Dark to Mortal Eyes (52 page)

Josee headed into Avery Park, crunching leaves and puffballs underfoot. According to the car’s dash clock, she knew it was five minutes to one. A couple of minutes to spare. Why had that Beau kid claimed responsibility for
Kara’s kidnapping? Maybe he was obsessed—that’d been Sarge’s theory last night—living out some fantasy in his mind.

Ten minutes passed. A pair of bikes followed a path through the trees, and a woman jogged by with a St. Bernard on a leash.

Josee climbed onto a Georgia Pacific train engine. On display, the black machinery spoke of past achievements. She propped herself on the coal box and scanned the park. If nobody showed, she didn’t want to look stupid; she’d play this cool. She shifted her knapsack onto her lap. Inside, photos and poems, drawings and thoughts awaited Kara’s viewing.

And the birth certificate.

Josee didn’t know what she would say to her birth mother, but she counted on these items to open windows into each other’s worlds. She turned the pages of her notebook and, in passionate purple pencil, put down her thoughts:

She slapped the cover shut and made her way down a grassy incline to a scattering of sculptures that looked like fossils of a prehistoric beast. She wound her way between them, peeked up to see if anyone had appeared.

Nope. What’d she expect? This quest had been cursed from the start.

Maybe Kara had chickened out after Rosie’s call.

Josee wished that Sarge was here. He would understand her frustration. In three days he had shown himself capable of sparring with her, deflecting her punches and throwing a few of his own when necessary. Most men pandered to her. In their eyes, lust and flattery joined hands.

Not so with Sgt. Vince Turney.

Forget the extra padding. The way he looks at me with those chocolate eyes … I start to melt
.

A Studebaker slowed at the curb. An elderly woman poked her head through the window, saying something, gesturing. Josee glanced around. She was alone among the bones of the sculpted beast.

“Josee?”

The breeze lifted her name. Could this be Rosamund Yeager?

“Josee? It’s you, isn’t it? I beg your forgiveness for being late.”

A flare of irritation. “I’ve been waiting. Where’s Kara? Is she coming?”

“She’s anxious to see you. I’m Rosie, the one you spoke with on the phone. I’ve been instructed to take you to her.” Seated in the driver’s seat of the vintage car, the old woman wore the face of a black-and-white movie star, glamorous in a dated way, sterile and serene. There was no one else in the car.

“Why isn’t she here?” Josee said.

“Of late, she’s had more than her share of attention. She feared she might be identified by the police or by whoever’s out to harm her. Her husband perhaps. Kara told me to show you this.” Rosie’s age-marked hand held an envelope with a Washington State postmark and Josee’s handwriting. “She said this would secure your trust.”

“Kara gave you this? It’s one of my letters to her.”

“Are you ready to meet with her?”

“Yes,” Josee said. “Of course I’m ready.”

“Climb in then. A bit of a drive but nothing too horrendous.”

As Josee rounded the automobile, she heard strident yells. She was tossing her knapsack into the passenger seat when a white Metro swerved into view with head beams flashing.

“Let’s not delay,” Rosie urged.

The Metro slid to a halt, and Marsh popped out.

“Climb in, please,” Rosie said. “Let’s go.”

“Josee,” Marsh called, pacing to her side, “don’t take it personally, but I had to come back to be sure you were okay. Call it a feeling. Not that I believe in that sort of thing, but in my mind I saw this picture of you … Anyway, are
you okay?” His eyes roved the park. He leaned to look into the car’s cab, allowing his hand to rest on Josee’s forearm.

She stiffened. Afraid that if she moved, he might let go.

“Rosie?” he said. “What’re
you
doing here? I didn’t know you drove a Studebaker. Where’ve you been hiding such a car?”

“At my relatives’, sir. For recreational use.”

“No fault in that. Did Esprit get ahold of you?”

Rosie continued. “He left a message at the beach house. Said we had an all clear to return to the manor. Should’ve gone there straightaway, but I thought a stroll through the park might be pleasant before diving back into the hustle and bustle. Does an old woman good.”

“Strange that we should end up here together,” Marsh noted. “What with Josee being here and—”

“Jooosseee!”

The scream caused all three to turn.

“Josee, get outta here!”

She felt Marsh’s fingers tighten on her arm. She craned to look over the car and saw Scooter running full tilt through the trees and over the bike path. Behind him, a cloaked rider revved his motorcycle and closed the distance.

“Marsh is heading toward Black Butte Ranch. That’s my guess.”

“Alone?” Stahlherz collected cash from a regular art customer, then hurried the woman from his basement studio. He pressed the phone to his ear as he locked the garage door. “But wasn’t Josee with him at the manor? Is she not accompanying him?”

The voice was tinny on the phone. “I don’t think so, Mr. Steele. Haven’t seen her, but she could be ducked down in the back. About an hour and a half ago, he pulled his vehicle from the garage, a forest green Tahoe, and sped by before I could get a good fix, you know what I’m sayin’? Guess where I am right now? Shadowing him from a distance, humming along Highway 20. He made one stop in Cascadia, let the attendant pump the gas.”

“Did he have a journal with him, something along those lines?”

“He had some sort of book with him last night. He took it when he left the Ramada. I didn’t see anything with him now, but the Tahoe was parked in the garage. Who knows what he loaded in there?”

“Black Butte Ranch—that’s where you think he’s going.”

“Just a guess, Mr. Steele.”

