Onyx Webb 6

by Diandra Archer

It was New Year’s Eve.

  It was snowing.

  Another joyless moment trying to remember what it was like to be alive.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  JULY 8, 1998

  Anyone who lived in Charleston for more than a month would tell you the city had two parts: the good parts and the bad parts.

  In the good parts you could get a good meal, see a good movie, buy cheap souvenirs, and sleep with both eyes closed. In the bad parts you could get mugged, buy just about any drug you wanted, and watch street-walkers servicing johns in fogged-up cars in dark alleys. And, if you weren’t careful, you could get shot, stabbed, strangled, or worse.

  Stan Lee drove the van slowly along I-26 south toward downtown—past the place he’d killed his third girl. Back then it was a seedy motel, and he was just learning. Now it was a seedier motel, and he was up to forty-three.

  He looked to his left, then to his right, trying to get his bearings. On any other night he’d speed right through this part of town. But not tonight. Tonight he needed a fix.

  No. He needed a stockpile.

  Stan Lee’s stash of liquid ketamine, stolen from the veterinary school years earlier, was long gone. And the batch he’d managed to get his hands on after that was going quick.

  Recently, he started slumming it, using the drug in a crystalline, powdered form. Commonly known as K, Special K, Vitamin K, and Purple—which made no sense because the powder was white; it was a rapid-acting drug that was soluble in water or a cocktail and could be bought on any street corner for twenty bucks a vial.

  But that wasn’t what Stan Lee was looking for tonight. Tonight he needed to score the ketamine in liquid form, the kind that came straight from the manufacturer. At low doses, the liquid was perfect for taking the edge off and calming him down, which seemed to be more and more necessary lately. At slightly higher doses, it made for the perfect anesthesia. At too high a dose it could kill you.

  Like it had killed Nisa Mulvaney.

  Stan Lee turned left on what he thought was the street he remembered from the last time he’d been down here. It was difficult to be sure he was in the right place—everything seemed darker somehow. Of course it’s dark, Stan Lee thought. It was four in the morning, and there wasn’t a working street light for blocks.

  Finally, Stan Lee saw the door he remembered. It was dark blue with the word Dog stenciled on it.

  Yep, this was the place.

  “Look, that man has metal legs,” Stan Lee heard a girl say.

  Stan Lee opened his eyes and found himself on one of the swings in Waterfront Park in the touristy part of downtown Charleston. He was bathed in sweat, the sun making his skin tingle as if he’d been there a long time. He glanced at his watch. It was almost 2:30 p.m.

  The last thing Stan Lee remembered was handing two guys a stack of hundred-dollar bills and carrying a paper bag of drugs back to the van. That had been eight hours ago. Had he shot up? He must have, but he couldn’t remember—which meant he had.

  Stan Lee tugged the legs of his pants down to cover his prosthetics, and then looked around for the van. It was nowhere in sight. He felt around for his keys. They weren’t there.

  But there was a plastic room key and valet parking ticket from the Concord Arms Hotel, eight blocks away.

  Stan Lee took Queen Street to Meeting, and turned right. Then he walked another five blocks north to Wentworth.

  “Yes, you parked your vehicle here,” he was told. “Yes, you checked into a lovely room with a king bed overlooking the water,” he was told. “Yes, you missed check out time,” he was told. “Yes, you have been charged for another night,” he was told. “Yes, $462.57 is the correct amount,” he was told.

  “No, there was nothing he could do about it,” he was told.

  Stan Lee had the van brought around and held his breath, praying the ketamine was still there.

  It was.

  He grabbed the paper bag and gave the kid two dollars to re-park the van. Then, since he’d already paid for a second night’s lodging, he decided to go up and get some sleep.

  As it turned out, the girl at the front desk was right.

  It was a lovely room.

