Dark to Mortal Eyes, Page 5

  As if we enjoy such fluctuations. What nonsense.

  It was true that the mere suggestion of a reunion with Josee had caused Kara’s emotions to spike. And the questions had returned with new vigor. Phantoms. Plaguing her sleep, skirting the edges of her daily activities, always haunting her.

  Indeed, what sort of mother would surrender her child at birth?

  How had Marshall been able to erode her intention of keeping the baby?

  Why had she caved to the pressure of her own father who, as a respected deacon, told her he would be shamed? What hypocrisy! She’d been tempted to accept the money he offered, but amid 1981’s conflicts between choice and life, she had settled on adoption.

  Had selfishness caused Kara and Marsh to shirk the burden of a sick child?

  And for all these years, what questions had chased through Josee’s head?

  “I’m so sorry. Josee, forgive me.” Kara’s hands wrung the steering wheel. The words sounded hollow, but with only hours until their reunion she hoped beyond hope that her daughter would look past facades and recognize her mother for the woman she was—and the woman she wasn’t.

  “Help her to understand the battles I’ve fought. Please, God,” Kara begged, “open her eyes.”

  Seven o’clock sharp. Time for war.

  On the study’s chess table, crystal soldiers faced each other, glittering and poised for the day’s first sortie. Marsh heard the computer turn itself on. The task launcher was taking him to the online gaming zone where his opponent would be waiting. A battle to the death would ensue.

  The zone’s slogan read like a rallying cry: “Chess … sixty-four squares, thirty-two pieces, one winner! No weak-kneed pseudojocks allowed.”

  For years, to prime himself for entrepreneurial challenges, Marsh had wrestled the same adversary routinely on the Internet, a person who played under the user name Steele Knight. Marsh knew little of the opponent’s background, physical appearance, or location. These topics were taboo, as though to discuss such details would provide an edge. Through combat alone, he had learned the intricacies of his opponent’s mind-set.

  And vice versa, no doubt.

  Torch-lit and cavernous, the gaming zone materialized. Steele Knight wandered into view, a brown-robed entity wielding an iron mace.

  Marsh felt his pulse quicken. Time to sharpen the senses. With the mouse, he clicked Play Game and watched the entrance of his own virtual persona: a blank-eyed mannequin plastered with quartered black and yellow circles. The two players were sequestered to a dungeonlike room.

  “You’re white.” The opponent’s words scrolled along the screen in Old English letters. “Make your move, CCD.”

  Crash-Chess-Dummy—Marsh’s user name.

  Typically, before settling on a move, Marsh liked to work out his ideas on the glass board behind him, but this was a no-brainer. He advanced his king pawn.

  Steele Knight keyed in, “Predictable, CCD. As always.”

  “Take your best shot. I’ve won the last three days in a row.”

  The robed figure rose from the dungeon table, pounded a gauntlet against his chest. “All for a reason, my friend. Today the strategy shifts.”

  “You mean you have a strategy?”

  “Aah, very funny.”

  This verbal posturing was normal, a little trash talk to raise the stakes.

  “Now,” Marsh responded, “the real fun begins.”

  He pushed forward his king’s bishop pawn … the King’s Gambit. Although business decisions required a more methodical approach, chess granted him some swashbuckling swagger. By offering a pawn for a positional advantage, this opening magnified the importance of each move upon the chessboard.

  Marsh jiggled the pointer on the monitor, tapped his loafers beneath the desk. Would his opponent accept the challenge? Or play strategically and safe?

  Steele Knight seized the pawn and typed, “Next, I’m coming after your queen.”

  Bzz-bzz-bzzzhhh …

  “Who is it?” Marsh snapped at the sound of the buzzer. He pushed away from the computer, head thick with tactical ideas. He punched in the key code, and the study door slid open.

  “Your food, sir.”

  “Almost forgot.” His stomach rumbled as he eyed the tray. “Thanks, Rosie.”

  “And I thought you might like to know that Mrs. Addison has returned.”

  “As I predicted.”

  “She’s packing her things.”

