Dark to Mortal Eyes (33 page)

“Wait a sec. If it wasn’t for Sarge, you could be dead right now.”

“You mean back in the woods at our campfire?”

Josee lashed out. “Where else?” She hated to react like this, but Scooter’s attitude was unsettling, and he refused to look her in the eye.

“Blowin’ it outta proportion, Josee. You say you found some canister thingamajig, but whatever it was, I don’t think that’s what got me. Look at me”—he lifted his arms as though submitting to a pat-down—”no missing limbs, toned abs, everything in place.”

Turney rapped his knuckles against the side window. “You two comin’?”

Josee raised a finger to let him know it’d be a moment. She turned back, disbelieving her own ears. “Okay, Scoot, what about the bite marks?”

“These cuts? Is that what you’re stressed over? They aren’t bite marks.”

“How can you say that? You watched that thing attack us, saw it happen with your own eyes. You just sat there, like you always do, and let it—”

“Time out. You don’t really believe this line you’re feedin’ me, do you? I ate some nasty fish—that’s what the doctor said—and it messed with my thinking, even made me start seeing things before it knocked me on my butt. C’mon, what do I expect when I’m out pickin’ up day-old food, right? If you wanna call them bite marks, babe, that’s cool by me. It’s where I bit the dirt.” He guffawed. “How’s that work for you?”

“Since when have you trusted a doctor’s opinion on anything?”

Scooter’s arm tightened around her waist, and his lips brushed her neck.

She’d never known him without his beard, and it felt as though a stranger were forcing his affections on her. She pulled away. “You’re hopeless.”

“Only under your spell.”

“Under a spell? Maybe. But certainly not mine.”

Stahlherz mounted the steps to the front deck. Despite trees between here and the nearest neighbors, he knew he could be spotted. Small-town life. Everyone knew everyone. He moved like a man with nothing to hide and located the key in the post knothole—one more tidbit of information he and the Professor had accumulated over the years. He unlocked a sliding-glass door that faced the ocean, slipped inside, and relocked the door before dropping the key into his corduroy jacket. You could never be too safe.

Of course, if questioned, he would say that he and the Addisons were friends and they were letting him stay the weekend. In this town, it’d fly. Rentals and time-shares were commonplace.

“Help!”

The voice was a cry from the grave. Stifled. Flat.

Stahlherz knew from whence it came. He padded past a mammoth stone fireplace, down a hall lined with driftwood curios to the trophy room in the back. Here, stretched over the floorboards, a bearskin rug protected his prize. The captured queen.

At least Beau had managed to get this part right.

“Please, somebody help meeee!”

At the bar in the corner, he savored a stolen shot of Chivas Regal while rolling his glass chess piece in his palm. Marsh’s liquor burned a trail down his throat, and Stahlherz hoped it would shrivel the beast within. Or slake its appetite at least.

“I’m down here! Down here!”

Stahlherz smirked. Outside, the wind howled along Timberwolf Lane.

He bent to the bearskin rug and peeled it back.

Josee noticed new vigor in Turney’s step. Despite the dirt streaks on his pants and the sludge beneath his sleeve, he’d won a stare down.

Thunder Turney, you go. Don’t let the naysayers drag you down
.

As though aware of her thoughts, he turned from the steps where the Van der Bruegges waited and caught her eye. He winked. No, it must’ve been a twitch. He said, “You’ll be well taken care of, you and Scooter. ’Course, you already know these’re good folks, but Scooter doesn’t look too sure.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“Duty calls. Back to the grindstone.” Turney hitched his pants.

“Wait up, Vince.” Kris Van der Bruegge descended the steps with a generous slice of Amish friendship cake. The fresh-baked scent wafted over the walkway. “Sure you can’t spare a minute? Coffee’s brewing as we speak.”

“Got work to do. Thanks for the cake though. Can’t turn that down.” Turney took an appreciative bite, then set the plate on the seat of the car. Josee saw him reach, almost as an afterthought, for the trunk latch. “Before I head out, we need to unload Scooter’s belongings. John, I’m ready for that helpin’ hand.”

John gave a knowing nod and moved to the back of the vehicle.

Josee retreated to the solid brick walkway. From here she had a distant view of the trunk. She set a hand on Scooter’s arm, felt a tremble course through him. She thought of the sounds she’d heard earlier, felt her blood throb in her ears with that same
tunka-tunk-tunk
rhythm.

“Go on, I’m waiting.” John motioned to Turney.

“It’s stuck … ooof. Yeah, won’t even budge.” Turney pulled at the latch again, then ran a hand over the back of his neck before circling to the trunk. He secured his bandages, winced, sorted through his keys. Josee could see his hesitation.

“Heyya,” Scooter said, “take it easy everyone. What’re you all so afraid of?”

A key turned in the lock, and the trunk popped open with the twang of springs.

John’s sudden grin stood in contrast to Turney’s puzzlement. “Is this what you expected to find, Vince?” He hefted a pair of hiking boots that were knotted together by the laces. “These must’ve been what you heard clunking around back here.”

