From Publishers Weekly
In this bizarre thriller for the Christian market, a jilted old woman with a hatred for men has a deadly secret that could wreak havoc upon the population of the Oregon coast. Framing his novel around chess strategy, Wilson introduces Josee Walker, once given up for adoption rather unbelievably by her wealthy parents, Kara and Marsh Addison. Now a cynical artist and poet in her 20s, she's come upon a canister that will make her a pawn in a horrendous scheme. The canister holds a poison for the body and the soul. "Hidden things are at work here," cautions Marsh's mother. "Elements that remain dark to our mortal eyes." Things get creepy, with blood and vaporous green mists like serpents showing up in unlikely places. To help defeat the forces of evil, Josee must rely on the fragments of a faith she's mostly left behind. Quirky twists delightfully catch the reader off-guard throughout the story, and Wilson nimbly sprinkles clues throughout. Strong verbs carry the text, but the slangy dialogue turns stale down the stretch. Occasionally, the writing veers off into the genuinely strange, and at more than 400 pages, some cutting would have helped the pacing. The ending disintegrates into prolonged mayhem, with some light gore and a predictable showdown with the bad guys. Still, Wilson's fresh voice holds promise, and CBA thriller aficionados should welcome this debut.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Review
"With bravado and compelling prose, Eric Wilson delivers a début 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
“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 multi-layered 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 bestselling 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’s 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
--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
“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 multi-layered 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 bestselling 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’s 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
Book Description
What You Can’t See Can Hurt You.
Returning to the hometown of her birth parents, rebellious 23-year-old Josee Walker seeks answers to long-held questions about her childhood. Her biological father, wealthy vintner Marsh Addison, wants nothing to do with her. But a determined Kara Addison sets out to meet the child she gave up years before, despite Marsh’s passionate opposition.
Five Days of Hell for a Glimpse of Heaven
When Kara disappears and her car is discovered at the bottom of a ravine, however, Marsh becomes the prime suspect. Suddenly, Marsh and Josee are forced to unite in their search for Kara–and for the truth. But there’s more to their family’s past than meets the eye. What could the mysterious canister that Josee found in the woods contain? What does it have to do with her mother’s disappearance? When an ancient evil rouses, each member of the Addison family becomes enmeshed in a terrifying supernatural battle–one with global consequences.
Returning to the hometown of her birth parents, rebellious 23-year-old Josee Walker seeks answers to long-held questions about her childhood. Her biological father, wealthy vintner Marsh Addison, wants nothing to do with her. But a determined Kara Addison sets out to meet the child she gave up years before, despite Marsh’s passionate opposition.
Five Days of Hell for a Glimpse of Heaven
When Kara disappears and her car is discovered at the bottom of a ravine, however, Marsh becomes the prime suspect. Suddenly, Marsh and Josee are forced to unite in their search for Kara–and for the truth. But there’s more to their family’s past than meets the eye. What could the mysterious canister that Josee found in the woods contain? What does it have to do with her mother’s disappearance? When an ancient evil rouses, each member of the Addison family becomes enmeshed in a terrifying supernatural battle–one with global consequences.
From the Back Cover
"With bravado and compelling prose, Eric Wilson delivers a début 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
“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 multi-layered 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 bestselling 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’s 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
--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
“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 multi-layered 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 bestselling 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’s 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
About the Author
Eric Wilson is a former missionary kid whose imagination is fueled by new places and experiences and who loves to communicate this sense of adventure through fiction. He has published numerous articles and currently reviews books online.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
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.
Rocks shifted nearby.
“Hey.” She raised her voice above the patter of rain. “That you, Scoot?”
“Who else? I scare you?”
“Not even. Just making sure.”
Josee’s friend wheeled his bike down the railway embankment. His dreadknotted
hair hung like soggy pretzels from his hood and funneled water down
the front of his poncho. Moisture clung to his thin beard.
“Quick, hon,” said Josee, “get in here.”
“Think I’m frozen to the bone.”
“I started a campfire for us using the classifieds. How’s that for irony, considering
we have no place to stay?” As Scooter dropped his daypack onto the
ground, Josee heard his chattering teeth. “Scoot, you poor thing.”
“You don’t have to mother me. And what, this place isn’t good enough?”
“Oh, cork it.” She kissed him on the cheek. “What’d you get us?”
