Dark to Mortal Eyes (49 page)

Kris emerged from the back of the house and joined them beneath the tree. “I made some calls, and word’s passing around,” she told John. “We’re not alone.”

Josee said, “Let John and Kris help you. They’re good people.”

“They’ve only made it worse. Somethin’ about this place.”

John took his wife’s hand. Along the marble bath, the birds quieted and kept watch over the proceedings. John said, “The reason you feel that way, Scooter, is because Kris and I try to let our home be a place of refuge, of grace. Not that we’re perfect, not at all. Don’t believe us? Ask our kids. But where mistakes abound, grace also abounds. Nothing unclean is welcome here. It must either run and hide or show itself. That’s why you want to run. You think you’re trapped and there’s no way out.”

“Sheesh, what’s wrong with all of you? I’m fine. Look, I cut off the scraggly long hair and beard. What more do ya want?”

“Scooter, that’s not the point. God looks at your heart.”

“Try tellin’ that to some of the creeps Josee and I’ve run into.”

Kris said, “What’ve they told you? You think God’s put off by Josee’s eyebrow ring? By the way you wear your hair or the clothes you put on? Fairly superficial, if you ask me. No, God’s much bigger than that, and if he’s not, we’re all wasting our time, aren’t we?” She elbowed John, threw Josee a mischievous grin. “Why, maybe I should get that tattoo I’ve always wanted.”

The grin washed over Josee with cool acceptance. No fronting here.

“Let them help,” she implored Scooter. “Come on, hon.”

He tucked his chin into his chest and continued pacing. “I’m not about to jump through any hoops, you hear me? ‘Do this’ and ‘do that.’ Nah, we’ve heard all that before. Thanks, but no thanks.” The cinch cords on his bedroll
seemed to unravel as he moved. “Maybe I’m not good enough, but hey, at least I don’t pretend I got it all together. What about you, Josee? You gonna conform? Let’s get away from here.” The cords spiraled down, brushing against Scooter’s legs, curling along his sleeves.

“Scooter,” John admonished, “please give me that bedroll.”

“Back off, man! This is my stuff.”

“You won’t be free until you let go.”

Scooter rocked again. His voice took on a deeper tone. “I’m free, free to roam. Who are you to hold me down?” He halted to remove a cord that had slithered between the buttons of his shirt. “Why won’t this thing let go?”

“Because somewhere along the line it’s found a foothold.”

“A foothold? Yeah, man, whatever.”

“Something little. That’s all it takes. A spot of unresolved bitterness. This enemy you’re fighting is a thief, and he’ll take whatever you give him.”

Scooter ignored the rejoinder and tugged at the bedroll’s cover flap.

Ker-popppp!

Josee and the Van der Bruegges started at the sound. The clasp sprung open, and Josee watched threads of snakes unwind over the lip and drop to the grass. Baby vipers spilled over the legs of Scooter’s khakis; together, the threads wove themselves into a single dark entity that coiled back up his body and poised over his shoulders. It was a sorceress, a haughty queen on a chessboard.

Was this for real, Josee wondered, or some comic-book apparition?

“S’okay.” Scooter dropped his belongings. “Back off, I’m okay.”

“Scooter, it’s a lie,” said Kris.

“This thing that you’re fighting,” John said, “is a deception, nothing more.”

The fabric of intertwined serpents formed an undulating cloak behind the sorceress. Once more Josee’s eyes seemed open to an unseen realm so that she doubted her own clarity of mind. Was she going wacko here? Yet, clearly the Van der Bruegges were aware of an additional presence as well. They might not be able to see it, but they seemed to know it was there.

Scoot said, “Uh-uh, everything’s cool. Just back off.”

The morning’s tedium was about to drive Turney bonkers. Facing bomb threats and terrorist acts, he was irritated to no end by the details of the job. What he needed was a little pick-me-up, a sugar rush. He thumbed through the case files on his desk, lifted the morning paper, but found nothing to satisfy his urge.

The top drawer? Nope. How about the middle one?

Yup, there it was.

Even as thick fingers closed around the tin of almond roca, his vow to John Van der Bruegge reasserted itself:
Fast? As in, don’t eat?… I’ll give it my best shot
. Why’d he ever agree to such an idea? Sure, he saw its value, but what difference could he possibly make? This was why he shied away from New Year’s resolutions; they practically begged to be broken.

He opened the tin, caught a whiff of rich—

Nope! Gotta honor my agreement. For John and Kris, for Scooter … for Josee
.

Time for a change of scenery, otherwise he’d cave to the candied temptation.

Turney wandered through the station’s hubbub to the mail slots near the water cooler. He sucked down a double helping of water—better than nothing—aimed the cup into the wastebasket, then scanned his three most recent messages.

The first referred to an employee at a drive-through espresso booth in the nearby town of Philomath. Apparently, the young lady had seen this morning’s news report about a man hit and killed by a car on coastal Highway 101. She recognized the picture. She knew the man. She’d served him white mochas every now and then. He always drove up in a family-type van, a tan one, and always had an older guy with him in the passenger seat.

Turney noted at the bottom of the paper that the lady had been put in contact with police counselors. She must be pretty shaken up.

The second message, from Chief Braddock, demanded his appearance at Good Samaritan Regional Medical Center. Twelve o’clock in the hospital administrator’s office. Don’t miss it; drop everything.

Hoo boy, what now?

The third, per Marsh Addison’s earlier inquiry, provided the cell number of the motorist that had called in Thursday morning’s accident on Ridge Road. Under the cloud of a potential police investigation, the phone company had released the name and billing address attached to that number. The
address was of no immediate help—a local post office box—and it appeared that the phone belonged to a business account. The name, in a slanted scrawl, looked misspelled.