  “Packing?” He looked from the steaming coffee, to the computer, down into his household manager’s gaze. With squared shoulders and a grunt, he decided Steele Knight could hold his horses while he checked on his wife. One game at a time. He waved for Rosie to set down the tray, then brushed past her as he walked toward the bedroom.

  Marsh found Kara at the foot of their fourposter.

  “And where,” Marsh demanded, “are you going?”

  “You sound concerned.”

  “I’d like an explanation. I think you owe me that.”

  “Do I have to check in and out? Am I under some sort of obligation here?”

  He’d anticipated the show of independence, yet the open suitcase ignited his concern. “We’re married, Kara. Of course we have obligations.”

  “Marshall, Marshall … relax, it’s not what it seems.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Just some silly notion of mine. Thought it might be fun to take Josee to the beach house for the night. We can share some quality time that way, and it’ll free you from any expectations.”

  “Does she know about this?”

  “Not yet, but she’s traveled this far, and I’m sure we can make arrangements. Please, I don’t need your surliness to spoil our fun.” Kara held up a sundress, then opted for a burgundy, lace-sleeved affair. “You think Josee would like LeSerre? Their food is fabulous. Perhaps a night on the town. You think she’d enjoy something along those lines?”

  “In Yachats? Wouldn’t call that much of a nightlife.”

  “Or perhaps a stroll along the beach? A chance to catch up.”

  “Pardon me if I can’t share in the excitement, but you know how I feel about it.”

  Kara’s caramel eyes petitioned him. “Your support, darling—that’s all I’m after.”

  “Is that all Josee’s after?” Marsh moved to the bed, almost tripped over a set of cream-colored pumps. “Here we are, pulling in significant profits for the first time in years, and look who should appear. You must admit that the timing is suspicious.”

  “Nonsense.” Kara shook her head. Her expulsion of disbelief almost muted the sound of a telephone.

  “You think I’m joking? If this girl—”

  “Our daughter.”

  “If this girl’s able to prove she’s related to us, it could grant her some legal portion of our estate. That’s a possibility. She could be an opportunist, taking advantage of the latest state measures. Now that Oregon’s opened its files to all adoptees, you can bet there are scam artists out there rubbing their hands with glee.”

  “The audacity, Marsh. Have you even considered the alternative, that perhaps business is prospering so we can put together a family again? It seems as if, on some level, there’s a bigger plan here. As if God’s hand is reaching down.”

  “Right. Pull out the heavy artillery.”

  “Why do you always ridicule my beliefs?”

  “Okay, so that religious stuff works for you. Guess I’m programmed differently.”

  “Somewhere in that heart of yours I know you believe.”

  “Well, if God is out there, he’s too big to be concerned with our measly problems.”

  “Or so big that he can be concerned.”

  “I just don’t think we can count on his doing us any favors. Kara, you care a lot for other people—and that’s commendable, don’t get me wrong—but it doesn’t win you brownie points with God. You still have to face things on your own. You can’t lean on anyone else.”

  “Not even my own h
usband?”

  “When it comes down to it, all of us are alone. Each and every person.”

  “Well. That’s nicely stated. Certainly sets my mind at ease.”

  Over the bedroom intercom, Rosie informed them of a call on the private line.

  “Rosamund, if it’s not business,” Marsh vented, “it can wait. Tell them to call back tomorrow. For heaven’s sake, can’t we even argue in peace?” He released the Speak button and continued his tirade. “This vineyard was my father’s dream, Kara. He worked this land, named that ridge out there, and hoped his one son would carry this on … his dying wish. I’m not about to go and risk it all now.”

  “I understand that. Your dad would’ve been so proud, darling. You’ve met his hopes—exceeded them!—and I respect your hard work. There are other things in life too. That’s all I want you to see.”

  “I’m not as ignorant as that.”

  “Perhaps,” Kara said, “losing the vineyard isn’t what you’re afraid of.”

  Marsh stalked to the bedroom’s picture window. His eyes raked the landscape. Didn’t she understand his dilemma? Sure, Josee’s photo in the bathroom breathed wistful hints in his ear, but a reunion was out of the question. Where did a man acquire guidelines for such an encounter? Boardroom strategies would be of limited use.

