Dark to Mortal Eyes (11 page)

Turney sucked in his lips until his heavy jowls puckered. “Josee, if his wounds indicate your involvement, you could be looking at an assault-four. What with the APA and all—the Assault Prevention Act—we’d have to separate the two of you. Is that what you want? Please work with me here.”

“I … did … not … hit … him. There, you satisfied?”

She rebuked herself for lowering her guard earlier. Turney was a freakin’ bacon strip. She knew better than to trust a cop, particularly one with Y chromosomes.

Stahlherz named the hospital as their next destination. Darius complied with a turn of the steering wheel. His nut brown hair, tied back over his shoulders, matched the Aerostar van’s nondescript exterior.

“A reasonable speed, please. No need to draw attention our way.”

“Hey, Steele-man, be cool. I’ve done the driver’s-ed thing. Passed every test they could throw this boy’s direction. You be safe with me.”

“I be safe? Well, you be careful.”

“Shazaam.”

Stahlherz knew the minced lingo belied his driver’s intelligence. He liked the kid and compensated him—in cash, nontaxed—for mileage and road hours. Thus motivated, Darius bore his cell phone at all times, responsive to his employer’s whims. Saving up for filmmaking classes, Darius confided. Here in town at Oregon State University.

Well, well, this boy was driving his way to the stars.

Not that Stahlherz was unable to operate a vehicle. Please, he was not that incapable. To steer clear of governmental records, he’d chosen to forgo a driver’s license. Footpaths and bike lanes, drivers, and CTS bus passes purchased at the Rite-Aid—he made do. It’d be incomprehensible to risk exposure for the sake of speedier transport. Too much at stake.

To Darius, he’d told a different story. “A leg injury—that’s what impedes
me. Bone spurs suffered in a city-league soccer match.” Truth be told, arthritic aches and worsening migraines had forced him from the team. Further evidence that his genius was leeching off his body’s resources.

He removed and reapplied the Band-Aid over the talon wound on his forearm. That insolent beast. Always trying to wrest control from him. Last night’s memory made his scalp twitch like the lid on a boiling pot. Bitterness rose in his gullet.
No, I’m the one in control! Rationing myself. Not much longer to go
.

Allhallows Eve …

Two nights hence, while others paraded in ghoulish costumes, he would peel away the mask for all to see. Karl Stahlherz would become a household name. The forsaken one no longer. He imagined that somewhere in the raging flames of his own mind an effigy of Chance Addison was burning.

Long ago chessboard rooks had been fashioned after soaring castles, and as Good Samaritan Regional Medical Center loomed ahead, Stahlherz decided that this structure was a modern incarnation of the medieval fortress. Situated on a hill, with towering walls and an imposing entrance, it gazed upon the city below. Spoke of sanctuary and hope within. An empty hope for many.

Without insurance or wealth, the peons still groveled outside the castle gates. And society’s cancer continued to spread. The time had come to storm the walls.

“Never been in thurr.” Darius propped a leg on the dash. “Sick people smell.”

Stahlherz loosened his seat belt. “It’s been ages for me, the early ’80s.”

The last time he’d stalked through this hospital lobby he had carried a gun. He’d confronted Marsh Addison and his fiancée, Kara, but failed at his task. Parental castigation was the result. The Professor demoted him to his basement existence—alone with turpentine and oils, cages and rooks. Art and warfare molded him there. In solitude. Then the dawn of the Internet brought reconnection, granting access to the mind-set of the human animal. Feeble beings. Far from their evolutionary apex. Pandering and lonely, they allowed a plethora of addictions to rule them.

“Yo, Steele-man, you gonna jump out, or’s I gotta kick you out?”

“I’m paying you, aren’t I?”

“Don’t have all afternoon, brah. Got’s me a date. A brunette.”

Stahlherz stepped from the van, then slipped a fifty-dollar bill across the dashboard. “Here, Darius, a bonus. Enjoy the time you have … before it’s gone.”

He faced the hospital entryway. Josee Walker was in there. She was the key. For now, though, others would monitor the little drummer girl’s movements. He had additional factors and players to consider before she could unlock the final combination for him.

Combination. The definition was known to any true disciple of the game of chess: a series of forced moves, often initiated by sacrifice, that lead to a winning advantage.

“Listen, Josee, I need details. Gimme some facts to work with.”

“Why should you buy anything I tell you? Just some drifter’s take on things.”

“Is that what you are, you and Scooter?” Sergeant Turney adjusted his uniform.

“What if it is? Scoot and I, we refuse to be pawns in some capitalistic kingdom. Look at our cities, cushy little incubators growing babies with dollar signs in their eyes.” The waiting area magnified her voice. “No thanks! If that makes us drifters, so be it.”