  Stan Lee set the alarm for 7:00 p.m. and did an inventory. There were twenty-three bottles of liquid ketamine, and ten vials of powder. He did one more bump of the powder, just for the heck of it, then took off his prosthetics and climbed under the covers.

  Stan Lee hadn’t eaten a thing all day, and he was starved.

  He bought a USA Today in the lobby gift shop, and then walked up Broad Street to Gaulart & Maliclet, a restaurant that specialized in low-cost French cuisine. He ordered a bowl of chicken mushroom soup, a tossed salad, lobster Newburg, and a cheap bottle of red wine. Then he settled in to read the paper.

  It was a nice meal until he reached page three.

  Research Proves Spiders and Serial Murderers Have Much in Common

  The article was about the kid—the one he’d watched through his binoculars going in and out of the Mulvaney mansion after he’d taken Nisa. He was with the petite, dark-haired woman from the FBI.

  Stan Lee knew the agent’s name. It was Pipi Esperanza. She’d been all over the TV news recently because she’d been assumed to have been among the dead in the Oklahoma City bombing. In reality, she’d been wandering the streets suffering from amnesia. It was like a storyline straight out of a daytime soap opera.

  Stan Lee finished his soup and continued reading.

  The kid’s name was Newton Drystad, an autistic savant with extraordinary math and memory skills who had spent the last couple years studying the behavior similarities between serial killers and spiders—in particular, drug-addicted serial murderers.

  “We’ve learned a lot already,” the kid said in the article. “The pattern overlaps are truly remarkable. It’s just a matter of time before we’ll be able to predict when a particular offender will strike next and where.”

  Who in the hell did this kid think he was? Did he have any idea who he was dealing with? And what was he really saying? Was the kid insinuating he was a spider?

  The waitress came with the lobster dish and Stan Lee asked her to box it up to go. “Is something wrong with the food?” she asked.

  “No,” Stan Lee said. “I’ve just lost my appetite.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  DECEMBER 31, 2001

  Alistar couldn’t believe his bad luck. Of all the nights for the Aston Martin to break down, the car picked New Year’s Eve. At least he was in the middle of town, not out in the middle of nowhere.

  I really am a bloody pillock, Alistar thought.

  Alistar looked up and down Main Street. The only sign he could make out was Spilatro’s Place, the town bar and restaurant.

  Alistar wasn’t more than five steps inside the bar when the woman behind the counter said, “I remember you. You’re from England.”

  Alistar remembered her, too.

  The last time Alistar had seen the waitress was fifteen years earlier on the day Onyx fired the shotgun at him. He’d come in and used the phone to call Bruce Mulvaney. She’d been standing in the same spot, wiping down the same patch of Formica countertop, probably with the same rag. Other than looking fifteen years less interested in her job, she’d barely changed.

  “You have a good memory,” Alistar said.

  “Let me guess, you want to use the phone again?”

  “Wow, you do have a good memory,” Alistar said. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  The waitress pulled the phone from a shelf and set it on the counter. “As long as it’s local, go ahead. You can call anyone you want. They’ll take it out of my check if it’s a toll call.”

  Alistar pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket and dropped it on the counter. “Here, just in case.” The waitress pocketed the bill and walked off.

  Alistar dialed 4-1-1. When the operator came on the line, he said, “I
need the number to the nearest auto repair shop to Crimson Cove, Oregon.”

  Before the operator could respond, the girl behind the counter reached out and hung up the phone.

  “You’re wasting your time,” the waitress said. “There are no repair shops open for forty miles in either direction. I know because I work as a mechanic during the day. I only work here at night for the benefits.”

  “You’re a mechanic? Seriously?”

  The waitress leveled a look at Alistar. “It’s the twenty-first century, mister. What, you don’t think a woman can fix a car?”

  “It’s not just a car. It’s a 1964 Aston Martin DB5.

  “Well, la de da,” the waitress said, tossing the rag down on the counter and grabbing her coat from the rack on the wall behind her. “A car is a car. If it’s something simple, I’ll have you on the road before the storm hits. If you need parts, though, you’re not getting out of the cove until at least Thursday.”

