Dark to Mortal Eyes (40 page)

Black Butte Ranch …

B. B. R. Were the initials the clue? Maybe she was near a butte. A ranch.

Of course, and Marsh hated to admit this, it could be she had no idea where she was and had thrown out an answer to avoid punishment from her abductor.

Tired and testy, he removed his shoes at the foot of the bed and emptied his pockets onto the nightstand. Marsh glimpsed the sergeant’s card and thought of Turney’s invitation to call anytime. But hadn’t Steele Knight warned him against any police intervention?

He turned off the light and, in the television’s glow, stripped down to silk boxers.

A knock startled him.

Through the peephole, he saw a slightly distorted Casey Wilcox in a cream-colored dress, her legs streaming down to black braided pumps. He poked his head through the door, met a cold wind. Casey was clutching a black purse with a pearl-lined flap that matched the string around her neck. Earrings nuzzled in her brunette hair. Marsh said, “What’s going on?”

“Marshall. Thought you might want some company.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Raining like crazy,
brrrr.
” Casey stepped past him. “Don’t you believe in lamps, or are you just sitting here in the dark?” She clicked on the bedside light.

“Thinking things over.”

“In your boxers?”

“I was about to take a shower. It’s getting late, if you don’t mind.”

“Marshall, don’t pretend you don’t want me here. You know that you do.”

“Not in much of a joking mood, Casey. Why don’t we talk tomorrow?”

She fingered her string of pearls and laughed. “Who said anything about talking?”

Kris Van der Bruegge turned back a pink bedspread, fluffed the pillows, and set a towel and a new bar of soap on the bureau. Outlining a full-length mirror, faded stickers stood as mementos of Annalise’s childhood. “I miss that girl,” Kris told Josee and Scooter as they watched from the doorway. She touched the stickers. Drops of rain pelted the window. “Thanksgiving this year won’t be the same without her.”

“What about Halloween?” said Scooter. “Tomorrow’s the day.”

“She’ll miss that, too. No goodies for her, I guess.”

“Halloween can get downright bizarre around our place,” Josee said. “Past few years Scoot and his friends’ve dressed up in medieval garb and sacked out all night at our trailer for role-playing games. Me? I stay as far away as I can. With all the sugar and herbs flowing through their veins, they start bouncing off the walls.”

“Herbs?”

“Yeah.” Scooter shot Josee a stern look as a roll of thunder shook the house. “You know, supplements … ginkgo biloba, guarana, ephedra. Nothing man-made. All natural for us. We slug down Sobe and Red Bull like water.”

Josee stuck out her tongue. “All sugar water, if you ask me.”

“You two lost me at the medieval garb,” Kris said. “Anyway, you’re all set for the night, Josee. As for you, Scooter, you know where your room is. You’ll have to share the bathroom in between. Just let me know if either of you needs anything.”

Josee nudged Scooter. “See you in the morning, hon.”

He kissed her lightly, his breath moving cold and stale over her lips.

“Night.”

Touching the corner of her mouth, she watched him tread down the hall. Her fingers moved to her eyebrow ring. She said, “Kris, thanks for, you know, letting us use your place.”

“Our pleasure.”

“And I really didn’t mean to spill that hot cocoa—”

“Uh-uh. I warned you not to bring it up again.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kris pointed to a CD system by the corner armchair. “You’re welcome to listen to music if you like. Annalise left most of her collection here. A moderate volume, that’s all we ask. John’s already asleep upstairs since he has first period in the morning. And, Josee?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re allowed to sleep under the covers.”

“I know.”

“Annalise used to thrash and turn till every corner was untucked. It’s okay.”

Josee rubbed her chin against her shoulder.

“Sarge explained to me what happened to you out in the thicket,” Kris said from the doorway. “Not to make light of it, but I have confidence that you’re going to pull through this. You’ll be all right. Remember what we talked about earlier? Music’s a powerful tool. Go ahead. You might find something there that’ll touch you.”

