Dark to Mortal Eyes Page 12

  “She’s here, Mr. Steele.” The young nurse’s voice was full of verve. “Like, I was just doing my job, then she walked up. Same girl you pointed out yesterday.”

  “Thank you, Nurse.”

  “Thought you’d want to know. In cauda venenum.”

  In the basement studio’s October chill, Stahlherz set down the phone. He looked to his laptop where the online gaming zone flickered. For the second day in a row, Crash-Chess-Dummy had left the game unfinished. CCD, a.k.a. Marsh Addison, had abandoned him.

  Like father, like son!

  Yes, Stahlherz trusted that Kara’s abduction was now secure, and he had reason to believe his delivery was on its way, but he had counted on the grand platform of this morning’s chess match to shake his opponent’s world. Ah, well.

  Soon you’ll understand, Marsh. Soon you’ll get the picture.

  The day now required his energies elsewhere, and Stahlherz turned with the intensity of an Oriental tea-leaf reader to divine the future from his onyx chessboard. Amid slashing bishops and stalwart pawns, Steele Knight could picture the outworking of ICV’s schemes. Pieces girding themselves for the Allhallows Eve assault.

  To his surprise, an enemy knight shifted.

  “Who are you?” Stahlherz touched the chiseled stallion’s mane and nostrils. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Previously stagnant on the perimeter, the horseman was sliding from the side toward the center. From the muck into the fray. Reining back against Stahlherz’s hand, he came to life, and although his movements lacked a toned warrior’s sharpness, there was no denying his resolve.

  “Now, now,” Stahlherz said, “I did not anticipate this. Tell me. Who are you?”

  Behind the pewter helmet, the horseman remained silent. Out of shape as he might be, he seemed determined to do his part.

  Never mind. Stahlherz shook off his consternation and chose to accelerate the day’s plans. He knew well that a tempo gained on the chessboard was a step toward victory. He entered the garage through a gap in the concrete wall, rapped on the van window. “Darius, my friend. Time to go, time to make the circuit.”

  The kid behind the wheel lifted an eyelid. “You gots to be kidding me, brah.”

  “Not in the least.”

  “It’s … shoot, it’s way friggin’ early.”

  “Precisely. Let’s go.”

  Stahlherz’s thoughts flashed to circuit riders of yore, men and women who rode on horseback to minister to far-flung congregations. He, in much the same way, would ride circuit through the Willamette Valley to stir his separate ICV cells, to invoke irreverent action along the I-5 corridor where millions lived and breathed.

  His driver brought him back to reality.

  “If you thinks I’m gonna last behind this wheel, Steele-man, you must be on somethin’. This calls for some serious caffeination. Here’s the deal …” Darius rubbed his fingers together, denoting his need for cash. “I fly, you buy.”

  “One quick stop,” Stahlherz capitulated. “And that’s it.”

  “Yeeeah, now you speaka my language.”

  Steele Knight turned to a garage door opener on the wall. The unit had been programmed with additional functions that would work only if the garage door was lowered. He and the Professor alone knew the code sequence. He shielded the unit with his body, tapped twice at the door lock while depressing the Open key, counted to three, then removed his hand. A red light blinked. In a whoosh of air and an exhalation of mist, a panel slid open to reveal a refrigerated compartment sunk into the earth beneath the house above. In three rows of four, silver canisters stood like overgrown bullet casings. Beneath skeins of frost, they seemed to be watching, waiting, for a signal established long ago.

  “Brrrr! That be some scary stuff.”

  “Scary? No, for the time being”—Stahlherz slapped work gloves into his driver’s hands—”that be some harmless stuff. As you’ve heard, we must be ‘wary as snakes and harmless as doves.’ ” He issued his corruption of the biblical passage with tittering amusement. “The time is upon us, my friend. Let’s bring these creatures to life.”

  From the nurses’ station, a familiar voice hooked Josee’s curiosity. She edged from the stairwell, caught a glimpse of Chief Braddock and a white-jacketed doctor. Friction laced their dialogue. Pretending to peruse a financial donors plaque on the wall, Josee angled herself out of sight, yet within earshot.

