“Koda and Robyn have told me so much about you,” Declan said when everyone was gathered in the dining room. “But I don’t recall how you met.”
“It was at Dane’s funeral in Lily Dale. Gerylyn was speaking there the next day,” Robyn said.
“Ah, of course,” Declan said, turning his attention to the young black man standing at Gerylyn’s side. “And you must be Reginald.”
“Yes, sir,” Reginald said, making a fist and extending his knuckles toward Declan. Declan smiled and gave Reginald a quick fist bump.
“You don’t happen to box, do you?” Declan asked.
“You mean like in a ring with gloves?” Reginald said.
“Yes,” Declan said. “We’ve got a great exercise room if you want to work out. I go down every morning at seven.”
“Punching the bag at your age? I dig your style,” Reginald said. “But Geri and me, we’re bookin’ back to Richmond early in the morning. Maybe next time.”
The dinner included just five people: Koda, Robyn, Declan, Gerylyn, and Reginald. Bruce was in Chicago to watch the Seattle Seahawks play the Bears, and then staying overnight to meet with clients in the morning.
Stormy Boyd excused himself, explaining that he had work to do—which meant he planned to sit in the video room and monitor the house on closed-circuit TV.
Stormy wanted to watch the dinner.
In particular, he wanted to keep an eye on Reginald.
Stormy watched until everyone finished their desserts, said their good nights, and then went their separate ways.
He needed to speak with Declan.
Stormy caught up with Declan in his study a few minutes after 10:00 p.m. “It looked like it was an enjoyable dinner.”
“Yes, sorry you couldn’t join us,” Declan said, well aware of Stormy’s inability to eat and digest food.
“I remember eating,” Stormy said. “Highly overrated.”
“Not the way we eat,” Declan said with a slight smile. “So, something must be bothering you. What is it?”
“Does there need to be something bothering me to stop by for a chat?”
“Well, if there isn’t, it’s a first.”
“You’re right,” Stormy said. “I’m not certain letting Ms. Flagler go about her merry way is such a good idea. Loose ends bother me. Loose cannons bother me even more.”
“Mika’s ruthless, but she’s not stupid,” Declan said. “In some ways, she reminds me of myself. You ever see the movie War Games? Came out in the eighties, I think.”
Stormy shook his head. “Last movie I saw was The Jazz Singer with Bobby Gordon and Warner Oland. Horrible thing, it was. First movie to have sound. I never went to another one.”
“They remade The Jazz Singer with Neil Diamond,” Declan said. “There’s a copy down in the entertainment room. Watch it sometime. It might change your mind. Now, where in the hell was I?”
“War Games.”
“Yes,” Declan said. “This high school kid hacks into a military computer and thinks he’s playing a video game and almost starts World War III. In the end, after playing every possible scenario, they end up in a stalemate. The computer says the only winning move is not to play. When it comes to the situation with Mika, no matter how many times I move the chess pieces in my head, neither of us wins.”
“Unless…”
Declan shook his head. “No, no more killing. We’ll keep a close eye on her, and that’s it.”
“I’ll be keeping a close eye on Reginald, too,” Stormy said.
“Reginald? I hope you’re not saying that because he’s black,” Declan replied.
“No,” Stormy said. “I’m saying it because he’s dead.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
DALLAS, TEXAS
JANUARY 26, 1998
Every eye in the lobby area of the FBI field office on N. Lamar in Dallas, Texas, was glued to the image on the television screen. No one spoke. No one moved. They just sat and watched as the clip of Bill Clinton started over again.
“I want to say one thing to the American people,” Clinton said, looking directly into the camera with his wife, First Lady Hillary Clinton, by his side. “I want you to listen to me. I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky.”
“God, what a mess,” a man said.
“I think the Republicans are trying to railroad him,” a woman said.
“I never told anybody to lie, not a single time,” Clinton went on. “Never. These allegations are false. And I need to go back to work.”
People were so fixated on the TV coverage that no one noticed the woman enter the room behind them.
“Excuse me,” the woman said.
One of the government employees turned and saw a poorly dressed, disheveled Hispanic woman standing there.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes,” the Hispanic woman said. “Is this the FBI field office?”
“Yes. How can I—”
“Is Danny Coulson still the person in charge?”
“Mister Coulson retired last year,” the employee said. “What is this about?”
“My name is Pipi Esperanza,” the woman said, pointing to a commemorative plaque on the wall the bureau had sent to all the field offices after the bombing. “That’s me over there on the wall.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
PORTLAND, OREGON
OCTOBER 19, 2001
“The current balance on your account is zero,” the woman at the bank said.
Kizzy Ashley could barely speak. “Which account?” she managed.
“All of them,” the woman said.
Kizzy’s mind began racing. What could Alistar possibly have spent all their money on? Gambling? Unlikely. Alcohol? No one could drink away that much money. Drugs? Alistar? Not in a million years. Did someone at the bank raid their accounts? Or maybe that Internet thing she’d read about—what was it called? Hacking? Again, unlikely.
A sickening thought crept into the back of Kizzy’s mind.
