Onyx Webb 10

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Onyx Webb 10 Page 19

by Diandra Archer


  Noah went silent again, weighing whether he should tell Clay what happened at the Mulvaney mansion. Clay already believed in ghosts. But if he told Clay the rest of the story, he’d have to share the part about the cover up. No, he was better off keeping quiet.

  “Can’t say,” Noah said finally.

  Clay nodded. “You’re going to have to call the FBI, Noah. They’re going to want to talk to you.”

  “Yeah, I imagine they will,” Noah said. “The Southern Gentleman, where did they take him?”

  Clay shrugged. “Can’t say.”

  “Don’t know, or can’t say?”

  “Both,” Clay said.

  And then Noah really understood. “Pipi Esperanza.”

  “Who?” Clay asked unconvincingly.

  “Don’t play stupid, Clay,” Noah said. “Pipi Esperanza, deputy director of the FBI. Latina woman, short dark hair. Her fingerprints are all over this thing.”

  Clay nodded. “Yeah, she was here. Not till the last minute, though. Came in on the helicopter and flew his ass straight out of here. She imposed a total media blackout. That’s why there was nothing on the news about any of this. I got the sense they were taking him to one of those black site things—you know, where they waterboard you and keep you awake for three straight days to make you talk.”

  Clay and Noah sat in silence for a minute.

  “I’m really sorry about Tara,” Noah said finally.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Clay said. “I hope it was fast.”

  “Did he…?”

  “Cut off her legs like the rest? No, she was lucky. He only strangled her. Found her in the trunk of her car in the woods.”

  “What about the gallery?” Noah asked.

  “I shut it down yesterday,” Clay said. “What do I know about art?”

  Noah nodded. “So, am I going to be able to get in the lighthouse?”

  Clay shook his head. “Not until the FBI says it’s okay to pull down the tape.”

  “What am I supposed to do, rent a room somewhere?” Noah asked.

  “Let me make a call,” Clay said. “In the meantime, you can bunk with me.”

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  MARCH 1, 2011

  ONE MOMENT BRUCE was standing on the mansion’s lawn watching the construction crew move the wrecking ball into position—the next he was watching a parade of six law enforcement vehicles turn into the drive and head toward the house.

  “What in the hell is going on?” Bruce asked when the South Carolina Highway Patrol officer got out of his car.

  “I’m afraid I’ve been given orders to shut you down,” the officer said.

  “Shut what down?”

  “The demolition,” the patrol officer said.

  “On whose authority?” Bruce asked. “I’ve got a permit—”

  “Not any more, sir,” the patrol officer said. “It’s been revoked as of 7:20 this morning. You need to cease and desist this demolition, or you will be arrested.”

  “It’s not a historical landmark. It’s my house,” Bruce said, seated at the conference table in his lawyer’s downtown Charleston office. “How can something built in the late 1960s—”

  “The additions were built in the ‘60s, but the main plantation house was built in the 1850s,” the lawyer said. “Can you say antebellum?”

  “What about the house next door?”

  “The slave quarters?” the lawyer asked. “Not a chance. That tunnel between the houses—that’s part of the Underground Railroad. You don’t get any more historic than that. Not to mention the fact that you don’t own it, Bruce. I can’t believe they even issued the permit to raze it in the first place.”

  “Do we know who filed the papers to stop the demolition?” Bruce asked.

  “Yeah, but you’re not going to like it.”

  Bruce waited.

  “The Restoring Savannah Foundation,” the lawyer said.

  “That’s not possible,” Bruce said. “I am the Restoring Savannah Foundation.”

  The lawyer shook his head. “Not any more apparently. Thirty-nine people died in your house, a bunch of them fellow board members. That puts you on the outside looking in, my friend.”

  “Wait a second,” Bruce said. “How can the foundation have standing and file suit in South Carolina in the first place? They’re a Georgia nonprofit.”

  “They hired a lawyer here in South Carolina.”

  “Damn it,” Bruce snapped. “Who did they hire?”

  The lawyer said nothing.

  “Shit,” Bruce said. “They hired you? They can’t do that—that’s a conflict of interest.”

  “Yeah, well, that would be true if I was still your lawyer.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying the partners had a meeting and decided it was in the firm’s best interest to stay clear of the impending lawsuits over the gas leak,” the lawyer said. “Pretty hard to do business in a small town like Charleston if you’re defending something like that.”

  WASHINGTON, DC

  MARCH 9, 2011

  LOCATED IN THE southeast corner of the District of Columbia, St. Elizabeths Hospital was built in 1855 by the federal government to house a growing population of indigent, mentally ill residents. At its peak, the facility housed eight thousand patients and had a fully functioning medical-surgical unit. Now it was little more than an empty shell, run by the U.S. Department of Homeland Security.

  “Ham and cheese sandwich, chips, and lime Jell-O,” the agent said as he placed the tray on the floor inside the door.

  “How long do you plan to keep me here?” Stan Lee asked. “I’m fairly certain my rights are being violated.”

  “It might be a good idea to eat it all this time,” the agent said. “You won’t be getting anything else to eat until morning.”

