Onyx Webb 10

by Diandra Archer

  “I’m afraid it’s just me,” Grace said.

  “I see,” Stan Lee said. “Might I use your bathroom?”

  “Of course,” Grace said. “It’s directly down the hallway behind me.”

  Stan Lee stood and smiled and stepped past her.

  Then he stopped and turned back.

  It was amazing how easily the human neck could be snapped when you knew what you were doing.

  Stan Lee went to the kitchen and began searching through the cabinets until he found what he needed. There was one half-used roll and a second unopened roll. It was plenty, Stan Lee thought. It was amazing how much surface area you could cover with a two-hundred-square-foot roll of cling wrap.

  It was completely dark outside by the time he finished. Stan Lee found the woman’s car keys hanging on a hook near the kitchen door and went to the garage, keeping his fingers crossed that she didn’t drive a compact.

  His luck held. It wasn’t a van, but it would do.

  Stan Lee went back inside the house, took off his jacket, and hung it on a chair in the kitchen. As eager as he was to get the van off the street, he knew he’d be better off waiting to swap vehicles until the middle of the night when the neighbors would be sound asleep.

  “Speaking of sleep,” Kara said from the doorway. “When’s the last time you got some shut eye?”

  She was right. He was tired.

  And he felt safe in the house.

  Stan Lee set the alarm on his wristwatch for three in the morning and set off to find the bedroom. With any luck, the bed had a decent mattress. For the past six days, he’d driven from one small town to the next—three-hundred miles to the east, then four-hundred miles to the west—zigzagging in a pattern no one could possibly anticipate since he had no idea where he was going to spend the night either.

  Now, by pure chance, he’d ended up here—across the street from a lovely park on which once stood the scene of his childhood horrors.

  The wristwatch alarm went off, and Stan Lee bolted upright in the bed, momentarily unsure of where he was. Oh, yeah. He was in Chicago.

  Time to swap vehicles.

  Stan Lee went to the garage and opened the door, and pulled the woman’s SUV out to the curb. Then he pulled the van inside the garage and closed the door.

  The question now was, how long could he stay there?

  A day?

  Three?

  “Play it by ear,” Kara said from the hallway.

  Yes, play it by ear, Stan Lee thought.

  SAVANNAH, GEORGIA

  DECEMBER 31, 2010

  WYATT SCROGGER FOLLOWED his lawyer into the living room of the house and set his bag on the floor next to the sofa. “I’m the only person here,” Wyatt said.

  The lawyer nodded. “Eight thousand square feet. Seven bedrooms, 6½ baths—you’ve got the run of the place.”

  “Quinn’s not paying for this, is he?”

  “No. It belongs to Koda Mulvaney’s father, Bruce,” the lawyer said.

  “And it was just sitting empty?” Wyatt asked.

  “Apparently,” the lawyer said without elaboration, seeing no reason to tell Wyatt that the woman who was living in the house—Mika Flagler—had been killed in a hit-and-run several hours before his scheduled execution. He also decided to withhold the fact that a limo driver had been bludgeoned to death in the second-floor master bedroom several weeks earlier—nor did he mention that the legless corpse of newswoman Skylar Savage had been posed in the swing on the front porch.

  Wyatt nodded and looked around. “What was there?” Wyatt asked, pointing to a large empty space on the wall.

  The lawyer shrugged. “No idea. Probably a painting.”

  “Can you make a note about that?” Wyatt asked.

  “A note? Why would I—?”

  “I don’t want to be accused of taking anything is all,” Wyatt said.

  The lawyer suddenly got it. Thirty-one years behind bars had made Wyatt paranoid—and perhaps rightly so. In Wyatt’s world, being accused of doing something you didn’t wasn’t impossible. It was his reality.

  “I had a maid service come in a couple of days ago—clean up the place, put fresh sheets on the beds,” the lawyer said. “I wasn’t sure exactly what you’d want to eat, so I stocked the refrigerator with a little bit of everything. You want me to show you around?”

