Onyx Webb 6

by Diandra Archer

  “But I couldn’t get to her,” Koda said.

  “That’s because you weren’t there long enough,” Gerylyn said. “Dane urged you to go back. Had Dane not been there, things might be different.” Translation: Koda would be dead.

  And on the other side.

  “Here’s a question,” Gerylyn said. “That night at the hotel, when you touched the mirror and saw Juniper for the first time—did you do it out of love?”

  “Was I in love with Juniper?” Koda asked. “How could I have been? I didn’t even know she was going to be there.”

  “No. I mean, when you touched the mirror, were you feeling love? What were you thinking about?”

  “I was thinking about my mother,”

  Gerylyn gave a nod. She finally understood. “So what is it that you want, Koda?”

  “I want to talk to Juniper,” Koda said. “I want to find out what happened to her. I want to know who killed her.”

  Gerylyn remained silent, mulling the situation over. “How badly do you want it?” she asked finally.

  “Pretty damn bad,” Koda said.

  “Very well then,” Gerylyn said. “We’ll just have to go in and find her.”

  “Go in? Go in where?” Koda asked.

  “Into Loll, of course.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  APRIL 15, 1995

  “For God sake, hasn’t anyone seen Jaws?” the drug store owner asked.

  Clay Daniels III thought that holding a town hall meeting to address the town’s concerns over the two dead teenagers was a good idea. In retrospect, not so much.

  “That’s right, Sheriff,” the owner of the hardware store said. “The Oregonian ran an article about the murdered kids on the front page of the paper!”

  “Let’s not go sensationalizing things more than necessary,” Clay III said. “There’s no evidence anyone was murdered.”

  “Well, that don’t matter much, does it?” another member of the Crimson Cove Merchant Association called out. “Summer starts in three months, and if the tourists don’t come, well then…”

  Clay III’s attention drifted. He didn’t need to hear the end of the sentence to know the man was right. If tourists didn’t come to the tiny coastal hamlet during the summer months, the residents of Crimson Cove would get hurt where it hurt most.

  In the pocketbook.

  People were happy to look the other way when the body of a drifter turned up in the cove. Or out in the woods. But this was different. This time it was two bodies at once. This time the victims were young. From good homes. Neither was a drug addict. Neither was wanted by the law. Neither was sick or dying.

  And they were locals.

  “What are you planning to do to catch whoever did this, Sheriff?” the owner of the florist shop called out.

  “Catch the killer?” the hardware store owner scoffed. “The Daniels family has been running the sheriff’s department for fifty years and never so much as caught a cold.”

  “Arnold’s right.” Someone called from the back of the group. “They’ve never even been able to catch whoever’s been stealing the books from the library.”

  The crowd broke into laughter.

  They were right, of course.

  Clay III’s grandfather, Hell Daniels, was the first to notice that people were being murdered in the cove, all the way back to the late 1930s. But Hell knew virtually all of the victims were homeless vagrants, drug addicts, the terminally ill, and—in a few cases—wanted criminals. They were people who wouldn’t be missed.

  But the kids? The death of the two kids changed everything. Clay III was at wits end.

  It was time to call the FBI.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  OCTOBER 15, 2010

  Mika sat in a chair on the other side of the desk across from Declan in his study. No one saw her arrive—other than Stormy Boyd, of course. “Well, this is your meeting,” Mika said. “What do you want?”

  “I want my book back,” Declan said.

  Mika’s heart skipped a beat, but she managed to recover and do what she did best when things weren’t going her way.

  Pretend.

  “What book? I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the first edition of Ulysses by James Joyce,” Declan said. “The book you stole two weeks ago when you claimed to be looking for lipstick.”

  “Even if I did have the book, you have no proof,” Mika said.

  “I had a feeling you’d say that,” Declan said, pointing to the wall lamp in the corner of the room. “Smile, you’re on candid camera.”

  Shit. The jig was up. “I thought that was new,” Mika said.

  “Now, about the book,” Declan said.

  “You’re right. Come to think of it, I did borrow a book when I was here. I can’t read any of the trash they publish these days.”

  “So, you still have the book?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Where is it now?” Declan asked.

  That’s a good question, Mika thought. When the fence said he couldn’t move it, she’d forgotten to ask for the book back.

  Stupid.

  “Ulysses isn’t just a book. It’s a historical treasure,” Declan said. “That particular book is a first edition, of which only a hundred were signed by James Joyce.”

  “So I’m told,” Mika said. “Are we done?”

  “No, we’re not done,” Declan said. “Why don’t we talk about the Fabergé eggs. I hope you have those, too.”

  Now things were getting serious. Mika knew that if she didn’t come up with something, she was going to prison.

  “Fine, turn the camera off,” Mika said flatly.

  Think, Mika. Think.

  Declan spun around in his chair and pushed a small red button on the wall behind him.

  “The eggs are gone,” Mika said.

  “Gone where?”

  “The Easter bunny took one, and I donated the other one to Goodwill because it had a crack in it,” Mika said. “Though I’m guessing you already knew that.”