“Keep me posted. He needs to be heading back this way by early afternoon.”

Stahlherz punched the End button and stood over his onyx chessboard. The center was a conflagration of threats, combinations, and tempo-gaining exchanges. His head blurred. So many strategies. Which ones were correct? Marsh was known to use the occasional gambit, but what was he up to now? Searching for Kara? Confirming plans for their weekend getaway?

Scree-akkk-akkk!

The beast was rising yet again, refusing to grant a moment’s peace. Stahlherz wearied of combating this creature. The beak pecked at him, tearing at his sanity, shredding it bit by bit …
s-a-n-i-t-y!
He could feel reason taking flight.

Dark thoughts
, the Professor had told him.
Use them to your advantage
.

Resistance was in vain, he knew. Perhaps the wiser option was to release himself. He stretched his thoughts across the powerful, soaring wings and became one with the flight of the rook. Wind flushed over him. Charged him in its superheated draft. The acid of his vengeance crackled and sizzled beneath his skin. Razor talons, his newest weapons, carved at the edges of his mind.

Unblinking, he viewed the framed photo above his desk. The man in Wranglers. Young Chance Addison, indolent and smug. In a swing of his talons, Stahlherz catapulted the photo into the air where it made contact with the suspended birdcage. Feathers and birdseed scattered. Glass broke upon metal bars in a shower of angry tears. The photo floated toward the carpet, curling and browning at the edges as though put to a flame. It disintegrated into ash.

Why had he fought so long? Resistance had only brought pain.

“
Facilis descensus Averno …
The descent to hell is easy,” he mused aloud.

Only one secret remained, the whereabouts of the venom vials. He would find it in Chance Addison’s journal tonight. Before the appearance of the
Halloween moon, Karl Stahlherz intended to acquire the poison, using Josee as the key.

“Scoot?”

“Josee, get away! Go!” Frantic, Scooter waved his hands at her while careening down the incline. The motorcycle was gaining. Shredded by the wind, the rider’s clothes whipped violent shadows over the lawn.

“You know him?” Marsh questioned.

Josee nodded, starting to move forward.

“No,” Marsh said. “Listen, he’s trying to warn you off.”

“But he’s in trouble!”

After this morning, she wondered what had prompted Scooter to come here, but she had no time to consider it. The motorcycle engine was screaming, the tires spitting clumps of grass in aimless trajectories. In a blur of motion, the rider drove onward, clearly bent on destruction.

Marsh directed Josee into the Studebaker and handed her the knapsack. “Hurry! This is what I was afraid of. Rosie, can you get Josee outta here? Take her away from here. Or … yeah, take her back to the beach house. You two should be safe there.”

“Certainly, sir. Whatever I can do to help.”

“Move it! I’ll deal with these guys. I’ll call you later. Go!” He closed the door and slammed a hand against the side panel as though to hasten their departure.

Josee turned in the seat to catch sight of him. She wanted to see her mother, yes, but behind her was a man who’d affirmed a familial bond between them. His touch was still tingling along her arm. And what about Scooter? After all that had happened, here he was. How did he know she’d be here? Fighting his own inner demons, had he come to warn her of danger?

Hurry, Scoot. Don’t let them get to you. Run!

The Studebaker was gaining speed. “We mustn’t wait,” said Rosie.

Through the rear window, Josee watched Marsh Addison assume a combative stance at the curb, ready to face Scooter and the approaching marauder.
Marsh’s shoulders were broad, his jaw set, his stance courageous and challenging.

But his imposing figure could do little to help Scooter.

“Babe …” Scooter’s yell was fading. “Nooo!”

Rosie glanced into the mirror and met Josee’s eyes. “Might be best not to watch. This whole matter is ugly, Josee. I simply don’t understand.”

But Josee could not pull away. She marked Scooter’s dash through the display of prehistoric bones, his lateral jigs and his hurdling of an obstacle. The bike roared down the knoll, vaulted a gap in the sculptures, swerved in the soft turf, then continued in pursuit. Scooter skidded across the sidewalk and landed curbside in a sprawl.

“Get up!” Josee’s fingers gripped the seat. She could see his gaping scream, but the sound was muted. He was looking in her direction. His mouth formed her name.

Too late.

Hunched over the handlebars, the driver propelled his machine into Scooter’s fallen figure so that the front tire folded Scooter’s legs into unnatural shapes. Leaping, the motorcycle came down upon him, then, with tires finding purchase on his crumpled form, spun sideways to evade Marsh Addison’s angry arms. An iridescent tail of green grass and dirt clods whipped the air, spattering the parked Metro and Marsh’s clothing. In a plume of smoke, the machine caromed onto the pavement and sped off in the opposite direction of the Studebaker.

“Go back!” Josee told the elderly woman at the wheel.

“We mustn’t,” Rosie insisted. “You heard Marsh. I need to take you away.”

“Scooter’s hurt!”

“Marsh’ll look after him. Truly, I can’t risk any harm coming to you. What then would I tell your mother?” Rosie put the car in gear and followed signs toward Philomath and Highway 34. “She so desperately wants to see you.”

“Where is she?”

“At the Addisons’ beach cottage, of course.”

“Does Marsh know that?”

In the airflow from the vents, Rosie’s honey-tinted curls shifted. “No, of course not. And Kara prefers that it remain so for the time being. They’ve had their troubles, as I told you on the phone. This is to be a private meeting.”