Authors: Eric Wilson

Dark to Mortal Eyes (56 page)

BOOK: Dark to Mortal Eyes

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Minutes passed. The parking lot boasted a bevy of SUVs. Still no Esprit.

“Would you like to buy something, mister?”

“Come again?”

It seemed a cruel temptation that a table near the market doors flaunted Halloween candies and chocolate bars, a fund-raiser for some local scout troop. Backed by a dad in a lawn chair, the preteen boy was trying his hand at sales. His missing tooth and spatter of freckles only aided the attempt.

“Sorry, kid. No cash on me.”

Turney surveyed the parking lot once more.
What am I even doing out here? Should’ve reported this to the chief. Gonna get myself in trouble all over again. Who knows what sorta mess we’ll be walkin’ into?

Ten to four. The proximity of the vending machines was washing away his resolve. He was alone—in camouflage even—and he couldn’t remember the reason he was withholding food from himself. Self-imposed starvation—what was the sense in that?

To the side, the freckled kid was plying another customer, and Turney
thought he saw an exchange of money and chocolate. He tried to find something else with which to occupy his mind. A flier with curled corners and errant doodles caught his eye from its location near a bank of pay phones. He read, in shadowed letters, an invitation to artists, poets, writers, and dreamers:
Frustrated with life? Discover the gift of art. Join our family at the House of Ubelhaar. A place to set yourself free. For more information, call 541-555-GIFT
.

Ubelhaar? Gertrude … Trudi … Rosie. Was this how she had recruited for ICV?

GIFT? Or, as Marsh had translated for him from German, “poison.”

Turney’s mind swam with the repercussions of this fresh insight. He understood more than ever what had drawn the ICV recruits into the web of anarchy and rebellion. By appealing to their dreams and abilities, Trudi Ubelhaar had molded their thinking. She had perverted God-given talents, twisting them into instruments for destruction and vented rage. How many youth had been screened and brought into the fold? Where did they plan to attack, and how?

Whoa, now—it’s enough to give me a headache. Can hardly think straight
.

Sustenance, that’s what he needed. Whatever this silly fasting idea was supposed to accomplish, surely it’d been done by now. How could this self-torture be a source of strength? Oh, he remembered the words, all right—
“When I am weak, then I am strong”
—but what did they mean anyway? He felt weak; that much was true. Sick to his stomach, on edge, and irritable. So now, he argued, it must be time to get strong.

Which meant food.

Nope!

He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets, knowing that as long as they remained in place, they couldn’t get him into trouble. Without his hands, he couldn’t feed his face. Well, theoretically he could, but—

Fingers touched something wedged in the corner of a pocket. A ball of lint, he thought, plucking it out. But the texture was all wrong. It was a five-dollar bill that looked as though it’d seen the belly of a washing machine on more than one occasion.

Five dollars? He turned his back on the fund-raising table. No, too obvious.

But let’s face it. It’s gotta be more than coincidence. A gift in my time of need
.

Before he could change his mind, he spun around and sauntered to the table. “What’re you sellin’ there, kiddo? What’s it going to?”

The kid smiled and went through his spiel, while Turney examined the choices. “Here, this’ll do. How much?” He handed over the five and got three bills and quarters to go along with the thick orange-wrapped chocolate moon. He returned to his waiting place. Peeled back the foil one fold at a time to show he was in control.

The first bite was incredible! Food had never tasted so good.

He had his teeth into the second when the Tahoe pulled up. A poised older gentleman spoke from the cab window. “Sergeant Turney?”

“Uh-huh.” He swallowed a chunk whole. “Howdy, Mr. Esprit.”

“Glad to be of service. I assume you’re ready to do this?”

Ready? With the evidence of guilty pleasure in his mouth and in his hands, Turney felt anything but. He clambered in beneath the vehicle’s hatch, finding his hiding spot as planned, and wedged himself into the musty space. He sensed a prickly heat beneath his arm bandages. As city lights gave way to the countryside, as evening shadows took over, he adjusted his holstered .38 and wondered what lay ahead.

“Nearing the site,” Esprit called from the front. “Stay low.”

“Urhh-kay.” Garbled words.

“I’ll spring the hatch as I’m backing into a spot. That way you’ll be able to exit the vehicle unnoticed when you deem it propitious.”

The sergeant buried his mouth in the crook of his elbow. He’d failed again. He’d let himself down, and the Van der Bruegges, Josee, and Scooter. Who was he tryin’ to fool? He’d even let God down. He was a lard belly, scarred and apathetic, a loser of a cop—and everyone knew it.

Feeling miserable, Turney took another nibble of the chocolate moon.

Light poured down the concrete steps. Josee squinted. She saw legs descending, then looked back to her mother. As her pupils adjusted, she found Kara’s
face no more than a yard in front of her. Though pale and bruised, Kara’s skin was still soft over fine features. Her lips were thin, cracked, blood-encrusted. Her hair was the color of Josee’s golden-wheat sketching pencil, touching her shoulders in thin waves, cupping delicate ears. But it was Kara’s neck that transfixed Josee; the contours spoke of a grace and beauty nearly impossible to put on paper.

“It’s you,” Josee said with a shy smile.