  There it is. I grew up without a father, and I don’t have a clue how to be a dad.

  His jaw pointed back at Kara as he considered sharing this fear, then he thought of how she would try to allay his concerns. She’d snuggle against him. Speak encouraging words. Look into his face and spot the self-doubts that roamed behind his eyes.

  Worst of all, she would understand. He would be naked before her. Vulnerable.

  He faced the window again. “How much longer?”

  “Till?”

  “You leave.”

  “Is it so awful to have me around?”

  “There’s work to be done, my morning routine. I’m ready to be alone.” Marsh imagined Steele Knight’s impatience in the online dungeon. Ironic, he thought, how chess hostilities seemed safer than human interaction.

  He heard her move up behind him. In the window, the troubled expression on Kara’s face matched the sincerity of her prayer, so soft that he almost missed it.

  “Please, God,” she said, “open his eyes.”

  Fixed like statues at the window, Marsh and Kara faced their joint reflection, a couple in tableau against the wind-tossed landscape. Outside, the wind skimmed over Addison Ridge Vineyards. Coming and going without warning, it tugged at the tails of early mist, nudged beneath a blanket of foliage, then roared upward in a column of fiery leaves. White pebbles scattered as the gust rushed the manor, and Marsh could feel its grip through the double-paned glass.

  Kara shivered too. In the reflection, in their nebulous union, he watched her curl closer to touch his cheek with one hand and smooth the ends of his tie with the other. He closed his eyes, wished that Kara would go. He did not want to feel. Did not want to see. Was that so hard to understand?

  Then she was jerking away. Her warmth vanished from his side.

  “Marsh!” A ragged gasp.

  In the windowpane, he viewed his wife’s eyes rounded with pain. Her face was turning blue with the effort of breathing; her neck was swollen, pinched by a strip of cloth knotted against her windpipe. He pivoted to look down.

  What the heck?

  His hands were reaching for her throat.

  5

  Eyes of Flame

  “Scoot, don’t mess with that thing. We’re not alone.”

  “Oh no, the girl’s goin’ schizo on me.”

  “I’m not kidding.” Josee eyed the canister. Earlier, despite warning bells that had jangled in her subconscious, she’d been blindsided by an attack. One whiff had triggered the pain. In this brief span of time, though, something had shifted; now, in vivid color, her pupils registered a hostile entity.

  Creeping. Green. Oozing into view.

  Across the coals, Scooter was cradling the canister as though enraptured with a newborn. “What’d you smell?” he wanted to know. He put his face near the surface. “I can’t smell a thing. Yeah, yeah, okay, now I can, sorta.”

  An aftershock spasmed through Josee’s torso. Scrapbook pages from the past: glaring lights, distant voices, a sharp needle prick … and her red gel capsules.

  “Scoot, just do what I ask.”

  “Hey, it’s all good.”

  “No,” she told him, “it’s not.”

  “Things’re cool, Josee. No need to stress. Check this out. My ring starts glowing when it gets close to this thing.” He stretched out his arm, brought it in again, while the moonstone throbbed. “Man, you see that?”

  “Please, hon, this is no joke.”

  “S’okay. What’s the problemo?”

  From the canister’s seam, a neon green vapor emerged. Scooter seemed blind to it as it twined up his arm. Josee, on the other hand, witnessed the movement in lucid detail. Coils, shifting and sliding. Fangs, curved and transparent, gathering substance from the emerald wisps.

  “You can run,” he said, “but you can’t hide.”

  Alongside Highway 99, Sergeant Vince Turney sat in his police cruiser and tried with thick fingers to fetch peanut M&M’s from the bag between his legs. He nabbed a morsel. Yellow, his favorite.

  He didn’t deny he could lose a few pounds around the middle, but he’d wolfed down an early breakfast and was feeling the urge to nibble again. He crunched on the candy, dug for more.

  Fuel, he told himself. To keep his body going.

