s harvest schedule and suspended a number of lesser decisions.

“Our first priority, it seems, is to locate this Steele Knight character.” Esprit’s voice was heavy with resolve. “Let me assist you on this. I have an idea.”

“I’ll take all the help I can get,” Marsh said. “Steele Knight’s a frequent player in the gaming zone. Chesszone.com, I believe it is. Not a lot to go on, I know,” Marsh said, “but it’s all I’ve got.”

“Has he done something … untoward with Kara?”

“That’s what I need to find out. That’s all I can say for now.”

“Well, I’ve a nephew who might come in handy. He lives on campus at Oregon State, and if I understand the rumors, the kid’s a certified computer whiz.”

A father and son entered the men’s room. Marsh ignored them. “A hacker?”

“Hacker, slacker, the terminology’s lost on me. A good kid. I’ll call him.”

“Great. Okay, here’s another idea. Call up the billing department at AT&T Wireless, and get today’s activity on my phone, all incoming numbers. Tell them whatever. Tell them we’ve been getting prank calls that we don’t want to be charged for, anything. You have full access to my account info, so you can act on my behalf.”

“I always do, Marshall.” Esprit’s convivial nature could not mask his fervency. “I also act for your better half, Kara, a lady in every sense of the word. We’ll bring the two of you together again if it takes every last resource at my disposal.”

Highway 34 was carrying them over the coastal range toward the bay at Waldport. From there, it branched north to Newport and Tillamook, south to Yachats and Florence. Stahlherz calculated that, depending on the flow of logging trucks and motor homes, they’d arrive in an hour. Tack on a brief detour in Tidewater.

The ocean was beckoning. He could feel its damp and mystic pull.

Fifty-eight years ago—shortly before his birth—the canisters had arrived upon these very shores. The rugged Oregon coast. A fateful incident for all involved, and a moment of surrender for one young woman.

Why then had First Lieutenant Chance Addison turned against him? Stahlherz felt his mouth twist at the thought. Fatherless and nameless, he’d had his own identity tossed to the wind. Who was he really? Mr. Steele, Karl Stahlherz, Steele Knight—did any of these draw upon his true lineage? Yet he had risen above these questions; he had set forth a strategy for the network and was now implementing it, directing the pieces into position. He would channel the poison of resentment down the throats of his enemies. He would—

Kree-acckk!

A rook’s cry cracked like a whip between his ears. Stahlherz ground his molars, refused to make a sound. He couldn’t let his driver view his vulnerability; he was a man in control. “Darius, I’m going to rest for a bit,” he said, “in the back.”

“Sure thang. That be cool by me. Radio gonna bother ya?”

“Keep it in the front speakers. That’s my only stipulation.”

Stahlherz maneuvered to the furthest bench seat, where he stretched out on his back. As he admired his captured glass queen, he was surprised to hear strains of Mozart; perhaps young Darius was imagining a soundtrack for his first feature film.

From beneath the window’s weather stripping, a breeze sliced over Stahlherz’s exposed neck and bent knees. He shifted to his side. Put a hand over his throat.

As they say, no rest for the wicked
.

A movement feathered over his arms and sent tremors through his body. The space above him clouded. There was something there.

A question fired through his head.
Where have you been?

He knew the answer. He had never been alone. With a musty stench, black wings collapsed upon his face, and talons pried apart his lips. He fought against it. These beasts had been clamoring for dominion, and he would not give in. Karl Stahlherz was the authority here. He was—

“Urrra
aaggh!

He choked on his own voice. He gulped. A thick presence descended into his throat—
the poison of resentment?—
and he hung his head over the seat to spit viscous yellow discharge into an old espresso cup. Stahlherz fixed the lid in place and set the cup on the floor.

Kee-ke-reeeacch!

Darius was rolling down his driver’s window. “Yo, what that smell?”

Motionless on the bench seat, Stahlherz clenched his neck muscles and bit back on the gag reflex. Despite the classical strains from the front speakers, torturous shrieks bounced through his skull for the remainder of their coastal journey.

Marsh knew that Casey Wilcox was watching him with concern. Like an automaton, he ignored her and focused on his torte. One bite … chomp, chomp. Another bite. His mind was racing, fueled by thoughts of tonight’s trip to his mother’s place on the coast. He lifted the coffee to his mouth and saw Sergeant Turney step through Barkley’s front entry.

This was the man Josee had said he could trust? A cop? Well, that was a joke to Marsh, considering what had occurred in the months before his and Kara’s wedding.

Nineteen eighty-one … In wine terms, it had been a “bad year.”

“Well, well,” Casey greeted the cop, “if it isn’t one of the blue knights.”

“Knight?” The sergeant’s chest swelled. “Been called worse. That’ll work.”

“You’ve already met Mr. Addison. Marshall is my client and a fine man.”