  “So Scooter’s doing better? Poor kid had a heckuva time there.”

  “He’s resting in his room as we speak, Chief. An acute case of food poisoning.”

  “Food poisoning?” Braddock’s voice echoed Josee’s surprise. “Dr. Dunning, shoot straight with me here. I saw this Scooter kid myself. His lymph glands were swollen. He was convulsing, bleeding, muttering that he was dizzy and could taste nails in his mouth. I’ll admit we don’t see many rattlesnake bites past August, not here in the valley, but he had the symptoms of one. Or something like it.”

  “Snakebite? Doubtful.”

  “Weren’t those bite marks on his cheek?”

  “Preexisting abrasions. His thinned blood simply found the path of least resistance. Our pathologist is taking a look. Blood typing, urinalysis, and a CBC should provide a more detailed picture. Nevertheless, I stand by my diagnosis.”

  “You’re certain it wasn’t a bite?”

  Josee heard the doctor’s clipboard hit the counter. “I’ll admit, Chief, that envenomation can be tricky to assess. For rapid and accurate treatment, it’s always best to have a witness.”

  “A girl was with him.”

  “I should’ve spoken with her.”

  “One of my sergeants interviewed her but reported nothing along those lines. At first we thought we were dealing with a violent assault case.”

  “Then you, too, understand the difficulty of coming up with an accurate picture. Snake venoms are complex protein mixtures, and it is possible, as you’ve suggested, that enzymes interacting with specific chemical and physiological receptor sites caused the manifestations you described. Seems unlikely though. Acute food poisoning can produce similar symptoms.”

  “What’s Scooter say about it, Dr. Dunning? I’d like to speak with him.”

  Josee was hanging on every word.

  “The patient? Oh,” the doctor said in a temperate tone, “he’s wary of our questions and remains disoriented, but he did confirm that he ingested tainted fish. Pulled from the Willamette, if I had to guess. He was camped out in the woods, correct? Well, I don’t have to tell you that river’s been coughing up a high number of contaminants, which is certainly consistent with my findings.”

  “Still trying to convince yourself, sounds like to me.”

  “Chief, if a bite releases histamines or serotonin, it can hinder diagnosis. For this reason, we’ve continued to monitor our patient’s progress, but at this point I can say with confidence that he’s well on the road to recovery. He’s received the best possible care. Yesterday the EMTs administered epinephrine in the ambulance, and soon after his arrival I ordered fresh plasma to counter any prothrombin deficiencies. He’s responded favorably, recovering with remarkable speed.”

  “He’ll be ready to answer my questions then?”

  “Don’t see why not. Less than an hour ago an orderly gave Scooter a protein injection. We’ll see how he does with that, but his blood should be clotting normally again. If all goes well, he’ll soon be ambulatory and ready for outpatient care.” Dr. Dunning cleared his throat. “So then, let’s stick with my diagnosis, shall we, Chief? Food poisoning covers a lot of ground. E. coli, botulism, even anthrax can be traced to contaminated foods.”

  “You know your stuff. I’ll leave you to your job.”

  Josee had heard enough. She didn’t want the chief to find her standing here. She turned and followed the room numbers, letting their gibberish fade behind her. It was comforting to know that Sergeant Turney had kept her secrets.

  As she passed the stairwell door, she thought she
heard it click shut. Just jumpy, she told herself. Room 215, 217 …

  “Josee?” Chief Braddock had sighted her. “Hold up. I need to talk at you.”

  She waved him off. She had to see Scooter, had to know he was healthy and things would be fine. Her foreboding became a weight around her ankles, slowing her steps. Room 219, 221 … She slipped through the door into Room 223.

  “Scoot? It’s Josee.” She let her eyes adjust to the sun-sliced shadows.

  The bed, however, was empty. Peeled back like a wrinkled eyelid, the blanket revealed the lifeless white glare of the sheets.

  12

  The Arrivals

  “Kara!”

  Marsh lifted his hands in astonishment and expelled a volley of expletives. A scan of the study revealed no sign of intrusion or forced entry. Over his wife’s shoulder, his online foe awaited their customary chess match, but that was the least of his concerns.

