Dark to Mortal Eyes (17 page)

“Until … Gracious, I can only hope that time never comes.”

“What’re you talking about? Come on.”

“A sure waste of your energy, Marsh. Hogwash, most likely. On his deathbed, your father became delusional, spouting more than a few things that defied common sense. No man should have to go through that … that sort of pain. Blood seeping from his eyes, pooling in his ears. I watched him. I …” Virginia’s voice dissipated.

Marsh was not to be deterred. “If you’re not gonna tell me, why’d you even bring it up? I hate it when you do this to me.”

“One day, Marsh. One day.”

“What about this?” He’d located another object as consolation, a yellowed newspaper photo. “This from his funeral?”

“Where’d you find that?”

“Stuck in the pages of this yearbook.”

Marsh scrutinized the picture. Captured from across his father’s flag-draped casket, the photo showed his mom cloaked in black and holding his own infant form in her arms. Virginia’s eyes were distant, despairing, full of a bitterness that made little sense to Marsh. What secrets had etched that look into her face? Only later did he come to recognize that look for what it was: the look of a woman betrayed.

The same look now shaded his own wife’s face.

Charged for action, Marsh turned on his study carpet and found Kara seated in his desk chair. Profiled against the computer’s online chessboard, she was a queen trapped upon the battlefield. Her hair was liquid gold, melting down the black leather headrest. Her eyes were leveled into his.

Another arrow of pain shot clear through to his retina.

“Kara?” His voice came out in a raspy croak. “I thought you were in Yachats.”

She said nothing. She was bound and gagged.

Behind her, on the screen, Steele Knight was waiting.

This silverware was heavy, unlike the cheap utensils she and Scooter used. Per Kris Van der Bruegge’s instructions, Josee smoothed the lace tablecloth and distributed four place settings for breakfast. Felt good. The routine of family life. Though Kris and John seemed decent enough, she was relieved to know Sergeant Turney would be joining them.

In uniform? He’ll probably have to loosen a button for that tummy of his
.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” John greeted her. “Bet you’re hungry.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“We get going early around here. I have a first-period class to teach out at Linn-Benton Community College.” John handed Josee a platter of butter-drenched waffles, then as she took possession, he reached to tousle her spiked hair in a fatherly manner.

She backed away. “Excuse me? The hair’s not public property.”

Kris arrived from the kitchen with pitchers of maple and blueberry syrup and a carafe of fresh orange juice. “Would you look at that scowl. Just like our baby girl, Annalise.”

“Baby? She’s twenty-four,” John amended. “Senior at Gonzaga. She’s no longer a little girl.”

“I miss her. Why’d she have to move so far away, I ask?”

For some stinkin’ breathing room
. Josee set down the platter.
Big shocker
.

“You’ll have to forgive us, Josee,” Kris said, watching her. “We’ve always been a demonstrative household. We mean no harm. One day you’ll understand when you have kids of your own.”

“Kids? Nope, not the mothering type.”

“Neither was I. I blame it on this rascal here.” Kris wagged a finger at John.

He whispered loud enough for Josee to hear, “All I can say, Krissy, is that I’m keeping an eye on this girl. She’s liable to bite off your hand, and I thought
Annalise was bad.” He backpedaled from the room in exaggerated slow motion.

Josee tried to ignore his antics. Felt a grin slip out.

“Gotcha,” he said, then continued through the archway for coffee and cream.

Sergeant Vince Turney tugged up his uniform trousers, sucked in his pale gut, and strained his belt to the last notch. Had he looked this dumpy at age twenty-two? He was only nine years older than the girl he’d helped out yesterday. Josee Walker. She was a tough nut, all right, but she had opened up. Just a little. A crack.

The thought still warmed him. He was a cop, yessir, but he was also a man. And a sad example of one, according to his full-length mirror.

He’d always been big boned, learned to live with it; after Milly’s accident, however, the pounds had started creeping up on him. He’d beaten down the old patterns of alcohol abuse—hadn’t bought a Red Dog in years—but the substitute was now taking its toll. For three years sugar had served as his sweetheart. Sugar. And deep-fried foods. And super-sized caffeinated soft drinks. Turney used this sweetheart to hold other relationships at arm’s length. He’d lost one love, but this one would always be around.

Around? He swung his belly away from the mirror. Gosh, that’s not funny
.

Eight minutes till breakfast at the Van der Bruegges.

Lowering himself into the police cruiser in his driveway, he wondered why he kept beating himself up over his size. Not that a trimmer physique would help. Three dates. In three years. Three strikeouts. He’d stopped looking for that one, good, God-fearing woman who could handle his weight along with his job’s brutal doses of reality. Most churchwomen were a bit too sheltered. Or too syrupy. Or too old.