  Wyatt shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  “I didn’t get you a car because of the driver’s license thing,” the lawyer said. “But as soon—”

  “That’s okay. I’m not going anywhere,” Wyatt said.

  The lawyer nodded.

  “You sure you’re not in any trouble?” Wyatt asked.

  “What? Why would I be—?”

  “For slipping me the GHB,” Wyatt said. “I can’t imagine they’re going to just let it slide.”

  The lawyer shrugged. “Yeah, the DA’s kicking up some dust, threating to have me disbarred. But that’s to be expected.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wyatt said.

  “Hell, don’t be,” the lawyer said. “My wife is hoping he will. Says it’s the only way to force me to retire.”

  “It’s a good thing I didn’t die,” Wyatt said.

  The lawyer laughed. “Yeah, wouldn’t that have been ironic—they probably would have given me your cell.”

  Wyatt snorted. It was funny, but it wasn’t.

  “I’ve got some good news for you,” the lawyer said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Simon Prentice stopped by my office yesterday,” the lawyer said. “He’s offering $2 million for the rights to your story. I told you that you wouldn’t have to worry about money.”

  “I thought they only published fantasy and supernatural stuff,” Wyatt said.

  The lawyer nodded. “He used to. He said he’s taking his company in a new direction. I told him I’d let him know—that I had to see if you were interested.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Wyatt said. “What does $2 million come to? Per year, I mean?”

  “About $60,000, give or take,” the lawyer said. “The book deal has nothing to do with whatever settlement you’ll get from the state.”

  “I wrote my memoir already,” Wyatt said. “The warden has it, if he didn’t toss it in the garbage can.”

  “Yeah, well the story has a better ending now, doesn’t it?” the lawyer said.

  Wyatt nodded. “Tell him we’ll think about it.”

  “Okay,” the lawyer said. “Anything else before I go?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  The lawyer made his way toward the door.

  “Why did you do it?” Wyatt asked.

  The lawyer stopped and turned around. “Do what?”

  “You know what I’m asking,” Wyatt said. “Why did you give me the drugs to take?”

  “Because I knew they wouldn’t execute an unconscious man,” the lawyer said.

  “I know that,” Wyatt said. “I’m asking why you were willing to do it for me? You had to know a ton of shit was going to get dropped on you for doing it. We both know you’re going to get disbarred.”

  “Like I said, my wife—”

  “No, seriously,” Wyatt said. “I want to know. I need to know.”

  The lawyer nodded. “Why else, Wyatt? I did it because I knew you didn’t kill Juniper Cole.”

  Wyatt heard gunshots somewhere off in the distance and opened his eyes. He sat up and listened as the gunshots continued.

  Wyatt pulled back the covers, got out of bed, and walked to the window. He looked out as another round of fireworks exploded in the sky off in the distance, down by the riverfront.

  It was New Year’s Eve.

  Wyatt looked at the clock. It was 12:01 a.m. New Year’s Day. January 1, 2011.

  Wyatt had spent 11,356 days in prison doing one thing:

  Waiting to die.

  And in all that time he’d never cried. Not once.

  Not when his father came to the prison to tell him his mother d
ied. And how he’d broken their hearts doing what he’d done to that poor, innocent girl.

  Nor did he cry when the warden told him that his father had put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Apparently neither of his parents had seen what his lawyer had.

  They’d both thought he was guilty.

  Wyatt looked over at his jacket hanging on the back of a chair in the corner of the room and felt the weirdness of the moment wash over him. He could walk over and put the jacket on, grab the keys to the house, and go outside—let the cold air hit his skin.

  Walk in one direction for more than ten feet before he had to stop and turn around.

  He could walk into a bar and order a beer if he wanted. Order a pizza with any toppings he wanted instead of being forced to eat what the prison was serving that day. What was today? Friday? Friday was dry meatloaf and instant mashed potatoes day.

  He could do anything he wanted.

