Free Dark to Mortal Eyes by Eric Wilson Page B

offspring’s greatest gifts? Envy? Regret? Wasn’t the scope of his anger his to control?
    No one will impose limits on me. Not even you, esteemed Professor
.
    “Stahli? Are you listening? Your job now is to get to the hospital and ensure that the facts are spun to our benefit. With our ICV members in position,that shouldn’t be difficult. And you’ll pay the victim a visit, I assume? Outstanding. We’ll use every possible resource to keep tabs on Josee Walker.”
    “Her every move,” he agreed. “Attack and defend, with no fear and no regrets.”
    “So long as the task is accomplished, my son. You’ll make me proud yet.”
    As they went their separate ways, he wondered if that was possible.

    In the van’s mirror, Beau checked the blanketed bundle on the floor. The Addison woman—she deserved what she had got. She was pretty, all right. But so what? She drove that flashy Beemer just to flaunt her money, just to taunt people like him. And those earrings? Well, diamonds didn’t make her better than anybody else. When would the world get that through its thick skull?
    Never, according to the Professor. Such hopes were wasted. That’s why the cancer had to be cut away, piece by piece.
    Stay cool, guy. Don’t go drawing attention to yourself
.
    One by one he lifted clenched fingers from the steering wheel and stretched. He eased his foot from the gas. Sixty-seven miles an hour? He couldn’t risk being pulled over. The cops would see, and they would know. Wasn’t time for that yet.
    Ke-reech …
    Scrapes on his knees were scabbing over with dirt and dried blood. His descent into the ravine had cost him time and energy, but Mr. Steele had insisted. All part of the plan—even if it was Plan B, even if Beau had flubbed up. “Crisp countermeasures”—that’s what Steele had called them.
    Lost in his thoughts, Beau entered a graded curve. The van tilted, and the bundle behind him rotated, pounding an uneven beat against the metal floor, a drum roll played with elbows and kneecaps.
    Snip-a-snip-a-snappp!
    Ooh, that had to hurt.
    The curve shot the van back onto a straightaway, and the bundle rolled back to its original position. Beau noticed more angles in the shape now,which meant more hassles for him. He still had to carry her down into the cellar. He fought off an urge to puke. He’d never physically hurt a woman before today. What’d taken over him?
    He clawed his fingers along his neck and told himself to get a grip.
Just do what you gotta do
, he ordered himself.
I must obey to find the way …

7
Sparring Partners
    On their way down from Washington three days ago, Josee and Scooter had been dropped off at Champoeg State Park by a rancher in an old pickup with a bumper sticker that read “Compost happens.”
    The words summed up her feelings now. She was sweaty. Dazed. Uneasy.
    “Any news, Sarge? Tell me he’s gonna be okay.”
    Sergeant Turney trudged from the nurses’ station, splashing coffee from two cups. “They’ll let us know soon as they hear somethin’. You sound concerned.”
    “Wouldn’t you be?” Josee collapsed into a waiting-room chair, tucked her bedroll behind her legs, then adjusted her damp sweatshirt over no-name jeans. The scents of antiseptics and tonics infiltrated the space. Medics rushed a gurney up the corridor, and at the sight of a child beneath a shiny thermal blanket, Josee imagined Scooter’s ordeal. He’d been in Good Samaritan’s ER for over two hours.
    I’m here, Scoot. Hang in there
.
    She said, “Hospitals give me the creeps.”
    “You and me both.” Turney extended a hand. “Ready for a cup o’ joe?”
    “Styrofoam.”
    “Say what?”
    Josee pointed. “Styrofoam. Haven’t you heard of the ozone layer?”
    “So that’s your shtick. Well, kiddo, it won’t hurt ya to drop the environmental martyr act and pour a little warmth into that skinny belly of yours.” To prove the liquid was harmless, he took a gulp. Sputtered. “Sakes alive, that’ll