Onyx Webb 6

by Diandra Archer

  It read:

  “THE SPIDER AND THE FLY”

  “Will you walk into my parlor?”

  said the Spider to the fly. “Tis the prettiest little parlor

  that ever you did spy.

  The way into my parlor is

  down a long, winding stair. And I've many curious things

  to show when you’re there.”

  “Oh no, no," said the fly.

  “To ask me is in vain, For who goes down your winding stair

  can never come up again."

  “I'm sure you must be weary,

  with soaring up so high. Will you rest upon my little bed?”

  said the Spider to the fly.

  “There are pretty curtains drawn;

  the sheets are fine and thin— and if you like to rest awhile,

  I'll snugly tuck you in!”

  “Oh no, no,” said the fly,

  “For I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again,

  who sleep upon your bed!”

  Said the cunning Spider to the fly:

  “Dear friend what can I do, to prove the warm affection

  I've always felt for you?

  I have within my pantry,

  good store of all that's nice; I'm sure you're very welcome,

  Won’t you please come take a slice?”

  “Oh, no, no,” said the fly.

  “Kind Sir, that cannot be, I've seen what's in your pantry,

  and I wish not that for me!”

  “Sweet creature!” said the Spider.

  “You're witty and you're wise, how handsome are your gauzy wings—

  how brilliant are your eyes!

  “I've a little looking-glass

  upon my parlor shelf, if you'll step in one moment

  you shall behold yourself.”

  “I thank you, legless sir,”

  said the child of the FBI. “But I must bid you a good morning,

  as you see I’ve come up dry.”

  The patient legless Spider turned

  and went back into his den, for well he knew the FBI

  would be back once again.

  So start he did, to weave his web,

  in a little corner sly— then set his table ready,

  to dine upon the fly.

  “One day I will come out again,

  and merrily I will sing: “Come hither, hither, if you dare,

  with your pearl and silver wing. Your eyes are green with wonder,

  while mine are lined with red. Your eyes are diamond bright,

  while mine are dull as lead.”

  “Alas, alas! How very soon

  the youngest of the FBI will hear my wily, flattering words,

  and then come flitting by.

  With buzzing wings, you’ll hang aloft,

  and one day nearer draw—

  like those who came before

  and yet do not know what they saw.”

  “I dream about your shortened frame,

  your legs with theirs at last, then up I’ll jump—quite cunninglee—

  and fiercely hold you fast.

  I’ll drag you down my tunnel tight,

  to my gleaming, dingy den... Within my kill-room parlor, from which

  you’ll never come out again.”

  -Tommy Rabah, 1982

  Newt quickly scanned the letter with his eyes for any immediate mathematical patterns. Pages: 2. Words: 462. Characters without spaces: 1,969. Characters with spaces: 2,371. Lines in the poem: 82–85 if you included the title and by line.

  Nothing jumped out at him as meaningful.

  Newt wasn’t familiar with the poem. Thanks to the Internet; however, he was able to use his computer to access hundreds of pages of information on the poem and its author—who was not Tommy Rabah.

  It was Mary Howitt.

  Tommy Rabah was an anagram. Not for Mary Howitt, but for Howitt’s maiden name: Mary Botham.

  The person who sent the poem was clearly playing games.

  Newt dialed the number for his house, and his mother answered on the second ring. “Oh, sweetie, we saw your article in USA Today,” Newt’s mother said. “You looked very handsome. Wait, what? Oh, your sisters say hello.”

  “Is Dad there? I need to ask him a question.”

  A moment later, Newt’s father came on the line. “What’s up, Son? Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, Dad, everything is fine. I wanted to ask you about something—and no, it isn’t a question about sex. It’s about a poem—and no, I’m not a homosexual.” Ever since Newt had reached puberty, his father was determined to have “the talk.” Newt decided it was best to simply head him off at the pass.

  “Well, that’s good,” his father said. “What poem are we talking about?”

  “‘The Spider and the Fly’ by Mary Botham.”

