Dark to Mortal Eyes (70 page)

Scooter had violated her trust; he’d refused to make a stand and had allowed his own demons to turn him against her; he’d stinkin’ ratted her out to Trudi.

Of course, he’d also thrown himself in harm’s way to warn her at Avery Park.

I will visit again, Scoot. Give me time
.

Her eyes brightened as a police car came up the driveway.

“What do you know,” Marsh said. “Looks like Sarge has decided to show up.”

Sergeant Turney parked the cruiser beside the company van and jogged through the rain, splashing water. Though his pain had lessened, bandages and scabs still covered his arms and face, testimony to the wounds he’d endured in the helicopter crash.

“I come bearing gifts,” he said.

“How generous,” Kara said. “But isn’t it a bit early for Christmas?”

Josee met him on the steps. “How’s it going, Band-Aid Man?”

Turney smiled. “The inquiry cleared me. That’s a good thing. Ruled Stahlherz’s death as a suicide. Sorry, Marsh. They haven’t found a body, which means there’s little chance of ever gettin’ your answer on his connection to you—if there ever was one. Could’ve been one big lie. The station received your father’s journal, the original you dropped in the mail, and with the account matching the events we’ve been through, my guess is that Ms. Ubelhaar’ll be spending the rest of her days behind bars. We can all breathe easier. She’ll be out of our hair.”

“Sarge, you have a sick sense of humor,” Marsh said. “What about Beau Connors?”

“Seems he was nothing but a—”

“Pawn sacrifice.”

“Yup, stole the words right outta my mouth. The kid’ll be facing psychiatric evaluation, if the judge has his way. So far, we’ve found three separate safe houses for the ICV network and have broken things up, but we’ll still be keeping an eye out, just in case. With the e-mail database that Esprit’s whiz kid snagged on the Internet, the members the detective rounded up near Camp Adair, and the cars that got tailed on Halloween, we’ve listed more than ninety people involved. We have star witnesses ready to go on the stand if this ever goes to trial—the espresso-booth worker and Suzette Bishop, art curator. Suzette, as you know, suffered a blow to the head, but she’s okay.”

“Quite a little network of terror.”

“You’re tellin’ me, Marsh.” Turney raised a finger to make a point. “Wanna know something scary? The thermos things those kids threatened you with on the beach had actual poison gas in them. Somethin’ close to tear gas but authentic juice all the same. As for the canisters with the truly dangerous stuff, all but one of ’em have been recovered and transported over to Umatilla. They’ll be slated for the incinerator—if the authorities ever get that thing up and going.”

“What about the missing canister?” Josee’s concern was obvious.

“Went up in flames. We’ve confirmed that now. The ICV boys had a little run-in with a tanker on Highway 126. Sad thing is, at least thirteen people died within a mile of the site. Lotsa animals, too. Pets and livestock.
A couple of wisps of the stuff must’ve gotten into the air, but we haven’t had any casualties since the week after the collision. The poison’s dissipated, thank heavens.”

Marsh nodded. “Life goes on. We’re all falling back into our routines.”

“I’ve been thinking. What with all the sleaze bags runnin’ around, I’m not so sure I wanna keep workin’ a beat. Might switch to consulting for criminal investigations.”

“Would that be any safer?” Josee asked.

“Least I could call my own shots. Anything for a chance to go a few more rounds.” Turney turned to Marsh and produced a sparkling glass chess piece. “Here, this is yours. It’s from the evidence they’ve released. Found it near the spot Stahlherz went over the cliff. Little dinged up but otherwise ready to go. Your queen, I believe.”

“I’ll take good care of her.”

“You do that. Oh. One last thing.” Turney handed a plain white envelope to Josee. “Ran the tests, a little side job, just to settle things once and for all. Between the saliva from Marsh’s lunch fork and a piece of your hair, Josee, it didn’t take the labs long to determine a paternal match. Don’t worry. Go on, you can take a look.”

Josee scanned the results, folded the paper with care, and reinserted it.

“Sarge called me earlier,” Marsh told her. “Said it was official. You’re my daughter.” He reached for her.

Turney watched for Josee’s reaction. With arms at her side, she leaned into Marsh’s embrace. Inch by inch she melted until at last her thin arms lifted around her father in return.

Monday morning. Back to the grind for her parents, Sarge, Henri Esprit, and the operations at the vineyard. Which meant Josee had some time alone.

Soon after that night on the cliffs, she had made a trip back to Washington, where she refilled her dwindled prescription, where she made an impromptu visit to her adoptive parents. She had needed that. So had they. For the past three weeks back in Corvallis, she’d been sharing an apartment
and working part-time with Suzette at the newly renovated art gallery on SW Second. The gallery was closed on Mondays.

Time for a solo excursion.

Borrowing Marsh’s Tahoe, Josee headed for the coast. She pressed a hand to her collarbone where, under her turtleneck, she bore a small tattoo. She smiled, recalling Turney’s uneasiness. Out of uniform, on their second lunch alone together, he had put an arm around her shoulder. “Somethin’ I been meaning to ask you, Josee. You’re gonna think it’s stupid.”

“Probably.”

“Well, it’s what you said that first day we talked. You remember? In the hospital cafeteria?”

