Onyx Webb 10

by Diandra Archer

Newt nodded but said nothing.

  “Jesus, will someone please tell me what in the hell you’re talking about?” Maggie asked in exasperation.

  “Newt?” Pipi said.

  “The deputy director is telling us that Beatrice Shaw illegally removed the catalytic converter from her catering van—most likely for the purposes of getting better gas mileage. Am I warm?”

  “Yes, keep going,” Pipi said.

  “After Stan Lee stole the van and hit Mika Flagler, he drove into Charleston and traded it to the drug dealers, assuming they’d chop it up and sell the parts. But they didn’t,” Newt said.

  “You’re getting hotter,” Pipi said.

  “So when the van was found—missing the catalytic converter—it presented an opportunity,” Newt said.

  “An opportunity for what?” Maggie said.

  “An opportunity to explain the gas leak,” Newt said. “Catalytic converters control a vehicle’s emission of carbon monoxide, nitric oxide, and toxic hydrocarbons. If the engine is left running on a vehicle that has had the catalytic converter removed, the exhaust is deadly.”

  “But we know that’s not what happened,” Maggie said.

  “Maggie,” Pipi said. “Thirty-nine rich, white people died at a charity event at the Mulvaney mansion. The media isn’t going to let the story go until they find someone to blame.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Maggie said once they were back in the car. “Serving Beatrice Shaw up on a platter like that?”

  “She served herself up when she decided to get three more miles per gallon,” Newt said.

  “God, Newt, when did you become so hard?” Maggie said. “The woman’s going to lose her business—her life will be ruined. Who is going to hire her to cater a party after being accused of killing people for better gas mileage?”

  “Don’t worry,” Newt said. “After the media gets tired of the story, Pipi will arrange to have the charges dropped and Beatrice will walk.”

  “Yeah, maybe so,” Maggie said. “But I still don’t have to like it.”

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  MARCH 23, 2011 – 3:22 P.M. (PST)

  IT WAS HARD for Noah to say he felt good about things right now, but he did feel lighter with so many loose ends tied up—especially the decision to give day-to-day control of the restaurant over to Carlos.

  Noah was done with his grandmother too. She’d made her bed by hooking up with a drug dealer, and she would just have to lie in it. Noah wasn’t going to save her. Nor did he plan to visit his sleazeball sperm-donor father in prison again, which was why he’d given Myron’s Firebird to Ellen. The sight of the car in the driveway was enough to turn his stomach.

  The question now was, what to do about the lighthouse?

  Noah felt no affinity for the lighthouse. It was a building like any other—bricks and wood, iron and glass. Nothing more.

  Without Onyx.

  Onyx loved the lighthouse with every fiber of her being—as if it were a living, breathing thing. Only now did Noah understand why. It was because she herself no longer was.

  So why should he stay?

  There was no reason.

  Not without her.

  Noah held his breath and then opened the door to the shed, praying his motorcycle was still there. He hadn’t been in the shed since he’d returned from the trip with Alec. For all he knew, the bike was gone—or had been impounded by the FBI as evidence.

  Noah exhaled.

  The lava-red Harley-Davidson Fat Boy was there.

  The bike wasn’t like other things. It was hard to explain, but seeing it filled him with joy. If that’s how Onyx felt about the lighthouse, then he understood.

  Noah rode south down the coast for thirty miles or so, past the city of Newport, and then turned the bike around. He wasn’t riding to get anywhere. He was simply riding to ride. And to think.

  But what was there to think about really? He’d already made up his mind. He was going to sell the lighthouse and leave Oregon. He knew that already, even before he’d climbed onto the motorcycle.

  All he was doing was delaying the inevitable.

  “I’ve got a lot going on here, Noah,” Bruce Mulvaney said on the other end of the line. “I don’t have time to get jacked around.”

  “I’m not jacking you around,” Noah said. “I want to sell the lighthouse.”

