Dark to Mortal Eyes (63 page)

Marsh felt Kara press closer, clasp tighter. She said, “No matter what happens, darling, I’m glad you came for me.”

“So am I.”

From the descriptions in his dad’s journal, Marsh knew they could not afford to take this risk. He had no desire to breathe in even a minute particle of poison, new or old. In the journal, with scientific exactitude, his father had detailed the formula for a chemical weapon’s aerosol effectiveness: L(Ct)
₅₀
, the lethalness to 50% of the population, based on concentration and time. How long could they hold their breath? Could they dive under the waves and swim away? None of the options seemed viable.

“Your weapon,” the leader demanded. When Marsh drew the gun into view and ejected the clip, the long-snouted man was not fooled. “I know you still have a chambered round. Toss the whole thing. Do it!”

With posture erect so as not to reveal his trepidation to Kara, he flung the Glock into the pounding tide. His strategies had been stripped away.

Here we are, God. At your mercy. And I’m all outta bright ideas
.

Side by side, bound at the wrists by ample lengths of duct tape, and guided by the group’s mounted lamps, Marsh and Kara made the ascent to the top of the cliff.

“Well, well, my distinguished guests …”

From the path between the trees, Marsh and Kara arrived to the beckoning
arms of Trudi Ubelhaar. The gas-masked sentries positioned themselves about the candlelit picnic table that had been set not far from the keeper’s house. Trudi nodded, then gestured for them to join her for dinner alfresco.

Marsh took a seat, noting the metal canister at the head of the table.

Kara broke in. “These are our dishes, Rosie. Trudi. Whoever you claim to be.”

“And I’m serving you dinner,” the older woman said. “Is it not the routine you’ve enjoyed for over three years now? Only I’m no longer relegated to silent subservience. Truly, Kara, you should know the feeling of which I speak. I’ve observed your relationship, seen you abdicate your personality by playing humble wifey. Well, learn from my example, dear heart, for this time I shall speak my mind.”

“I want to know that Josee’s okay. Will she be coming back?”

“First, she’s fetching a gift for us all.”

Gift 12
. Marsh caught the play on words.
Poison. Vials of venom
.

A half block from the bank, in the lee of a sand dune where spikes of grass waved in the wind, the ICV driver parked and tapped a knuckle against the radio clock: 5:39. “Hope your papa has some numbers for us,” he said to Josee, “or you’ll be a little orphan girl. Of course, I’d be more than willing to watch after you.”

“In your dreams.”

The driver shirked her rebuttal and dialed his cell phone. With pen in hand and a notepad on his knee, he waited for a reply. “Professor? We’re here, no problems. Still open, yeah. Not many cars in the parking lot. Nothing out of order. I’ll stick to her like glue, you betcha. You got the numbers for us?”

Josee, for her parents’ safety, fought the impulse to dart from the Buick with the box number he scrawled down. Problem was that her parents were stuck with Trudi. For the time being, she would have to cooperate.

The driver was scowling into the phone. “Are you sure that’s what you want—” He stopped short. “As you say, Professor.” With a set jaw, he
stretched an arm over the backseat, gestured, took possession of the snub-nosed revolver.

“What’s that for?” Josee inquired. But the driver did not answer.

Trudi answered her chiming phone. After a short dialogue, she shot Marsh a look, and he checked his watch: 5:39
PM
. “The box number, Marshall? No time to squander, knowing that Josee’s life rests upon your reply.”

Marsh touched Kara’s tightly taped hands beneath the table. “Number 89.”

Trudi repeated the digits into the phone, her fingers tracing the skull and crossbones on the canister before her. She issued a last order: “And once Josee’s retrieved the contents, remove her from the board … Yes, do it without delay.”

From the wooden bench, Marsh tried to stand. “What do you mean, ‘remove her’? What about our agreement?” At his side, through the fence, he caught a glimpse of billowing waves below.

“You’re not that naive, sir. You should know that every game exacts its toll.”

“You said we’d see her!” Kara shouted, wide eyed. “What’d she ever do to you? Leave my daughter out of this! You can’t do this! Whatever grievances you have with Marsh and me, let’s sort them out, but for goodness’ sake, let Josee go. Please, Trudi.”

“You’ve always been the innocent bystander, Kara. My heart goes out to you.”

“Then call them back. Tell them to leave Josee alone!”

Marsh grabbed for the phone with taped hands. Maybe if he hit the Redial button, he could undo this unthinkable wrong. What he really wanted to do was wrap his fingers around Trudi’s neck, wringing from her any possibility of further damaging his family, but an assault would be counterproductive now that she’d issued the order.

Trudi swiped the phone from the table and stepped back. Her hair whipped about her face in the breeze. Marsh, caught short by his thighs against the table’s edge, stumbled and knocked over a candle. Strong hands grasped him from behind, and masked men planted him back on the wooden slab. Others subdued Kara, and after a valiant struggle, she eased into a rocking
motion made all the more troublesome by the droning moan that escaped through her lips.

“Kara.”

She continued to rock, showing no reaction to Marsh’s voice.

