Dark to Mortal Eyes (31 page)

“Police’ve got it covered. Officer Lansky said they’d have a county sheriff check it out this afternoon. Not like those coastal cops have much to do.”

“To be honest, sir, I do have another motive.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, as you’re aware”—her voice cracked with an elderly woman’s pride—”I’ve been ousted from my quarters. As it stands, there’s little room here at my relatives’ home. They’re hosting a German exchange student, and I fear I’ll only be a millstone around their necks. They’ve agreed to watch over Li’l Corporal, which is certainly one weight off my back, but … I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I …”

“You what, you need a place to sack out?”

“Yes, sir. Thought I could kill two birds with one stone, make myself useful.”

“Sure, you’re welcome to stay in Yachats.” He tried not to chuckle. “You can straighten things up, give the place a good overhaul. Remember the mess it was in after we let the Brocks use it for a weekend?”

“I’ll see that things are spotless.”

“Good. With the bad weather, you won’t have much else to do with your time anyway. You know where the key’s hidden, right?”

“Knothole in the second porch post?”

“Third post. Drive safely. It’s supposed to get nasty tonight.”

“Almost there.” Casey pointed to the nearing Enterprise Rent-A-Car sign. Her hand slipped to the console between them, and her voice eased into a non-work-related tone. “Hope there’s nothing wrong between you and Kara. You’re a busy couple, not much time alone. She does take good care of you though, I’m sure.”

“She’s missing, Casey! What’re you talking about?”

“No reason to get defensive, Marshall. You’re an attractive man.”

“Not bad for a Cro-Magnon, huh?” He gave a primeval grunt.

“Speaking of which, you were a bit boorish with Josee.”

“Boorish? So how would you have handled it? I offered to buy her dessert, and she refused. Stormed out. You saw her.”

“She didn’t want you buying off your guilt. On the witness stand—here’s a pointer for you—even the innocent ones look guilty when they act cold and distant as you did. I’m sure Josee saw it that way. You looked guilty as sin.”

Pinpricks of guilt? A bloody hand towel. A question mark of blood …

Marsh cast his eyes at his attorney. How much should he divulge? Anything he said could jeopardize the arrangement with Steele Knight. He could not risk that.

Casey was slowing. She hit her turn signal before the rental parking lot, and in the same moment, shadows moved over Marsh’s legs and up his torso.
Feathery specters. Irritating blackbirds, like those circling at the hotel. He blinked against a spike of ice through his temples, and when he refocused, he saw a woman standing in the driveway.

Casey was turning. Going in fast.

“Watch out!”

“What?”

“You’re gonna run into her!”

Marsh grabbed at Casey’s arm so that the sedan hopped over the curb and skidded into the lot. The front end clipped the woman’s legs and vaulted her into the air. Limbs flailed, and a head collided into the windshield. The body clung to the hood.

“Marshall!” Casey jammed the brake pedal to the floor, and the smell of burnt rubber filled the sedan. The car slid sideways to a stop. “What are you doing?”

“You hit her!” he said.

With a slow turn, the woman’s face stared through the glass with frightened eyes—turquoise eyes that pierced straight through him. He stared back in disbelief. Had Josee walked here from downtown? She couldn’t have known he would come to this particular rental lot.

“Hit who?” Casey pried Marsh’s fingers from her arm.

“She’s hurt.”

“Who are you talking about?”

Dazed, Marsh watched Josee slump her head, saw her mangled body slide back off the hood and drop below the bumper. He jumped from the car and dashed to her aid. Casey joined him, crouching beside him in the hot breath of the car’s radiator.

“What’s going on, Marshall?”

“I swear, she was right here,” he whispered. “I saw her.”

“Who?”

“Where’d she go? She needs help.”

“What’re you saying? Are you speaking of your wife? Yes, we know she’s gone but not for good. We don’t know that, not yet—unless you have something to tell me.”

He rubbed a hand over the pavement; tiny pebbles dug into his skin. The shape of his arm fanned back and forth across his vision. No blood. No broken glass.

Josee, was that you? Are you out here? Talk to me
.

“If you know something,” Casey said, “please don’t hide it from me.”

He looked up, uncomprehending. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see her.”

“No, I didn’t. There’s no one out here.”

Marsh pressed his face to the pavement, scanned the ground beneath the sedan. Nothing but oil drops, a wrinkled receipt, a black comb with a strand of knotted hair. Another apparition—was that all she’d been? A psychosomatic concoction?

Scrap it all. Why had he even reacted? He should know better by now.

See, Josee, this is what I was saying. The past gets dirty. It messes you up
.

Casey was trying to console him. “Hang tough, Marshall. It’s been quite a day. I suggest you get your rental car squared away, then head straight over to the Ramada. Relax, have yourself a drink. Take it easy for the rest of the night, shoot a round of golf tomorrow if you think it’ll help. Perhaps I’ll stop by later and check on you. Knowing you, tomorrow’ll be packed full, particularly in light of your vineyard’s downtime today.”

“The vineyard? What about Kara?”