  Fortunately, the waitress was true to her word. No parts were needed, and ten minutes later the girl started the engine and the Aston was ready to go. “Come here,” she said, waving Alistar over to the car before she closed the hood. “I want to show you what the problem was in case you want to DIY.”

  “DIY?”

  “Do it yourself,” the woman said.

  “Oh, I can quite assure you I will not be doing it myself,” Alistar said. “I can barely tie my own shoes.”

  “It’s simple,” she said. “Besides, it could end up saving you a fifty-dollar tow and a hundred-dollar bullshit repair bill for doing nothing but tightening the clamp on the fuel hose that connects the pump to the carburetor.”

  “I have no bloody idea what you just said.”

  “You don’t have to understand it,” the waitress said. “You just have to be able to do it.”

  Alistar shrugged and looked under the hood as the waitress pointed at a set of clamps. “See those? If they come loose, you tighten them, like this. How hard is that?”

  “What if I don’t have a screwdriver?” Alistar said.

  The waitress slapped the screwdriver into Alistar’s palm. “Anything else?”

  Alistar shook his head and then pulled out his money clip, but she waved him off. “At least take enough to buy a new screwdriver.”

  Alistar held out a twenty-dollar bill. The waitress shrugged and took the bill, and then gazed up at the snowflakes that were falling rapidly. “Better go, quick—before we both freeze to death.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  OCTOBER 18, 2010

  “Promise me you won’t go into Loll until I get back,” Gerylyn said, moving her cane in front of her as she, Koda, Robyn, and Reginald walked down the hallway.

  “Don’t worry, he won’t,” Robyn said. “Right, Koda?”

  “But I know how to do it now,” Koda said. “I don’t know what the big deal is.”

  “The big deal is you, man,” Reginald said. “You’re dangerous. Geri told you to stay put, and what did you do? You went chasing Cinderella down the staircase, that’s what.”

  “Cinderella was my mother,” Koda said, his teeth clenched. “And why is this any of your business?”

  Reginald cocked his head to one side. “Uh, did you just ask me why Geri’s safety is my business?

  “Reginald, go get in the limo,” Gerylyn said.

  “This is my business because Geri is—”

  “Damn it, Raymond,” Gerylyn snapped.

  “Maybe next time you and me can meet up in that gym of yours,” Reginald said. “What do you say, pretty boy?”

  “Any time you’re ready,” Koda said.

  Robyn waited until the limo pulled away before saying anything. “God, what is it with men? You must all think that acting like dicks will somehow make yours bigger.”

  “Me?” Koda said.

  “I’m going upstairs to take a nap,” Robyn said.

  Neither Koda or Robyn caught Gerylyn’s slip of tongue.

  Robyn had been asleep less than ten minutes when Koda knocked on the door to her room.

  “Come on, I need your help,” Koda said.

  “Help doing what?”

  “I’m going in,” Koda said.

  “Going in where?”

  “Loll,” Koda said.

  “Damn it, Koda, you promised.”

  “I can’t sit here for a week, biding my time, while Gerylyn runs around selling books,” Koda said. “If you don’t want to help me, fine. But I’m going in, with or without you.”

  Robyn stood in the doorway to Gerylyn’s guest room, her arms folded across her chest. “Tell me why.”

  “You know why,” Koda said. “I want to find Juniper.”

  “Are you saying this isn’t about your mother?”

  “No,” Koda said.

  “No, it’s not? Or, no, it is?”

  “Robyn, please,” Koda said.

  Robyn shook her head. “Give me your word that you’ll look only for Juniper, and I’ll help you. Otherwise, count me out.”

  “You have my word,” Koda said.

  Robyn released an exasperated breath. “Fine. Set up the chairs and the mirror. I’ll light the candles.”