God, please—after all that she’s gone through … What’s going on?

Trudi was on the phone again. “Yes, you must hurry,” she said. “The key is in Florence. Have the couriers rendezvous at the designated point north of town. All twelve of them, yes.”

Trudi Ubelhaar circled the table, offering crusts of bread and bowls of borscht on fine china. “Allow me to serve you a last meal together. Time to ‘eat up,’ as the guards were so fond of saying to me. Go ahead, Marsh. Try a bite.”

“No thanks.”

“Eat!”

“Our hands are tied. We can’t.”

“I won’t touch it.” Kara ceased her moaning. “You’ve done something to it.”

“You’re both mistaken. Dip your heads and eat,
eat!
There’s nothing wrong with it. I should know. I survived on this for months in your army’s internment camp near Frankfurt. The camp’s code name? ‘Back porch.’ A fitting title, considering that they fed us scraps no better than they would feed vermin at the back door.” The old woman circled again, pushing heads into bowls, forcing mouths against stale crusts.

Marsh felt the heat of the candle near his forehead. He meant to resist, but as the woman’s hands made contact, he found his neck muscles give. His nose dipped into the hot liquid. He came up, shook off the pain, found himself slurping at tasteless gruel. Alongside, Kara sucked up the borsch. He heard a whimper in her throat.

“Now, please,” their host said, “have a sip of the wine. Carefully, yes. See, it’s not so difficult when you have no alternative.”

With his mouth, Marsh tilted back the glass. The wine snatched away his breath as it seared his throat, but a second, slower sip was lush and flavorful. Over their heads, the lighthouse continued to stab long beams across the waters.

“Isn’t that delightful?”

Marsh nodded in reluctant appreciation. Kara, however, wore an expression of self-loathing as a rivulet spilled from her mouth down her neck. She looked away. Ran her tongue over her split lip.

“Vintner’s Reserve, 1951.” Trudi ran the cork beneath her nose. “Your father’s gift to me.” Her fingers twined through her hair. “I do take some credit for its success.”

“You deceived him, Trudi. The pesticide poisoned his system.”

“The way you speak my name reminds me of him. Chance—my one and only love.”

“You did him in,” Marsh ridiculed. “What sorta sick love is that?”

“Your father was the only man that made me feel desire. I’d given myself to others but always for my own motives. He was different.” Trudi remained wrapped in recollections. “And then,” she continued, “he confessed that he was married. He told me that it was a terrible mistake, that our relationship could not continue. Yes, he found me passage to America, but he said that it was over, nothing more. This was unacceptable. I made arrangements—made them in ways a woman learns when she is otherwise powerless—and, with a good doctor’s help, met Chance one more time, a final opportunity for him to change his mind.”

“And when he didn’t, you gave him a parting gift. This canister.”

“The only one that contained the accelerant.” Trudi laid a hand on the metal, a devotee drawing blessing from a profane idol. “With this small gift, he was able to plant and harvest a bountiful crop, free of phylloxera or other pests. And thus we have our wonderful vintage.” She twirled a strand of hair, then waved the finger, unfurling vaporous streamers that spiraled down as her fingertip landed on the silver canister. “Of course, my father mixed his biochemical weapon for a different sort of pest.”

“For Jews.” Disapproval was heavy in Marsh’s voice.

Kara took a second deep swig from her wineglass.

“Juden, ja.”
Trudi traced the canister’s black-stenciled symbol. “The problem was that an antidote was never perfected. It’s the reason Hitler never implemented Gift 12. He’d been victim to a gas attack in World War I and, as a result, quailed at the thought of unleashing similar weapons without an available antidote. Hitler was a short man … the little corporal. That was the highest rank he ever attained in the German army. Haven’t you ever wondered how my dachshund came by his name?”

“Li’l Corporal.”

“In honor of der Führer.”

The wind gusted stronger, extinguishing a candle, and their captor once more embraced her canister. The metal reflected the moon’s rays. Trudi’s face hovered in the milky glow. Her eyes were set back in darkness.

From afar, Marsh thought he detected the sound of a helicopter. Kara turned.

“Of course, there are forces that could’ve revived Hitler’s war,” Trudi said with conviction. “I myself made an appeal to him, to reveal the powers available. No, no, he wasn’t to be disturbed by Doktor Ubelhaar’s delusional daughter. It was at that time Hitler signed papers sending me into the program. I obeyed. Blindly.”

“Stay calm.” The recruit stared hard at Josee as they neared the entrance to Bank of the Dunes. His scowl was a tug of war between feral attraction and gender aversion. “Just don’t forget, I got my eye on your every move.”

“Couldn’t have guessed.” Josee lowered her voice. “Eighty-nine?”

“That’s it. Don’t botch this, hear me?”

“Stay calm.” She patted his arm and, with a toss of her head, strode into the pristine chambers of the Bank of the Dunes with Trudi’s carpetbag in hand. She mustered her courage and advanced to an open window where a teller appeared to be organizing papers before closing time. Halloween decorations hung from the counter. Customers and early trick-or-treaters had already depleted the bowl of candy.

The clock behind the woman read 5:47.