Dark to Mortal Eyes (59 page)

The sounds Sergeant Turney had generated were covered by the approach of a vintage automobile. He removed the gun from his shoulder holster and edged along the Tahoe. Based upon his earlier phone conversation, he assumed his detective wouldn’t be far behind the Studebaker. Even now the man could be watching.

With gun in hand, Turney made a visual check of his surroundings—the parking area, the tall grass and brush, the aviary. In the hospital cafeteria, Marsh had told him how he’d enlisted the help of his Trysting Tree golfing buddies, many of whom, he confided, also made a habit of practicing at the shooting range on Saturdays. They knew how to watch after their own. Armed and concealed, they had positioned themselves to take on any ICV subversives who showed up here at the scene.

In the trickery of the fading sunlight, Turney welcomed their presence. Keeping low, he inched forward to lock in his angle of attack.

Karl Stahlherz was staring into the Studebaker’s trunk. “No
ooo!
”

The burst of vehemence sent the ICV recruits back to their seats in the car. They looked nervous. Ready to run.

Empty? The trunk is empty!

Stahlherz felt his nostrils flare. He harnessed his fury and punched in the Professor’s number on the cell phone. “Where are you? Where is the queen? She’s not in the trunk.”

“My son, do you have the journal?”

Stahlherz was dazed. He rocked on his feet. This wasn’t what they’d outlined.

“Demand that Esprit show it to you, Stahli.”

“I. How do you know Esprit’s here? You
are
close, aren’t you?” Now his suspicions seemed juvenile; he should never have questioned her.

His mother emitted a high laugh. “Marshall fooled you, didn’t he? After years of playing him over the board, you still allow him to subvert your authority. Stahli, when I first began nurturing your bitterness in childhood, I never realized how deeply it would root. You’ve let it corrode you, let it distort the truth before you. By attempting to control it, you’ve turned it into something perfidious.”

Steele Knight, short of breath, swallowed against the beak in his throat.

“Marsh is headed to Europe this weekend for an international wine festival,” the Professor elucidated. “He’s had it planned for quite some time. I might’ve suspected he’d use it to his advantage. He manipulated you to help determine Kara’s location. Even at this minute, he’s coming my way.”

“Where are you?”

“With Kara. With Josee. When you called earlier and I realized Marsh’s scam, I decided it’d be best to keep them nearby.”

“You deceived me, Mother?”

“Only as a part of the overall design. Did you get the documents I sent?”

Stahlherz looked at the identification papers in his hand, stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket. “So this is it? I’m no more than a pawn in your schemes?”

“Our schemes, Son. The goal must be kept in sight. Now, with your identity officially established, you can shoulder the legal repercussions for ICV’s actions. Time to be a man, to take the blame. After tonight’s deadly results, after thousands have partaken of the tainted waters, I’ll simply disappear, a free woman at last.”

“You’re leaving? Abandoning me? I thought tonight was your new beginning.”

“Oh, but I’m getting old. Time to enjoy the fruits of my labor.”

“And I’m left to face the consequences. This was never part of our agreement.”

“Stahli, Stahli, never underestimate the power of a pawn.” And she hung up.

She disconnected! She’s manipulated me to play the fool!

He called back. No answer. The subterfuge seemed clear. He’d been told all along that he was a master of the game, but he was nothing but a plaything. He’d been given identity so as to make his mark, only to uncover this deception, which tore all other concerns away. In a flash, his years of work and solitude had become scraps of meat in the claws of the rook. He’d been sliced and fed to the Professor’s monstrous designs. She’d used him from the start.

The Professor … Trudi Ubelhaar … Mother.

In Cauda Venenum: “Beware of what you cannot see.”

A zephyr of anger billowed his black jacket about him and lifted his arms—his wings—in a gesture of aggression. He whipped his dagger to Esprit’s throat. “Very slowly,” he commanded, “let me see the journal.”

The man unwrapped the book with painstaking care, as though to honor and protect the contents. The oilcloth folds fell open over his hands, and he turned the tan, faded volume for Steele Knight’s approval. “Marsh thought you might find this handy, even wrote an inscription. See here …”

Stahlherz watched Esprit open the cover for his viewing.

Steele Knight,

I hope this book brings you all the success and knowledge you seek.

Without it, I fear your game is beyond hope.

Better luck next time …

Crash-Chess-Dummy

A flicker of hope quelled Stahlherz’s anxiety. Perhaps this was authentic. By some means, he might yet race his mother to the venom vials and stand victorious.

