Read Dark to Mortal Eyes Online
Authors: Eric Wilson
Dark to Mortal Eyes (37 page)
Mesmerized, Marsh turned a brittle page and continued.
The second factor, and one I fear is related to my own blind ambition, is my declining health. Despite the doctor’s attempts to placate Virginia, I know something is inexplicably wrong. As I compare my symptoms with the records of Doktor Ubelhaar’s chemical experiments, I realize that his daughter has vindicated herself upon me in much the same manner she killed her own father. The pesticide Trudi presented was nothing less than the poisonous mixture her father had used upon Jewish subjects, wherein, from the glass-confined safety of his laboratory, he chronicled their internal bleeding and eye-bulging pain, their diarrheic writhing and delusional screams. Now, in a diluted state, the poison allows Trudi to watch me die a slow and painful death. The details of this infirmity are not ones to be committed to paper, but I must make their source known—for my wife’s sake and for the sake of the grandchildren that may come someday from the loins of our newborn son, Marshall Ray.
Trudi Ubelhaar—at the time of this writing, a chemist and consultant on payroll at the Umatilla Army Depot—has insidiously destroyed my life. She is a woman racked by hate and motivated by her delusions of grandeur at the helm of the Third Reich. She told me many times of her personal meeting with Adolf Hitler at her initiation into the breeding program, how his hand tarried in her then-seventeen-year-old palm, how he said she would be vital to the Reich’s success.
I presumed these to be the mumblings of a star-struck young woman. Oh, how wrong I was! She fancies herself a chosen vessel, an agent commissioned to carry on the madness that Hitler himself was unable to complete. She longs to mete out judgment on the masses by way of her father’s stolen formula. I suspect, even, that she may have had a hand in its genesis.
According to the papers confiscated from Doktor Ubelhaar’s laboratories, this poison, designated Gift 12, created a curious pattern during the experimentation period lasting from the early thirties to the
end of the war: In mice and in the few surviving Jews, it skipped generations, inflicting itself upon one while remaining dormant in the other. In the documented second-generation cases, the subjects generally survived with debilitating blood and circulation anomalies. I fear my own grandchildren will be similarly handicapped.
To visit this accursed affliction upon me, via the canister, was not enough. Trudi also threatened Virginia’s life. Who knows what other contemptible plots nest in that tainted soul of hers? I must act, but what recourse do I have? To expose Trudi Ubelhaar is to expose my own infidelities, my own betrayals before country and kin. No, that is not permissible! Instead, to save my wife’s life, I’ve parried Trudi’s threats with a game of my own.
Taking advantage of my clearance at the chemical depot, I exchanged the only remaining vials of her father’s experimental accelerant with vials of harmless organic solutions. The actual venom vials now rest in an undisclosed safe-deposit box, and Trudi understands that her only hope of laying hands on them is linked directly to Virginia’s continued health. A bribe, yes, to protect my wife.
But what could I offer in exchange for Trudi’s restraint? Perforce, I divulged that the seed of my offspring alone will have access to the vials she covets. Instructions at the bank allow Marshall’s firstborn and no other to open the safe-deposit box—with its enclosed poison. Only this firstborn will bring Trudi her opportunity to wreak the widespread havoc that burns like a fire in her breast. My hope is that she will not live long enough to see this through. Or—forgive me!—that my afflicted grandchild will not survive to provide Trudi her opportunity. For what choice do I have? Do I lose my wife, whom I love? Or my grandchild, yet unknown to me? I am sowing the evil of my ways. This game of chance, oh, it has become a curse to all involved!
A curse, indeed. Now, at last, Marsh understood Josee’s involvement: She was the key to the safe-deposit box, to the vials of boomslang hemotoxin. On the grand chessboard, she was the bishop, alone capable of slicing to the coveted object. His daughter? Chance’s grandchild? A living bribe.
Marsh walked into the bathroom and heaved into the sink. His throat stung.
Back on the sofa, with a glass of milk, he thought of Josee’s vulnerable turquoise eyes. Defiance and pain bordered her pupils. And—dare he admit it?—he was on some level responsible. He had inflicted damage on those around him. He had followed in his father’s footsteps and made choices that cut deep into his family.
Family? What family? I pushed Josee away
.
Filtered through Virginia’s hurt, Chance’s betrayals had infused Marsh’s life on every level. How could he be purified of this evil? The way looked dim.
Marsh, I have numerous regrets. In many ways, I’ve failed to attain even my lowest ambitions. I fear the possibility’s slim that I’ll live to speak these words to your comprehending ears. You’re merely an infant. Yet, in the likelihood that Trudi or her accomplices attempt to foist this horror upon your family as well, I leave my journal as a guide toward understanding. I will not be there to partner with you—against this obstacle or any other. Truly, I’ll miss watching the transformation of my son into a man.
A section addressed to him? Marsh was caught off guard. He had learned to be strong beneath his mother’s hand, but these intimate words struck deep. Sorrow and anger and regret crashed over him. The same feelings Josee must be contending with.
She must hate me! And I told her to leave, to say good-bye
.
The sins of the fathers had heaped pain on all involved.
The journal shall remain in your mother’s possession—oh, this woman who’s so faithfully stood beside me! Virginia knows some of the story, not all. She knows I’ve been untrue, and I’ve begged her forgiveness. What more can I do? I’ve asked her to hide this journal until the day comes that you might require it. Only in such an event do I release these confessions and thus knowingly tarnish my name before
my own progeny. As for the canister, I’ve returned it to Trudi. And good riddance! It’s useless to me. It’s done its foul deeds.