Could Alistar be seeing someone?
Kizzy dialed information and was connected to the law firm Alistar worked at before Bruce Mulvaney lured him away and ruined their financial lives.
“Kizzy!” the senior partner said when he heard her voice. “My God, how are you? We were just talking about Alistar. We miss taking his money in the Friday night card game. So, what’s up?”
Kizzy hung up the phone.
Dear God, what a fool she’d been.
At 4:00 p.m., Kizzy climbed in her Chrysler TEV electric van, which she’d purchased from a failed Portland farm co-op, and drove to Alistar’s office in the Pearl District.
But she did not go in.
She just sat and watched.
Within the hour, Kizzy spotted Alistar’s silver Aston Martin exit the parking garage at NW Twelfth Street and Alder, and she followed him as he got on the I-5 south and then took Highway 99 West toward the ocean.
Kizzy kept her eyes trained on the Aston Martin’s taillights in the darkness, but it wasn’t until Alistar turned south on Route 1 and entered the seaside town of Crimson Cove that she realized where he was going. He was going to see that woman with the lighthouse, the one he’d bailed out years ago.
Kizzy wracked her brain trying to recall the woman’s name. Then she remembered.
Onyx Webb.
When Alistar turned down a narrow dirt road, Kizzy kept driving straight—there was no way she could follow him without being noticed. After a mile, she made a u-turn and headed back toward Portland.
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
Alistar had not even closed the door to the lighthouse when he heard Onyx’s voice from the spiral staircase.
“Were you able to stop it?” Onyx called out.
“Let me get my coat off, Onyx,” Alistar called back. “Then we’ll talk.”
“Should I take that as a no?” Onyx said with a huff.
Onyx had informed Alistar about the Dietz family’s plan to use her as the centerpiece
of their upcoming film festival. To be called “Ghost Among Us: The Mysterious Case of Onyx Webb.” The event was scheduled for mid-January—and Onyx wanted it stopped.
“Well, Mr. Ashley?” Onyx said.
“No, Onyx, I was not able to stop it,” Alistar said. “I considered every available option, but—”
“Certainly there’s a law against them using my name and picture in their ads,” Onyx said.
“Normally that would be true,” Alistar said. “But the picture they’re using of you was pulled from the film George Dietz took in the cemetery. A public cemetery, Onyx.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, there’s no expectation of privacy when a person goes out in public,” Alistar said. “They can use it.”
“And my name?”
“Your trial was public as well,” Alistar said. “Very, very public. In that way, you’re also a local celebrity, and celebrities have virtually no rights—unless they’ve lied about you in their ads. Have they lied?”
Onyx remained silent.
“As I thought.”
“The last thing I’ve ever wanted was celebrity,” Onyx said finally.
“Well, as Andy Warhol pointed out, we all get fifteen minutes.”
PORTLAND, OREGON
It was almost one in the morning when Alistar walked in and found Kizzy sitting in the kitchen—with their financial records scattered on the table before her.
“It’s not what you think,” Alistar said.
“The thing I could never figure out was why—when you came home after a night of playing cards with the boys—you never smelled like smoke,” Kizzy said. “Or maybe I simply didn’t want to know.”
Alistar realized it was worse than he thought. Kizzy didn’t just know about the money—she also knew he’d been lying to her about playing cards. The only question now was: did she know about Onyx?
“I followed you out to the lighthouse,” Kizzy said.
It appeared the answer was yes. “I can explain,” Alistar said, not at all sure he could.
“Really? You can explain why you’ve been going to see an old woman who lives in a lighthouse every other Friday for what, twelve years?”
It had been almost fifteen years, Alistar thought, but it seemed like the wrong time to correct her. “What I mean is the reason I’ve been going out there isn’t what you think.”
Kizzy remained silent.
Waiting.
“I go there to have tea and keep her company,” Alistar said. “That’s all, I swear.”
Kizzy picked up the savings pass book and slid it across the table. “Is she the one you spent our savings on?”
“I didn’t spend our life savings, Kizzy. I invested it.”
“All of it? Everything we had?”
“Wait here for a minute,” Alistar said, and then left the room. A minute later he returned with a large wooden box.
“That better be full of cash,” Kizzy said.
“Well, in a way it is,” Alistar said. “This is the contract giving us 25 percent of the income from the land when Onyx dies. Do you have any idea what that land is worth? We’re talking millions.”
Kizzy folded her arms and said nothing.
“And these are the notes I’ve been taking,” Alistar said. Alistar pulled legal pad after legal pad of handwritten notes from the box and stacked them on the table.
“Notes? Notes on what?”
“Onyx,” Alistar said. “One hundred years of the woman’s life. Her hopes and dreams, philosophies and observations. Where she’s been, who she’s met. Her entire life story. I even got her to tell me about the night she murdered her husband.”
“Well, Onyx and I might have something in common before the night is over,” Kizzy said. It may have come out as a joke, but Kizzy wasn’t laughing. “And where were the two of you when she was telling you her story? Naked in bed?”