Josee squatted to look over the CD titles. “Art and music’ve always touched me. You think that’s God? I mean, it’s like his fingerprints are there if you just look from the right angle. Scooter thinks I’m crazy when I talk like this.”

“Granted, it’s not
always
a divine touch. But God’s always willing to reach out.”

Josee withdrew a CD.
I want to feel you, Lord, the way I used to. Sometimes, it’s just too stinkin’ scary. Been touched in all the wrong ways
.

“You need your rest, Josee. I’ll leave you with one last thing. Of course, you know the story of David and Goliath. Well, David knew how to fight with more than a slingshot. He was summoned a number of times to play music in the king’s court. An evil spirit was tormenting the king, but each time David played, the spirit left, and the king was appeased. The music, by God’s grace, drove the darkness away.”

“Vaguely remember that from somewhere way back.”

“But the fix was only temporary,” Kris pointed out.

“Temporary?”

“The king never gave up his free will. He could still let the spirit come back—and he did! One day, under its evil influence, the king took a spear and tried to pin David to the wall.”

Josee shivered, recalling her boyfriend’s stale breath on her lips. “Scooter,” she whispered. The storm outside matched her mood.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“I know that you care for Scooter. He’s a charmer. Be careful though. He has something hanging on, something hooked into him that he can’t quite shake. That poison’s still moving through him. Forget the pushy and greedy religious institutions you’ve seen. God’s a gentleman—persistent, but a gentleman. Although he won’t force himself on people, demonic forces will. No manners at all. You give them a foothold, and they’ll try storming the walls.”

“Speak English. Straight up, what’re you telling me here?”

“I’m telling you that Scooter’s mind is a castle under siege.”

As the video cameras rolled, Turney watched Beau’s posture change. Erect and proud, a product of the entertainment generation, he stared into the soulless lens, ready to perform for Mother. America’s “surrogate mother.” Wasn’t that Josee’s line?

Beau straightened on the stool. “This’ll air tonight, right?”

“Up to the folks at the station,” Turney said. “It’s their newscast.”

“Tonight. No ifs, ands, or buts. That’s the way it’s gotta be, or Mrs. Addison won’t be comin’ back. Not ever.”

“Eleven o’clock news, kid. We’ll do our best to run a clip.”

Beau’s earlier confession to abduction would be broadcast along with the news of Kara Addison’s disappearance. But this? Nosiree, no suspect was gonna jerk them around. With a little digital manipulation, they’d loop a segment into the newscast and feed it through the holding cell’s television. Beau would be none the wiser.

The Record light gave a wink of encouragement. From that moment until the moment it blinked off in satisfaction, Beau Connors’s eyes stayed glued to Mother’s. His syntax and diction changed, as though some erudite entity had inhabited his body. He decried the government’s abuse of power, the evils of globalization, and the “war on our rights to freely express ourselves.” He insisted that the public was not ready to make a stand for freedom and, by default, was making a stand for complacency. Having thus sided with the oppressors, the inhabitants of Oregon would reap the consequences.

Turney stiffened. The rants had turned to threats.

“That’s right,” Beau mocked. “Allhallows Eve.”

Then his shoulders began to sag. He collapsed forward, spent, nothing more than a truant teenager in need of attention. Like a startled flock of birds, his pedantic ramblings left him, and he coughed out a last warning. “You wanna know what sorta trouble I’m talkin’ about? Go find the van I ditched in Philomath. Yeah, buddy, you’ll be dirtyin’ your diapers on the spot. Trick or treat.”

Turney was on his radio before the cameras stopped taping.

Cuffed, Beau stepped down from the heat of the stage lights. Turney led him through doors to the cruiser that would return the suspect to his cell. He wanted to shake sense into this ruffian, demand answers, throw a blow if need be.

Yet something in the kid’s manner begged for sympathy. What was the word?

He’s malleable, that’s it. Just one more soul lookin’ for love by means of hate
.

From the backseat, Beau said, “You think I did all right? My speech?”

“Think ya just dug yourself a deep hole. That’s what I think. If I were you, I’d spit out Kara’s location before this comes down hard on you.”

