The FBI had done extensive subconscious behavioral studies that showed yawning in response to another person’s yawn indicated empathy—a trait psychopaths lacked. “You’re willing to hang your reputation on a yawn?”
“And a few other things I’d rather not get into right now,” Newt said. “Let’s just say that if Bruce Mulvaney decides to sue the Charleston PD for negligence, he’d probably win.”
Pipi made a note in the small pad she carried with her in her purse, something all agents were required to keep. So much for it being the spouse, Pipi thought. “What are the two questions?”
“Question one is if Nisa Mulvaney left the house on a motorcycle, why did she go get the Mercedes from the repair shop? We know she did because of the message the auto repair shop left on the Mulvaney’s answering machine at 11:00 a.m. on May 19.”
“Maybe she didn’t like the wind ruining her hair,” Pipi said.
Newt considered this. “No, if she was the type of person to be concerned about her hair, she would have taken her helmet with her.”
“I was making a joke,” Pipi said. “Question two?”
“If Nisa got her car, where’s the Porcupine?”
“Are you telling me the Charleston PD still hasn’t found the motorcycle?” Pipi said.
“Found it?” Newt said, looking like a hobbit seated in the tall leather chair behind Declan Mulvaney’s desk. “I’m not sure they ever looked for it.”
“Son of a bit—”
Pipi caught herself and stopped mid-swearword. Newt’s parents had requested she make an effort to reduce her use of profanity in front of their son. Discussing the mutilation of corpses was okay somehow, but “damn” and “hell” were off limits.
“It’s okay if you swear,” Newt said. “I would.”
“Keep working the file, okay?” Pipi said. “I’m going to get the details on the bike from Declan, and then I’ll put out a national BOLO for the motorcycle.”
Chapter Fourteen
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
JANUARY 20, 1995
“Do you know how many times I’ve made the drive out here now, Onyx?” Alistar asked.
“Quite a few I would imagine,” Onyx said.
“Two hundred and twenty,” Alistar said. “Every other week, with the exception of major holidays, for nine years.”
“I didn’t know you were keeping count, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx said. “In any case, you have been reliably consistent.”
“Yes, I have,” Alistar said, taking a sip of his tea, seated on his red-painted stair as usual. “I’ve come here so often that I’ve just about rubbed all the red paint from this stair.”
“I shall have it painted,” Onyx said.
“You know what I remember about my first trip out here to the lighthouse?” Alistar asked.
“Do tell.”
“I remember that you tried to shoot me,” Alistar said.
“I did no such thing, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx said. “As I have explained to you before—”
“I know, you dropped the shotgun and it accidently went off,” Alistar said, finishing the sentence.
“Precisely,” Onyx said. “If I’d wanted to kill you, Mr. Ashley, you’d have known it. My daddy taught me how to shoot a gun.”
“Too bad Catfish didn’t teach you how to hold onto it,” Alistar said.
Catfish.
Onyx had not heard anyone say the name “Catfish” aloud in years. Hearing it now caused a sense of emptiness and longing within her, flashing back to their final few minutes together before she’d helped him pass to the other side.
“Do you have any idea how many pages of your story I have transcribed—by hand—during that time?” Alistar asked.
“No, Mr. Ashley, but I’m guessing you do,” Onyx said.
“Just shy of two thousand pages,” Alistar said.
“There must be a point to all this, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx said.
“There is,” Alistar said. “The point is: I’d like to publish what you’ve shared with me.”
“No.”
“Then why have you allowed me to write everything down if you never intended to have it shared with the world?” Alistar asked.
It was a good question, Onyx thought. Why had she allowed Alistar to take notes? For that matter, why had she invited him into the lighthouse at all? Onyx knew there was only one answer.
She was lonely.
“I did not realize your weekly visits were such a hardship, Mr. Ashley. Perhaps I should have been reimbursing you for your time and gasoline?”