“God, no!” Alistar blurted. “Onyx is a hundred years old, Kizzy. Not only have I never seen the woman naked, I’ve never seen her period. She makes me sit down below her on a red stair.”
“A red stair?”
Alistar went silent, fearing he was only making things worse.
“So let’s see if I’ve got this right,” Kizzy said. “For the past fifteen years you’ve been lying to me about playing cards with the boys—driving a hundred miles to a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere—to sit on a red stair while listening to an old woman tell you her life story, while providing pro bono legal services and paying her taxes?”
“Well, it sounds pretty bad when you put it that way,” Alistar said.
“Jesus,” Kizzy said. “It would have been better if you’d just said you were just sleeping with the hag.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
OCTOBER 17, 2010 – 10:40 P.M.
Koda knocked on Robyn’s door. “Are you ready?”
“I guess,” Robyn said.
They took the stairs down to the second floor of the mansion and found Gerylyn’s door slightly ajar, as she said it would be, and went inside.
“Is Reginald joining us?” Robyn asked.
“No, his stomach is still bothering him,” Gerylyn said. “It will be better with just the three of us anyway.”
“What can we do?” Koda asked.
“Stand the mirror up by the fireplace, and put the chairs about three feet in front of it,” Gerylyn said. “Robyn, why don’t you light the vanilla incense sticks and the candles.”
“How many?”
“All of them,” Gerylyn said. By the time Robyn was done, the room was lit up like the inside of a cathedral at Christmas.
“Before we get started, we need to consecrate and bless the mirror,” Gerylyn said.
“Seriously?” Koda asked. “Do I need to be a believer in order to do this?”
“Believer in what?” Gerylyn asked. “God or ghosts?”
“I’m already a believer in ghosts,” Koda said. “I thought what we were doing was more about science than religion. I didn’t realize there was religion involved.”
“The blessing is a ritual of intention and focus, Koda, nothing more,” Gerylyn said. “And, for the record, you may be surprised to know, I am an Agnostic.”
Koda nodded. “So, how do we consecrate the mirror?”
“There are three options,” Gerylyn said. “One is called smudging, in which we light a clump of sage or sweet grass and sweep it over the mirror to remove any negative energies that may be attached to it. Unfortunately, Robyn was unable to locate the items.”
“Sorry,” Robyn said. “Neither Publix nor Home Depot had any sage. Who knew?”
“We’ll make due.”
“What’s the second way?” Koda asked.
“If we were willing to take the time—we could have taken the mirror outside in the light of the full moon, next to a dish of rock salt. However, the full moon is five nights off still.”
“What’s the third way?” Robyn asked.
“We polish the mirror with soft cloths and vinegar, while we listen to music and drink red wine, and let that serve as the blessing.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Koda said, relieved.
“I was wondering what the wine was for,” Robyn said. “I’m curious—is there any significance to the wine needing to be red?”
“Yes,” Gerylyn said. “I don’t like white. The only thing I dislike more than white wine is Yanni.”
Once everyone had taken a turn polishing the mirror to remove any smudges and fingerprints, Gerylyn instructed Koda to take a seat in one of the two cushioned, leather chairs.
“Entering the ethereal plane requires a complete mind-shift of consciousness,” Gerylyn began. “And though our bodies will remain here in the physical plane, our minds and spirits will be traveling to the etheric.”
“How long will we be in there?” Koda asked.
“I’m glad you asked that,” Gerylyn said. “Time intervals in the etheric realm
do not follow the same laws we experience in the physical plane. To us it will feel like minutes. To Robyn, who must sit here and watch us in our chairs, it will feel like forever.”
Gerylyn took a sip of wine from her glass.
“The key is to relax and allow your unconscious to do the work,” Gerylyn continued. “As your mind drifts, you may experience sensations of taste and smell. And don’t be unnerved by strange sights and sounds, or if people seem to step out of the mirror toward us. I assure you, that is not what is taking place. It is simply the mind’s way of dealing with what it is experiencing.”
Gerylyn downed the last of her wine, and then carefully set the glass on top of the fireplace.
“Finally, I wish to warn you that, even though we may enter Loll, there is no guarantee we will see Juniper. Or Dane. Or anyone else you recognize.”
“But everyone we see will be—?”
“Dead?” Gerylyn said, finishing Koda’s thought. “Yes. Other than myself, everyone you see will have passed over.”
“And we won’t see Robyn, even though she’s standing right next to us?” Koda asked.
“No, we will not see Robyn—if we do, it means we’ve returned to the physical plane. That or something has gone terribly wrong.”
“What
Top of Form
if you get lost and can’t find your way back?” Robyn asked.
“There’s little chance of that. But if we are gone more than ninety minutes, just give each of us a tap on the shoulder.”
“And if you don’t wake up?” Robyn asked.
“Tap harder.”
Gerylyn lowered herself in the chair next to Koda and reached out, finding his hand. “Don’t let go of my hand, and everything will be fine.”
“Wait, don’t you need your cane?” Robyn asked.
Onyx Webb 6 Page 14