Dark to Mortal Eyes (44 page)

Stahlherz leaned back in satisfied appraisal. “Deflection”—that’s what chess players called it. The anthrax was a ruse, nothing more. A means of deflecting the authorities’ attention. And it was working.

The public was just as easily fooled. Stahlherz eavesdropped on the men at the bar.

“Get a load o’ that, Red. Anthrax. That’s some downright nasty stuff.”

“Whadda they expect?” Red took an extended drag, let smoke curl through his nostrils and ruddy beard. “I seen it on
20/20
,
Dateline
—one o’ them shows. Can buy the stuff through the mail, you believe that? Universities, whatnot, they study it—guess it’s got somethin’ to do with some animal disease—and they’ll send ya samples like it’s shampoo to rub through your hair.” He chortled and dropped his cigarette butt in his glass.

“World’s a sick place anymore. Line up the head cases, and I’d mow ’em down.”

“Free o’ charge,” Red agreed, “with my Peterbilt.”

“We got families to feed, bills to pay. Save the taxpayers some moola.”

Stahlherz ingested the exchange with a growing sense of justice. See, these men had no clue. They were uneducated, backwoods screwups blind to the fact that they added to the system’s sickness. Talk, talk, talk. Was that all they could do? Let them gag on their self-righteous blabber. Tomorrow the talk would be over.

Time for action.

Throughout the Willamette Valley and along the Oregon coast, ICV cells now waited with the twelve canisters he had disbursed. Each canister was a binary weapon composed of two chambers. Boomslang hemotoxin filled the first. Tomorrow night, with Josee Walker’s help and the assistance of other recruits on standby, Stahlherz would supply the other ingredient. Crafted by Nazi biochemist Doktor Ubelhaar, the nerve gas accelerant would fill the secondary chambers of each canister.

Serpentine malice and human endeavor—a deadly concoction.

Fill your cup … Drink up!

On its own, the hemotoxin was hazardous, but the accelerant multiplied the potency a hundredfold. The result: a highly concentrated biochemical weapon capable of poisoning tens of thousands. Perhaps more.

Huddled in the armchair, Josee pulled the bedspread tighter.

How could she trust Scooter? The grind of his mouth, the stale breath. He had violated a boundary long established between them. He’d not only
tried to force himself on her, he’d also written himself into those inky memories she wanted to forget.

Forgive and forget.

She couldn’t forget. How could she ever? But then, maybe forgiveness was simply the first step on a road leading away from the darkness. Could she learn from the past and still walk into the future? Was forgetting nothing more than releasing her rights to seek punishment for the wrongdoers?

What they did was so wrong! Lord, how can you sit by?

“Vengeance is mine. I will repay those who deserve it.”

She knew that was God’s line somewhere in the Bible. One day he would deliver justice. A judge, weighing the evidence. And all were guilty—every last one. Black ink. Whether scrawled or printed painstakingly, the ink was still a stain on white paper. Only the sacrifice of one could erase the hate letters of the many.

Jesus, I don’t want to hate. Not anymore. But I can only take so much
.

With sleep elusive, Josee advanced the CD player to the fourth track and absorbed the syncopated bass and delicate cymbals of U2’s “Walk On.” The lyrics drew her feelings and thoughts into a soothing embrace. She began to drift off, the words holding her by the hand as they led her down a path of dreams.

“Might want to see the news, Marshall. Come on out.”

Marsh unlocked the door and stumbled from the bathroom’s darkness with a towel around his waist. Before him, Casey Wilcox was lean and radiant, her clothes dry, her hair styled. On the television, a commercial was playing.

“You slip on the floor, mon cher? Sounded as though you fell, and then I heard mumbling but couldn’t tell what you were saying. You took forever in there.” Casey scooped up her heels and purse. “Go ahead, I’m a grown woman. You were avoiding me, is that to be my assumption? A change of heart?”

“Something like that.” He edged her through the hotel suite door. “Time for you to go. Let’s just pretend this never happened.”

“Nothing did happen.”

“Exactly. Good night.”

Casey braced a foot against the door. “Marshall, there is some good news to share. While you were in the shower, I checked my office messages. The sergeant called to say that Corvallis PD’s pulling the crime team from your estate. As of tomorrow morning, you have the all clear to go home.”

“Home?”

“I thought you’d be glad. You’ll have back the manor and your Tahoe.”

“Kara’s not there.”

Casey set a finger on his shoulder. “Then, Mr. Addison, I suggest you do your best to get her back. I wish you—and your wife—all the best. Genuinely. Guess I misread you earlier. My error. I see now that you do love her. It’s sweet actually.”

“Bye, Casey.” Marsh chained and deadbolted the door.