  Koda was amazed how quickly he was able to get into Loll this time. He no more than settled into the chair when the mirror shimmered, just as it had the time before, and the glass looked like water on top of a still lake. Then the clouds appeared, and—suddenly—he was standing in the grayness.

  The question now was which way to go.

  It was a question Koda would not have to answer.

  “Koda,” he heard a voice say from off to his left. He turned and saw it was Dane.

  “Dane! God, am I glad to see you,” Koda said.

  “You, too,” Dane said. “You look good. Better than last time.”

  It took Koda a moment to understand what Dane was saying. The last time they’d seen each other, Koda was dead.

  “Yeah. You have good color, too,” Koda said. “Why?”

  “Because I touched Mason,” Dane said. “And Robyn—while she was sleeping. Sorry.”

  “What are you sorry about?” Koda said. “Robyn and I are just friends.”

  “Okay,” Dane said. “So, how are you doing this? Getting in and out of Loll?”

  “Gerylyn Stoller,” Koda said. “It’s called scrying.”

  Dane nodded. “Gerylyn? Do I know her?”

  “I don’t think so,” Koda said. “She was in Lily Dale after your funeral.”

  “Oh, the blind woman?” Dane asked.

  “You were there?” Koda said.

  Dane nodded. “Yes. The better question is, why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for Juniper,” Koda said. “I want to know what happened to her. How she ended up—”

  “Dead? Dane asked. “I don’t think she remembers.”

  Koda felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. Finding Juniper was pointless if she didn’t remember.

  “That doesn’t mean she won’t remember eventually,” Dane said, glancing to his right.

  Koda followed Dane’s eyes and saw Juniper standing there, wearing the same prom dress he’d seen her in before, watching the two of them talk.

  “Go,” Dane said.

  Koda nodded and slowly worked his way to where Juniper was standing, careful not to move too quickly and scare her away. “Do you know who I am? Koda asked.

  Juniper nodded. “Yes, your name is Koda. Dane told me. I saw you in the mirror.”

  “Yes,” Koda said. “At the hotel. But you don’t remember anything else?”

  Juniper shook her head. “I know I used to play the piano. I remember being at the prom, and something about the fountain in the park. That’s all.”

  Koda reached out for Juniper’s hand, but she quickly pulled it away. “What’s wrong?”

  “We’re not supposed to,” Juniper said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.�
��

  Koda held his hand out and waited. Finally, Juniper reached out and placed her hand in his—and the moment she did, Koda could see the color running up her arm and into her face. “You’re beautiful.”

  Juniper glanced to her left, and then to her right. “I’ve got to go,” she said.

  “What? Why?”

  “They’re here,” Juniper said.

  “Who?”

  “The Shadow People.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

  JULY 13, 1998

  Newt was required to spend an hour each week with one of the three clinical psychiatrists the FBI kept on staff to deal with agent trauma. He insisted he’d suffered no trauma. The bureau insisted he do it. He was their responsibility. He was in their care. He was important to them.

  The truth was the bureau had dropped the ball after the Oklahoma City bombing by not offering any kind of treatment, pretending as if they’d never heard of him.

  Newt understood. His parents didn’t. They considered filing a suit against the FBI and federal government but thought better of it in the end. Now the bureau was trying to fix its own mistake.

  Newt flipped on the light as he entered his office and saw the letter in his inbox. Which would have been hard to miss since it was the only piece of mail he’d received in the six weeks he’d been there.

  It was a standard-size, #10 envelope. White in color. The typed address read: FBI, Quantico, Virginia. Attention:

  “Spider Boy”

  There was no return address.

  Newt inserted his finger under the flap and ripped it open. Inside was a standard-sized, 8 ½ x 11 sheet of paper, folded in thirds. He unfolded the letter and saw a typed poem with hand-drawn pictures of a spider in a web at the top of the page, and a fly on the bottom. He was pretty sure he knew who it was from.