He pushed back his seat, slurped at a forty-four-ounce Dr Pepper in the cup holder. Tasted flat. He’d bought it … when, a day or two ago? He took another sip.

Turney extended the platter. “Last one’s yours, Josee.”

“I’m good. You want it, I can tell.”

“C’mon, it’s calling your name. Mmm, catch a whiff o’ that.”

“Full already. My tank’s smaller than yours, you know.”

“A low blow. Ouch.”

“Nothing personal, Sarge. This country’s freakin’ obsessed with weight and looks, thanks to the whip-cracking fashion gurus. To be in shape? Nothing wrong with that. But this drive for perfection at all costs? It’s twisted.”

“Not like you hafta worry.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“About the weight, I mean.” Turney drizzled syrup over the remaining waffle. “Here ya go. It’s got your initial on it.”

Josee watched the blue-tinted J seep into the dough and felt the warmth of this place settling over her as well. Breakfast had been nice. Normal. John and Kris had refused her help with the cleanup duties, insisting that she and the sergeant relax.

“So what do ya think of ’em?”

She hitched a shoulder. “John and Kris? They’re not bad.”

Turney nodded. “From you, I’ll count that as a roar of approval.”

The Van der Bruegges—okay, so they were too touchy-feely for her taste, but she could survive that as long as she knew it was heartfelt. Josee could even deal with the nature photography on the walls, the sort that displayed character attributes in bold letters with trite slogans underneath. Usually such platitudes pushed her buttons. On more than one occasion she’d heard them spouted from the mouths of self-righteous phonies. She knew the type well—dress the part, talk the part, act the part. One big show. With a crank of the thermostat, she could turn their religious stage makeup into cracked and splotchy messes.

This couple though? Their beliefs seemed more than skin-deep. Josee’s past had taught her to recognize genuine from bogus, and these people were the real deal.

It worried her. Their disarming candor might further pry her open.

The grandfather clock chimed seven o’clock. In another hour she’d call her mother. Turney had agreed to drop Josee at the hospital to visit Scooter and further promised to return on his lunch break to shuttle Josee to Avery Park for her one o’clock rendezvous.

Today’s reunion had to work. Kara couldn’t keep stringing her along.

On the way to the hospital, Josee felt awkward in the cruiser’s front seat; during her teen years, cop cars had represented the enemy. Samaritan Drive swept them between saplings arrayed in autumn splendor and past a rescue chopper on a helipad. The dips in the road amplified the hissing for nicotine in Josee’s temples.

Good-bye to family life. Back to the real world
.

Sergeant Turney let her off at the hospital’s circular drive. “Josee?”

She dipped her chin and looked back over her shoulder.

“You take care. Meet ya back ’round twelve-thirty.”

She gave a thumbs-up, then, choosing to save her vouchers, hurried in past the gift shop and her craving for a cigarette. Wouldn’t that be some nifty economics: They sell you the cancer sticks, then sell the chemotherapy. Despite the lobby’s placid expanse, she sensed a lingering disquiet. Or maybe it was just another flashback ripped from her childhood scrapbook.

At the information counter a nurse was fixated on the tilt of her own head and the gloss of her blond hair. Josee hitched the sleeve of her oversize knit sweater and, resting an elbow on the counter, asked for quick confirmation of a room number. She despised the fact that her friend had suffered an entire night hooked to an intravenous drip.

“Like, what was the name again?”

“It’s Scooter,” Josee said.

“That a first name? Nickname? Ah, it doesn’t matter. I remember the one, kid with the long brown hair? Yeah, okay, heeeere we go.” The nurse stretched out the word like chewed gum. “He’s been moved. Room 223 looks like.”

“Second floor? Okay, got it.”

Josee hit the elevator button, shifted from foot to foot, then took the stairs instead.

“She’s here, Mr. Steele.” The young nurse’s voice was full of verve. “Like, I was just doing my job, then she walked up. Same girl you pointed out yesterday.”

“Thank you, Nurse.”

“Thought you’d want to know. In cauda venenum.”

In the basement studio’s October chill, Stahlherz set down the phone. He looked to his laptop where the online gaming zone flickered. For the second day in a row, Crash-Chess-Dummy had left the game unfinished. CCD, a.k.a. Marsh Addison, had abandoned him.

Like father, like son!

Yes, Stahlherz trusted that Kara’s abduction was now secure, and he had reason to believe his delivery was on its way, but he had counted on the grand platform of this morning’s chess match to shake his opponent’s world. Ah, well.