Dark to Mortal Eyes (51 page)

At the Tattered Feather Art Gallery on SW Second, Marsh cupped his hands and peered through the storefront. He had hoped to question the curator about yesterday’s delivery. Who had paid for the painting? Who was the artist? A list of inquiries.

“Closed,” said Josee. “See the sign on the door.”

“On a Friday? Midmorning? Seems unusual.”

Perplexed, Marsh circled to the back of the store. The sight of the jimmied back door ripped the air from his throat. Confirming his suspicions of foul play, he saw scuff marks and a trail of dime-sized drops in the gravel.

“You see anything? Hold it. That looks like dried blood.”

“Stay back, Josee.” Marsh strode from the scene. “That’s just what I need right now, cops asking questions again. We’ll make an anonymous tip from a phone booth.”

In the Metro, Josee turned sullen. As though her trust in him was waning.

“Have you any idea what the name Corvallis means?”

“Sir?” Sergeant Turney stepped into the office, closed the door.

At floor-to-ceiling windows, the Good Samaritan hospital administrator stood silhouetted. The vista was spectacular. Remnants of storm clouds dragged patchwork shapes over the city, and between the coastal mountains to the west and the foothills to the east, the farmlands were a quilt of greens, browns, and reds, stitched together with threads of glistening rivers.

Turney shifted his weight, wondered what sorta trouble he’d gotten himself into this time. He knew Dr. Duvernoy on limited terms.

“Corvallis. Come now, Sarge, you’re a public servant. You should know
the answer.” Duvernoy turned so that the sunlight showcased the fatigue behind his spectacles. “The name’s self-explanatory actually.”

“Doesn’t it mean ‘heart of the valley’? Think I saw that in some brochure.”

“Well done.” Dr. Duvernoy rounded his broad oak desk, gesturing for Turney to take a seat. He made a show of polishing his spectacles with a chamois. “Fun and games aside, these are weighty matters before us. Yes, Sarge, our city sits squarely at the heart of the Willamette Valley. From here, veins of industry and commerce flow statewide, even worldwide. Hewlett-Packard, a case in point. And now we find ourselves harboring an invisible enemy, one that may pump out death.”

Feeling unkempt, Turney tugged at a strained shirt button. He hadn’t slept well. With little idea where this conversation was headed, he decided to linger around the edges of the ring so as not to take any unexpected blows.

The blow came anyway.

“I know about your childhood snakebite,” Duvernoy said.

“My fall onto the guard’s broken mug. Isn’t that what you mean?”

“A snakebite. I owe you an apology. See, years ago an army intelligence officer approached me in secret to warn that a chemical weapon had been lost in this very valley—’temporarily misplaced,’ in military parlance—during transport to a restricted site. A Nazi weapon, I was told, brought over after the war in the race between the Russians and Americans to exploit Hitler’s scientific advances. In fact, the success of our space program owes a debt to such technology. Anyway, the officer instructed me to keep an eye out for particular symptoms among our patients and to report telltale signs.”

“Who was this officer? Did you check up on him?”

“Naturally. Although the Umatilla Army Depot refused to tell me much, they confirmed that she was stationed there.”

“She?”

“The intelligence officer, yes. Later, Sarge—in July of ’81—I did as requested and reported to her your episode here in these hallways. She was intrigued by your symptoms, ordered me to suppress the facts surrounding your case.”

“What facts? What don’t I know?”

“Certain … details were tampered with—for the sake of national security, I was led to believe. The officer explained how the Nazis thought they had crafted the perfect biochemical weapon during the war. With a chemical accelerant incorporated into a snake venom—a specific hemotoxin that thins the blood and chokes off oxygen to the cells—they assured Hitler that an antidote would be nearly impossible to create. Indeed, experiments with varying subjects proved the weapon highly effective.”

“Effective?” said Turney. “Do I wanna hear this?”

“Aside from a handful who were measured for long-term effects, the majority of the subjects perished. Jews mostly. Whether distributed in aerosol form or percutaneously, small concentrations killed in minutes. Even highly diluted doses induced slow and horrific deaths with most subjects suffering hallucinations of grotesque serpentine images, presumably instigated by the venom.” Dr. Duvernoy inspected his eyewear. “They thought they’d been physically bitten.”

“By a snake.”

“Naturally.”

“The same as what happened to me.” Turney’s mind swung from the factual overload to the sudden connection:
It was a snake. And a big one! Like a stare down before a fight
.

Duvernoy slipped a sheet of onionskin across the desk. “Have a look, Sarge. That’s a portion of the report from your medical file. The stats and figures may be indecipherable, but you’ll notice there near the bottom—”

“Boomslang,” Turney read the word.

“An African tree snake, deadly as can be. Large and green, it feeds primarily on chameleons, secreting its venom through sharp rear fangs. In the US the boomslang is nonindigenous, impossible to find outside of zoological exhibits or private and illegal collections, but the Nazis first stumbled across it, literally, during their campaign in Africa. Resourceful types that they were, they collected the species and found use for it in their laboratories.”

“So I didn’t make it up. That’s what you’re telling me?”

“Your hallucinations were certainly warranted. And, though I can’t say I have all the answers, yes, traces of boomslang venom were found in your
blood. Not that we knew it at the time. Only after analysis—complete blood count, coagulation profile, blood typing and urinalysis—only then could we pinpoint it definitively.”

“Twenty-two years, Doctor? Why wait so long to cough up the truth?”

“We never found the canister you described. That left us with doubts.”