“That’s not what I meant, Onyx,” Alistar said. “To the contrary, the things you’ve been sharing with me—your story, your beliefs and philosophies—they’re brilliant. Life changing, some would say. I believe people should have the chance to read what you’ve shared with me. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that not allowing its publication to be selfish and perhaps criminal.”
“Very dramatic, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx said. “But it’s out of the question. As you have so accurately indicated, these are my words. They belong to me and no one else. Publication of what I’ve said will happen over my dead body.”
“And that’s precisely what I have in mind,” Alistar said. “You agree to let me to publish what you’ve shared, but not until after you have passed away. In that way, we both get what we want.”
“How charming,” Onyx said.
“That’s not all, Onyx,” Alistar continued. “It seems the taxman has come knocking, and your coffers are bare.”
“Is that a lawyerly way of saying I’m broke, Mr. Ashley?”
“Yes, Onyx,” Alistar said. “Once again, we find ourselves with our backs against the wall, just as we have this time of year every year since my arrival.”
“I find it amusing how you keep using the word we, Mr. Ashley—as if it was your lighthouse the state was threatening to take.”
“Well, perhaps it feels that way because I have a vested interest in the place,” Alistar said. “It is me who puts up the funds this time every year to keep the place in your possession. Or have you forgotten?”
“No, Mr. Ashley, I have not forgotten,” Onyx said. “And I have repeatedly offered to repay you, or have you—”
“And there is the crux of the matter, isn’t it,” Alistar said. “You have offered. Offered. What were your exact words? Oh yes: Repeatedly offered. Yet here we sit again, in the same situation, and nothing has changed.”
“I said I would repay you.”
“But you can’t, Onyx. You have no funds,” Alistar said. “And as of today, I am no longer willing to throw good money after bad. That leaves us—”
“You can stop right there, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx said. “I will not under any circumstances sell any of my surrounding land. My father bought that land to keep people from encroaching on my life, which they do anyway. I can only imagine—”
“I’m not suggesting you sell your land, Onyx,” Alistar interrupted. “I’m offering to become your partner.”
“My partner? Partner in what exactly?”
“In the lighthouse. In your estate.”
Onyx remained silent.
“Are you there?” Alistar asked.
“How, precisely, would this arrangement work?” Onyx asked finally.
“Very simply. I put up the money for the taxes as an investment rather than as a loan. I get my money back when the property is sold after your passing. In essence, you get to stay in the lighthouse for the rest of your life, without ever having to pay me back, including the money I’ve already—”
“How much?”
“How much what? How much money would I be putting up?”
“No,” Onyx said. “How much land would become yours as a result of your investment?”
“I knew you would ask that,” Alistar said, pulling a file from his briefcase. “As such, I have worked up a schedule for your review.”
“You’ve come with a contract, simply awaiting my signature?” Onyx said with a tinge of indignation in her
voice. “What if I say no?”
“You can’t,” Alistar said. “If you do, the next person knocking on the lighthouse won’t be your lawyer with papers to save the lighthouse—it will be Clay Daniels III with papers to take it away.”
Onyx waited for the sound of the Aston Martin’s engine to fade, and then went down to retrieve the contract.
Alistar was right, of course. What other option did she have? Where he was wrong, however, was the part where his investment was to pay off after her death.
Onyx had no intention of dying.
She was already dead.
Chapter Fifteen
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
OCTOBER 10, 2010
Robyn was in her room on the third floor of the mansion, laying on the bed and gazing up at the ceiling. There wasn’t much that fazed Robyn, but the conversation out on the back deck with Koda had her head swimming.
Four days earlier, she and Koda had been sitting out on the back deck drinking mimosas when Koda dropped the bombshell: He had feelings for her. At least that’s what Robyn thought Koda was saying. After all, it wasn’t every day the sexiest man in the world took a girl’s hand, looked her in the eyes, and told her he came back from the dead for her.
