Dark to Mortal Eyes (46 page)

Wonder if Sarge’s heard anything new. My sparring partner, he’d better call
.

Before breakfast, Josee did receive a call. From no one she expected.

The darkness held him in a barren womb.

Sergeant Vince Turney knew this was a dream, fears and memories stalking the borders of his mind, but that made it no less real. He was running between alley walls, searching for a suspect. He slowed as he neared a garbage container where tentacles of sewage spread from the rusted bottom. Footsteps. Coming close.

He drew his police weapon and skirted the container.

From behind, something brushed his face, and he turned.

Glistening in the moonlight, a blade swept by, and he dodged back. A hulking, toothless man sniggered as he pointed to the side where a newborn slept in a car seat at the base of the alley wall. Knife in hand, the man sprinted
toward the baby, and the sergeant aimed his gun. Pulled the trigger. Felt the recoil. The .38 projectile spun through the air with all the speed of a spit watermelon seed.

As the man stretched for the infant, Turney fired another round.

This time the barrel of the gun gagged on the bullet and sagged like a limp reed. Useless. Impotent. Again he had failed at his task. A baby gone …

No, I can’t let her down. Not again
.

“Josee!”

Turney bolted up in bed. He was breathless, drenched in sweat. He checked the time. Yesterday had taken its toll, but he saw no point in trying to go back to sleep. He pulled on a robe and padded into the kitchen, where he poured himself a bowl of Peanut Butter Crunch. He fetched the nonfat milk from the fridge and unscrewed the cap. Waved off a fly.

But the fly refused to be ignored. The creature circled in random patterns.

Turney peeled back his bathrobe and saw discharge leaking through bandages. Tingles ran from his shoulder down to his fingertips. The fly droned closer to his ear.

“Would you quit that?” he snapped. “Buzz off.”

The pest lighted on the gauze; tiny feet tiptoed through the sticky green stain.

“Shoo!” Turney flicked his finger, but the fly took evasive action. Landed again.

What was this thing doing? Laying eggs? Turney knew wounds were ideal cesspools for breeding. Could maggots feed off him? Hatch from his skin? Now that he thought about it, flies had been pestering him pretty much since the reemergence of his scars. What was the deal?

Beelzebub … Lord of the flies!

Like a blow to the midsection, this biblical description of Satan and his activity stole the sergeant’s breath away. Yessir, more going on here than met the eyes. Not that he thought this housefly was the devil incarnate, nothing so crazy as that, but the fly symbolized the evil that had been Turney’s bane.

These scars … Were they God’s ways of warning him to remain humble, alert?

Betcha that’s it. Just like the verse says, “When I am weak, then I am strong.”

Spreading through his bandages, the pus threatened to erode his resolve. Then he felt a prayer rise from his chest—a lifeboat of faith carried on a tenacious current. The words came as neither shout nor whisper; they came as silent command.

Get outta here, you filthy, unclean thing
.

The fly, in the act of rubbing its feet together, froze.

Turney thought of Josee and her Wednesday morning confrontation. Hadn’t her prayer halted her foe in its tracks?

“In the name of Jesus,” he said, “I’m tellin’ you, get lost!”

He aimed, then snapped his stubby finger. The fly shot into the side of the cereal box and fell dazed to the table. Turney finished it off with a crumpled napkin, which he flushed down the toilet. A surge of excitement brushed over his scalp. Surprised, he smiled. He thought he’d buried that feeling years ago, thought he’d buried it for good.

The phone jangled from his stack of phone books by the Gevalia coffee maker.

“Howdy,” he answered. The stove’s clock read twenty after six.

“Vince, hope it’s not too early. John Van der Bruegge.” They exchanged banter, then John said, “I’ll make this quick. You’re a busy man, and I’ve a class to teach, but I want your help. Actually, I
need
your help.”

“Josee? Is she okay?”

“Hanging in there. A likable young lady, but I can see that she has a lot going on behind those eyes of hers.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Beautiful eyes, too, or haven’t you noticed?”

“Uh-huh.”

John laughed. “Vince, how long do you intend to hold the opposite sex at arm’s length? I’ve known you long enough to understand your caution, but it’s been three years, and your grieving won’t bring Milly back. She would’ve told you to walk on, to keep living life. Am I wrong?”

“I’m hangin’ in there.”

“You’ve substituted food for love.”

“Whoa, John, that’s goin’ too far—”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it? Your fear of getting hurt is jeopardizing your
health.” Sympathy tamed John’s voice. “We all have our weaknesses, Vince. I’m not trying to point fingers, just trying to be a friend. Which brings me to the purpose of my call. Situation is this: Krissy and I’ve discussed it, and we’re convinced that Scooter and Josee are wrestling with some weighty issues, some strong spiritual forces. Last night I caught Scooter in her room, and Josee looked petrified—no other word to describe it. We need to join together. Need to fight on their behalf. At the risk of sounding sensational, I believe their lives could be in the balance.”

Turney ran a hand down his tummy and swallowed his indignation. John’s reprimands were dead-on. He said, “What’d you have in mind?”

“You remember Jesus’ words to his disciples? He told them that some evil spirits would only be conquered by prayer and fasting. I’m sure that’s what we’re dealing with here, and I think it might be time to make a stand.”

“A stand?”

“You and Kris and I, committed to seeing this thing through.”

“Hear what you’re sayin’, but I’m on duty in an hour. Bit difficult to hit my knees while pounding the streets. Not that I won’t help, but—”

“I just need you to fast.”

“Fast? As in, don’t eat?”