“Two decades?” Sergeant Turney drilled his eyes into Duvernoy. “Over two decades! All this time I’ve lived with ridicule and guilt. Thought I’d failed somehow.”

“We only dug into this again recently, when you brought Scooter in.” Duvernoy turned to the windows. “I called Chief Braddock yesterday when Scooter’s blood tests turned up results similar to yours. Nothing verified by outside sources, of course, but the symptoms are remarkably alike. The chief wanted me to tell you that he feels bad about it.”

“But Chief Braddock couldn’t tell me this himself, could he? Not his style.”

“He felt that my qualifications would lead to a clearer explanation.”

Turney’s stomach knotted. All along Braddock had known.
Figures!

“Back in ’81,” Dr. Duvernoy prattled on, “I was in my early forties, fairly new to this position, and your case planted itself firmly in my mind. Yesterday, as I compared files, the parallels became readily evident.”

Turney rolled back his sleeve. “Take a look at that! My scars’re oozing again. You’ve left me in the dark, while I just keep on sufferin’. Why didn’t you treat the wounds properly in the first place?”

“Did our best, I can vouch for that.”

“And what about Scooter? Is he gonna be fightin’ this for years to come?”

“We have no adequate antivenin, no specific means of treatment.” Duvernoy tapped on the glass, then looked back. “I’m mystified, actually, by Scooter’s sudden turn for the better. How he managed to walk out of here on his own two feet, I do not know. Cannot be attributed to our efforts, if truth be told.”

“Food poisoning—that’s what I was told it was.”

“Per my instructions, yes, Dr. Dunning provided that diagnosis. No reason to stir the public’s fears. Additionally, I needed time to call the intelligence officer and let her know that we had another case.”

“And what’d she have to say?”

“Actually,” the administrator said, “I didn’t speak with her personally. All along we’ve communicated through a liaison. Over the years the number’s changed a few times, but the liaison has remained the same—a man close to my age, by the sound of it. Always been polite, passing on my messages promptly. This time, however, I suspected something was wrong.”

Turney pushed himself up with palms on his thighs. His belly growled.

Duvernoy said, “When Scooter walked out of here on his own accord, I thought I might have jumped the gun, perhaps raised a false alarm. I redialed the liaison to let him know, but after failing to reach him, I called the Umatilla depot, hoping to directly contact the intelligence officer. When I asked for her, I was put through to a high-ranking official who told me she had retired a few years back. That aroused my suspicions.”

“What’s her name?” Turney asked. “You tried tracing this woman?”

“Trudi, that’s what she had me call her. At the depot, she was listed under her full name, Gertrude Ubelhaar. When I checked yesterday, I found that the liaison’s number is registered to a company called—”

“House of Ubelhaar,” Turney blurted out, recalling his visit to the postmaster.

Duvernoy’s eyes lifted over his spectacles. “Yes, but how did you know that?”

Marsh waved to the truck-stop waitress for a refill on their coffees. As Josee tore open a creamer, he located two items from his daypack. Stained by the ride through the woods, the pack elicited a curious stare from a young girl seated with her father in the next booth. She wore a Pocahontas costume, with her hair braided beneath an Indian headband. Marsh rued the fact that he could never retrieve the years lost between him and Josee. The object now was to preserve the years ahead.

“This belongs to you,” he said, slipping the filed bank key across the table.

Josee sipped her coffee. Added one more creamer. “What’s it for?”

“A safe-deposit box. In this envelope is a copy of my father’s journal, which details all that’s led up to this point. You won’t like everything in there—I didn’t—but it’s your grandfather’s story. Chance Addison’s legacy. I owe it to you to provide access to the truth.”

“Is this the key Braddock referred to?”

“Probably so, though I’m not sure how he knew about it.” Marsh leaned forward. “Josee, keep it somewhere safe where it won’t be found. I’m gonna make a few phone calls outside. Need to get ahold of my boys down at the golf course. Don’t give me that look. It’s not as frivolous as it sounds.”

Josee lifted her hands. “Hey, did I say a word?”

“Go ahead and read the journal,” Marsh said. “It’ll explain a lot.”

Avery Park. Almost one o’clock.

Josee stepped from the car and slung her knapsack over her shoulder. Using the contents of the journal as an excuse for time alone, time to think, she had solicited Marsh’s help in delivering her to this park. She regretted withholding information from him, but Rosie had made it clear that Kara wanted a confidential meeting. Yeah, Josee had noted strange actions on Marsh’s part, yet the journal convinced her to trust him. Whatever the conflict between husband and wife, that was their own private affair.

“Marsh, thanks. For, you know, letting me see the journal, for bringing me here. I’ll be safe, so don’t worry about me. No one’s followed us, not that I’ve spotted anyway.”

“You’re right,” he said. “Feeling edgy, that’s all. Sure you don’t want company?”

“Nothing personal, just need to settle my nerves. That journal gives me a lot to think about, you know.”
And that’s no joke. Now I know why I was damaged equipment from the start
.

“I’ll come back for you, Josee. How about that? Say, one hour?”

“Relax, okay. It’s not that far to the Van der Bruegges. I can walk it.”

“Watch yourself. That’s all I ask.”

“Yes, Daddy, I promise to be good.” Though she said it in a mocking little girl’s voice, she noticed that Marsh stiffened. Despite his candor regarding the past, he seemed resistant to this new mantle of fatherhood. She wasn’t going to force him.

“I can take care of myself,” she amended. “See ya later.”