With his free hand, he turned to a dog-eared page. What would Chance Addison’s handwriting look like? This man who had risked his life to save a fellow soldier, then, on the other hand, discarded one so helpless. Left him to die. What would Chance have to say for himself? Would there be apologies, regrets? For Stahlherz, this journal carried personal significance far beyond its value to ICV.

But the words were not handwritten. Fresh black ink underlined faded type.

“What’s this?”

“A warning,” Esprit stated. “To you from Marsh.”

“This is a chess book!”

“Appears to be,” Esprit agreed, motionless at the dagger’s tip. “
Modern Chess Tactics
, sixth edition, 1939. Purchased today at a used-book store downtown. Is it true? Have you ignored Marsh’s march into the light?”

Stahlherz lifted his gaze, dropped his weapon to his side. In his chest, the warning burned. Where
was
Marsh Addison, the passed pawn? Victory was fading, and Stahlherz saw all else as meaningless. Pointless. Emptiness deeper than he’d ever known.

Closing the book, Esprit took a step back. “The game nears its conclusion, and you find that you’ve been taken advantage of all along. You can still choose the right path.”

“The right path? Ha! And you think I’ve taken the wrong way?”

“There is a path before each person that seems right, but it ends in death.”

Acid churned to the surface, a maelstrom of wrath. His bones ached. Although this winemaker’s words carried hints of reprieve, Stahlherz saw no
room for turning back. He’d come too far. Worked too hard. Invested his soul and identity in a lie.

Why? Oh my … but to die!

The setting sun chopped tree shadows into strips of deep mauve, stacking them across Marsh Addison’s path. He’d parked the rental car at the top of the road leading into Devil’s Elbow State Park. Now, on foot, he reconnoitered the stretch of sand that was embraced by knobby-fingered cliffs. The wind tasted of brine and seaweed. From here, at the tree line, he viewed a woman’s silhouette.

Kara? Without a doubt.

A lump formed in his throat. He could see the soft curve of her back, the roll of her shoulders, the manner in which she rested her weight on one leg, favoring it over her scarred hip. She took a few steps, sat down on a section of driftwood.

This was his queen. Where, though, were his enemies? And Trudi Ubelhaar?

Marsh controlled the urge to call out to Kara, to run to her. He stood studious and calm, surveying the environs for any hidden threat. The mauve shadows made investigation of the woods difficult. Across the waves, the sun was a sliver of gold.

He hit the Redial button.

From this angle at Stahlherz’s back, Turney could see that the man had dropped his dagger to his side, but his stance remained aggressive. Beyond him, Esprit’s eyes had the calm of a dove. For an older gentleman, he handled himself well. Around the park’s perimeter, Marsh’s accomplices would have to cover while Turney made a dash past the recruits in the Studebaker and intervened on Esprit’s behalf.

An inhuman scream ripped over the gravel lot.

Esprit stumbled back as Stahlherz’s dagger made an arcing swoop. The winemaker collided into the marble marker before collapsing in a bed of flowers.

“Skerr-reeechh!”
Stahlherz had gone berserk.

Should’ve moved quicker, Turney chastised himself.
Curse this lard belly!

“Aah!” Pistoning his legs, he left the Tahoe’s side. As the black-coated foe lifted his dagger a second time, Turney became a battering ram that slammed him against the monument in a rush of pebbles, sweat, and gross tonnage.

Rough hands half dragged, half lifted Josee from the trunk. She found herself propped on cramped and tingling legs and winced as the constraints were torn from her ankles. Her arms remained taped. Still gagged, she stumbled forward, feet slipping on sand-dusted asphalt. In her left sock, she could feel the bank key against her heel. She angled her head back and saw two cars. Beyond them, stepping through the sand, a pair of figures held Kara between them.

Kara … Mom
.

A brief look passed between daughter and mother, then they were torn apart.

“Press onward,” Trudi said. With a walking stick, she prodded Josee along a path between trees and brush. Up ahead, bathed in the sun’s last rays, the Queen Anne–style lightkeeper’s house shone on a cliff. In the darker section of sky, the moon was already present. “Soon enough, Josee, Marsh will arrive. I hope you’ll forgive our searching through your knapsack, but I’m pleased to see that you brought along your birth certificate. Isn’t it nice to know you’re part of a family?”

Josee marched on, sucking breaths through the gag. One step at a time.

Trudi touched her arm. “Have they told you of your portion in the inheritance?”

Inheritance? Josee’s eyes flickered in the old woman’s direction.