Koda held the front door open as a man wheeled a large glass case into the house. “Where do you want it?” the delivery guy asked.
“Over there is good,” Koda said, pointing to the empty living room. “And leave enough space for someone to stand behind it.”
The guy nodded and rolled the glass case into position and slid it from the cart onto the floor. “I’ll be right back with the chairs and screen.”
Robyn got the big gray dog out of the car and led him up the stairs toward the front door of the house, and tied the dog’s leash to one of the iron posts that surrounded the porch.
Robyn slid the key into the lock, but before she could turn the knob the door swung open and her mouth dropped open.
Standing in the doorway was a young man dressed in a vintage theater usher costume.
“Uh, who are you?” Robyn asked.
“Allow me to help you to your seat, madam,” the usher said. The usher led Robyn into the living room, which had been converted into an old-fashioned movie theater, complete with a candy counter, popcorn machine, and a large screen that covered an entire wall. The other three walls were decorated with old movie posters. In the center of the room sat two large, leather recliners. At the back of the room a man was threading a reel of film into a projector.
Then Koda stepped into the room. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“I can’t believe you did all of this!” Robyn said.
“You said you wanted to go to the movies, so I thought I’d bring the movie to you.”
Robyn threw her arms around Koda and gave him a kiss. “Oh, what’s the movie?”
“Woody Allen’s new one, Midnight in Paris,” Koda said.
“Wait, that’s not out yet,” Robyn said.
“It is when you know who to call.”
Then they heard a dog bark.
“Oh, my God, I almost forgot,” Robyn said. “I’ve got a surprise for you too. Wait here.”
Robyn rushed back out the front door and came back with a massive gray dog on a leash.
It was a dog Koda knew quite well.
“You said you never had a dog, and, well—we’ve got all this space,” Robyn said. “He’s a rescue from the humane society. He’s a Great Dane, Newfoundland mix. They were going to put him down in four days if someone didn’t adopt him. Isn’t he great? His name is Tiny.”
LINCOLN CITY, OREGON
FEBRUARY 14, 2011 – 6:22 P.M. (PST)
TARA STEERED HER car into the parking lot at the Chinook Winds Casino Resort overlooking the Pacific Ocean off Highway 101. Being a Monday, there were plenty of parking spaces close to the entrance. Instead, Tara pulled into an open space in the back row and turned off the engine.
Tara rolled down her window and lit a cigarette, which she never did unless she was extremely nervous.
Or gambling.
Tara pulled a large manila envelope stuffed with cash from her purse and organized the bills by denomination. Then she did her count.
When Tara finished, she was flabbergasted. She had managed to siphon $142,600 in cash from the gallery over the last six months. Not that she spent it all on gambling. She’d spent money on her rent and other expenses, gifts for Clay, and $4,500 on Onyx’s wedding dress.
The rest she lost at the casino.
Tara flicked the last of her cigarette through the open window and lit another.
For most people, the excitement of gambling was only that—a bit of excitement. They could gamble for an hour or two, win or lose a few bucks, then head off to dinner or a movie.
Tara was not like normal people; she knew that. She was a compulsive gambler, and her time going to Gamblers Anonymous meetings confirmed it. But she wasn’t like most of the degenerates she’d met in the program—not by a long shot. The stories Tara heard in meetings were heartbreaking. Stories of people stealing from their employers, filing for bankruptcy, losing their houses, getting divorced, going to prison.
Tara had suffered none of that pain or embarrassment. Yes, she’d just taken money from her place of business to fund her gambling, but this was different. Tara was the owner of the gallery. Well, technically, she was a partner with Onyx. So, if she were stealing, she was stealing from herself. Half, at least. And maybe from the government a bit since she wasn’t paying taxes on the cash she’d skimmed.
Tara’s cell phone rang.
It was Clay.
What did he want? Then Tara remembered the dinner.
Clay had made a big deal about making dinner for the two of them at his house that evening. Some special occasion he said he’d tell her about when she got there.
Oh, dear God, it was Valentine’s Day. Could Clay be planning to propose?
Tara liked Clay. A lot. But did she love him? It was hard to say. Tara wasn’t entirely sure she knew what love was.
If someone was in love, Tara imagined they would jump out of bed in the morning to see if the guy had called. And they’d spend every waking moment thinking about the person, wondering what they were up to, longing to see them. And then, at night, they’d fall asleep thinking about the person and drift off dreaming of them until morning.
If that was love, then no—she didn’t love Clay. The only thing Tara loved that much was gambling.
Tara was holding two spades, with two more on the board as part of the flop. All she needed was one more spade on the turn or the river to make a flush.
Tara’s cell phone buzzed for the third time in the last fifteen minutes. She didn’t need to look to know it was Clay again. It felt like having a dog humping her leg.
Tara hated neediness.
The only thing Tara needed was a spade.
The dealer laid the turn card on the table.
It was the queen of diamonds.
Tara ran through the math in her head again, the way her Grandpa Lucas had taught her. The probability of getting the card she needed on the river was fifteen to one—about a 6.5 percent chance.