  “I’d like to send a message to—”

  “No,” the agent said. “Outgoing communications are not allowed.”

  “Tell Spider Boy the fly is ready to talk,” Stan Lee said.

  The agent said nothing and left.

  The agent walked to the end of the hall and entered a small side room where Newt Drystad sat doing a crossword puzzle. “He asked for you, just like you said he would.”

  Newt closed the book of crossword puzzles and put his pen in his pocket.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon,” Newt said. “Don’t feed him anything else until I tell you it’s okay. Understood?”

  The agent nodded. “What do I say if he asks for you again?”

  “Tell him you delivered the message,” Newt said.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  MARCH 10, 2011 – 11:45 A.M. (PST)

  NOAH WALKED INTO the living room of his grandmother’s house and found Kizzy in the exact same spot he’d seen her last—lying on the sofa in a wrinkled nightgown, smoking a cigarette. “They moved your father, you know,” Kizzy said. “While you were gone. Transferred him to the Oregon State Penitentiary outside of Salem.”

  “Myron’s not my father,” Noah said.

  “Whatever you say,” Kizzy said as she stubbed out the cigarette she was smoking and lit another. “Not a good place, the penitentiary—lots of mentally ill patients in there—rapists, drug addicts, gang members.”

  “Then he should fit right in,” Noah said.

  “You should visit him,” Kizzy said. “The DA is thinking about charging me as an accessory to the crime of drug trafficking. Did you know that?”

  “Is that why you’re smoking and drinking yourself to death?”

  “They’ll probably put me in a cell right next to your father.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen,” Noah said.

  “Oh, really? What, did your friend the sheriff tell you that? He’s the one who got me into this situation in the first place.”

  “No, Kizzy—you’re the one who got yourself into this mess,” Noah said. “No one else.”

  “Thanks for the support,” Kizzy said.

>   “God, if Grandpa could see you now…”

  “Well, he can’t. Can he?” Kizzy said.

  Noah released a laugh and shook his head.

  “What’s so funny?” Kizzy snapped.

  “Life,” Noah said. “That’s what’s funny. Life.”

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  MARCH 10, 2011 – 2:17 P.M.

  ELLEN HAD JUST finished her lunch shift when she saw someone walk in that she hadn’t seen in the restaurant for a long time.

  Noah.

  “Hey,” Ellen said. “Long time, stranger.”

  Noah nodded. “Yeah. Is Carlos in the kitchen?”

  “Food doesn’t cook itself,” Ellen said.

  “Ask him to come to the office, will you?”

  “Wow, I was beginning to think you were never coming back,” Carlos said, taking a seat in the small office.

  “I’m not,” Noah said.

  “Uh, that doesn’t sound good,” Carlos said. “What’s up?”

  “I know I dumped a lot on you over the last few months,” Noah said. “I abandoned you. I’m sorry.”

  “No sweat,” Carlos said. “It’s the restaurant business. Comes with the territory.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t,” Noah said.

  “That’s okay. We’re cool, man,” Carlos said. “So what’s this about you not coming back? Please don’t tell me you’re gonna sell the place. We’ve just got things working on all cylinders.”

  “I’m not selling the restaurant,” Noah said. “But I am taking on a partner.”

  “Oh, man,” Carlos said, shaking his head. “Who you selling to?”

  “To you,” Noah said.

  “What?”

  “I want you to be my partner, Carlos,” Noah said.

  “That’s a generous offer, Noah, but financially—I doubt I could swing it.”

  Noah pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Carlos.

  “What’s this?” Carlos asked.

  “A partnership agreement,” Noah said. “Look it over and make sure the terms are agreeable to you.”

  Carlos unfolded the paper and read it:

  Partnership Agreement:

  I, Noah Ashley, sell 50% ownership in Noah’s Bar & Grille to Carlos Menendez for the sum of $1.

  “What? No,” Carlos stammered. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You got a dollar?” Noah said.

  Carlos nodded.

  “Well, give it to me,” Noah said.

  Carlos pulled a dollar from his billfold and handed it to Noah.

  “I get free shrimp tacos whenever I want, right?” Noah said as he signed the paper.

  “What? Of course,” Carlos said. “I can’t believe it. I own a restaurant.”

  “Half a restaurant,” Noah said. “And the day-to-day operations fall on you. I’ll be here when I can. That okay?”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Carlos said.

  “Good,” Noah said standing up from behind the desk. “Come on. Let’s go tell the crew.”

  After Noah and Carlos shared the news with the staff, Ellen approached Noah. “Hey, can I get a minute?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Noah said. “I wanted to talk to you too. When do you get off?”

  “I just did,” Ellen said.

  “Good. Let’s go for a ride.”

  Noah and Ellen climbed into the red Firebird. Noah had been driving it since he’d returned from the Mulvaney event and proposed to Onyx.

  “Whose car is this?” Ellen asked.

  “My father’s,” Noah said, making a U-turn and heading down Main Street away from the restaurant.

  “The sleazy drug dealer?” Ellen said. “Oh, God, that was rude.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Noah said. “That’s what he is.”

  Ellen remained silent for a minute, obviously embarrassed.

  “What was it you wanted to talk about?” Noah asked.