“Dinner. Found some bread and fish fillets at the old Safeway in
Corvallis.”
She studied the expiration dates. “Hmm, should be okay. Only a day late,
looks like.” The fillets were actually fish sticks that she knew he’d collected
from the Dumpster by the store.
“They’re fine,” Scooter said. “Let’s eat.”
She pushed back a tuft of hair. “Better watch it, mister. Might find yourself
traveling alone.”
“Think so?”
“Know so. And you know you can’t live without me. You adore me.” She
teased him with turquoise eyes. He couldn’t resist them, she was certain of
that. Part of her survival gear. Multifunctional. With a twinkle of these eyes
she often masked her real thoughts from others; her feelings, too.
Right now I feel far away–that’s what I feel. Detached.
“You ask me,” Scooter was muttering, “beggars can’t be choosers.”
“You mean the food? Beggars, artists–we’re all in the same boat. Yep,
have to take what we can get.”
“Money’s a security blanket. That’s all it is, Josee. People goin’ through the
motions for another paycheck, selling their souls for a slice of suburban
heaven–”
“Or suburban hell.” She watched the sputtering fire.
“Load of crock. You and I know better.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Babe, you okay?”
Josee peeked from beneath her pierced eyebrow and black hair, started
to answer, then with a flick of her wrist waved him off while fanning at eyeburning
smoke and memories. Her past was a vandalized scrapbook: pages
torn, photos scratched, facts rubbed out. The book’s coverage of her childhood
was a mess.
Yeah, there were a few unsullied years, beginning with her adoption at age
nine. Before the darker days of teenage angst, of reproachful encounters.
Events she preferred not to speak about.
Give them credit, her adoptive parents had tried to provide an atmosphere
of acceptance in which she could open up, but she felt nothing. It was
useless. They would never understand, and she refused to risk further rejection.
Already she had developed an effective coping mechanism: Josee Walker
trusted no one but herself. After making life miserable for everyone in the
house–and feeling guilty for it–she had taken advantage of her newly
earned driver’s license and moved into a friend’s converted garage. Never
bothered to look back. The past was the past, she told herself. Best to let it go.
That was six years ago.
“What’re you thinking?” Scooter prodded.
“That it’d be nice to stop thinking.”
“Tomorrow you get to meet your birth mother. That’s a good thing,
right?”
Josee grimaced. “I hope she’s ready for it.”
“For what?”
“For me. She might expect her daughter to be, I don’t know,
more…frilly.”
Scooter’s grin sparked amid his facial hair. “You sent her a picture, didn’t
you? Don’t worry, she’ll like you just the way you are. If not? Her loss.” He
dug into his poncho. “Here, Josee, little somethin’ I picked up. Nothing big.”
She accepted a case of charcoals and pencils. “Where’d you get this, or do
I want to know?”
“Worked out a deal. Hated to see you scratching away with that stubby
pencil of yours.”
She paused and listened to the rain. “Where’s your Discman?”
His hands pushed into his pockets, jacking up his shoulders.
Josee pawed through his pack. “You hocked it to pay for this?”
“Listen, we gonna eat or what?”
She opened the art case, found that fingering the colorful implements
recharged her imagination. Too wet out to do any sketches, but later she’d get
a chance. “Thanks,” she said, nudging him. Her throat tightened. She clicked
the case shut and busied herself with her bedroll until confident her voice was
steady. “Something I wanted to show you, too,” she said. “Look what I found
while gathering wood.” She hefted the canister. “Sort of spooky, don’t you
think?”
In a dank basement studio, canvases draped the concrete walls. Shades of scarlet
and ebony dominated, splashed across cubist artwork. Spanning floor to
ceiling, the collection’s centerpiece depicted a white chess queen against a stark
background. She was losing her balance on a castle parapet, her silent scream
exaggerated, lances poised below to skewer her.
The Lady in Dread.
Karl Stahlherz frowned at the picture. Since its completion, he’d been
unable to paint, despite his gnawing appetite for distinction. He knew the art
was good; his mother had fostered his gift, and in statewide galleries his pieces
had sold for respectable and increasing amounts. Never under his own name
though. Payments filtered through an art institute called the House of
Ubelhaar, and the only means of identifying his work was his signature saffron
streak across the lower right-hand corner.
He remained an unknown. Barely a footnote in federal government files.
Soon that would be rectified.