The math was not on her side.
“What are you going to do, missy?” the man on Tara’s left asked. “Don’t make me ask the dealer to put you on the timer again.”
“I’m all in,” Tara said.
Screw the math.
Lady Luck was way overdue.
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
FEBRUARY 15, 2011
CLAY OPENED HIS eyes and was surprised to find he was still alive. Lying in bed, all in one piece.
He was forty years and one day old. The curse was broken. Why? How? He didn’t know.
Maybe the curse had been bullshit, with the last three generations of Daniels men dying on their birthday a mere coincidence.
Clay didn’t know, and he didn’t care.
The night before, Clay made dinner for himself and Tara. Tara was a no-show, s. So he locked up the place, ate his and Tara’s food, and drank a full bottle of wine.
For the briefest of moments, Clay considered going outside to sleep in his cruiser, thinking he could fool the grim reaper. In the end, he decided that if death was going to find him, it could find him just as easily in either place.
Besides, it was freezing outside.
Whatever. He’d made it.
Now about Tara.
Clay knew there was something up with her, but Tara wouldn’t talk about it. At the same time, Clay had become preoccupied with the curse. Communication between them had broken down, each with their own problems.
Now Clay’s problem was behind him.
Clay picked up his cell phone and dialed Tara. She didn’t answer. The call went straight to voice mail. “Tara, it’s me, Clay. Call me.”
Clay stood up and walked across the room and opened the drapes—and his mouth dropped open.
During the night, a one-hundred-foot tall pine had fallen over and crushed his patrol car.
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
FEBRUARY 17, 2011
ONYX STOOD BETWEEN two tall pines at the edge of the paved parking lot and gazed at the hospital in the dist
ance. The parking lot was new. The hospital wasn’t.
Onyx had been to the hospital many times, the first being seventy years earlier—the night she’d taken the old man who was on the verge of death.
She even remembered the man’s name. It was Ben.
Ben Greenwald.
Onyx didn’t know the names of most of the people she’d taken. It wasn’t as if they had conversations before she took them. But in every case, she remembered the faces. Onyx most definitely remembered their faces.
The look of surprise.
The look of uncertainty.
And yes, fear.
That’s why Onyx remembered Ben Greenwald—even after all these years. The man was different from most. There was no uncertainty in his eyes. No quivering trepidation in his voice.
Ben Greenwald was eighty-five years old. He was sick and in significant pain, even with the morphine drip turned to the highest level allowed. He was done with living.
He was ready.
Onyx had often wondered if the difference had been the man’s faith in a life after death. Is that what had provided him with such serenity? Or was it merely the desire for the pain to end?
She didn’t know.
Onyx had waited at the far end of the hallway that evening so long ago—watching as the night nurse finished her rounds, all the while detecting the ever-increasing scent of death thirty feet away in room 3B.
When the nurse finally left, Onyx slipped into the room, seeing the face of the man she was going to take.
And him seeing her.
Ben Greenwald looked up and saw Onyx’s ghostly gray image floating near the doorway.
“Are you an angel?” Ben asked.
“Of sorts,” Onyx said.
“And you’ve come to take me home?”
“Yes, with your permission,” Onyx responded.
“Permission?” Ben Greenwald said with a smile of gratitude and relief. “I’ve been waiting.”
Yes, Ben Greenwald had been ready.
Onyx stood near the stairwell door, waiting for the precise moment for the nurse to turn so she could slip into the intensive care unit at the end of the hallway.
The nurse turned, and Onyx went in.
Unlike Ben Greenwald, the girl in front of Onyx was young. Asian, with beautiful features—at least as far as Onyx could tell with all the tubes and tape holding the many needles that pierced her olive-colored skin.
The girl was in a deep sleep from the meds, her eyes closed tight. She was still. Were it not for the beeping of the heart monitor, one would have assumed she was already dead.
Onyx stood just inside the doorway, wondering what event had placed her there. It was not an illness—Onyx could easily detect an illness if one were present.
No, it must have been an accident of some sort.
Was it aA car crash?
A fall?
Onyx didn’t know.
All she knew for sure was that the girl would pass soon, with or without her help.
Onyx took a step forward and then stopped.
What are you waiting for?
Do it.
But her feet wouldn’t move.
And then, as if someone else were inside her head, she heard a voice say: You don’t need to go on, you know. You can stop. No one is making you stay but you. It’s time. You can let go if you want to. It’s time. You can let go. Just… let… go.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
FEBRUARY 18, 2011 – 10:52 P.M.
THE PURPLE PIG was a restaurant in the 4800 block of North Broadway, which at one time was a mob joint frequented by none other than Al Capone. But the real action was happening down below in the basement, in a hidden club called Fat Sal’s Freezer.
“How’d you find this place?” Noah asked as he and Alec descended the stairs and entered the smoky room.
“You know that thing we did with the female background voices and the horns in the middle of “Racing the Wind”?” Alec asked.
Noah nodded. “Yeah. I thought that was your best work.”