  “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for how I acted a few months back—when you went on your trip,” Ellen said. “There’s no excuse for my behavior.”

  “It’s okay,” Noah said. “I don’t hold it against you.”

  “Yeah, well, I also went out to the lighthouse and made a fool of myself with Onyx too,” Ellen said.

  “You did?”

  Ellen nodded. “Yeah. She was surprisingly nice to me, even though I didn’t deserve it. That was the night I found out the truth—about, you know...”

  Noah nodded but didn’t pursue it.

  “Anyway, that’s what I wanted to tell you,” Ellen said. “And I’m sorry that things didn’t work out for the two of you—and, no, I’m not hitting on you again.”

  “Everything between us is cool, Ellen, really.”

  Ellen nodded and looked out the window. “Where are we going?”

  “The lighthouse,” Noah said.

  “Oh.”

  Noah pulled the Firebird to a stop in front of the lighthouse and turned off the engine.

  “Why are we here?” Ellen said.

  “I needed a ride out here because I’m getting rid of the Firebird,” Noah said.

  “What, you’re selling it?”

  Noah shook his head. “No, I’m giving it to you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because it needs work, and I know you’re good at that kind of thing,” Noah said.

  “Oh, my God, Noah, thank you! I sure didn’t expect this.”

  “I’ve got something else kind of unexpected to tell you,” Noah said. “But I have to swear you to secrecy first. If I tell you this, you have to promise not to tell anyone. I mean, not a soul—not Carlos, not anyone.”

  “Sure, okay,” Ellen said.

  “You remember helping my grandfather get his car running the night he died?” Noah asked.

  Ellen nodded. “Of course. I felt terrible.”

  “Well, here’s the thing—he didn’t die.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “He wasn’t in the car,” Noah said.

  “But—but, I went to the funeral,” Ellen said. “There was a body in the car. The police reports said when they found the car—”

  “He picked up a hitchhiker,” Noah said. “That’s who was in the car when the tanker truck hit it and went off the cliff.”

  “So if he’s alive, where is he?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Noah said.

  “Okay,” Ellen said warily. “So suppose I believe you. Why are you telling me this?”

  “I thought you deserved to know—in case there was any part of you that felt at all responsible for what happened that night.”

  “That’s so crazy,” Ellen said. “I’m glad you told me. Seriously, you’re not just saying this to—”

  “No, Ellen. I’m not making it up,” Noah said. “Alistar Ashley is alive.”

  SUPAI, ARIZONA

  MARCH 11, 2011

  THE HIKE FROM the bottom of the Grand Canyon to the upper rim took Quinn Cole less time than he expected. He planned for the hike to take ten hours and had completed it in nine.

  Now all he could think about was eating.

  Quinn walked another mile until he found a small roadside diner and ordered a cheeseburger and a chocolate shake.

  He’d earned it.

  The previous August, Quinn hired Graeme Kingsley to help him achieve the outrageous goal of losing 180 pounds in 180 days. He’d lost 186, bringing his weight from 407 to 221 pounds. His fat percentage went from 44 percent to 13 percent, and his blood pressure was now a consistent 124 over 78—without meds. All in seven months.

  Quinn accomplished what he’d intended, trading an addiction to food for an addiction to physical fitness. In all, he’d paid Graeme Kingsley a bit over $200,000, including the bonus he’d promised, plus travel.

  It was worth every penny.

  He’d shed himself of something else too. Three days earlier he sold the Juniper Canyon Resort & Spa to a thirty-one-year- old Internet billionaire.


  For $22 million.

  Quinn finished his meal and dropped a twenty on the table for the nine-dollar bill and went outside. Then he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Graeme. It was time to get back in the health club business and start living again.

  WASHINGTON, DC

  MARCH 11, 2011

  MR. MUNGEHR IS not a happy camper,” the agent said when Newt entered the office in the basement of St. Elizabeths Hospital.

  “Really? What happened?” Newt asked.

  “Well, for one thing, he threw one of his prosthetics at me when I brought him dinner last night,” the agent said. “And he’s threatening to sue.”

  “Who did he say he wanted to sue?” Newt asked.

  “Everyone,” the agent said.

  “No, specifically,” Newt asked.

  “Specifically? Let’s see—you, me, the FBI, the federal government, the president.”

  “He wants to sue me?” Newt asked.

  “Yep. You especially.”

  “Good, we’re getting somewhere,” Newt said.

  “So are you going in to see him?”

  “Soon,” Newt said as he turned and walked to the door. “He threw a prosthetic at you?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Did you take the leg away from him?”

  “No. Why, should I?”

  “Yeah. Better yet, take them both.”

  QUANTICO, VIRGINIA – THREE HOURS LATER

  Newt was sitting behind his desk when Maggie stuck her head in the door. “St. Elizabeths on line one.”

  Newt nodded and picked up the phone. “This is Special Agent Drystad.”

  Newt listened.

  Nodded.

  “No, not today,” Newt said. “Tell him I’ll be there tomorrow. Yes. Thanks.”

  Newt hung up the phone and looked over at Maggie.

  And smiled.

  “He cracked?” Maggie asked.

 

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