  “Well, for starters, Botham was her maiden name. By the time it was published, she’d become Mary Howitt.”

  “I saw that,” Newt said. “Is there any behind-the-scenes stuff that wouldn’t be in a standard biography?”

  “Well, for the period, Mary Howitt was reasonably well-known, but she wasn’t a celebrity like Charles Dickens or Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Not that she didn’t try. She was famous for crashing society functions and literary parties. She even moved twice in one year, just so she could buy the house next to Alfred Lord Tennyson. Why are you asking?”

  “Uh, no reason,” Newt said.

  “Well, listen, Son, seventeen can be a confusing age,” Newt’s father said. “In case you’re really calling about something else—”

  Newt looked up and saw Pipi Esperanza standing in the doorway.

  “I’m hanging up, Dad,” Newt said.

  “Okay, Son, I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” Newt said and hung up the phone. “That was my dad.”

  “None of my business,” Pipi said.

  “Well, this is,” Newt said, holding up the letter.

  Pipi stepped forward and looked at the letter. “Why are you touching it?”

  “There won’t be any prints,” Newt said. “He’s too smart.”

  “We’ve still got to follow protocol.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m thinking he might have licked the stamp, though,” Newt said.

  “If he’s smart enough not to touch the letter, why do you think he’d be dumb enough to lick the stamp?”

  “Because stamps are afterthoughts,” Newt said. “Something you do out of habit, without thinking.”

  Pipi nodded. “Okay. I’ll send it over to forensics. Do you think it’s really from him? It could be a copycat.”

  “No, trust me. It’s from him.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  DECEMBER 31, 2001

  Kizzy Ashley checked into the room Alistar had reserved at the Hotel Lucia in downtown Portland, not sure if accepting the invitation was a good idea. She was still furious at Alistar. The lies and betrayal had caught her totally off-guard.

  More than the money, though, was the time Alistar had stolen from them—time he spent instead at the lighthouse with Onyx Webb.

  Onyx must have been a really good listener.

  Or she made really good tea.

  At 8:00 p.m., the waiter at the Hotel Lucia showed Kizzy Ashley to the table Alistar had reserved and asked if she wanted a drink. “I’ll wait for my husband,” Kizzy said.

  At 8:10 p.m., she looked at her watch and began to fidget.

  At 8:20 p.m., Kizzy ordered the drink after all.

  At 8:30 p.m., when Alistar still hadn’t arrived, Kizzy fished her cell phone from her purse.

  There was no answer.

  The call went to voicemail, but Kizzy left no message.

  At 8:40 p.m., a young girl in a short cocktail dress came by with plastic New Year’s Eve tiaras and paper horn blowers and placed them on the table.

  At 8:50 p.m., Kizzy ordered a second glass of wine. Ten more minutes, she to
ld herself.

  At 9:00 p.m., Kizzy drained the final drops of Chardonnay from the second glass and dialed information.

  “I’m sorry. I have no listing for an Onyx Webb in Crimson Cove,” the woman said.

  “Is the number unlisted?” Kizzy asked.

  “I show no phone number for that name on either list,” the woman said.

  At 9:10, against her best judgment, Kizzy called Alistar’s cell phone again. Still no answer. When the call went to voicemail this time, she said, “I don’t know where you are or when you’ll get this, but if I don’t see you—thanks for the wonderful evening. And don’t bother coming to the hotel. I’m going to bed. You can stay at the house. Or, for all I care, you can go to hell.”

  At 9:20 p.m., Kizzy hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob, took off her dress, and went to sleep.

  At 12:01 a.m., Kizzy woke to the sound of car horns and firecrackers on the street below. It was 2002. Her final decision of 2001 had been a bad one, realizing that she should have asked for a room on a higher floor.

  Kizzy glanced over at the other side of the bed and saw it was empty, not that she expected Alistar to be there. She pulled the covers back and went to the minibar.

  Sparkling water. No.

  Wine. No.

  Jack Daniels. No.

  Vodka. Perfect.