“ ‘Not all those who wander are lost.’ ”

Josee lifted an eyebrow. “That’s Tolkien. Are you a fan?”

“Not much of a reader, to be honest. Think I saw it on a bumper sticker.”

She hid her amusement by digging through her pockets. “You smoke?”

“Nosiree.” He gripped his belly. “Already got this to deal with. And none of your wisecracks, please. Not a day goes by that I don’t have someone tryin’ to feed me horse manure in shovel loads.” The sergeant cinched up a pant leg. “Can get pretty deep, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah? Must explain the smell.”

“Want me to round you up a pair o’ hip waders?”

“Funny.”

“Put it to you this way, kiddo. I consider myself a decent judge of character, and I see somethin’ in that face of yours. Behind the anger and fear and attitude, you seem to be an honest woman.”

“Which is it? Woman or kiddo?”

Turney laughed and scraped a hand over his blond crew cut. “You got me there. Here’s the thing. I just wanna nail down the truth for my report. Already Mirandized you back by the railroad tracks, so you’ve got a choice to speak up or keep quiet.”

“The truth? You know, it might not be what you expect.”

“Even in a city this small, nothing surprises me anymore.”

“I didn’t do it, bottom line.”

“Then who did?”

Who? Or what?
She quivered, recalling curved fangs and dripping venom. “You’ll think I’m blowin’ smoke. You may as well cuff me now, book me, and print me. Like I care. Just promise me that the doctors’ll take care of Scooter in there.”

“He’s in good hands. They hounded me about the lack of insurance, but I’ve been in this city long enough to pull a few strings. That’s a good thing.” His voice trailed off as though a number of bad things had risen to challenge his claim.

“What’ve they told you? You’re keeping something from me, aren’t you?”

Turney closed the magazine. “Do yourself a favor, Josee, and remember who you’re talking to. My job’s to uphold the law. Is that clear? Some o’ my partners, they’d take one look at you and judge you before ya got a word out. That’s not me. So why don’t you cut me some slack and show a little trust here, a little faith.”

Trust? Faith? One prolonged hardy-har-har to those concepts. In Josee’s experience, they were brainwashing terms used to shape the weak-minded.

She said, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“That’s fair, since you hardly know me. But you oughta know that faith is … well, faith is believing in somethin’ you cannot see. Goes beyond the human level.”

“A spiritual thing—that what you mean? You think I should send up a prayer?”

“Not that it’s my place to say, but, yeah, it couldn’t hurt.”

Josee pushed back a lock of hair. “Already tried it, Sarge, out there in the thicket. And look where I’m sitting now.”

“You prayed in the woods? Why?”

She huffed. “I was afraid, I guess. Desperate.”

“Afraid of what? Tell me what you saw.”

Although she shook her head at the picture of fangs pumping venom into Scooter’s cheek, the image held fast. Exasperated, she fixed her eyes like drill bits on the sergeant, but instead of bracing himself with frustration or indignation, he let his eyes melt into hers—Hershey’s chocolate kisses. Josee sensed something melancholic about him. No, not his weight. She could look past that. Something in his posture. In his face. As if he’d witnessed his own demise and left behind a shell to carry on the functions of life.

Survival mode. I know it well
.

“Okay, fine,” said Josee. “You wanna know what happened? I’ll tell you.”

“I’d be appreciative.” He stood and gestured at her. “C’mon, though, let’s take it to the cafeteria, where I can fatten you up while priming you for answers.”

“Not me, not hungry.”

“My tab, Josee. The department’ll reimburse me if need be.”

“Do I look like I need a handout?”

“Who are you foolin’? Bet you haven’t had a decent meal all week.”

Turney turned his broad back and walked away. Josee stammered. Decided to stay put. Changed her mind, grabbed her belongings, and followed. Turney was right. She was starved.

In her rush through the lobby, she collided with a man who groaned and turned as though ready to vociferate. Instead, he stared. His shoulders were hunched in the manner of many tall men, gray hair streaked his black mane, and a thin nose sliced vertically the way his lips did horizontally. Aside from patches at the elbows—how ’70s was that!—his corduroy jacket matched the slate gray eyes that now riveted her.

“Got a problem?” Josee demanded. “Watch where you’re going.”

He rocked forward, fingers plucking at the air.

“Stare hard, retard.” Feeling juvenile even as she said the words, she shook off his predatory gaze and continued to the cafeteria with its round, white tables.

Josee shoved a plastic tray down the cafeteria bar. Eating with a cop didn’t fit into her antiauthority framework, but that deli vegetarian sandwich did look good. So did the Sun Chips. She took swigs of iced tea so that her mouth was too full to protest each time Sergeant Turney added another item to her tray.