  Declan nodded. “Funny about luck and chance, isn’t it? If you had taken the egg on either side, you’d be rich. They’re worth $2 million. Each. Of the eight, you picked the only one that had a crack in it. What are the chances?”

  “One in eight?” Mika said.

  Think. Think.

  And then it hit her. Yes, she had a way out.

  “Speaking of the number eight, I discovered quite a bit about those eggs when I tried to sell them,” Mika said. “Like, for example, did you know they’re quite famous? What do they call them? The Fabergé Eight? Not only are they famous, but they’re all stolen. Looks like I’m not the only art thief in the family.”

  “You’re not in the family, Mika.”

  “I got pretty close though, didn’t I?” Mika said. “You got to give a girl props for trying.”

  “You were never really in love with Koda, were you?” Declan said.

  “Koda’s pretty,” Mika said. “I was in love with his money, though. It was a toss-up, you know, between going after Bruce or Koda. But, just like the eggs, I picked wrong.”

  Declan shook his head. “You really are a piece of work.”

  “Let’s get back to the eggs, shall we?” Mika said. “As I recall, when I was doing my research, you did some time for owning stolen art. What was it, two years of house arrest?”

  Declan remained silent.

  “I can only imagine what the FBI would say if they discovered you held out on them and kept The Fabergé Eight. I can’t imagine you’d want your secret about keeping the eggs to get out any more than I’d want anyone to know about my taking the book.”

  “What are you proposing?” Declan asked.

  “A trade,” Mika said. “I promise to stay mum about the eggs, and you give me a million dollars.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Declan s
aid.

  “Maybe. And how old will you be when you get out of prison? 108?”

  “What happened to your money, Mika?” Declan asked. “What is it you’ve told everyone your net worth is—$230 million? Where did it all go?”

  Mika shrugged. “Maybe I exaggerated a bit.”

  “A bit?”

  “It was more like six,” Mika said. “And as you know, six million is nowhere near enough to get by on these days.”

  “I’m sure Henry would be proud,” Declan said.

  “Well at least my grandfather made his honestly,” Mika said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Forget it,” Mika said. “Probably just rumors. So, what’s it going to be?”

  “A hundred thousand,” Declan said. “On the condition you return the book in the same condition it was in when you took it.”

  “And you pay off the lease on my Audi,” Mika said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” Mika said. “I need wheels.”

  “Fine,” Declan said. “I’ll pay off the car, but effective right now, you stay away from Koda, Bruce, and you stay away from this house. Understood?”

  “This is starting to get complicated,” Mika said. “Maybe we should write all this down.”

  Declan pulled out his checkbook. “You realize I could just as easily have you killed,” he said as he was writing.

  “Killed?” Mika snorted. “You’re a lot of things, Declan—some of which I actually admire—but a killer? I don’t think so.”

  “I see. And what about you, Mika Flagler—assuming Flagler is even your real name. Do you have what it takes to kill someone?”

  Mika stood and held out her hand but did not answer.

  “I asked you a question, Mika. Do you have it in you to take someone’s life in order to get what you want? Or are you just a run-of-the-mill, two-bit hustling tramp?”

  Mika was shocked at how badly the words stung and willed herself not to cry. “Just give me the check.”

  Declan handed Mika the check and motioned to the door. “Get out before I change my mind.”

  Several minutes after Mika left, Stormy Boyd appeared at the door to Declan’s study and waited until Declan waved him in.

  “That didn’t go exactly as planned,” Stormy said.

  Declan chuckled. “No, it did not. You got it all on tape in case I need it later?”

  “Yes,” Stormy said, handing Declan the tape.

  “And this can be edited?”

  “Easily,” Stormy said. “You know, there’s an easier way to make all this just go away.”

  Declan shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll let you know if it comes to that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  APRIL 18, 1995

  The Delta flight with Pipi Esperanza and Newt Drystad on board touched down at PDX a few minutes past eleven in the morning. Twenty minutes later, they found themselves sitting in the back of a Crimson Cove police cruiser. Sheriff Clay Daniels III was behind the wheel and his son—Deputy Clayton Daniels IV—sat in the passenger seat.

  “If you want, I can throw your bags in the trunk,” Clay III said.

  “We’re fine,” Pipi said. “We pack light.”

  “How about you, Son?” Clay III asked. “You got enough room back there?”

  Newt did not respond.

  Fortunately, Pipi had developed the habit of briefing the locals regarding Newt’s age and his unique condition prior to leaving on any trip.

  Over the previous four years, Pipi conducted near-daily conversations with Newt. Sometimes the conversations were in person in his living room in Pennsylvania. More often, the conversations took place over the phone.

  This was the rare road trip.

  Newt’s ability to drill deep into the mound of data gathered on a case—combined and cross-referenced against the plethora of facts in hundreds of other cases—had Pipi’s stock on the rise within the walls of the FBI. When she was being honest with herself, Pipi knew she was nothing more than Newt Drystad’s handler. But if that was the standard by which she was being held, what was the director?

  The director was her handler.