  “What about Onyx?” Bruce asked. “She’s not going to suddenly decide to change her mind this time, is she?”

  “No, Bruce. Onyx won’t be involved this time,” Noah said. “You’ll be dealing with only me. Onyx is gone.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

  “There’s no need for you to feel bad,” Noah said. “Onyx had a long life. So how do we go about this?”

  “I’ll arrange for an appraiser to come out there. In the meantime, pull all the paperwork together—property tax records, original title, anything you’ve got—and FedEx it to my office in Orlando,” Bruce said. “Once I have everything, I’ll make you a fair and reasonable offer that’s good for both parties.”

  “Okay,” Noah said.

  “And, Noah—I am sorry to hear about Onyx,” Bruce said. “She was feisty, but I always respected her, even if I never got a chance to meet her.”

  After he hung up the phone, Noah realized finding the paperwork for the lighthouse might not be as easy as it sounded. There was no way of knowing what documents Onyx had or didn’t have, let alone where she kept them. Noah had never asked.

  The only thing Noah knew for sure was that the papers weren’t in the caretaker’s house. So assuming Onyx kept everything, they had to be over in the lighthouse—which was still sealed off with Do Not Enter tape.

  Noah had finally been given approval to enter the caretaker’s house, but not the lighthouse itself. He could call Clay but decided against it.

  It was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.

  Noah grabbed the key off the hook and headed to the lighthouse. He pulled the yellow tape down, unlocked the door, and went inside.

  Noah turned on the light. “Holy shit,” Noah said. It looked like the aftermath of a party—dirty plates with food crusted on them, half-finished cans of soda on the piano, an empty pizza box—and the place smelled like smoke. It was so bad he might need a cleaning service before allowing the appraiser inside.

  As best as Noah could tell, there was nowhere Onyx would have kept papers in the downstairs area of the lighthouse. Unless she’d placed them inside the piano bench, which Noah thought unlikely—but he had to check.

  As expected, the area inside the seat contained nothing but sheet music and several white lace doilies. If the papers were here, they would have to be at the top of the lighthouse.

  Noah began the long, 103-step trek up the spiral metal staircase. He noticed some of the books had been pulled from the shelves and set on the stairs, as if someone had stopped every so often to read them but hadn’t bothered to put them back. Noah assumed it hadn’t been someone from the FBI.

  It had been the Southern Gentleman.

  The thought that the man had been in the lighthouse made Noah’s blood boil.

  When Noah reached the top of the staircase, he saw an even bigger mess than the foyer. Thank God Onyx wasn’t there to see what the man had done.

  It looked like burglars had ransacked the place. Papers strewn everywhere. More half-finished plates of food. Cigarette butts crushed out on the floor.

  Noah hated it when people said they felt like someone “violated their space” but now he understood.

  And then Noah saw Onyx’s red leather keepsake box on the table in the corner, the lock pried off of the front. Next to the keepsake box was Onyx’s journal.

  Lying open.

  Noah walked over to close the journal, but as he did, he saw what was written on the page:

  This will be my final entry.

  For the past months, I have been as close to happiness as I can ever remember.

  There
is but one problem. I can’t stop thinking about what Tara said when we were shopping. And now I find myself realizing Tara was right.

  I have not had Noah’s best interests in mind. I have been selfish.

  It’s one thing to steal the remaining hours or days from someone whose life is ending, which I have done countless times over the years. But it is another to steal the best years of someone’s life… -someone who you claim to love.

  Noah has so much life ahead of him. How is it fair to expect him to spend it with someone who is dead?

  The answer is obvious.

  It is not.

  Noah deserves better.

  Then Noah saw the last two lines on the page, and his heart almost stopped.

  Perhaps it is time to go sit with the sea lions, watch one last sunset, and finally just let go.