Stahlherz slipped an audio book into his newly acquired Discman.
Taking only cash or trade, he supplemented his income with the sale of art
supplies. The kid who’d stopped in earlier had telephoned first, asked for a
specific item for his girlfriend. Stahlherz had waited on the porch’s uneven
stone steps, nervous, tapping his fingers against the air until the kid arrived
astride a rusty bike. Most likely another college dropout–scrawny, hair tickling
his chin, multiple pockets down the baggy pant legs.
The kid handed over the Discman. “Works great. Check it out for
yourself.”
Testing the player’s components, Stahlherz fumbled and almost dropped
it. “Appears functional,” he managed. He relinquished the art case, tried to
look his customer in the eye. “Keep me in mind the next time you need supplies.
Without the overhead, I can underbid most shops around Corvallis.”
“Thanks, but I’m from out of state.”
“Your girlfriend–”
“Doesn’t live here either, not anymore. Ran across your number on a flier.”
“Shipping’s inexpensive,” Stahlherz pressed. “With an address, I could
add you to my files and send you quarterly fliers. Or e-mail if you’re online.”
The kid kicked at a foot pedal. “Nothing against you, but I pretty much
keep to myself. I try to stay off those kinds of lists, to avoid the eyes of Big
Brother. Fly under the radar, low as I can go.”
Stahlherz bobbed his head. Despite the twenty or thirty years that separated
them, he could relate to this kid. “Your views sound vaguely anarchistic.”
“Might say that.”
“You’re not the only one with such ideas. This region’s gained a share of
notoriety for similar leanings. In fact, I could put you in contact with others
who–”
“Nah, that’s all right. You know how it is… Girlfriend’s waiting.”
Watching the kid ride into the drizzle, Stahlher...
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.
Rocks shifted nearby.
“Hey.” She raised her voice above the patter of rain. “That you, Scoot?”
“Who else? I scare you?”
“Not even. Just making sure.”
Josee’s friend wheeled his bike down the railway embankment. His dreadknotted
hair hung like soggy pretzels from his hood and funneled water down
the front of his poncho. Moisture clung to his thin beard.
“Quick, hon,” said Josee, “get in here.”
“Think I’m frozen to the bone.”
“I started a campfire for us using the classifieds. How’s that for irony, considering
we have no place to stay?” As Scooter dropped his daypack onto the
ground, Josee heard his chattering teeth. “Scoot, you poor thing.”
“You don’t have to mother me. And what, this place isn’t good enough?”
“Oh, cork it.” She kissed him on the cheek. “What’d you get us?”
“Dinner. Found some bread and fish fillets at the old Safeway in
Corvallis.”
She studied the expiration dates. “Hmm, should be okay. Only a day late,
looks like.” The fillets were actually fish sticks that she knew he’d collected
from the Dumpster by the store.
“They’re fine,” Scooter said. “Let’s eat.”
She pushed back a tuft of hair. “Better watch it, mister. Might find yourself
traveling alone.”
“Think so?”
“Know so. And you know you can’t live without me. You adore me.” She
teased him with turquoise eyes. He couldn’t resist them, she was certain of
that. Part of her survival gear. Multifunctional. With a twinkle of these eyes
she often masked her real thoughts from others; her feelings, too.
Right now I feel far away–that’s what I feel. Detached.
“You ask me,” Scooter was muttering, “beggars can’t be choosers.”
“You mean the food? Beggars, artists–we’re all in the same boat. Yep,
have to take what we can get.”
“Money’s a security blanket. That’s all it is, Josee. People goin’ through the
motions for another paycheck, selling their souls for a slice of suburban
heaven–”
“Or suburban hell.” She watched the sputtering fire.
“Load of crock. You and I know better.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Babe, you okay?”
Josee peeked from beneath her pierced eyebrow and black hair, started
to answer, then with a flick of her wrist waved him off while fanning at eyeburning
smoke and memories. Her past was a vandalized scrapbook: pages
torn, photos scratched, facts rubbed out. The book’s coverage of her childhood
was a mess.
Yeah, there were a few unsullied years, beginning with her adoption at age
nine. Before the darker days of teenage angst, of reproachful encounters.
Events she preferred not to speak about.
Give them credit, her adoptive parents had tried to provide an atmosphere
of acceptance in which she could open up, but she felt nothing. It was
useless. They would never understand, and she refused to risk further rejection.