  Somehow it was okay for the director to take credit when she and Newt had a success, though having done none of the leg work himself.

  That’s how things worked in the bureau.

  That’s how things worked everywhere.

  Clay III waited until the car left the airport and merged onto Interstate 5 and headed south before launching into the details of the deaths of the two teenagers.

  “That’s interesting,” Newt said. “Mostly because what you just described is impossible.”

  Nice start, Pipi thought.

  “Well, it can’t be impossible now, can it?” Clay IV said from the front passenger seat. “Because it happened.”

  “What Newt means is it’s mathematically impossible,” Pipi said.

  “Yeah, well, you can do all the mathematical stuff you want, Agent Esperanza, but we got ourselves two dead teenagers in the morgue,” Clay III said. “Now, the coroner says they died from old age. Probably should have released the bodies for burial, but I’ve got them on ice because I wanted you to take a look for yourself.”

  Damn it, Pipi thought. They shouldn’t have come.

  Clayton Daniels III reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror. “Well?”

  “Do you have any idea what the statistical likelihood of two teenagers dying of natural causes is?” Newt said.

  “No, but I’m guessing you do,” Clay III said.

  “The chances of dying from a heart attack are about one in three,” Newt said. “Cancer and stroke, approximately one in five. Electrocution, not including deaths by the electric chair, one in 4,906. Accidental gunshot, one in 18,536. Killed by a member of law enforcement, one in 3,949. Hernia or the flu, one in 19,000—I’m rounding now. Drowning in the bath, one in 85,000. Falling off a ladder, one in 145,000. Driving off the road, one in 251,000. Train crash, one in half a million. Food poisoning, snake bite, or a left-handed person using a product specifically designed for a left-handed person—which you’d think would be safer to use—the death rate is still one in four million.”

  Clay IV lifted his left hand and examined it. “I didn’t know they even made left-handed products.”

  Newt wasn’t finished. “Plane crash, lightning strike, radiation from a nuclear power plant, one in ten million. Shark attack, roller coaster, falling coconut, one in three-hundred million. Do you know how many years pass between one person being hit by an asteroid and the next? Exactly 7,236 years. And being hit by an asteroid is significantly more likely than two healthy kids dying of old age—together—in the woods.”

  “They were at the beach,” Clay IV said.

  “There either,” Newt said.

  “Then how do you explain it?” Clay III asked, steering the vehicle onto Highway 99 West toward the ocean.

  That, in a nutshell, was the problem, Pipi thought. It couldn’t be explained. Unless this was one of those cases.

  “Tell them about the others, Pop,” Clay IV said.

  Newt leaned forward. “There are others? Like this?”

  “A few,” Clay III said from behind the steering wheel, knowing they’d gotten their attention now. “At last count, we’re talking 348 in all.”

  “Three hundred and forty-eight?” Newt repeated, his mind going into overdrive trying to calculate the odds.

  “It sounds like a lot, but that’s over what? Fifty years, Pops?” Clay IV asked from the passenger seat.

  “We’re done here,” Pipi said abruptly.

  “What do you mean, ‘we’re done?’” Clay III asked.

  “I mean, turn around and take us back to the airport,” Pipi said harshly. “Now.”

  Clay Daniels III did as he was told, making a U-turn and heading back toward Portland International, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to speak his mind first.

  “You
know what I think is going on?” Clay III said.

  Pipi already knew. And the last thing she wanted was to get into it now, especially in front of Newt.

  “I think it’s the old woman out at the lighthouse,” Clay III said.

  “What old woman?” Newt asked.

  Damn it, Pipi thought. She was losing control of the situation, and once Newt developed an interest in something he was like a hound dog chasing a fox.

  “My father is talking about Onyx Webb,” Clay IV said, turning in the passenger seat and looking over his shoulder at Newt. “She’s like in her nineties. But people say she still gets around pretty good. Lots of rumors at least.”

  “They aren’t rumors,” Clay III interjected. “People been dying in Crimson Cove since the day Onyx Webb arrived. Fifty years of people dying of old age within a twenty-mile radius of the lighthouse. I plotted it out once on a map. If asked to do so, I’d raise my right hand and swear under penalty of perjury that Onyx Webb is responsible for each and every one of them.”

  “And we take it kind of personal,” Clay IV said, “since one of the people Onyx killed was my great granddaddy.”

  “This conversation is over,” Pipi said.

  “Why?” Newt asked. “This is really fascinating.”

  “Because I said so,” Pipi snapped.

  “Got to be something supernatural, don’t you think, Newt?” Clay IV asked.

  Pipi glared at Newt, and he got the message. Two minutes after that, the kid was as frozen as a snowman. No one spoke another word the entire way back to the airport.

  Pipi Esperanza held Newt’s left elbow firmly with her right hand and led him aboard the United flight leaving Portland and headed toward Oklahoma City.

  Pipi had used her bureau-issued American Express card to change their route back—and to upgrade their seats to first class—each a clear violation of the DOJ Ethics Handbook. Per rule 41 CFR 301: