“Who was that?” Noah asked as they walked back down the hill.
“That’s the woman who ruined our lives,” Kizzy said. “And if you care about me at all, you will never have anything to do with her.”
Noah took Kizzy by the arm and ignored the priest who looked like he wanted to talk and led her straight to the limousine and opened the door. After Kizzy climbed in, Noah said, “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Kizzy asked.
“I said, I’ll be right back.”
“You are to have nothing to do with that woman!” Kizzy shouted, but Noah was already on his way back up the grassy incline.
But Onyx was gone.
Noah reached the top of the hill and saw Onyx walking away. “Wait!” Noah called out.
Onyx ignored him and kept walking. Noah broke into a jog, trying to catch up as Onyx headed toward the cemetery’s mausoleum.
Noah was still twenty yards back as Onyx pulled on the handle of a large iron and stained-glass door of the brick building and disappeared inside.
Seconds later, Noah pulled the door open and—
Onyx was gone.
Other than the crypts that lined the walls, there was a large, full-length mirror on the far end of the room.
And a black veil lying on the floor beneath it.
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
OCTOBER 31, 2010
After being airlifted from the bottom of the Grand Canyon, Quinn and Graeme took a jet from Lake Havasu to Chicago and then on to Charleston, where they were met by Bruce Mulvaney’s limousine and a man wearing a black bowler hat.
“I hope our delays didn’t cause you too much of an inconvenience,” Quinn said to the driver after getting settled in the rear seat.
“Not at all,” Stormy Boyd replied. “I had an errand to run, and that kept me busy.”
Stormy did not go into detail since the errand involved taking the life of an out-of-town business traveler. It was something he’d been doing at least once a month since entering Declan Mulvaney’s employ.
The first time happened quite by accident when Stormy had been asked by Declan to pick up a friend at the airport. While waiting at the curb in arrivals, a businessman simply climbed in the back of the limo, thinking it was for hire.
Stormy—who hadn’t taken anyone for their energy in over a month—recognized the opportunity. Ten minutes later, Stormy dumped the man’s lifeless body in the far end of a hotel parking lot, returning in time to pick up Declan’s guest.
This solved what had become a major problem—that being Stormy’s inability to source energy too close to the Mulvaney mansion. Two people had been found dead recently within a mile of the mansion—one a hitchhiker, the other a housewife at home in her bed—both of “natural causes.”
Stormy was too smart to have done something so dumb. He was pretty sure it had been Gerylyn Stoller’s nephew, Reginald—if that’s who he really was—which presented a problem Stormy knew he would eventually need to address.
Stormy put the limo in gear and pulled away from the curb. “Sit back and relax, gentlemen. We’ll be at the mansion in less than thirty minutes.”
“What mansion?” Graeme asked. “I assumed we were going to a hotel.”
Stormy glanced in the review mirror. “The Mulvaney mansion. I’ll get you settled into your rooms, and Koda will meet you for breakfast in the morning.”
Graeme Kingsley went gray, as if he’d seen a ghost.
“What’s wrong?” Quinn said.
“Nothing, everything’s fine,” Graeme said.
Which was clearly a lie.
Stormy glanced in the review mirror again and studied the two men. They reminded Stormy of his favorite comedians from the 1930s, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy. One tall and thin, the other obese and sweaty.
Stormy raised the glass partition to give the men their privacy, knowing something was amiss.
What was it? And then Stormy knew. It was their heart rates. Even with the glass partition up, Stormy could hear the differences in the sound of their heartbeats.
Quinn’s heart was a steady eight-eight-beats per minute.
But the other man, Graeme? A man in peak condition like Graeme should have a resting heart rate near sixty, but his heart was racing at a hundred-plus-beats per minute.
Graeme was nervous.
The question was, why?
PORTLAND, OREGON
JANUARY 9, 2002
Kizzy was angry at Alistar for dying. She was angry at her mother, Sinéad, for meddling in her affairs at such a difficult time in her life. She was angry at the priest for dragging things on after she’d specifically asked him not to. She was angry at Onyx for having the gall to show up at the cemetery. She was angry at Noah for chasing after Onyx after she’d specifically asked him not to. She was angry at herself for allowing everything to get to her.
“Well, all things considered, I thought the event was lovely,” Sinéad said as she followed Kizzy and Noah up the steps to the house.
“It wasn’t an event, Mother,” Kizzy hissed. “It was a—”
Kizzy stopped mid-sentence when she saw the shards of glass laying on the stoop. Someone had broken the window next to the front door.
Noah stepped past Kizzy and turned the knob.
The door was unlocked.
“Wait here, both of you,” Noah said. “I’m going to check it out.”
“We’ll need a list of everything you can determine is missing,” the Portland police officer said. “And I’ll need the serial number for the guitar, with a detailed description—it’s the first thing they’ll try to sell. And a photo if you’ve got one.”
Noah couldn’t believe it. Someone had broken in and stolen his grandfather’s most prized possession in the world. His Fender Stratocaster.
“It’s like adding an insult to the injury,” Sinéad said. “Taking a man’s possessions from his castle—while he’s being laid to rest, no less. What has this world come to?”
Two hours later, the list was finished:
•Pre-CBS 1954 Fender Stratocaster, serial number 203 (printed on the rear plastic tremolo cover), white alder wood body, brown maple neck, rosewood fretboard, and ivory dot inlays
•A silver money clip engraved with the letters AWA
•Misc. clothing items, both Alistar’s and Kizzy’s
•A $300 emergency cash fund Kizzy kept hidden in her top dresser drawer
Fortunately, none of the band’s equipment—all of which was left in the garage—had been touched.
Thank God for that.
“So, when are you going to get around to tellin’ Noah and me who the woman was?” Sinéad asked.
Kizzy tipped her wine glass and downed the last of the liquid. “What woman is that, Mother?”
“I think Sinéad is talking about the woman you slapped up on the hill,” Noah said.
“Oh, that woman,” Kizzy said. “Do we have another bottle of wine somewhere, or did the burglars steal that, too?”
“I think you’ve had quite enough of the sauce,” Sinéad said. “So, tell us—was that her? The one you claim Alistar was shackin’ up with?”
“What?” Noah said.
“Yep, one and the same,” Kizzy said. “Onyx. Onyx Webb.”
“Well, this Onyx woman, whoever she is, she takes a pretty good punch,” Sinéad said. “How old is she supposed to be? A hundred, you say?”
It was strange, Kizzy thought. How, when she’d struck Onyx, the woman didn’t seem to even notice. She didn’t flinch. Or blink. And Kizzy had hit her hard. Stranger still was the way Onyx’s face felt against Kizzy’s hand. It felt soft. Spongy.
“Why don’t I know about any of this?” Noah said.
Kizzy set her wine glass down on the table and stood. “Because it’s none of your damn business, Noah. Nor is it yours, Mother. Now, if the two of you want to sit here until the wee hours of the morning, analyzing my personal life, have at it. But I’m going to bed.”
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
JANUARY 10, 2002
ewt and Pipi sat across from each other in a booth at a diner called Spilatro’s Place, which everyone said was the best restaurant in town—primarily because it was the only restaurant in town.
Pipi pulled out her yellow notepad containing the list of the attendees at Alistar Ashley’s funeral the day before. “I show there were thirteen people at the funeral.”
“It doesn’t matter how many times you count the names,” Newt said. “There’s always going to be thirteen. Now, if you want to run through them again we can—”
Newt stopped mid-sentence as a waitress approached and poured each of them a cup of coffee. “Hey, I recognize you guys,” the waitress said. “You were at the funeral.”
Newt glanced up and saw the girl’s face and immediately recognized her as one of the thirteen people on their list. “You knew Alistar Ashley?”
The waitress shrugged. “A little, I guess. I mean, he came in the diner a few times over the years. I helped him get his car on the road the night he—the night of the accident. He was a nice man, tipped me twenty bucks for tightening a clamp.”
Pipi read the girl’s first name off her badge and wrote on the pad next to the number eight. “What’s your last name, Ellen?”
“Why, did I do something wrong?” the waitress asked.
“No, nothing at all,” Newt said. “It’s just in case we want to talk to you again in the future.”
A half hour later, Newt and Pipi had updated the list with everything they’d been able to piece together thus far, crossing out the names of the people they felt required no additional scrutiny:
#1: Pipi Esperanza
#2: Newt Drystad
#3: Kizzy Ashley
#4: Sinéad (Kizzy Ashley’s mother from Ireland)
#5: Noah Ashley, Alistar and Kizzy’s grandson
#6 & 7: Two of Alistar’s co-workers from a previous job
#8: Ellen Galvin, the waitress from Spilatro’s Place
#9: Onyx Webb
#10: Sheriff Clay Daniels IV
#11: The cemetery employee seating people
#12: The priest
#13: An old woman with a big bag
They both knew how extremely unlikely it was that anyone at the funeral had anything to do with the reason they were there, which was to find The Leg Collector. But that was the nature of their job—dotting i’s and crossing t’s, hoping that in the end a thread would emerge—a thread that could be pulled on at a later date perhaps.
But you never know.
“We’re going to need to talk to Onyx,” Newt said.
“I know,” Pipi said. “While we’re at it we can ask her what she and Kizzy Ashley were fighting about.”
Besides Onyx, the person who intrigued Newt the most was the frumpy, gray-haired woman with the big bag hanging from her shoulder.
The waitress returned and topped off Newt’s coffee. “You’re not drinking your coffee,” Newt said to Pipi.
“I’ll get to it in a minute,” Pipi said, though Newt knew she wouldn’t. She never did.
“Can I bring you guys the check?” the waitress asked.
“Sure, but while I’ve got you here, can I ask you a question?” Newt said.
“Uh, sure.”
“Did you happen to notice the older gray-haired woman when you were at the funeral?” Newt asked.
“You mean the one with the bag with the Ferris wheel on it?” the waitress asked. “Yeah, I saw her.”
“Do you know who she is?” Pipi asked. “Is she a local?”