“Uh-uh. I say one thing, and he’s gonna come after me.”

“Who’s he?”

“Say what?”

“Think ya just goofed, kid. Somethin’ you wanna tell me?”

Beau drew inward. “Can’t make me talk, Sarge. Got rights, you know.”

Back in his office, Turney mulled the evidence and starting making phone calls.

Karl Stahlherz could hear the Pacific’s pounding. Out there, cutting the waves, a vessel loaded with military munitions had followed this coastline to safe harbor in Florence. On a November night in 1945, the Professor had found passage to America.

Now, decades later, the culmination of her plans was upon them.

In the night sky the winds were scraping away the last remnants of clouds, and a cratered disk appeared over the treetops. The moonlight turned Rosie’s powdered cheeks ashen as she fondled the canister with a quaint giggle.

“This is the one?” said Stahlherz. “The one you lost?”

“Yes.” Her eyes glowed. “This canister was my constant companion. On the succession of boats from the Fatherland, I kept it close by my side. I knew that eventually it would be taken from me, along with the other canisters, but I determined to channel my, uh … shall we say, my energies into this particular one.”

“How do you know this is it?”

Rosie turned her attention to the canister’s scarred surface. With a linen handkerchief, she buffed the metal to highlight the skull-and-crossbones symbol and the black letters underneath. “Recognize this word?” she tested him.

“Says ‘Gift,’ if I’m not mistaken.”

“Which in German means …”

“Means ‘poison,’ doesn’t it?”

“That’s correct. High marks for you,” said the Professor. “It was the only canister so inscribed. Unfortunately, it felt the need to escape—for lack of a better word. While coastguardsmen were unloading the munitions at the lighthouse, one of the men tripped over a silly watchdog, and the canister fell from his hands. Ended up going over the cliff. At the time I felt that I was directing the beasts within to make their escape. I watched at the window, fully intending to fetch it later.”

“But it had vanished.”

“Allow me to tell the story, would you, Son? The trouble was that men died that night. As the canister rolled along the lawn, it left a trail of poison. A captain died. And that watchdog, who deserved it for his impudence. Two
others. Remarkably, the lightkeeper and son survived. I suppose the brisk breeze had cleared the air by the time they arrived on the cliff top.”

“Did you make any attempt to find the canister?”

Lost in the memory, she polished the metal with her hands. A wisp of green clung to her skin. “Under the cover of nightfall, yes, I made my way down to the beach. My young legs fared well. Already, though, men had combed the shore for their fallen captain, and I feared they had recovered my canister as well. No sight of the thing. I was convinced it would respond to my bidding, yet it refused to recognize my authority. A rascally beast then … and now.”

As though conjured by an Indian snake charmer, a neon vapor spiraled from the canister’s base and rose before the Professor. The vapor split in two, then split again exponentially until the settee was buried beneath sinuous shadows.

Stahlherz watched with an emotion akin to admiration. But he was shaking.

“I thought I was in control,” Rosie said, “for I simply did not understand. I now know we are powerless always until the moment we give them control.”

“Them?”

She nodded. “The scene’s so clear in my mind. The search party had retired, and standing in the gloom on the lip of the sea, I relinquished myself. In seconds, the canister propelled itself forward on the crest of a wave and slid up onto the sand at my feet. I had been chosen. I knew this deep in my bones. I’ve known it since the day Herr Hitler took my hand in his and prophesied great things.”

Over Rosie’s head, the glowing tendrils settled into a wreath of green that emitted a sickly sweet odor: cinnamon sticks, an apple burning over an open flame. A pair of fangs protruded thornlike from the nebulous mass.

“Professor. Mother!”

“Don’t stop them, Stahli. There’s no need to fear. Only as you stop fighting does the pain dissipate.” Her words slithered away as the fangs found purchase in pearl-white skin. Her thin hair threaded throughout the wreath, becoming one with it, and her eyes narrowed into moist slits. A look of subservient revelry.