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  MARCH 23, 2011 – 6:27 P.M. (PST)

  NOAH THROTTLED THE engine on the Fat Boy and pushed the gear shift upwards with his toe, moving from second to third gear as he raced south down Highway 101 toward the Sea Lion Caves.

  Why hadn’t he thought of the Sea Lion Caves earlier? He should have—because of the coupon his grandfather had given him at the club in Chicago.

  He should have known the stupid story about the candy bar was important. That it meant something.

  Everything meant something.

  “It’s an interesting story, but why are you telling me all of this?” Noah said.

  “Turn it over,” Alistar said.

  Buy One Admission. Get One Free.

  The Sea Lion Caves.

  Open every day until sunset.

  But that wasn’t all. There was an expiration date at the bottom of the coupon.

  Expires: March 23.

  No year. Just the date.

  March 23.

  Today.

  “I don’t think the clipping inside the candy wrapper was meant for me,” Alistar said. “I think it was meant for you.”

  Noah shifted into third gear and glanced at the sun as it worked its way toward the ocean, thinking about the night the four of them were on their way to the Sea Lion Caves on New Year’s Eve.

  Him, Clay, Tara, and Onyx. The four of them in Tara’s convertible, driving down the ocean in the moonlight—the car’s headlights cutting a path through the darkness—an ocean of stars overhead, the wind whipping through their hair.

  “Is there anything more beautiful than this?” Tara said loudly. “Where should we go?”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to the Sea Lion Caves,” Onyx said.

  Noah looked at Onyx in the seat next to him and felt the stir of butterflies in the pit of his stomach. It was the moment he knew he was in love with her.

  Onyx had turned toward Noah, her face lit by the light of the stars, and that’s when he knew. There was no denying it any longer.

  Noah turned to kiss her—but then Clay spotted Myron’s Firebird, and the moment was gone. They never got to the caves that night. But Noah was sure Onyx was there now.

  The Sea Lion Caves were a system of connected caverns just above sea level, accessible through a building that housed a ticket counter and a gift shop. When Noah entered, the gift shop was empty. But there was a man behind the cash register.

  “Evening,” the man said. “If you’ve come to see the sea lions, you’re just in time. We close in twenty minutes.”

  “No problem,” Noah said, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “How much?”

  “It’s nine dollars.”

  Noah pulled a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and laid it on the counter. Then Noah laid the coupon next to the money.

  “Huh,” the man said. “I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

  “I assume it’s still valid,” Noah said. “Seeing that there’s no year on the expiration date.”

  “Yep,” the man said. “Funny story about that. The owner assumed the typesetter at the newspaper would add the year automatically, and the newspaper set the type as requested. Simple communication error. Most of life’s problems come down to that, don’t you think?”

  “So it’s still good?”

  “Yeah, but you’re alone,” the man said.

  “Good point,” Noah said—though he knew he wouldn’t be alone once he got down to the caves.

  Onyx would be there.

  Noah took the elevator down to the lower observation area of the caves, the smell of sea salt and sea lions filling the air—something he knew Onyx would not be able to detect.

  He glanced around and saw that he was alone.

  Good.

  Noah climbed over the guardrail where tourists stood to watch the sea lions lounge on large rocks and walked carefully toward the mouth of the cave. Fortunately, it was low tide and the waves were relatively calm, the only noise was the occasional protest from one of the sea lions.

  “Onyx!” he shouted.

  There was no response.

  “Onyx, I am pretty sure you’re here. Don’t ask me how I know that, but I do.” Noah paused before continuing. “I’m guessing you’re going to be pretty angry, but I read your journal again. I didn’t intend to, which is a long story—but I did. The point is I understand. I know everything now. How you feel. Why you left. About what Tara said. I know it all.

  “But you need to know something. Tara was wrong. I don’t need a conventional life. That’s not what I want. I figured that out being with you. I will never have a regular life. So don’t think your sacrifice will make me get a house in the suburbs, 2.5 kids, and a mini-van. It’s not happening.”