“Nope, I’ve never seen—”
“Wait, back up,” Newt said. “What did you say was on the bag?”
“It was a picture,” the waitress said. “Of a Ferris wheel.”
“Are you sure there was a Ferris wheel on the bag?” Newt asked. “I didn’t see anything printed on it. It looked plain.”
“The Ferris wheel was on the back side of the bag,” the waitress said. “I noticed it as she was leaving.”
“Did you see what kind of car the woman was driving?” Newt asked, hoping against hope.
The waitress shook her head.
“Okay, thanks. You can go,” Newt said finally.
Pipi waited for the waitress to leave. “What is it?” she asked.
“Do you remember when Nisa Mulvaney went missing?” Newt asked.
“Of course, from the bar in Myrtle Beach.”
“Right. And do you remember what Wesley Friel said he saw in the parking lot back behind the bar?”
“Yeah, he said he saw an old woman next to—”
Pipi stopped speaking.
“Next to a van,” Next said. “And what was the woman holding?”
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Pipi said. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Newt nodded.
Both Newt and Pipi remained silent for the next minute, each of them deep in their thoughts, neither wanting to be the first to speak the words out loud.
“We were thirty feet from The Leg Collector,” Pipi said finally. “Which one of us wants to be the one to put that in the report?”
Newt was no longer listening. He was deep in thought, realizing that his hunch that Nisa Mulvaney had been abducted—and most likely murdered—had been correct.
What he never saw coming, though, was that the man he’d been playing spider and fly with was the same person.
Nisa Mulvaney had been abducted by The Leg Collector.
And Newt had never considered the possibility.
From the Journal of Onyx Webb
January 11, 2002
The funeral for Alistar Ashley was held two days ago.
It turned out to be a day of firsts.
It was the first funeral I have ever attended, as I do not count my father’s burial as a funeral. Nor do I count the burial of my friend Katherine as a funeral either. In both of those cases, it was I alone who dug their graves and covered them with dirt.
No priests were present.
No eulogies were delivered.
Standing at a grave with a shovel in one’s hands, with no other mourners in sight, can hardly be called a funeral.
Can it?
But there was another first as well.
A first that has left me both terrified and excited.
Even now, two days later, I find myself shaken by it.
It happened while I was observing the funeral proceedings from my vantage point up on the hill. When I saw Alistar’s grandson...
Noah.
The last time I saw Noah Ashley, he was a baby still.
He was in a basket that I carried to a church after I had taken the life of his drug-riddled mother in a cabin in the woods.
Seeing Noah now as a grown man has had a profound effect on me. It is the first time I can remember feeling what can best be described as a stirring, or a flutter of the heart… a twinge of excitement felt only twice before in sixty years:
Once when Ulrich approached me as I sat with my easel and paints on the banks of the Ponchartrain, and again when I encountered the man with whom I had the brief affair while performing at the Apache in Las Vegas.
It was a feeling of hope.
Of excitement.
Of want. Yes, of want.
It was the feeling having… feelings.
But ghosts aren’t capable of such feelings.
And yet, when I saw Noah at the funeral…
I did.
PORTLAND, OREGON
JANUARY 11, 2002
Noah called the police department to see if there was any information about his grandfather’s stolen Fender Stratocaster.
There wasn’t.
Which put Noah in the position to do something he’d rather not do. Ask his grandmother for money. Serious money—$20,000 to be precise.
Without it, he no longer had a band.
It had been ten days since Alec Yost had replaced him as lead singer, diminishing Noah’s influen
ce to the point that he’d considered quitting.
But why should he quit? It was his band.
He’d started it.
But things like this happened all the time, right? Steve Jobs was thrown out of Apple. Ozzy was tossed from Black Sabbath. And Captain Bligh was tossed off the Bounty by Fletcher Christian in the most famous mutiny of all time. If it did happen, he’d be in good company.
Noah was sitting on the edge of his bed, playing a blues-rock version of “Stairway to Heaven” on a twelve-string acoustic guitar, when his grandmother appeared at the door holding a cardboard storage box.
“Your grandfather hated Led Zeppelin,” Kizzy said.
Noah knew what his grandmother had just said wasn’t true. His grandfather loved Zeppelin—especially “Stairway to Heaven”—but thought portions of it may have been lifted from other artists. In any case, he wasn’t about to get into it right then.
“What’s in the box?” Noah asked.
Kizzy took a few steps inside the room and set the box on the edge of the bed. “It’s something your grandfather told me he wanted you to have, if anything ever…”
Noah pulled the lid off the box and looked inside. It was filled with stacks of yellow legal pads, every page filled with his grandfather’s handwriting.
“I don’t get it,” Noah said. “What is all this?”
“Stories,” Kizzy said. “At least that’s what I was told. I’ve never really read any of it.”
“Stories about what?”
“Personal things she told him when he was out there with her at the lighthouse,” Kizzy said. “Alistar had some fantasy about publishing her story someday. He thought it would make a great TV series or something.”
“She? You mean—?”
“Onyx.”
Noah stayed silent, unsure as to how deeply he wanted to probe into his grandmother’s personal life—especially now.
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