  Kizzy unscrewed the cap on the tiny bottle, downed it quickly, and took another bottle back to the bed. She grabbed the remote and pressed the power button. Then she spent the next two minutes figuring out how to get the regular TV channels to come on.

  CNN. No.

  Fox News. No.

  ESPN. Ugh.

  Kizzy pressed the channel button again and Portland station KATU came on, with live coverage of the New Year’s celebration from downtown—directly outside the Hotel Lucia.

  “I’m here on Broadway, where business is booming on this cold New Year’s Eve,” a young male reporter said into his microphone, cars blaring their horns in the background, as the lightly falling snow stuck to his thick head of hair and the shoulders of his wool coat. “But the snow hasn’t stopped the fun. Local bars and restaurants are packed to the gills, serving up food and fun to thousands of Portlanders who have come downtown to let loose and welcome in 2002.”

  Kizzy twisted the cap off a second tiny vodka bottle and downed it almost as quickly as the first, hoping the alcohol might put her back to sleep.

  “Unfortunately, tonight is not an evening of celebration for everyone, isn’t that right, Carolyn?” the male reporter said.

  The TV cut to a young brunette in the studio who, like the male reporter, was unlucky enough to get stuck doing New Year’s Eve coverage. “That’s right, Robert. Earlier tonight a big rig collided with what is believed to be a small sports car, sending both vehicles through a guardrail in a fireball of death and destruction.”

  Kizzy’s heart skipped a beat as the TV screen filled with footage of the blazing fire at the base of the cliffs below.

  “Where was this, Carolyn?” the male reporter asked.

  “The accident happened on U.S. Highway One, Robert,” the female reporter said. “Just north of Crimson Cove.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  OCTOBER 18, 2010

  Robyn tapped Koda on the shoulder and was relieved when his eyes immediately snapped open and he leapt out of his chair.

  “That was incredible,” Koda said.

  “Tell me,” Robyn said.

  “I was there for only a minute, and Dane showed up,” Koda said. “He asked me if—”

  Koda stopped mid-sentence as he felt the dizziness hit him. Koda felt the room start to spin around him, and he lowered himself into a chair.

  “Are you okay?” Robyn asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Koda looked sick, his skin grey and ashen—as if someone had drained the life from him.

  After Koda got enough strength to stand, Robyn helped him back to his room and convinced him to take a nap. Once Koda had climbed under the covers, Robyn switched off the light and said, “I’m going down to see if I can find Gatorade or a Snickers bar.”

  “Wait, I want to tell you what happened,” Koda said with a touch of deliriousness still in his voice.

  “You can tell me in a few minutes. Now get some rest.”

  Robyn closed the bedroom door behind her and started down the stairs. Then she remembered:

  She hadn’t blown out the candles.

  Robyn opened the door to Gerylyn’s guest room and half expected to see flames licking their way up the curtains toward the ceiling. To her relief, most of the candles had burned out on their own, and the few that hadn’t were flickering innocently in their glass containers.

  Robyn blew out the last of the candles and was headed for the door when she heard a girl’s voice.

  “Koda?”

  Robyn spun around, but the room was empty. Then she heard the girl’s voice again.

  “Where’s Koda?”

  It was coming from the mirror.

  Robyn stepped slowly forward until finally she could make out the girl’s image—her young, beautiful face, blonde shoulder-length hair, and retro-style prom dress—floating in the glass.

  “Juniper?”

  “Yes,” Juniper said. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Robyn. I’m Koda’s friend.”

  “Tell Koda I remember,” Juniper said.

  “You remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “What? What do you remember?”

  “Everything,” Juniper said. “I remember it all.”

  Quote

  The universe is not interested in your long list of casual wants. The only thing that matters is your short list of passionate desires.”

  The 31 Immutable Matters

  of Life & Death

  Dear Reader,

  We've come a long way together. Thanks so much for joining me on this journey.

  The next book will blow your mind. There is much story left to tell.

  Are you completely entangled in Onyx's Webb?

  Here's the next book just waiting for you.

  Grab Book 7 NOW!