  He rushed to the desk to loosen her restraints. The cord felt … furry?

  “Who did this to you, Kara! You okay? How’d this happen?”

  She appeared unharmed—her cheeks were smooth, her lips soft and parted—yet betrayal and trepidation formed dark circles around her eyes. Her hair was tousled. Her perfume was a welcome substitute for the study’s earlier rank smell. She was muttering through the leather gag, and as he stripped it away and tossed it to the carpet in disgust, she said, “Thank you. I could scarcely breathe.”

  “How’d you get in here!” He held her shoulders, steadying himself as much as her. Fury crackled along his skin. “Did they hurt you? Tell me who’s responsible, and I swear I’ll—”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, I don’t know! How would I know? I thought you were at the coast.”

  “You should know.” She massaged her wrists.

  “What’s going on?” He removed his hands, sensing yesterday’s suspicions hanging again over his head. “You think I had something to do with this? I don’t even know how you got in here.”

  She pulled her arms to her chest.

  He said, “That door’s electronically locked. The keypad combo’s supposed to keep out intruders, and I know for a fact I closed it behind me. Whoever did this is—”

  “You’re right. You did close it. Closing me out the way you always do.”

  “Oh, come on. You know how many valuables’re in this office, and I—”

  “Marshall, Marshall … how can someone who knows so much see so little?”

  There it was again, her tedious refrain: Please, God, open his eyes.

  He punched the desk intercom button. “Rosamund, come upstairs ASAP.”

  “The muffins, sir, they’re—”

  “Forget the muffins and get up here!” He turned back to his wife. “Rosie helped you, didn’t she? She was the last one I let in here. I had my back turned, and she was able to sneak you in so that you could rig this masquerade. To gain my sympathy, I presume? Well, the joke’s backfired. I’m not laughing. You know what it’s like to find your spouse tied up and gagged like this? You scared the hell out of me!”

  “That was the point.”

  “Ah, so you admit it.”

  “Time we stood together. Isn’t it God’s plan that man and wife function as one?”

  “Now it’s making sense.” Marsh nodded, shifting the puzzle pieces into place. “The tie, that was part of your scheme too, wasn’t it? Another ploy to shake me up. Well, whatever you’re up to, I don’t appreciate it. You want to talk? Great, let’s talk. But enough with your attempts to manipulate my emotions—the picture on the vanity, the tie around your neck, this! You know, certain things should be off-limits.”

  “You keep nearly everything off-limits.”

  “For a reason.”

  “Even yourself, darling.”

  “Now you’re not making any sense. You’re changing the subject.”

  Kara stretched the stiffness from her limbs. “No, I’m focusing on the issue, the manner in which you’ve excluded me from every corner of your life.”

  “Not like you’re Ms. Innocent here. You have a conveniently short memory.”

  “Short? It’s been over twenty years. But you won’t let me be free of that, will you?” Her voice was fading. Losing substance. “This isn’t what you think it is, Marsh. I didn’t set this up, and I promise that Rosie didn’t sneak me in here.”

  Marsh dropped his head and leaned against the desk. Across his monitor, a message caught his attention. “CCD, I’ve captured your queen … Wish to resign?” Resign? The game hadn’t even started—the sheer arrogance! Steele Knight must be fuming after two mornings of interruption.

  He turned his back to the screen. “Then who did tie you up, Kara? Answer that for me.”

  “Does it matter? You care only about proving a point, being right at all costs.”

  “I care about the facts. Facts are power—even the power to care, if needed.”

  Caramel eyes were pooling with tears. “The power to care, Marsh, is the power to change.”

  “Then I’m on the right track, aren’t I?” he said smugly. “Takes two to tango.”

  “So you’ll meet with Josee?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, not back to this subject. No! I don’t want to see her. Far as I’m concerned, Josee’s your deal. Is that not clear enough? This is one door to the past that’s better left unopened. You want me to step in as the father figure, but what do I know about playing a role that was never modeled for me? I’ll pass, thanks.”

  She was silent. Sinking. Disappearing into the black chair.