“Oh no, don’t hold that against me.”

“You asked if I’d like to see your newest tattoo.”

“And?”

“I would.”

Grinning, she’d shown him the butterfly on her collarbone. Silly man. Thirty-one years old, and he turned brighter than a beet. Sarge was quite a guy. He’d had stinkin’ three years since Milly’s passing; it was time to move on and live a little. That boy needed a girl in his life.

And maybe, just maybe, that girl will be me
.

In Florence, she lurched to a stop at the Bank of the Dunes, hopped out, and twirled the key chain on her finger. One of the keys went to safe-deposit box 89.

The vault felt less cold this time, and her fingers had no difficulty with the lid on the box—her box, her inheritance, her sole connection to the grandfather she had never known. What was she going to do with the one item she’d left wrapped inside? She had no clear direction. She’d mentioned it to no one. And no one had asked.

If, as Trudi had accused, her parents were primarily interested in an inheritance, why had they not even fished for information? It was as though they knew nothing about it. Yep, she was sure this was her secret and hers alone.

One more look so I know I’m not going wacko
.

Her eyes weren’t deceiving her. She drew the object from a felt bag, marveling at its exquisite shape. She had read about such treasures. Doubtlessly
ransacked by the Nazis from an imperial museum or palace, the four-inch Fabergé egg was encased in translucent turquoise enamel. Gold cabriole legs lifted the object on a garnet-encrusted stem, where a stamp with the initials H. W. spoke of hidden things. Even in the vault’s bland electric light, a band of rose diamonds glittered with sophisticated elegance.

Freakin’ thing has to be worth a fortune!

Dated March 1960, a fragile paper rested in the bottom of the bag. She’d read it hurriedly on her first visit, but this time she felt no pressure. She savored each word:

Josee tucked the treasure back into the bag, locked the box, and left the vault.

In the past few weeks, her eyes had seen many things, both beautiful and fierce. It would take time to digest it all. She would have decisions to make and, eventually, secrets to unveil. For now, she’d take each day as it came, one step at a time.

Okay, Lord, I’m gonna need some help here. I’m ready to listen
.

The answer was simple … 
Walk on
.

Dudley Delffs and Don Pape (editor and publisher)
for grace and support, for taking a chance on this book and making it so much better, for coming up with a title after my brain had turned to mush.

Jan Dennis (literary agent)

for finding me in a haystack and further sharpening me …

You made it happen.

The team at WaterBrook Press (those behind the scenes)

for the cool cover art, marketing, and lots of hard work … You’re incredible.

Carolyn Rose (wife)

for sacrifices at every turn and for deepest kisses on the roughest days …

You’re music to my ears.

Cassie Rose and Jackie Renee (daughters)

for laughter and hugs, for sharing a room

so that Dad could have a place to write.

Linda Wilson (mother)

for loving, teaching, nurturing, and for removing this kid’s correction

ribbon so that he would actually finish something.

Mark Wilson (father)

for unending belief, love, loans, and a computer to complete the task …

Of course, you deserve a ton of credit too, DeeDee.

Shaun and Jade Wilson (brother and wife), Heidi and Matt Messner

(
sister and husband), Mike and Debbie Monaghan (parents-in-law)

for enduring ears, munchies, baby-sitting, computer advice,

and tons of love.

Sharyn McCrumb, Jefferson Scott, Ted Dekker
,

Robert Whitlow, and David Ryan Long (award-winning novelists)

for well-placed kicks, encouragement, and editorial comments …

Jeff, the Sobe’s on me.

Jacquie Manning, Patricia Miller, Sean Savacool, Matthew Guise
,

Barbara Guise, Linda Frizzell, Marissa Dowell, Sandra Houmes
,

Lyle Edwards, Jim and Nancy Jordan, Sherry Shippentower (advance readers)

for comments, chuckles, and the encouragement to continue …

Jacquie, Patty, and Sean, your books are next.

Espresso Yourself customers (you know who you are)

for the business, moral support, and caffeine-enhanced friendships.

The Moodys’ Home Group, the Youngs’ Kinship Group, Vaughn and Laurie
Forbes, Luci Stolle (spiritual partners, seen and unseen)

for prayers and belief that this book would sit on shelves

around the country …

Vaughn and Laurie, thanks for helping me over that final hump.

Mike and Carol Korgan CEC (Heceta Head Lighthouse Bed & Breakfast)

for fantastic food, lodging, and a late-night tour of the lighthouse.

Nashville Public Library Staff (Hermitage and Donelson Branches)

for great fiction, research facilities, and an office away from home.

Corp. Larry Larson (Junction City Police Department)

for patience, advice, and no share of the blame.

Gary Horner (Benton-Lane Winery)

for great Pinot Noir and help with the details.

U2, Evanescence, Linkin Park, Switchfoot, King’s X
,

Audioslave, Collective Soul, and P.O.D. (modern rock bands)

for shaking the walls while posing questions and/or answers

in meaningful ways.

Vinny’s Pizza (Nashville’s most incredible pizzeria)

for keeping this starving artist’s family alive

with large doses of the good stuff …

Lantz and H. J., keep Music City rockin’.

Readers everywhere (that means you)

for sharing a few hours with the characters in this novel …