Dark to Mortal Eyes
Eric Wilson
Praise for
Dark to Mortal Eyes
“In Dark to Mortal Eyes, Eric Wilson coils suspense as tight as a snake prepared to strike.”
—ROBERT WHITLOW, best-selling author of Life Support
“Eric Wilson peels back this story with razor sharp suspense, revealing a robust, multilayered plot; rich, descriptive color; and intelligently drawn characters. God willing, writers like Eric Wilson will be the future of Christian fiction.”
—JAMES BEAUSEIGNEUR, author of The Christ Clone Trilogy
“Dark to Mortal Eyes is one of those excitingly fresh, thrilling tales that linger in the mind. The titanic clash between good and evil is memorable, and the characters unforgettable. The rush-to-the-next-page adventure will make you hunger to read it all again. Eric Wilson is a terrific writer.”
—GAYLE LYNDS, New York Times best-selling author of The Coil, Masquerade, and others
“Eric Wilson’s Dark to Mortal Eyes is a wonderful discovery. Frightening in places, provocative in others, this deeply spiritual, powerful story moves with the intricacy of a chess game played at the master’s level combined with the speed of a runaway locomotive. Eric Wilson is a great new voice.”
—STEVEN WOMACK, New York Times Notable Author of Dirty Money
“Dark to Mortal Eyes is intelligent and ambitious. Eric Wilson takes the reader through a fast-paced thriller that is as thought provoking as it is riveting.”
—ALAFAIR BURKE, author of Missing Justice
“Packed with intrigue and suspense, Dark to Mortal Eyes weaves a tale that awakens the mind toward eternal things. Don’t expect much sleep!”
—CINDY MARTINUSEN, author of The Salt Garden
“With bravado and compelling prose, Eric Wilson delivers a debut that will surely expand the minds and speed the hearts of readers. Dark to Mortal Eyes is a compelling tale that is surprisingly told. Wilson is set to leave his mark on the world of fiction.”
—TED DEKKER, best-selling author of Thr3e and Black
“From the first page, Eric Wilson takes us on a relentless and intriguing ride in his debut novel, Dark to Mortal Eyes. With unique characters and a thought-provoking plot, he transports us beyond the physical realm, illuminating the spiritual forces at work in our world. Put it on your must-read list—Eric Wilson’s novel is an eye-opening read.”
—RANDY SINGER, Christy Award–winning author of Directed Verdict and Dying Declaration
“From the opening scene, Wilson’s characters in Dark to Mortal Eyes hook us by the nose and pull us headlong into a suspense-filled, action-packed mystery that consistently rides the razor’s edge between life and death and blurs the lines between the natural and the spiritual realms. This book is a delight for the imagination and a challenge for the soul.”
—MICHAEL D. WARDEN, author of Gideon’s Dawn and Waymaker
DARK TO MORTAL EYES
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
2375 Telstar Drive, Suite 160
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80920
A division of Random House, Inc.
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved. Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
Quotes by J. R. R. Tolkien from The Return of the King in The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Used by permission.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
eISBN: 978-0-307-55213-6
Copyright © 2004 by Eric P. Wilson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
WATERBROOK PRESS and its deer design logo are trademarks of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wilson, Eric (Eric P.)
Dark to mortal eyes / Eric Wilson.— 1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Birthparents—Fiction. 3. Missing persons—Fiction. 4. Antiquities—Fiction. 5. Oregon—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.I583D37 2004
813’.6—dc22
2003027964
v3.1
In fondest memory of
Robert Ludlum (The Bourne Identity)
and J. R. R. Tolkien (The Lord of the Rings)
To my grandparents, with love:
Dorene and Alan Wilson—
through many difficulties you’ve made our family stronger;
Barbara and Vincent Guise Jr.—
your years of cheers from the sidelines have meant more than you know.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1 - Choose Your Poison
Chapter 2 - Black Feather
Chapter 3 - What You Cannot See
Chapter 4 - The Opening
Chapter 5 - Eyes of Flame
Chapter 6 - Drum Roll
Chapter 7 - Sparring Partners
Chapter 8 - Empty Space
Chapter 9 - Scars and Stripes
Part Two
Chapter 10 - Be Prepared
Chapter 11 - Room 223
Chapter 12 - The Arrivals
Chapter 13 - Without a Sound
Chapter 14 - A Glimpse of Pain
Chapter 15 - The Elements
Chapter 16 - Seeing Ghosts
Part Three
Chapter 17 - Deadline
Chapter 18 - No Rest for the Wicked
Chapter 19 - Double Negative
Chapter 20 - Fianchetto
Chapter 21 - Under a Spell
Chapter 22 - Test Tube
Chapter 23 - Secret Sight
Chapter 24 - Games of Chance
Chapter 25 - The Questions
Part Four
Chapter 26 - Matriarchs
Chapter 27 - Trick or Treat
Chapter 28 - Noose of Pearls
Chapter 29 - Hate Letters
Chapter 30 - The Game Book
Part Five
Chapter 31 - In the Balance
Chapter 32 - Deflected
Chapter 33 - The Sorceress
Chapter 34 - Telltale Signs
Chapter 35 - Among the Bones
Chapter 36 - Timberwolf
Chapter 37 - Necessary Evils
Part Six
Chapter 38 - Ready to Strike
Chapter 39 - Beyond Hope
Chapter 40 - Blades and Birds
Chapter 41 - Knee-Deep
Chapter 42 - The Vault
Chapter 43 - Momentum
Chapter 44 - Hair-Raising
Epilogue - Hidden Things
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Through the ages, story and metaphor have been used to examine life’s mercurial nature. Jesus himself told parables to highlight spiritual truths. In Dark to Mortal Eyes, I try to put these same tools to work. To establish doctrine? No. To explore earth’s tension between heaven and hell? Absolutely. I see fiction as an adventure—enlightening, frightening, and inspiring. I’m thrilled to share this novel with you. Together, let’s uncover hidden things.