Marsh felt her polished nails graze his wrist as she slid a hand along the
white tablecloth. His mind, however, was on Steele Knight’s warning that he not involve the police. What option did he have? If he shoved away from the table, it would make him look guilty.
Keep it short and sweet
, he told himself.

Turney looked his way. “Sorry I was runnin’ late. Bumped into Josee outside.”

Chomp, chomp … swig.

“She your daughter, Mr. Addison? Seems to have some of your features.”

“Don’t have an answer for you on that one. Why? What’d she tell you?”

“Very little of not a whole lot. Girl’s heart is on overload.”

Casey said, “I don’t see that this has any relevance to Kara Addison’s whereabouts. Is this what you came for, Sergeant?”

“Don’t want to keep you from your investigation,” Marsh said.

“But talkin’ with you is part of that investigation, Mr. Addison. Mind if I take a load off?” Without waiting for a response, the large man lowered himself into a chair.

Marsh glanced at the door. “This might not be the best time.”

Turney was perusing the dessert menu. “Mmm. All looks good.”

Casey waved down their waitress, and Turney ordered the specialty. He asked for it to-go and refused Casey’s offer to pay, claiming regulations. No gifts while on duty. He segued into the details of the case, doing an information dance with the attorney, both grasping for what they could without compromising their values.

A lady in jeans and a blouse passed. Golden hair brushed her shoulders, and Marsh felt his heart jump. Kara? Was she here? But when the lady turned, he saw she was a stranger. Was this how it would be, his mind toying with him at every turn?

The interplay between cop and attorney wound down. Casey turned to more practical matters. “Marshall will be needing his personal effects for the night.” She tucked a strand of hair over her ear. “We’ll be checking him in at the Ramada—under my name, to avoid press harassment. Would you be so good, Sergeant, as to deliver his items to the concierge?”

“Change of clothes, toiletries? Sure thing.” The cop handed a card to Marsh. “There’s my extension at the station. You need anything else, you can
catch me there. You got somethin’ to talk about, I’ll answer or give ya a quick call back.”

Marsh pocketed the card and fanned his gaze over the neighboring diners.

Don’t even do this to yourself. She’s not here. You must find that journal!

“A few more questions for you, Mr. Addison, if you don’t mind.”

Casey held up a hand. “I mind. Sergeant, my client will be making a formal statement later. You and I both want the same thing here. We want justice to be served, and we want this missing woman—Marshall’s spouse—to be found. He’s had a long day, so let’s take a breather and touch base in the morning.”

“Ma’am, every minute lowers our chances of finding her.”

Casey folded her napkin. “Conversation’s over.”

“The keys,” Sergeant Turney pressed. “Did I ask you about those, Mr. Addison?”

“Keys?” Marsh was stumped.

“Down in the ravine,” Turney said. “According to Officer Lansky, the ignition keys were missing. Did ya notice that? Who would’ve taken them and for what purpose?”

“Sergeant!” Casey interposed. “I know what you’re doing, and my client has no obligation to answer. Let’s extend Marshall a little time and space,
s’il vous plaît
.”

“Mr. Addison, you got my card. If you think of anything else, you let me know.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good-bye, Sergeant.” Casey fired a warning look and rose from the table.

As if on cue, the waitress floated into the scene. “Ready for the check? Here’s your dessert to-go, sir.” The heavyset policeman grasped the box and stood, but in the process his hand toppled Marsh’s coffee cup and sent black liquid gushing over the tablecloth.

“Hoo boy, sorry. Here, let me—”

“No problem,” said Marsh. “Got it under control.” He cornered the spill with his cloth napkin, and Casey stepped back to avoid staining her business suit. Sergeant Turney grumbled about his own clumsiness, apologized again, then squeezed his way through the tables of onlookers to pay his bill.

As Turney ambled through the restaurant exit, he slipped a glance over his shoulder. Marsh Addison was lifting a plate and shuffling the table’s finery in search of his fork. Turney removed the borrowed utensil from the to-go box, wrapped it in a napkin, then, without fanfare, tucked it into the pocket of his uniform.

Well, looky here. Clumsiness has its rewards
.

“We ain’t touchin’ that trunk,” Turney said as he guided Josee to the cruiser.

“No argument from me.”

“The Van der Bruegges have got more experience with this stuff. We’ll let them take a look, but first off we’re gonna make a little side trip.”

Although the vehicle remained still and showed no damage to its outer panels, they circumvented the rear and hurried to the front doors. Turney set the to-go container on the seat. He reaffixed the gauze beneath his sleeve, and Josee tried not to look at the viscid green stain. This was her sparring partner; bizarre as it still seemed, she felt connected by their shared conflicts.

Josee Walker had come to Corvallis for one reason: to reunite with her birth mother. The perceived rejections over the phone yesterday and today had been bad enough, but she would’ve endured them ten times a minute, every minute of every hour of every day if they guaranteed Kara Addison’s survival.

Her mother was gone? No wonder their reunion had been stymied.