  Before her passing, his fiancée had teased him that he’d be hitting thirty before she did. In his memory, her voice had lost its humor. “Two or three years, Vince, and you’ll be on the downward slope, slip-sliding away. As for me? I’ll still be young and perky. Just trying to warn you that you’re gonna need more sleep and exercise, not to mention those longevity supplement drinks.” Milly had winked, and Turney had wisecracked that she couldn’t handle any more man than she was already getting.

  Of course, after she’d left for her shift at Key Bank, he’d rushed out to the garage to hide his stack of Sobe beverage elixirs.

  Not that it mattered. Milly was gone long before his thirtieth milestone.

  A teenage driver fiddling with a CD … A twist of the wheel … A median overrun …

  For nearly three years, Milly Svenson’s gravestone had graced a hillside cemetery outside of Junction City. Near her parents. At peace and with God.

  Here Turney was, still plugging along the career path of law enforcement. Had he missed a turn? Misread the signs? Chief Braddock’s old-school leadership grated against Turney’s sensibilities, as did the job’s brushes with human depravity.

  Best to stick to my duties, that’s the thing—to serve and to protect.

  On the Corvallis outskirts, he adjusted his weight in the driver’s seat, fished for another M&M, and waited for a bike to reemerge over the rail embankment. He’d seen a rider disappear near this spot, and he knew there was nothing over yonder but trees and ferns and poison oak.

  Some hobo most likely. Or a harmless bum. He’d seen the type before.

  Although riding the rails held a certain appeal for Sergeant Turney, he knew his job suggested that he’d better check this out, for the sake of all law-abiding citizens. He radioed in his location, then lumbered from the car, tucking in his shirt and swinging at flying insects on his way through tall ryegrass.

  That’s when he heard a scream.

  Josee could do nothing but watch as the vapor coiled up Scooter’s arm to his neck. It brushed over his beard, fondled his locks in a licentious caress, then rushed down the other arm to his ring. Scooter’s eyes fixed upon the moonstone, and the being struck. Snakelike, the vapor thrust itself forward. Jaws unhinged and rear fangs extended toward him.

  “Scooter!”

  He whipped his head toward her so that the fangs missed his eyes and clamped instead onto his cheek,
where they pumped midnight blue venom into tissue. Within seconds, his face became a mask of repulsive calm. Subservient and accepting of his fate? Or reveling in the experience?

  Josee couldn’t tell. Strange. Maybe both.

  As the fangs retracted, blood glazed over Scooter’s eyes. He showed no response, zilch, as droplets spilled from his eyelids onto his poncho.

  Shame filled Josee. She’d felt the threat, seen the clues, yet she’d let the speed of the attack keep her from responding. As if she could’ve. She, too, had frozen in position while a cloak of leaden incompetence weighed upon her back.

  Lead: metallic blue gray, the color of a bullet, of a sinker on a line.

  The color of her helplessness.

  Old snapshots flipped into focus: the time a kitten was swept down the Long Tom River; the day a stuttering classmate endured insults at the back of the school bus; the night her foster mother absorbed blows from the same drunken jerk who’d locked Josee in the basement …

  Josee’s emotion now swelled into outrage. Blue gray turned red.

  Can’t just sit here. I have to do something!

  “Leave him alone!”

  She erupted from her seat, casting off the leaden cloak. She armed herself with a branch and kicked at the leaves. “Get away!” She cranked the limb and took a swing; bark sizzled through the wispy form. In the serpentine coils, Scooter’s body remained limp, and the complacency on his face incensed her. Typical, she thought.

  “Fight!” she commanded him. “Do something.”

  The vapor turned its gaze her direction.

  “Why don’t you leave us alone?”

  No more than a foot away, the being’s tongue flapped forward to read her heat fluctuations. Sizing her up. The miasmic mouth wielded fangs, and the eyes turned into flame. Searing. Dancing with aggression. She knew instinctively that she would never find a snake like this in the Portland Zoo’s reptile house.

  Josee stepped back. What was she doing? This was insane.

  But this creature had no right! A righteous indignation rose within her—from the soil of her childhood vows, from the withered seed of a child’s faith.