In a final gesture, I’ve enlisted the help of one other, a man committed to the protection of my family. I saved his father’s life; perhaps he’ll have an opportunity to return the favor before all is done. I believe that by remaining anonymous he’ll be safe from Trudi’s ploys. I can only hope he remains faithful to this task. I’ve provided financial incentives to encourage him in this endeavor.
Marsh, my betrayals and follies are many and have resulted in much pain—for me and for those I cherish. Please don’t repeat my mistakes. In life I’ve involved myself in a dangerous game. In death and in disclosure I hope to bring this to a close.
May God have mercy on my soul,
Chance Addison
P.S. For what it’s worth … Bank of the Dunes, Florence, Box No. 89
Wrinkled packing tape held a brown envelope to the journal’s inside cover. A key, with its number filed away, slipped from the decades-old resting place.
The Questions
Her need for nicotine drove her to the back porch, where trees whipped in the gale. The yard was dark. Josee was alone, by request, and Scooter had joined John Van der Bruegge for a rematch at the pool table.
So this trip had been a waste and a failure, a lesson in futility. The disappointment jabbed deeper than Josee had anticipated.
At least she had found Scooter again. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?
But Kara Addison. She was missing.
As for Marsh, his fatherhood was still debatable. He seemed like a straight-up guy, not exactly in touch with his feminine side, not exactly dripping with sympathy and emotion, but honest. Josee knew that when it came to women, what she saw was what they wanted her to see. With men, what she saw was what she got.
Testosterone may run shallow, but at least I know what I’m diving into
.
Marsh Addison had made it clear: No Diving Allowed.
At the house’s edge, the wind moaned as it had throughout the late afternoon. Josee flicked fingers at the hip of her jeans. A trail of heat seemed to spiral up her leg. Warm. Itchy. She brushed a hand against her pocket, but there was nothing there.
Through exhaled smoke, she admired the moon that skirted behind the clouds—
Dang it, what is that?
Again she felt something contract and twitch from her heel and up along her thigh. Wool-stockinged feet tensed to the point of cramping in her leather sandals. She coughed and almost discarded her cigarette, but the rolled paper seemed superglued to her fingertips. She took another puff.
As she turned to go back in, she saw coiled in the yellow pool of the porch light a small snake. Had it been there when she came out? Had she stepped
right over it? Or perhaps it had arrived while she was smoking and had watched her with interest.
The thing was laughable really. She could crush it with ease. One good stomp.
Kris Van der Bruegge opened the door, and the snake slithered between the porch slats into the dark below.
“Josee? Sorry to interrupt your alone time, but you have a phone call.”
Rosie nosed her vintage car down Timberwolf Lane. The Pacific’s frigid blasts buffeted the vehicle and found their way through the windows. She quivered. She would be inside in a moment, but she reveled in the ocean’s brawny might and the dunes’ sensual curves. Unfortunately, her years in the drier climate of eastern Oregon had left her susceptible to this damp cold, and her visits here had been curtailed.
She dialed Marsh’s cell number but reached his voice mail.
“Sir,” she said through static, “this is Rosie. I’ve arrived safely in Yachats. Again, thank you for allowing me the use of the beach house. Things’ve been difficult for you the past two days, but take heart, I trust that all will come to light. Please ring me when the investigators have departed and my services are needed back at the manor. Until then, I’ll be seeing to my duties here. Good night.”
She parked in the gravel drive and carried her carpetbag up the front steps.
Turney flicked a finger at a fly, then drew up his uniform sleeve to find his scars pressing through the skin. A pair of green marbles. Between the scars, trails of goop connected the freckles like a dot-to-dot. This thing was getting uglier by the hour. He applied an antiseptic cream and wrapped it in fresh gauze.
“Here goes nothing.” He grabbed the phone, reached the Van der Bruegges, got Josee on the line. He was off-duty, but in his years with the
department, he’d discovered that certain cases thumbed their noses at individual schedules.
“Good news. We think Kara Addison’s alive,” he told her.
“My mother? You found her?”
“No, but a kid stumbled into the station a few minutes ago. Does the name Beau Connors ring any bells? He was holding his head, said he’d done work up at a vineyard and started obsessin’ over a lady there, so he cooked up a plan to kidnap her. Now that he’s got her, he’s riddled with guilt and worried he’ll be put away for a long time. Doesn’t want her to die, or so he claims. Says that was never his plan.”
“Is she okay? What’d he do to her?”
“He’s afraid. Disoriented. Won’t tell us where she is.”
“Maybe he’s full of it.”
“His facts’re too specific,” Turney said. “We haven’t made any public statements yet about her disappearance—least nothing that’s been aired before the news later tonight—but Beau knows details about the car in the ravine. The workers up at Addison Ridge have been sent home for the weekend, so they know bits and pieces, but we’ve kept things quiet otherwise.”
“But he did work up there too. You just said that, Sarge.”
“Diesel repair, contract work, nothing steady. I think this kid’s the full-meal deal. Plus, he’s got physical evidence.” The line grew quiet. “Still there?”
“Do I want to hear this?”
Turney paced in front of his desk, kicked an old box of Fiddle Faddle. “Josee, the good news here is that she’s alive. If it were any different, I’d have come over in person. Not gonna lie to you, won’t sugarcoat it, but we do have reasonable hope of gettin’ information outta this kid.”