“Think of it as a health regimen. Fasting flushes toxins from your system, and in the unseen realm it has similar effects. What about it? Are you with me on this?”

Turney leaned his forehead against the refrigerator door. No food? This was like asking a bear to hibernate in the heat of summer. His arm throbbed as he weighed John’s request. He knew the fight of which John spoke. Knew the opponent.

Beelzebub
.

“Say, how about I skip lunch? I could—”

“One day—that’s all I’m asking. Think you can handle that, Vince? I’ve seen evil take over when people refuse to make a stand. This is for Scooter’s and Josee’s sake. Let’s hear it. Are we in agreement?”

Turney pressed his head into the crook of his arm and forced out his reply. “Sure, John, I’ll give it my best shot.”

Slowly he emptied his cereal back into the box.

To Josee, seated in the living room shadows, John looked tall and dapper in his herringbone jacket. He was at the front door, balancing a syllabus and two books atop his horizontal briefcase, when she said, “Out of here already? Not eating this morning?”

“Josee. Didn’t see you there in the dark.”

“Your wife’s making Dutch babies. Says they’re delicious.”

“They are. Right now, though, Krissy and I have other things on our plates.” John winked as Kris stepped into the arched doorway, then pulled her into an embrace. “Should be gone most of the day, but we want you to feel free here in our home, Josee. Fresh towels, coffee, anything. If you want to call and let your adoptive parents know where you are, the phone’s all yours.”

“It’s long distance. Renton, Washington.”

“No problem. A couple loads of dishes, and you’ll be all paid up.”

“John, honestly.” Kris pushed her shoulder into him. “He’s kidding, Josee.”

“Hardy-har-har.” Josee wore a grin to dilute her sarcasm. “Anyway, I don’t know that I should call them. Moved out years ago. I had to find some space, probably the same as your daughter.”

“Annalise,” John and Kris said together.

“Not that they were to blame, not at all. Just had to figure out life on my own.”

“As a mother,” Kris said, “I can tell you that it’d mean a lot to them if you called. I understand the need for independence, but part of growing up is learning to operate under someone else’s rules. That’s true in college, on the job, in society—”

“Heard this speech before.”

“It’s not a popular one,” Kris admitted. “I’m of the opinion, though, that people can’t move fully into maturity until they come to terms with the influence of their parents. Not that parents don’t make mistakes, Josee, but the longer you try to escape their influence, the farther you run from the very things that make you who you are. Until you deal with it, the good
and
the bad, you won’t be comfortable in your own skin.”

“Explains what’s wrong with me then, doesn’t it? How can I deal with it when I don’t even know my real parents? Why do you think I came down here, huh? And now that Kara’s missing—kidnapped, abducted, whatever—guess I’m just sorry out of luck.”

“Oh, sweetheart—”

“I’ll figure it out on my own. Don’t worry about me.”

“Listen, we’re here to help in whatever way we can.” John raised an eyebrow, paused to consider a noise from the hallway. “And no matter what happens, you
can
find comfort in your own skin. Yes, parents are the soil, but you’re still the plant fighting the elements in order to bloom. Be who God’s made you to be.”

“Defective merchandise—that’s what I am.”

“You’re so much more than that. Look”—Kris stepped forward and set one hand on Josee’s shoulder and brushed the other over her cheek—“in less than two days, we’ve grown attached to you. Imagine how your adoptive parents feel. Surely, they’d love to hear your voice.”

“Hmm.”

“Remember, only a couple of loads of dishes.” John flipped the phone from its wall mount and extended it like a cure for her melancholy. Then he brought the speaker to his own ear and listened. “Thought I heard someone just hang up. Is Scooter awake?”

“That bum? I doubt it.” After last night’s encounter, Josee didn’t look forward to facing him. Would he act like nothing had happened? Would she? Only time could restore things to normal.

John flicked his eyes at Kris. “I would’ve sworn … Well, why don’t you two ladies sit and relax, and I’ll go rouse that sleepyhead.”

Before he’d taken a step, the phone rang, and John answered it.

“For me?” Josee asked, when he handed it over. “Hi, who is this?”

“Josee? Oh, my, but I’m glad to have contacted you. My name’s Rosamund Yeager. Rosie. I’m the Addisons’ household manager, the one you reached on Wednesday. Please, for your mother’s safety, allow me to explain. She had to postpone your earlier meetings—difficulties on the domestic front, I’m afraid. My apologies for any consternation this has caused on your part. It’s a delicate matter.”

“What’re you telling me?”

“Marital struggles,” Rosie said. “Kara regrets that you’ve been caught in the crossfire. She doesn’t want you to think less of her husband, but she simply could not go on in the stifling environment at the manor. She devised her own escape before things spiraled farther downward. You do understand, I hope.”

Josee’s heart was in her throat. “But I thought that—”

“Ignore the crackpot claims,” Rosie broke in. “She has not been abducted. Inevitable, really, that some deranged soul should try to take responsibility. No, Kara is well, don’t you worry. She hasn’t stopped speaking of you. She still wishes to meet with you and with you alone—she’s quite firm on that—this afternoon, if possible.”

“At the park?”

“Yes. Shall we say, oh …”

“One o’clock. Avery Park.” Josee felt hope rush back in as rejection rolled from her shoulders. Her mom wanted to meet with her. Yes, Kara was healthy. Alive. Relief squeezed a short laugh from her lungs, and she brushed her sleeve over her cheeks. “Okay, yeah, I can do that.”

“Splendid,” Rosie said. “She was so worried that you’d turn her away.”