  Noah waited and felt a sudden anger swell inside him.

  “Listen, I know you think you’re doing the right thing. And you probably think you know better than me. Maybe you do. But what about fate, Onyx? What about that? I don’t think there are accidents anymore. The universe doesn’t make mistakes. Fate might control who walks into someone’s life, but we decide who we let walk away. And I’m not letting you walk away. You hear me? I’m not going to let you walk away so easily.”

  Noah stopped. He let the words hang in the air for a moment.

  “Oh, there’s one other thing you should know,” Noah said. “I saw my grandfather—Alistar—in Chicago. He’s alive. Can you believe that? He didn’t die in an accident. He wasn’t in the car when the truck hit it. Now he’s living his dream playing music in this jazz club in Chicago. And do you know why? Because of something you said. You told him that as long as a person had a beating heart, it was never too late to live your dreams. He told me you said that every second a person squanders not pursuing what they really wanted was an affront to an unforgiving universe.”

  Noah turned and looked out at the sun as it sunk beneath the water, the last strands of crimson stretching across the horizon before they would turn to orange, then yellow, and then be gone entirely.

  “Well, do you know what my dream is, Onyx? My dream is you. And I’m telling you right now that the story doesn’t end with you wasting away in a cave with sea lions, goddammit. It ends with you coming home, back to the lighthouse. My dream is having you by my side—the two of us together. With you making tea, and me sitting there, watching you paint another sunset. And, yes—my dream ends with you watching me get old and eventually dying—with you holding my wrinkled hand in yours. And then, Onyx—then—you can do whatever you want. Then you can let go. Then you can move on to whatever the universe has in store for you. But not now.

  “I need you, Onyx Webb. Come home to the lighthouse—to our lighthouse—where you belong. You may no longer be alive, Onyx, but you make me feel alive. I know it’s selfish of me to ask, but come home. Do it for me. Please, please come home.”

  Noah paused and waited, thinking maybe Onyx would step from the shadows of the cave.

  Praying she would.

  After a minute, his heart sank.

  Onyx did not appear.

  Maybe she was really gone.

  Maybe he’d simply been too late.
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br />   WASHINGTON, DC

  APRIL 1, 2011

  MAGGIE WAS AT her desk making a list of the personal miles she’d driven in her FBI-issued vehicle so the bureau could deduct the appropriate amount from her paycheck. The entire process was ridiculous because of the lost productivity. But what was she supposed to do? She worked for the federal government.

  Her cell phone rang, and she answered it. “Special Agent McCord speaking.”

  “It’s James. We’ve got a problem.”

  Maggie’s heart sank. “Don’t tell me. There’s nothing there.”

  “No, there’s something here,” James said. “Unfortunately, it’s not the girl’s legs. All that’s here are a bunch of cars.”

  “What is it? A dealer’s lot?”

  “No, it’s a place called Carhenge.”

  “What?”

  “Carhenge, like Stonehenge in England, but instead of stones—”

  —they’ve got cars.”

  “Exactly. There’s thirty-nine American-made automobiles arranged in a big circle, trunk-end down in the ground—each of them painted gray like big rocks.”

  “Are you sure you’re at the right place?” Maggie said.

  “It’s 2151 County Road 59, Alliance, Nebraska,” James said. “That’s what we plugged into the GPS, and this is where it took us.”

  “Did you look inside the cars?”

  “No, Special Agent Bond and I have been playing pinochle for the last three hours,” James said. “WOf course we looked in the cars. I’m telling you the legs aren’t here.”

  ORLANDO, FLORIDA

  APRIL 9, 2011

  NEWT TOOK THE elevator to the penthouse on the thirty-first floor of the 55 West building in downtown Orlando, where Koda met him at the door.

  “You didn’t have to come all the way down here,” Koda said. “We would have flown up there.”

  “No problem,” Newt said. “It’s nice to get away from DC.”