“Well, this is where we recorded it,” Alec said as they found an empty booth in the back.
“Here?”
“Yep,” Alec said. “They rent the place out as a studio Monday through Wednesday when they’re closed. Best acoustics I’ve ever heard—something to do with the brick walls. They don’t build sound studios with natural reverb anymore. Everything’s plaster board and foam.”
A beautiful African American waitress approached the table. “What can I get you boys to—holy shit, you’re Alec Yost!” the girl said.
“Yes, I am,” Alec said, sliding a folded hundred-dollar bill across the table. “What’s your name?”
“Shereen.”
I don’t suppose you can keep it our little secret. I’d like to spend a quiet evening with my friend here.”
“Deal,” the girl said, taking the cash. “What are you two drinking?”
“Jack Daniel’s Black,” Alec said.
“Same,” Noah said.
“Just bring the bottle,” Alec said, tossing another hundred on the table. The waitress snatched the money and headed off.
“I’m surprised,” Alec said.
“About what?”
“You’re going to drink with me,” Alec said.
“I always drink with you,” Noah said.
“Only beer,” Alec said.
“Drinking beer is drinking,” Noah said.
“Not to me,” Alec said. “Jack Daniels is drinking. Beer is maintenance.”
True to her word, the waitress kept people from knowing a rock star was in the club, and Alec and Noah were able to enjoy a couple hours of music without being accosted by any fans.
The band on stage finished the set and took a break, leaving the place quiet, other than the sound of people talking and laughing at their tables.
Alec poured another couple fingers of Jack Daniels into his glass and held the bottle out for Noah, who waved him off. How Alec was able to put down so much whiskey with no outward signs of drunkenness was beyond Noah’s comprehension.
“So you told me about how wonderful Onyx is,” Alec said. “What about the dark side?”
“Meaning?”
“Come on, Noah, you know what I’m asking,” Alec said. “We were both there at the party, watching ghosts drain the life from people before our eyes. It wasn’t pretty.”
Noah did not respond.
“Your girl, Onyx—she has to do the same thing, right?” Alec said, more a statement than a question. “That’s how she stays here—by draining the life from people.”
“It’s not what you think,” Noah said.
“It’s not? How is it not what I think?”
“She has a code,” Noah said.
“A code?”
Noah grabbed the bottle and poured a shot of Jack into his glass and downed it. “Onyx only takes people who are sick and near death, and—”
“Huh,” Alec said. “Maybe you could arrange for her to take me—that’s the word, right? Take. Why not call it what it is—killing. People take people to dinner, or to the mall. Code aside, Onyx doesn’t take people, Noah—she kills them.”
“I’m going to assume you’re hammered,” Noah said.
“Not really,” Alec said. “It was just a hard thing to watch is all. You ever get to see her take anyone?”
Noah shook his head. Watching Onyx kill Claudia—who was already dead—didn’t count. Other than that, Noah had never witnessed her taking anyone.
“Well, that’s good,” Alec said. “At least you drew the line somewhere.”
Noah was on the verge of laying into Alec when the music began again. He turned his head and glanced over at the stage.
And froze. “Holy shit,” Noah said.
Alec looked toward the stage where Noah was staring. “Yeah, I forgot to tell you. Chicken Legs Washington is playing tonight. He’s a legend.”
“No, not him. The man next to him on guitar.”
Sitting on the stage was a thin, gray-haired man playing a white 1954 Fender Stratocaster, with a brown maple neck, rosewood fretboard, and ivory dot inlays. It was a guitar Noah knew very well.
“Who is it?”
“It’s my grandfather,” Noah said.
“I thought you said your gramps was dead,” Alec said.
“He is.”
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
FEBRUARY 19, 2011 – 3:18 A.M.
NOAH WAS IN the same booth he’d been in for the last six hours, the club looking very different now with the lights on.
Noah tried to call Alec a cab back to the Stevens Hotel on Michigan Avenue, where the two of them were staying. There was no way Noah was going to let Alec behind the wheel. As expected, Alec fought him. Fortunately, the waitress who took care of them for the evening was conveniently going in the same direction. It would be interesting to see if she would still be there in the morning.
Right now, however, Noah’s attention was focused on the man sitting in the booth opposite him—his dead grandfather, Alistar.
“You would have liked your funeral,” Noah said. “It was nice. Sinéad came all the way from Ireland.”
“Sinéad?” Alistar said. “I’m glad I missed it then.”
“You couldn’t attend for two reasons, of course,” Noah said. “First, you weren’t actually dead. And, second, you were busy stealing things from the house.”
“Correct on the first point. Wrong on the second. Technically, I didn’t steal anything. They were my things.”
“Technically,” Noah repeated.
“Listen, I understand if you’re angry,” Alistar said.
“You understand if I’m angry?” Noah said. “We thought your car went off a cliff—with you in it. Do you have any idea how horrible it was getting the news?”
Alistar nodded. “Yes, I imagine so.”
“Where in the hell did you even get the idea for doing something so—so—?”
“Radical?”
“Yes, so radical.”
“Onyx Webb.”
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