On the news the wreckage of Kara’s BMW Z3 was filling the screen. Marsh clicked the volume button. The anchorwoman gave a chronological rehash of events surrounding the disappearance of Kara Addison, wife of
Corvallis vintner and owner of Addison Ridge Vineyards. The anchor mentioned the initial questioning of Marshall Addison, then Sergeant Turney appeared with news of a young man’s confession to the woman’s abduction. The police force, he said, was investigating and looking for anyone with pertinent information. “When we return,” the anchor promised, “we’ll bring you the story of a related terrorist threat and how it could affect you, and we’ll take a closer look at the local political race as things heat up for next week’s election …”

The sacrifice had been made. Beau Connors. A measly pawn.

Marsh felt the burden of suspicion lift from his shoulders, yet Steele Knight’s maneuvering served notice that he was in this game to the death.

As he faced the barren room, Marsh saw his night bag opened at the foot of the bed. Casey must’ve been searching for his cologne. In defiance of her advances, the leather corner of a Bible protruded from his folded clothes.

A Bible? Strange. He didn’t own a personal copy.

His fingers touched the cover and tightened as a current issued forth from the weathered book.
Kara Addison
. In silver filigree, her name commanded attention. Had Turney scooped this into the duffel bag while at the estate? A simple mistake?

As opposed to the bathroom’s apparition, the nearness of Kara’s Bible lent Marsh a sense of calm. Wherever Kara was, he realized she was not alone.

He thumbed the pages. The book fell open.

Hoping for a glimpse into her world, he began to read.

Thubba-hisssh, thubba-hisssh …

Trapped in the dark hole beneath her husband’s trophy room, Kara woke to the grating sound. In her mind, she could see the prickly arm of a ponderosa pine bumping and dragging against an outer wall above.

Thubba-hisssh, thubba-hisssh …

Years ago, in the dark stairwell of Good Samaritan Hospital, she had heard a similar sound as she worked the steps, hoping to hurry the delivery of her daughter. Was it an old wives’ tale, or would this work? One step, then
another. Marsh, her fiancé, was holding one hand while she gripped the guardrail with the other. Her belly was swollen and heavy, her legs bowed. This was her first child. Had a baby ever dropped straight out? It seemed imminently possible. Her lower back was a cord of knotted muscle that squeezed down with each step.

Footsteps … 
thubba
. The brush of a jacket … 
hisssh
.

Thubba-hisssh …

This time they both heard it. Kara turned her head in time to see a white-jacketed figure arrive on the landing above. She couldn’t see the face; from this angle, she saw only a silver blue object with a gaping black mouth. Behind the figure, she saw the door open. The gaping mouth roared.

Ka-boommm!

The crack of thunder echoed through the stairwell, deafening. She felt a tug at her hip. A bullet? She was falling, clutching at Marsh for support, crumpling into a heavy ball. He braced his legs and gripped her elbow with one arm, her waist with the other.
The baby!
He let her down gently. She winced, felt hot sticky fluid pumping from the hip wound. Above, the landing had cleared, and the door had closed them off. Marsh was speaking soothing words. She was getting blood on his clothes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Then her voice failed her.
Sorry
.

Like salt on a wound, Detective Braddock was the first on the scene. The tension between Marsh and the detective was palpable.

Sorry, sorry
.

After preliminary treatment of the bullet wound, an emergency Cesarean ushered a daughter into the world. Little Josee. Six pounds, eleven ounces.
Perfect
, Kara thought. In her arms, the tiny form sparked to life, awash in the color bursts of the Independence Day fireworks outside. A pink cap warmed the infant’s head.

Marsh stepped in. “You beat the fireworks,” he said. “Just like you wanted.”

Kara’s hair was plastered to her cheeks. “Here. Say hi to her.”

“No use getting attached, gonna have to let her go. We already agreed—”

“I know, I know.” Tears pooled on Kara’s eyelids. “Just let her hear your voice before you say good-bye for good. You can do that much at least.”

Marsh said, “Hi there, little one. Uh, how are you?”

Together they stared transfixed by the infant’s ribbon-thin lips and pudgy nose, by a band of turquoise that twinkled through moist, squinty eyelids.

“My baby girl,” Kara whispered as she adjusted the receiving blanket.

Marsh watched. “Taking it better than I thought you would, Kara.”

Without looking up, she said, “I don’t want her to feel my pain. I want her to know joy.” Then, focused on little Josee, she cooed, “You’ll always be my baby. Please remember my voice. This is your mama talking to you. You’ll always be my precious girl.” Despite herself, she let the tears fall as her lips convulsed in quiet whimpers.

Then the commotion at the door shattered the night.

Kara was rushed to safety. Josee was rushed from their lives.

Now, tied to a chair, Kara Addison held on to the hope of that pink knitted cap in her pocket. Out there, somewhere, Josee Walker was looking for her mother. Perhaps a twist of fate would join Josee and Marsh in their efforts to locate her.

Not that everyone made choices within God’s will. Many disobeyed.

But didn’t he cause “everything to work together for the good of those who love God”? Hadn’t she underlined that verse? At the moment it seemed an empty consolation, considering that her Bible was at home on her nightstand, far, far away.

Marsh contemplated the pages. His heart was drumming. He had never imagined this book could have any relevance to his life and was amazed by its detailed description of his struggle through the past two days.