“They’ll find her, don’t you think? Explanations always seem obvious in retrospect. In no time, you two’ll be back to your routine, back to meetings and winetastings and hobnobbing. As though nothing ever happened.”

But something has happened. These glimpses—of Josee, of Kara
.

Beneath the car’s chassis, an object moved in the breeze. Caught Marsh’s eye. He stretched his hand over the asphalt. “I’m sure you’re right, but—”

“Of course I am. Women’s intuition.”

“If you’re so in tune”—he lifted the object—”then tell me where this came from. Answer that one, lawyer lady.”

She touched the glass figurine. “A chess piece, isn’t it? A bishop?”

“Same style as the set in my study. Unavailable in the US.”

“Scratched and a bit dirty, but it’s exquisite nonetheless. You think it’s yours?” Her green eyes locked on to his. “You do, don’t you, Marshall?”

He rolled the piece in his palm, deep in thought. On the chessboard, a
bishop could be hidden between pawns in a maneuver called a fianchetto. At the right time, it would slash across the board. This bishop, though … Where had it come from?

“Mine? Yes,” he said. “I’m just surprised it’s not broken.”

As Casey drove off, Marsh tucked himself behind the wheel of a Bonneville sedan, a rental upgrade on the vineyard’s account. Not much longer till dinner at his mom’s place. He sat for a full minute, head swimming with the events of the past few days. He was overdue to vent on a bucket of balls at the driving range.

He merged into traffic, let the tide carry him along. In anticipation of the weekend’s homecoming game against Arizona, OSU black-and-orange flags fluttered from car windows and antennas. Was that the same mid-size Chevy in his mirror?

Barkley’s Restaurant appeared straight ahead.

What, he wondered, had compelled him back to this spot? What did he expect to see? Or whom? Josee was long gone. Petite in her jeans and knee-length knit sweater, she had turned away from him.

He increased the pressure on the gas pedal, and the Bonneville surged ahead.

Along the row at Trysting Tree Golf Course, golfers practiced their swings. Tempered curses followed white and yellow balls onto the driving range; intermittently, the sound of clean connection floated across the plain. With a borrowed pro-shop driver, Marsh hooked the first ball and bounced it past the two-hundred-yard marker. The second swing clanged into his bucket, sending white balls skidding through the turf.

He would’ve cursed on a normal day. Today was not normal.

He moved to retrieve the mess and saw that the balls had come to rest in the rough shape of a bishop. Wide at the base. Tapered. A notch at the top.

Skittering overhead, clouds pushed shadows across the range, and Marsh lifted his club in defense as he ducked. A shot of adrenaline raced through his limbs.

Okay, now you’re losing it! Bye-bye, reality
.

But if Kara was his queen, he mused, did that mean Josee was his bishop? His foe had told him to study the board and learn, told him chess was a parable of life. He couldn’t believe how easily his life could be reduced to a game, but he was afraid not to heed the warning.

Refusing to entertain this folly further, Marsh snatched a lone ball and bent to tee it up. From his shirt slipped the exquisite bishop he’d pocketed at the parking lot. By some strange ability, it landed upright on the tee, daring him to take a swing. He felt angry. Helpless. He drew back the club.

“Ah, forget it!”

He flung the club aside, returned the chess piece to his pocket, and marched into the clubhouse for a drink.

Depoe Bay was over an hour’s drive. Time to shove off.

“Good talkin’ at you,” said a short, balding man on a barstool. He raised a hand in farewell as Marsh headed for the clubhouse door. “We got your back.”

The bartender concurred. “You take care, Marsh. Time comes, we’ll be there. You’ll be safer than asparagus at a fast-food convention.”

“Nice visual, Don. Thanks.”

“You can count on us.” The bartender gave an exaggerated nod to underscore the esprit de corps Marsh had found over the years along Trysting Tree’s fairways.

Tomorrow, he realized, it’d be time to cash in those chips.

From the parking lot of the golf complex, he watched a police car scream by, sirens wailing. His throat tightened, and his heart jumped. For a split second, he saw Chief Braddock handcuffing him, shoving him into a cruiser, arresting him for the murder of his wife. A common criminal. Dragged by circumstances into the gutter, hamstrung by a conspiracy that left him flatfooted in the path of small-city justice.

Not if he could help it. The game of kings was far from over.

In twenty-four hours he would face off with Steele Knight at the historical monument north of town. Camp Adair, the site of young Chance
Addison’s training for war. How appropriate. Marsh knew the spot, scoped it out in his mind, and trusted that his father’s journal would aid him in that encounter.

He stalked to the Bonneville, determined to bring his foe to his knees.

Headed toward the coast, he saw no signs of being tailed; nonetheless, he had the sense that his opponent was staying abreast of his every move.

Marsh asked himself, How much longer till the phone call? Till Steele Knight responded to his trick question? Had the note been a ruse? No, Kara was missing, and his opponent’s knowledge was too intimate. How long had chess served as a subterfuge for this man’s schemes? What motive would drive a person this far?

Every aspect of this attack felt personal.