I will open my mouth in parables,
/>
I will utter hidden things.
PSALM 78:2 (NIV)
PROLOGUE
Devil’s Elbow
Oregon Coast, November 1945
“Eerie, isn’t she?” said Captain Bartlow. “But beautiful.”
“She’s all that and more, sir. Feisty as they come.”
Bartlow jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “The lady in back? She’s a looker, all right. Should’ve known that’s where your mind was. No, I’m talking about the lighthouse.” With gloved hands, he drew himself to the windshield. “Now there’s a sight for sore eyes.”
His driver downshifted, and the truck groaned. Headlights poked at the mist, no match for Heceta Head Lighthouse as she rose from the shoulder of a cliff ahead.
“You think there’s any truth to the rumors, Captain?”
“That she’s got a ghost?” Bartlow’s scoffing breath fogged the glass. “It’s a lighthouse, goes with the territory. Now keep your eyes on the road.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bartlow fell silent. Ghosts? Things of this world were much more worrisome.
As Captain of the Port in the small town of Florence, he had been responsible for security throughout the war. He issued ID cards, controlled anchorage and inspection at the ocean’s mouth, and—as delegated by President Truman through the secretary of the navy—oversaw the stowage of military munitions. Two hours ago, with coastguardsmen pacing the pier, Bartlow had supervised a shipment’s transfer to the back of this vehicle—crates, canisters, shrouded machinery.
There beneath the dock lights, he had spied the twisted cross.
Though weathered by sea and brine, the swastika had refused to fade from the exterior of a wooden bin, and he’d hurried the item onto the truck.
Now, with the engine battling a steep grade, he threw a glance at the cargo in the darkness. He was following orders, yes, but this was the first shipment he’d ever received without the president’s endorsement. As for the woman? Her beauty made her no less a part of this violation. Discerning her profile in the shadows, he winked before letting the canvas back down.
“Almost there,” the driver informed him. “Be glad to get this over with.”
“Don’t you let up now, guardsman. Or are you forgetting what’s on board? One good bump and our eyeballs’ll be turned to jelly. Is that what you want? You want them finding the lady in that condition?”
“Don’t like that kind of talk, sir.”
“Good. You just get us there in one piece.”
The driver turned left off Highway 101 and wrestled the vehicle over mud tracks toward the lightkeeper’s house. With the war over and decommissioning under way, the Coast Guard would soon vacate the house so that life could return to normal.
Normal? Bartlow cupped his gloves over cold lips. Not quite yet.
“Sir? Where to?”
“Round back. Yeah, there at the cellar doors. That’s good.”
The engine cleared its throat, fell silent. As Bartlow stepped down, the Pacific boomed against rocky ramparts more than a hundred feet below, and an icy gust whipped foam across his brow. Turning, he found a Doberman pinscher sniffing at his leg. Cutter was the lone remaining watchdog from the wartime kennel on the premises.
“Attaboy, Cutter.” He patted the dog. “Now stay back. We’ve got work to do.”
From the back stairs of the house, sleepy-eyed guardsmen tramped into position and saluted. Bartlow’s driver yanked back the cellar doors, pointed to the truck’s cargo. “Well, get moving. Captain hasn’t got all night to wait on your lazy backsides.”
The men shuffled to the tailgate, then halted as one unit. A woman had materialized between rows of crated munitions, facing them with unblinking eyes. She was young and enchanting, her shape—to their disappointment—hidden by the captain’s wool greatcoat.
“I can let myself down,” she said. And none seemed to doubt her.
Captain Bartlow chuckled. “Kelso, show the lady to the drawing room. Those’ll be her quarters for the night.” Once she was gone, he added, “And hers alone. I know what you’re thinking, you filthy sea dogs. Now hop to it.”
During the unloading, Bartlow fretted over the lightkeeper’s return. With his son in tow, the hardy old keeper had puttered to the lighthouse on the neighboring cape for routine maintenance of the Fresnel lens. Nearly midnight now. Father and son would be back in five minutes, ten tops. Though the keeper had endured the Coast Guard’s intrusions, his presence jeopardized the secrecy they desired tonight.