  Go anywhere he wanted.

  Without permission.

  From anyone.

  He could take a shower if he wanted, without having to worry about someone sticking him in the back with a sharpened spoon.

  He was free.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  DECEMBER 29, 2010

  ALLURE BRIDAL WAS a small bridal boutique on SW Yamhill in the heart of downtown Portland, not far from the art gallery in the Pearl District. They had a selection big enough for Onyx to find the perfect dress, but small enough not to overwhelm her.

  The bridal salesperson led Tara and Onyx to one of the private showing rooms. “Have a seat, and I’ll be back with some champagne,” the woman said through a big, white-toothed smile.

  Onyx waited for the woman to leave. “I don’t understand. What do we do?”

  “We? We don’t do anything,” Tara said. “We just sit here and drink champagne while the saleswoman brings in dresses she thinks you’ll like.”

  “I don’t drink champagne,” Onyx said.

  “Okay, so I’ll drink mine and yours,” Tara said. “Come on, sit. Relax.”

  Onyx took a seat on the sofa next to Tara. “Is this how it’s done for everyone? It seems like the type of service only a celebrity would get.”

  “Brides are celebrities,” Tara said.

  The saleswoman returned with a cart containing a bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne on ice and a selection of sweets, including apple and pear tarts, shortbread, almond cookies, and—as if that weren’t enough—a dark-chocolate fondue with marshmallows and strawberries for dipping.

  None of which Onyx could enjoy.

  The saleswoman opened the champagne and poured two glasses, handing one to both Tara and Onyx. “Now I’d say you’re a four?” the saleswoman asked.

  “She’s a two,” Tara said.

  “Wedding dresses tend to run small, so a four is a two,” the saleswoman said, flashing her white teeth again. “Any designer in particular you’d like to see?”

  “I’m really not sure,” Onyx said.

  “Surprise us,” Tara said, taking a gulp of her champagne.

  The saleswoman nodded and left.

  “What do we do now?” Onyx said.

  “Not a damn thing,” Tara said, dipping an almond cookie in the dark chocolate and taking a bite. “I pig out on sweets, drink your champagne, and then watch you try on a hundred dresses.”

  The saleswoman returned ten minutes later with a rack containing a selection of dresses, which she rolled into the sitting area. “Whenever you’re ready, feel free to start,” the saleswoman said. “I’ll come back and check on you in—”

  “I’ve got it from here,” Tara said. “I’ll let you know if we need you.”

  “It might be helpful if I—”

  “I said, I’ve got it,” Tara said. “Thank you.”

  The saleswoman smiled a closed-lip smile this time, annoyed at being dismissed, and disappeared.

  “Start on the left and work your way down the line,” Tara said. “I’ll let you know what makes the cut.”

  It took two hours, but Onyx finally exited the fitting room in a floor-length, mermaid silhouette gown by Kenneth Winston, with a dropped waist that flattered Onyx’s perfect figure.

  Tara’s mouth dropped open. “Wow,” Tara said.

  “You don’t think it’s too much?” Onyx asked.

  “Too much? For God’s sake, Onyx, it’s your wedding day. There’s no such thing as too much,” Tara said, pulling herself to her feet. “Now for the aisle test.”

  “The aisle test?”

  “Yes—to see how the dress looks from every angle.”

  “There’s not going to be an aisle, Tara,” Onyx said. “It’s a four-person wedding—you, me, Clay, and Noah.”

  “Five, if you include the harpist,” Tara said.

  “The harpist?”

  “Oh, God, I spilled the beans again!” Tara said. “Please don’t tell Noah I slipped. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

  Another surprise, Onyx thought. Noah seemed to be full of them lately. “Don’t worry,” Onyx said. “I’m glad you told me.”

  Tara walked in a wide circle around Onyx, studying the dress from every angle.

  “Well?” Onyx asked.

  “You’re going to be the most beautiful bride to ever walk the planet,” Tara said.