“Josee.” Kara, too, ignored their approaching abductor. “You’re so pretty.”

“Wasn’t sure what you’d think. What you see is what you get.”

“You’re a grown woman. Don’t change a thing. No matter what happens,” Kara added in a whisper, “you’ll always be my baby. I said those words to you long ago, and I meant them. Don’t you ever forget it, Josee. I love you.”

Josee’s chest clenched. “I won’t forget.”

The cellar was awash now in the light from upstairs. Before them stood an elderly woman whose smile did even less than her facial powder to soften her features.

Josee glared up at her.
Wipe that smile off your face
.

“Rosie?” Kara said. “I didn’t think it was true. What’s this all about?”

“Have you two enjoyed your little
tête-à-tête?
” Rosie inquired. “I hope the talk was worthwhile. A happy reunion, I trust? Regrettably, the afternoon’s upcoming events demand that we gag the two of you. Time to depart.”

Kara stared at her as though she were a stranger. “How’d you get involved in this? Does Marshall know what you’re up to? Is someone coercing you?”

“Coercing me? No, frankly, it’s the other way around. I’m the one manipulating the terms of engagement. It’s been my show from the beginning. Nothing against you, Kara. You’re an honorable woman. Gullible but honorable. You’ve played your role without flaw. As for Marsh, tonight’s his farewell performance. And Josee”—she chortled in obvious relish—“Josee is the key to it all. Sorry, ladies, time to split up.”

“You’re not taking me from my mom!”

“But, Josee, I have no choice. You both have your roles to fill.”

“My role is as a mother.” Kara’s dry voice cracked. “Please don’t take Josee from me. Not now.”

“A mother … Why, motherhood’s something I’ve never truly experienced.”

“Who’d want you?” Josee snapped.

The old woman’s eyes caught the light from above and took on a spectral glow that sent a shiver through Josee’s body and caused Kara to stiffen.

“You deceived us,” Kara said in hushed shock. “Marsh and I trusted you.”

“When you left, you gave me an opportunity I couldn’t resist.”

“You had me ambushed! I nearly crashed into the ravine.”

“You did, according to the reports. Your car’s quite a mess. I had my cohort send it over the edge. Then we called it in the next morning. Marsh was so worried.” Rosie primped her hair with spotted fingers. “Necessary evils, my dear. Greater issues at stake. You’re a means to an end, a way of getting Josee and Marsh to toe the line.”

“You have no right to involve my daughter in this. Think about it, Rosie—”

“Ich heisse Gertrude Ubelhaar,”
the woman corrected in German. “Gertrude Ubelhaar … but you can call me Trudi for short.”

“This is wrong!”

“How can it be wrong,” Rosie jeered, “when it feels so gloriously right? Sorry, ladies, the time has come. You had your little reunion, yet your voices have grown wearisome to me. The gags, I fear, are not negotiable.”

As Rosamund bent to tie a cloth about Kara’s mouth, Josee worked her tongue, sucked in her cheeks, then spit on the old woman’s blouse. It hurt, yes it did, when a slap of punishment came whipping back across her face, but she still felt a sense of victory born from the fact that she had been with Kara and that the two of them, mother and daughter, were in this together.

Separate. Apart.

Either way, they were joined by much more than this old hag’s filthy ropes.

The second blow, from the other direction, sent her sinking into the waters of a frigid sea where light and warmth had no home and only the cry of a mother’s love kept her scrambling back to the surface for air.

Stahlherz would drive himself tonight. The rendezvous was nearing.

He placed a call to the beach house and had one of the ICV lackeys put
the Professor on the line. He said, “You’re coming soon, I hope, bringing Kara along.” Stahlherz rolled the glass figurine in his pocket. He’d grown so attached to her.

“She’s being loaded into the car as we speak, Stahli. The Studebaker’s trunk has more than enough room. Are you certain Marshall will honor our arrangement?”

“He says he has the journal.”

“That’s vital. Without the key or bank info, Josee does us little good.”

“No need to worry. I’ve been tracking Marsh’s movements by credit card, as we discussed. A final check confirms that he made a midday visit to Black Butte—where he had lunch—and, most recently, a refueling stop at a station east of Corvallis. Nothing unusual. He did attempt to locate me on the Internet this morning, but I deflected his probe back to his own modem. He knows better than to try such tricks. No, there’s nothing to indicate that he’s taken flight or gone to the police. I made it clear to him that any such maneuvers would endanger his wife.”

“Odd. Why, may I ask, would he visit Black Butte?”

“Well, I know he’s taking Kara there this weekend. He wanted proof that she was alive and, as a test, had me ask her where they were going for a romantic getaway. Kara’s answer seemed to placate him.”

“A romantic getaway?” Trudi’s voice had chilled.

“Did they tell you differently? Was this part of their plans? You sound dubious.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Son. Nothing at all. Why, they’re under no obligation to share their schedules with me.”

“Do you get the sense Marsh has more feelings for Kara than we estimated?”

Trudi gave no response.

“Is there something I should know, Professor? What is it?”

“All’s well. No, you proceed with your plans. I’m sending my Studebaker—with the queen on board, of course. Along the way, the driver’ll pick up the items you requested from the PO box so you can proceed to your rendezvous at Camp Adair.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he replied.