Already she had developed an effective coping mechanism: Josee Walker
trusted no one but herself. After making life miserable for everyone in the
house–and feeling guilty for it–she had taken advantage of her newly
earned driver’s license and moved into a friend’s converted garage. Never
bothered to look back. The past was the past, she told herself. Best to let it go.
That was six years ago.
“What’re you thinking?” Scooter prodded.
“That it’d be nice to stop thinking.”
“Tomorrow you get to meet your birth mother. That’s a good thing,
right?”
Josee grimaced. “I hope she’s ready for it.”
“For what?”
“For me. She might expect her daughter to be, I don’t know,
more…frilly.”
Scooter’s grin sparked amid his facial hair. “You sent her a picture, didn’t
you? Don’t worry, she’ll like you just the way you are. If not? Her loss.” He
dug into his poncho. “Here, Josee, little somethin’ I picked up. Nothing big.”
She accepted a case of charcoals and pencils. “Where’d you get this, or do
I want to know?”
“Worked out a deal. Hated to see you scratching away with that stubby
pencil of yours.”
She paused and listened to the rain. “Where’s your Discman?”
His hands pushed into his pockets, jacking up his shoulders.
Josee pawed through his pack. “You hocked it to pay for this?”
“Listen, we gonna eat or what?”
She opened the art case, found that fingering the colorful implements
recharged her imagination. Too wet out to do any sketches, but later she’d get
a chance. “Thanks,” she said, nudging him. Her throat tightened. She clicked
the case shut and busied herself with her bedroll until confident her voice was
steady. “Something I wanted to show you, too,” she said. “Look what I found
while gathering wood.” She hefted the canister. “Sort of spooky, don’t you
think?”
In a dank basement studio, canvases draped the concrete walls. Shades of scarlet
and ebony dominated, splashed across cubist artwork. Spanning floor to
ceiling, the collection’s centerpiece depicted a white chess queen against a stark
background. She was losing her balance on a castle parapet, her silent scream
exaggerated, lances poised below to skewer her.
The Lady in Dread.
Karl Stahlherz frowned at the picture. Since its completion, he’d been
unable to paint, despite his gnawing appetite for distinction. He knew the art
was good; his mother had fostered his gift, and in statewide galleries his pieces
had sold for respectable and increasing amounts. Never under his own name
though. Payments filtered through an art institute called the House of
Ubelhaar, and the only means of identifying his work was his signature saffron
streak across the lower right-hand corner.
He remained an unknown. Barely a footnote in federal government files.
Soon that would be rectified.
Stahlherz slipped an audio book into his newly acquired Discman.
Taking only cash or trade, he supplemented his income with the sale of art
supplies. The kid who’d stopped in earlier had telephoned first, asked for a
specific item for his girlfriend. Stahlherz had waited on the porch’s uneven
stone steps, nervous, tapping his fingers against the air until the kid arrived
astride a rusty bike. Most likely another college dropout–scrawny, hair tickling
his chin, multiple pockets down the baggy pant legs.
The kid handed over the Discman. “Works great. Check it out for
yourself.”
Testing the player’s components, Stahlherz fumbled and almost dropped
it. “Appears functional,” he managed. He relinquished the art case, tried to
look his customer in the eye. “Keep me in mind the next time you need supplies.
Without the overhead, I can underbid most shops around Corvallis.”
“Thanks, but I’m from out of state.”
“Your girlfriend–”
“Doesn’t live here either, not anymore. Ran across your number on a flier.”
“Shipping’s inexpensive,” Stahlherz pressed. “With an address, I could
add you to my files and send you quarterly fliers. Or e-mail if you’re online.”
The kid kicked at a foot pedal. “Nothing against you, but I pretty much
keep to myself. I try to stay off those kinds of lists, to avoid the eyes of Big
Brother. Fly under the radar, low as I can go.”
Stahlherz bobbed his head. Despite the twenty or thirty years that separated
them, he could relate to this kid. “Your views sound vaguely anarchistic.”
“Might say that.”
“You’re not the only one with such ideas. This region’s gained a share of
notoriety for similar leanings. In fact, I could put you in contact with others
who–”
“Nah, that’s all right. You know how it is… Girlfriend’s waiting.”
Watching the kid ride into the drizzle, Stahlher...