From the truck, a cry of pain cut the air. Two men set down a crate while a third eased a formidable sliver from his palm.
Bartlow, detecting movement from the doghouse, turned to see Cutter strutting forward. “Stay back, boy. Back.”
Cutter’s ears cocked toward the command, but his low-slung hindquarters caught a fourth man behind the knees. With hands full, the guardsman was unable to halt his backward motion, and he sprawled on the ground.
Ka-chika-chink …
A silver canister spilled from his grasp onto the lawn. The dog prodded it.
“Careful!” Bartlow barked at his subordinate. “That’s nothing to toy with. On your feet, man. Pick it up.”
Before the man could comply, Cutter went on alert: eyes fixed, hairs bristling, a growl escaping through bared teeth. He tried biting the canister, then clawed at it, nails clicking against the metal. He ignored Bartlow’s whistle and gave chase as the canister began rolling along the slope. The object hissed through the grass, trailing tendrils of vapor that stained the night air green.
“Cutter, get back here!” The captain joined the pursuit. If they lost this thing, it’d be his hide.
With a mind of its own, the canister headed for a gap in the white picket fence. The thing was alive. It clattered against wood slats, spun through the gap, then hop-skipped into brush that shielded the last yards to the cliff. Vapor coiled around leaves and twigs. On the Doberman’s heels, Bartlow hurdled the fence and briars, grabbed at low branches to brake his headlong dash.
Only to watch the object plummet over the precipice. Spinning. Gone.
Far below, the waves of Devil’s Elbow clutched at it and tucked it from view.
The captain swore into the night, then coughed to dislodge phlegm from his chest. He ignored a knot of heat around his ribs. He knew he must report this screwup, but who would believe him? His competence would be questioned, his years of service compromised by one surreal moment.
Hot needles poked at his throat. His vision blurred.
“Lose something?”
With a deep breath, Captain Bartlow turned to see lightkeeper and son standing in a gas lantern’s preternatural glow. “Uh, yes,” he answered, spurned to honesty by the keeper’s probing eyes. “Nothing that can’t be replaced though.”
“Looked like Jesse Owens the way you sprinted toward that ledge.”
“Worried about … an item of mine. And the dog. Didn’t want him going over.”
“Looks safe to me, little riled perhaps,” said the keeper, as the boy stroked Cutter’s head. “You want any help searching, you just holler. I know this cove like the back of my hand.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“No, really. Be my pleasure to help you boys out.”
“Heard you the first time. Thanks, but no. Go on about your business.”
In the lantern’s gleam, the keeper’s face was indecipherable.
“Go on!” Bartlow shoved the words over a dry, distended tongue.
“I’ll be completing my rounds, sir.” The keeper patted his son’s back with one hand, swung the lantern with the other. Across the grass and up the stairs they went.
Bartlow drew in cold air. Another ragged cough. A spike of pain through his abdomen. Despite fog clinging to the house, the half-dozen spokes of Heceta Head’s light hewed the gloom and alerted him to a shape at the window: the lady from the truck. Had she witnessed the fiasco leading to the canister’s loss?
Eve
n as curtains floated back down, he saw the calculating curve of her mouth and knew he had erred by involving himself in these matters.
Too late to backtrack now. The shipment had reached American shores.
A violent retching almost drove the captain to his knees. His lungs wheezed. A tinge of green passed over his eyes, and as blindness became complete, he cried out for assistance. He stumbled. The waves alone answered, rushing to meet him as he took one false step over the cliff’s gnarled brow.
PART ONE
No need to brood
on what tomorrow may bring.…
Tomorrow will be certain to bring worse than today.…
The board is set.
The Return of the King by J. R. R. Tolkien
I pray that your hearts
will be flooded with light …
that you will begin to understand.
Ephesians 1:18–19
1
Choose Your Poison
Willamette Valley, October 2003
Josee discovered the canister while seeking firewood in the thicket. A chance encounter, nothing more. The odds of finding it here beneath a sword fern were slim, she knew that, but long ago she had retreated from belief in a grand design. She’d been down that slope before.
In her hands, the object pleaded for purpose. For significance.
She shook her head. Nope. A random occurrence—that’s all this was.
Prompted by sporadic raindrops on leaves overhead, Josee Walker built her campfire, blowing at kindling and newsprint until flames rose with halfhearted applause. Satisfied, she returned to her discovery. Weighed the canister in her hands, noted water spots and rust stains. Scratch marks, too. She polished it with the sleeve of her sweatshirt and found her face reflected in the metal surface.
That’s me? After two days without a mirror, the sight was disturbing. Don’t even look like myself. I look so … wasted. Out of it.
Josee rotated the object and found a skull-and-crossbones symbol. Stenciled in black, it made her shudder as she rolled the canister into her bedroll.