  Ever since she was a little girl Onyx had dreamed of this moment. She would play dress up in clothes taken from her mother’s closet—clothes her father refused to discard because, other than memories and a few assorted trinkets and jewelry, it was all he had left of her. Those few things, and Onyx herself.

  That’s why her father had clung so hard to her, refusing to let her date men she hadn’t brought to the houseboat to stand inspection first.

  In that way, running off with Ulrich was as much her father’s fault as it was hers. Had he been more reasonable in allowing her to see men, she’d have already been married by the time Ulrich had come along.

  And she’d have been working on having a family with someone else.

  But that had been the problem all along, Onyx now knew.

  The secret her father hadn’t shared.

  That she mustn’t have children because of the risks of draining her energy to the point of no return.

  Literally, no return.

  People used the term dead and gone all the time. Someday, when you’re dead and gone…

  Onyx had been dead for over seventy years.

  But she wasn’t gone.

  She was here, trying on dresses—not just playing dress up, but buying a wedding dress that she was about to get married in.

  A dream come true.

  Finally.

  Tara grabbed a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes. “Oh, God, I’m crying already. I’ll probably cry the entire wedding.”

  The saleswoman returned and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Onyx standing there in the dress. “Now that’s a dress,” the saleswoman said. “May I assume—?”

  “Yes,” Tara said. “And I’ll be paying.”

  “Tara, no,” Onyx said. “I’m fully able to—”

  Tara held up her hand. “No, the dress is on me. My gift,” Tara said. “How much is it?”

  “It’s $3,699, plus tax,” the saleswoman said, her white teeth flashing once again.

  Tara pulled out a massive wad of hundred-dollar bills and started counting them off into the saleswoman’s hand until she reached $4,0500. “The extra is for you,” Tara said. “For staying out of our way.”

  More teeth.

  Onyx changed out of the dress and walked with Tara to her lavender Chrysler Crown Imperial convertible. “I hope you’re not expecting me to drive,” Onyx said.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” Tara said. “Besides, if I drive us off a cliff I’d only be killing one of us. Right?”

  “I guess you’re right,” Onyx said as they got into the car.

  Tara went to start the car, but stopped—then turned and looked at Onyx.

  “You
have found one great guy, Onyx,” Tara said.

  “I know.”

  “No, I mean really. Noah is handsome. He owns his own business. And he’s so… selfless.”

  “Right…” Onyx said, her words trailing off.

  Tara looked forward. “And so he really loves you.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Well, it’s just so nice that he’s willing to give up—you know, a normal life. Children, having a family, that whole thing, you know?”

  “Yes,” Onyx murmured.

  “Yeah, he probably doesn’t even want that stuff. I don’t even know what I am saying. Come on. Let’s go,” Tara said, starting the engine.

  Onyx looked away and starred out the car window, watching people crossing the street—going about their business, heading to work—living normal lives.

  Normal lives.

  “I’m sorry,” Tara said. “That’s just the champagne talking. Forget that I said anything, okay?”

  “Fine,” Onyx said. “Consider it forgotten.”

  But Onyx knew that what Tara had said was the truth.

  And the truth could not be brushed aside that easily—especially for a ghost.

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  DECEMBER 28, 2010

  NEWT SAT IN a swivel chair with his feet up on the table, drinking the last of his third bad cup of coffee from the FBI commissary. He was surrounded by hundreds of photos of the Leg Collector’s house pinned to the walls of the conference room.

  Sitting on the conference table in front of him was a stack of interview notes that needed to be reviewed.

  To the left of the interview notes sat a foot-tall stack of magazines—a minor sampling of the thousands of magazines found at the house when they’d gone in. It hadn’t taken long to determine every magazine had two things in common:

  One, they contained articles about the Mulvaneys. Two, every picture of every woman had the legs cut out, which were found taped to the walls of the upstairs bedroom.

  On top of the interview notes was the envelope left for him by the Leg Collector—the one addressed to Spider Boy—which Newt had yet to open.