For the last couple months Robyn knew she’d been falling for Koda, yet—at the same time—doing everything she could to keep a safe distance between them. And why?
Because of Dane, of course.
Robyn was terrified of what Koda might think of her if she told him how she felt just three months after Dane’s death. But it couldn’t be helped. Robyn had been in relationships where she wished she felt more for someone but didn’t. Now she found herself in a situation where she knew it would be better if the feelings had come at a later and more appropriate time. But there was no holding them back.
Feelings were funny that way. They happened, or they didn’t—on their own timetable.
If she were being honest, Robyn knew she’d been having feelings for Koda even while she and Dane were dating.
Oh, God. Had Mika Flagler been right about her all along?
From the start it felt like Mika considered Robyn to be an adversary—like some gold digger out to steal Koda away from her. And now…
Robyn put the thought out of her mind. She would deal with Mika if and when the time came. Right now, she had to take a shower and get ready for dinner, after which she’d been invited to watch the Atlanta Braves playoff game against the San Francisco Giants on TV.
She had no idea when she’d see Mika next.
Robyn walked in the kitchen to find Declan, Koda, and Bruce filling their plates with hot dogs and French fries, and loading them up with an assortment of condiments. Mika wasn’t there.
So far, so good.
“Hey, there you are,” Declan said, crossing the room and giving Robyn a hug.
“You’re just in time for the annual Chicago-dog argument,” Koda said.
“You argue over hot dogs?”
“Hell, yes,” Declan said.
“My grandfather is a Chicago-dog purist,” Koda said. “And my father goes out of his way to put ketchup on them, just to piss him off.”
“I like ketchup on my hot dogs,” Bruce said. “So sue me.”
“By definition, a Chicago-style dog has to be an all-beef Vienna on a poppy seed bun—and it has to be topped as follows,” Declan said, taking his dog over to where the condiments were set out on the counter. “Yellow mustard, chopped onions, green sweet pickle relish, one dill pickle spear, a couple of tomato wedges, pickled sport peppers, and finished off with a dash of celery salt. Nothing more and nothing less.”
Robyn turned to Koda. “Wow, you weren’t kidding.”
Koda shrugged. “Told you.”
“You ask ten people what the best hot dog in Chicago is, and you’ll get ten different answers, Dad,” Bruce said.
“No, you get the names of ten different places, but the dogs are all made the same way,” Declan said. “Tommy and I used to take the bus out to Flukys at Maxwell and Halsted. Abe Drexler owned the stand. He invented them, so that’s that.”
“You met the guy who invented the Chicago-dog?” Robyn said.
“Don’t get him started, Robyn,” Bruce said.
“Yep,” Declan said. “Had my first Flukys in 1937. They called them depression-dogs in those days. Five cents for a dog and fries, if you can believe that.”
“These are from Portillo’s,” Koda said. “We have them shipped in on dry ice, but if you ask me, Gene and Jules makes the best dogs in the city.”
“Out on River Road in River Grove?” Robyn said.
“You know Chicago?” Declan asked.
“I’ve been there a few times, mostly with my Dad,” Robyn said. “He lived there for a few years when he was younger. Great fries, too.”
“I love this girl,” Declan said.
Robyn thought Declan Mulvaney was one of the most interesting people she’d ever met, and now she knew he liked her, too.
Bruce Mulvaney was another story.
Robyn was pretty sure Bruce saw her as just a bartender—someone who was probably not good enough for Koda. He never said as much. It was just the feeling she got.
“I haven’t seen Mika,” Robyn said. “Is she coming?”
“Who cares?” Koda said.
Declan leaned toward Robyn. “Don’t worry about her, sweetheart. You take care of my grandson—I’ll handle Mika.”
Declan finished his third hot dog and headed off to bed at the end of the sixth inning. Bruce stayed with Koda and Robyn until the game was over, the Braves losing to the Giants 3-2.
“Don’t stay up too late, Son,” Bruce said as he left the room. “You’ve got rehab in the morning.”