Scooter snagged his boots. “Mystery solved. So much for all the excitement, you guys.” He pried his bedroll and bike loose and set them by the garage door.

For a second, Josee thought she detected movement. No, it was only the cinch cords of Scoot’s bedroll coiling and twisting in the wind. Her imagination must be whacked. Playing tricks on her. When an ethereal moan snaked around the Van der Bruegges’ home, she chose to blame it on the approaching ocean squall.

Strands of kelp waved in Depoe Bay’s surf, and along the seawall the tide catapulted fountains of spume and water through a spouting horn in the rocks. On one side of Highway 101, onlookers taunted the elements; on the other, tourists huddled in tiny shops and cafés. Marsh considered stopping for a small gift for Virginia, something to loosen her tongue regarding his father’s missing journal.

No, there was little he could get her that she didn’t already have. Anyway, she’d see through that. She was no fool.

Shoot, it can’t hurt
.

He slipped into a parking space. It’d been a while since his last visit, and she was his mother, for heaven’s sake. Let her think what she wanted. This felt nice for a change. He paid with his card, then continued to the gated retirement community.

“Marshall.” She welcomed him in. “Punctual as always. What’d you bring?”

“It’s nothing. Little something I picked up along the way.”

“Son, what a beautiful candle. Gracious, look at these sand-dollar doves.”

“Good for a stormy night like this. In case the power goes out.”

“Practical to the end.” She set the gift on the dining table, and her short legs carried her into the kitchen. Behind mother-of-pearl glasses, she still wore the wrinkles of sorrow and hard work. In the past year, however, Marsh had noted a serenity about her. Her countenance had softened. Her eyes, too.

“I’m glad you came,” she said. “Thought you might reconsider, busy as you are.”

“Mother. Don’t you understand that Kara’s missing?”

Virginia turned down the oven and, with seashell-patterned mitts, removed a Costco lasagna. A widow and a working woman, she had never taken to kitchen duties. Caterers and chefs had done the job. For her this was
gourmet cooking, and Marsh expected nothing more. Tonight, food was a formality anyway.

“I’ve a number of items that need fixing around here,” Virginia commented. “With my back being in the shape it is, I was hoping you might be of assistance.” She pointed to a list on the fridge. “There’s my honey-do list.”

“Mom. Are you hearing me?”

“Hearing you just fine, Son. Are you hearing me?”

Marsh saw old patterns emerge, felt frustrations rise. “If there’s time, I’ll see what I can do. Come on, let’s eat.”

“Has to cool first. Always rushing ahead, aren’t you?”

As she puttered about, Marsh moved to the living room where photo albums crouched beneath a coffee table. He studied the room. Wondered if Chance’s journal was here. Flipping through an album, he saw himself in the vineyards: knee-high in mud, riding on a backhoe, cradling a basket of grapes. His mother was there too.

In the back pages of the second album, he found Chance Addison.

“Did you ever consider remarrying?” Marsh asked.

Virginia came and sat primly on the divan beneath the window. “No.”

“He died over forty years ago. Why wasn’t I allowed to discuss these things? Didn’t you ever think about starting over?”

“Your father was enough for one lifetime.”

Chance … The photo showed him grim faced and in uniform, lips pressed together in a long, narrow line, eyes looking ten yards beyond the photographer’s lens.

Marsh pressed on with the issue at hand. “I know he did things that hurt you. I never wanted to think about it, but I know it’s true.”

“Yes.” Virginia folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, there’s some truth to that.”

“Did he write about it in his journal? Is that why you’ve kept it from me?”

“His journal. Son, in the wrong hands, it could be destructive.”

“Mother, you don’t understand. I’m facing a determined foe. He’s no fool, and he seems more than capable of hurting Kara. I can’t let that happen. That journal is—”

“Lasagna’s ready.”

Mouth agape, Marsh stared at Virginia’s retreating back. This was ridiculous. His own mother was holding hostage the journal’s whereabouts. What did she want from him? What would it take to win her compliance? He calmed himself and decided to play along. One thing he had learned, Virginia never talked till she was ready.

He was deep into his third helping of lasagna—not bad, not bad at all for a store-bought meal—when she made her dramatic introductory statement: “You are ensnared in a deadly game, Son. Quite literally, a game of Chance.”

Wooden beams groaned under the weight of the wind-battered house. The cellar’s temperature had dropped, and the last vestiges of light had withdrawn. Cars crunched over gravel. Kara’s jeans were cold and damp against her body.

Where was she?

In the dark, her senses sharpened. Through the oily gag, she tasted a hint of salt. Despite her tomb of concrete and dirt, she heard the slow-motion heartbeat of the surf. She knew that sound. A storm brewing. The sea was rising from sleep and pounding at its restraints. No wonder she hadn’t heard it until now.

Ku-whumppp-whump … ku-whumppp-whump
.

The ocean. The Oregon coast, most likely. Why had he brought her here?

Here in the cellar, Kara had replayed every phone conversation with Josee. She’d imagined caressing her daughter’s face, touching her short black hair—black like Marsh’s and thick. Why had Marsh always doubted her, his own wife? He’d closed off that section of his heart rather than face the sting of her mistakes.