House of Ubelhaar … Sponsor of the Arts
.

Armed with a bottle of water, Turney paid a short visit to the Corvallis postmaster and discovered that a “Karl Stahlherz” had signed the original post office box agreement. The account had remained in good standing for over five years. The average count of delivered mail was nothing out of the ordinary; never had a package been called into question; the box was emptied on a regular basis. In all, an unremarkable account.

House of Ubelhaar? Karl Stahlherz?

Both names were new to Turney. Sounded Dutch or German.

Scales formed a scepter that the sorceress swished down Scooter’s arm. Her fluid shape nestled behind him, writhing in an offer of unearthly comfort.

Don’t even go there, lady!
Josee stepped forward.
He doesn’t belong to you
.

The hazy face angled her way.

Josee turned to stone. She recognized those eyes, the same flaming pinpricks she’d seen two mornings ago in the woods. She recalled Scooter’s reaction to the attack … 
Submissive and accepting of his fate? Or reveling in the experience?

“Scooter, you’re not alone in this,” John said. “We have friends praying for you, and we’re right here. Let us help.”

As though in response, the birds along the marble bath took wing. In staccato bursts, they swept down at the serpents, short beaks pecking at and shredding the dark fabric. The sorceress cried out, swatting at them with her scepter. They swooped in a second time; again she batted them away.

“See there, you can resist this thing,” John called.

“This? Oh, she’s nothing.” Prompted by the scepter, Scooter’s fingers brushed back through the ropes of vaporous hair, and the sorceress drew closer. “She’s a companion, one of the characters from a role-playing game I’m into. You don’t wanna get on this lady’s bad side, tell you that much right now.
She’s got one razor-sharp mind and a … a wicked …” His voice weakened as she nuzzled at his neck.

“Can you see her?” John inquired. “You’re in a spiritual skirmish. Do you recognize that? We can’t see what you’re fighting, not physically, but we can feel its presence. This is a pagan entity, one you should never have flirted with.”

As Josee had suspected, only she could see the creature’s physical form.

“Push her away,” Josee demanded.

“Babe, I can’t … can’t do it.”

“You can.”

“She’s too strong. Too many … necropoints.”

“Necropoints?” Kris waited for an explanation.

“Death points,” said Josee. The birds continued to hover, striking in bursts.

“But, Scooter, you’ve given her those points,” John stated.

“She took ’em.”

“Yes, but only after you gave her control.”

“It’s a game, that’s all,” Scooter countered. “I’ll be fine, you hear me?”

A game? Fat chance. Josee thought back to a few weeks ago in their trailer by the lake. She had curled up in a beanbag with a bag of sea-salt chips while Scooter and his buddies played one such game. Some, in the spirit of the night, had dressed as warlocks and wizards, but nothing quite like this sorceress. Josee thought of the times Scoot had gone into Seattle, claiming to meet his friends for a game or two. What had he really been up to?

“You can resist. You must resist,” John was saying to Scooter.

“Nah. She … won’t let … go. Not like she’s tryin’ to hurt anyone. It’s all good. It’s cool.” Scooter’s tone had gone flat. While the sorceress’s right hand took erratic swings at the birds, her left ran black fingernails down his arm. The fingers turned to handcuffs about his wrists.

“Stand firm,” John said. “You need to make your choice.”

“I … can’t. How … Help me, man. What can I do? Help.”

John Van der Bruegge stepped in, waving his hands over Scooter’s arms. With this motion, he seemed to knock the encircling fingers loose. He looked into Scooter’s eyes. “See, you gave me the opening to step in. You made a brief decision to seek help. You
can
resist, so long as you retain your ability to make
choices. No one takes your free will from you, but you
can
hand it over, and once you do so, it’s no longer free, is it? In fact, it can cost you everything.”

Scooter softened. “I’m trapped. They’re using me to get to Josee.” He looked down. “They followed me to the hospital … the snake, the snakes. They came with me.” His words were slurred, but he forced them out. “An … ambush. I didn’t mean to, Josee. I’m sorry … too strong.”

“Told you I forgive you, hon. Like John says, you can resist. Come on!”

“I … no, I can’t.”

“You can! You’ve gotta take a stand. Why do you do this? Why do you back down? Listen to me, Scooter, you have to fight!”

“Too late, babe. She’s … she’s gonna eat us alive.”

His words pressed the Replay button in Josee’s memory.
Scooter … a prey numbed, yet alive, heart still beating to provide fresh sustenance on demand
. Josee had sensed impending danger in the thicket. Here it was again, insatiable, grasping for more. Although she wanted to hug Scooter, to comfort him, she also wanted to flee. She pressed down her fear. “Scooter, you have to make a stand to get rid of this thing, this … enemy.”

“Enemy, huh?”

“The enemy of our souls,” Kris joined in.

The scepter hooked Scooter’s mouth and a paroxysm of laughter shook him. “Oooh, sounds spooky.”

“Scoot, it’s nothing to kid about,” Josee said. “You think you’ll survive by letting this thing hang around, but it’ll take you down. You have to stand up to it.”

Though sagging on weak legs, Scooter raised an eyebrow. A flicker of hope?

Briefly the apparition loosened her grip as she ducked from a new onslaught of darting birds. Beaks tore fiber from her fabric, tatters hung lifelessly from the cloak, and Josee began to believe that this thing could be defeated. Perhaps the Van der Bruegges’ circle of friends was beginning to prevail; perhaps their prayers were taking effect. With feathery attack, the birds were providing shelter from the sorceress.