“I’m twenty-three, Dad,” Koda said. “I can figure out my bedtime.”
“Good night, Robyn,” Bruce said. “Maybe I’ll walk over to DJ’s and have a steak at the bar this week.”
“Sure. That’d be great,” Robyn said.
Robyn waited until Bruce was gone. “How long did you tell your dad I was staying?”
“I didn’t,” Koda said. “It’s none of his business.”
“Of course it’s his business, Koda,” Robyn said. “It’s his house.”
“I live here, too,” Koda shrugged, then grabbed the TV remote and began surfing through channels. A few channels later, the face of someone they both knew filled the screen.
“I took a leave of absence from DJ’s,” Robyn said. “I was hoping it would be okay if—”
“Look, it’s Gerylyn,” Koda said, pointing at the TV.
“It’s called the Solstice Eclipse,” Gerylyn Stoller said from behind a pair of dark sunglasses. “On this day, the Earth’s shadow will block out the moon like a normal eclipse. But what makes it special is that it takes place on the first day of winter—the Winter Solstice, December 21. The last time this occurred was in 1638.”
The camera cut to Olympia Fudge. “So, let me get this straight. You’re saying that in ten weeks, a whole flock of ghosts are gonna come flooding through people’s windows, kind of like illegal aliens flooding across the Mexican border.”
“No, not through windows,” Gerylyn said. “The spirits will be crossing over through mirrors, which are the portals from the land of the dead into the realm of the living.”
“But these are friendly ghosts, right?” Olympia said.
“Ghosts are ghosts. Friendly is a relative term.”
“Okay, you’ve got my attention,” Olympia said. “So, is there anything people should do? To protect themselves?”
“Yes,” Gerylyn said. “People should break their mirrors, and make sure every last shard of glass is thrown away.”
“I thought breaking a mirror was supposed to be like seven year’s bad luck?” Olympia said.
“So is having the life force drained from your body by a hungry spirit,” Gerylyn said.
Olympia pointed a finger at Gerylyn and silently mouthed “S
-H-E C-R-A-Z-Y” in the direction of the camera.
“I’ve spent my entire adult life studying ghosts, Ms. Fudge,” Gerylyn said. “You and your viewers may feel free to ignore this advice, but you do so at your own peril.”
“Well, you heard it here first,” Olympia said. “The ghosts are coming, so break your mirrors and climb under the covers. And if you want to know all the ways to protect yourself, get Dr. Stoller’s book—Solstice Eclipse: Day of the Ghost Attack—available at Amazon.com and bookstores everywhere. And in just a few short minutes, Dr. Stoller will be taking your calls. Just dial 1-555-THEFUDGE.”
“How can she embarrass herself like that?” Koda asked when the show cut to a commercial.
“What, you don’t believe her?”
“That there’s going to be a ghost invasion?” Koda asked. “No. She’s just hawking her book.”
“Really? Name one thing Gerylyn Stoller has been wrong about. Just one,” Robyn said.
Koda shrugged.
She had a point.
Chapter Sixteen
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
MAY 25, 1993
Bruce, Declan, Kajika, and Bebe sat at the kitchen table finishing breakfast, while Tank helped Koda on with his backpack to take him to school. As they walked out the front door, Pipi and Newt arrived.
“Everyone’s in the kitchen,” Tank said.
Pipi and Newt had no sooner than walked into the kitchen when the phone rang. It was the call Pipi hoped she’d get after requesting the BOLO for the Porcupine the previous afternoon. “They’ve got the bike,” Pipi said as she hung up the phone.
“They found it already?” Bruce said.
Pipi nodded. “A cylinder block bearing the serial number of the Porcupine was in a horde of parts recovered in a raid on a chop shop in West Virginia three days ago.”
“A chop shop?” Declan said. “That means—”
“No one gives a shit about the bike, Dad,” Bruce snapped.
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