  He strode toward the door. “Where is that woman? If Rosie didn’t tie you up, then I’d like to know who did.”

  “Darling, think about it. You should know the answer.”

  What a waste of time. Thursday was his alleged day off, the time he spent schmoozing: wining and dining, courting and golfing with potential investors, peptalking local publications about the vineyard’s weekend activities. Truth was, Thursdays always found him working the business angles. A day off, ha. He’d have time to rest in the grave.

  The intercom sounded. Even as Marsh reached to respond, Kara threw out a final question. “Whose blood was that on your face this morning?”

  He froze in his tracks, and a wave of black hair surged over his eye. He brushed it back and said through a granite-carved smile, “You’re trying to torment me, aren’t you?” The intercom sounded again. “I bet you were here all night, spying on me, toying with me. Have to admit, you had me going. What’d you do? Prick a finger and wipe the blood on my cheek? A question mark … Very funny. I knew there was a logical explanation behind all this.” He keyed the intercom, paused, got no response.

  “You honestly think I tiptoed through the night just to play with your mind?”

  “Wouldn’t put it past you. Or Rosie maybe.”

  The entry chime sounded.

  “About time.” Marsh hit the release key, and the door slid open. “Okay, Rosie, let’s hear it. This better be good.”

  “Sir?” The household manager tilted her head, her honey-tinted curls budging not an inch from their austere arrangement. She looked around his shoulder, eyes registering nothing. She brushed by to set a platter on an ebony side table. “Orange walnut muffins and a dollop of butter.”

  “Rosamund. What’d I tell you? I couldn’t care less about that right now.”

  She tucked her hands into her apron and bent her head in supplication. “Pardon my delay. These officers arrived moments ago, two fine young gentlemen expressing an urgency to speak with you. I tried to inform you over the intercom but got no response.”

  “Officers?”

  “Apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Addison.” A pair of policemen stepped through the door, and Rosie bowed on her way back down the hall. “Office Lansky,” the older cop introduced himself. The rigidity of his stance and handshake implied embarrassment at being here. “And my partner, Officer Graham. With the Corvallis Police Department. It
’s regarding your wife, Kara. Did I say that right? Care-uh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have a couple of questions to ask you.”

  “Oh, she can speak for herself. Believe me”—Marsh lifted his eyebrows, trying to solicit male empathy with such matters—”sometimes you can’t keep her quiet.”

  “That so?” The officers exchanged a glance.

  Graham hoisted a soiled Ralph Lauren sports bag. “We found this earlier this morning, Mr. Addison, with your wife’s ID inside.” His trimmed mustache was stiff despite the movement of his mouth.

  “Looks like Kara’s. Where was it?”

  “We were dispatched,” Lansky cut in, “at 5:45 AM to mile-marker four on Ridge Road. Down the hill from here. Half-mile from the Dari-Mart. A motorist called the station on his cell, said there was a vehicle in the ravine and that it looked like it’d jumped the guardrail.”

  “The Z3?”

  “A convertible BMW, that’s correct. Ran the plates. Came up registered in your wife’s name.”

  Marsh threw up his hands. “I purchased that car just last month.”

  “I trust you have good insurance, Mr. Addison. We arrived on the scene about 5:55. It appeared the vehicle had lost control at the bend and flipped over the rail. The engine was cold. We’re still searching for the vehicle’s operator, hoping for the best.”

  Graham added, “The sports bag was thrown from the vehicle, along with a number of other items. You say it’s hers. Are you sure?” From the bag in his hand, a wet leaf fluttered to the carpet. “Has your wife attempted to contact you?”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard anything about it.”

  “We understand that you may be concerned, sir, but your wife’s probably fine. Remember, we haven’t found a body.”

  A body? What the—

  Lansky cut in to cover his partner’s impropriety. “Any idea where Kara might be, sir? Any way that we can contact her?”

  Marsh Addison, incredulous, was staring at Graham. “So tell me, are you fresh from the academy? Of course, you haven’t found a body. If this is your version of tact, it’s a good thing I don’t need comforting, isn’t it?” He turned to confront Kara seated at his desk. “I can’t even believe this. You know that car’s worth a—”