Onyx Webb 7

by Diandra Archer

  After trying a variety of word combinations and coming up dry, Olympia typed in “ST. LOUIS CHILD SNATCHER, ONYX WEBB” and pressed enter.

  Bingo.

  August 8, 1904. Front page, center photograph, above the fold. About the kidnapping of two young girls. Onyx Webb, age six, and Katherine Keane, age twelve. The girls were pictured with Andre “Catfish” Webb—one of the two rescuers—all three smiling for the camera, the giant Ferris wheel from the fair in the background.

  The second rescuer wasn’t as lucky. Shown in a separate photo and wearing a distinctive bowler hat was Detective John “Stormy” Boyd.

  The paper said he died at the scene.

  “You can run, but you can’t hide, Stormy Boyd,” Olympia said aloud. “Momma’s decided she wants a slice, and Momma always gets what she wants.”

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  NOVEMBER 2, 2010

  Quinn was champing at the bit to get the full details behind Koda Mulvaney’s fascinating but distressingly incomplete message about Juniper.

  While Quinn had dismissed Koda’s story about seeing a girl in a mirror that he was convinced was Juniper, something inside him hoped the story was true. Quinn also knew Koda’s trip to Juniper Canyon wasn’t some kind of financial squeeze-play.

  The Mulvaney’s had more money than God.

  And, if he were being completely honest with himself, Quinn also knew his sudden addiction to diet and exercise hadn’t been prompted by a desire to get healthy. It was about losing enough weight that—if the miracle story were true—Juniper would be able to recognize him. The last time they’d seen each other, Quinn was twenty.

  Juniper was sixteen, and—according to Koda—she still was. But Quinn had changed entirely.

  Inside and out.

  After sleeping in, Quinn made his way downstairs and found Koda in the mansion’s giant kitchen. “Hey, glad you made it,” Koda said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Quinn said. A moment later, Graeme sauntered in. “Graeme, this is Koda Mulvaney. Koda, this is Graeme Kingsley, my personal trainer.”

  Graeme and Koda shook hands, and Koda grimaced. “I thought Quinn was looking good. Now I know why. That’s one hell of a handshake.”

  “It’s from rugby, mate,” Graeme said. “My father was a garbo, and his father was a brickie. We work hard down under.”

  Koda glanced over at Quinn.

  “A garbo is a garbage man, and a brickie is a bricklayer,” Quinn said.

  “If you say so,” Koda said. “By the way, you look great. You must have dropped fifty pounds since I saw you last.”

  “Seventy-five,” Quinn said. “But I have a bad feeling about this week,” Quinn said, glancing over at the plates on the table, piled high with eggs, bacon, pancakes, and hash browns.

  “Who’s the fourth?” Graeme asked, pointing to the empty seat at the breakfast table. “Your father?”

  “No, my friend, Robyn—if she can drag herself out of bed,” Koda said. “My father stays in Orlando most week nights. Our business is headquartered there.”

  “But you all live here?” Graeme asked.

  “Long story,” Koda said.

  Graeme breathed a sigh of relief. He had three more days until the weekend came around, and Bruce Mulvaney showed up. “Quinn’s right, mate,” Graeme said, changing the subject. “This food won’t do. I don’t suppose you’ve got anything hiding in the kitchen that grows on trees?”

  Quinn polished off his second bowl of sliced strawberries and bananas with skim milk—watching in envy as Koda casually chewed on a piece of bacon—when Robyn entered the room.

  “What’s up, sleepy head?” Koda said.

  “Me, finally,” Robyn said.

  “Robyn is a bartender,” Koda said. “She’s used to getting home at three in the morning and sleeping until noon.”

  “I used to be a bartender,” Robyn said. “I’ve been dabbling in real estate. We’ll see where it takes me.”

  “Robyn, this is Quinn,” Koda said.

  “Oh, God! Quinn, it’s so nice to finally meet you.” Robyn walked to the end of the table and gave Quinn a big hug.

  Koda shot Robyn a look, hoping she wouldn’t elaborate in front of Graeme. Koda had no idea what Graeme knew—or what Quinn wanted him to know.

  “And I’m Graeme,” Graeme said, holding out his hand. “Got any experience making strawberry smoothies at that bar of yours?”

  “Strawberry daiquiris are easy,” Robyn said. “Twelve ounces of strawberries, six ounces of rum, four ounces of lime juice, and five tablespoons of sugar. Serves six.”

  “I meant smoothies, as in the healthy kind,” Graeme said.

  Robyn shrugged. “You want healthy, you ditch the sugar and the rum. Virgins aren’t as much fun though, or so they say. Why?”

  “Any chance I could convince you to whip up two or three and tuck them in an esky for our workout later?” Graeme asked.

  “He means a portable cooler,” Quinn said.

  “We’ve got someone on staff who can do that,” Koda said. “Give me a list, and I’ll have the fridge in the gym stocked with whatever you need.”

  “What did you tell Graeme we were doing?” Koda asked as he and Robyn led Quinn up two flights of stairs to the second-floor guest room, where the darkened mirror was.

  “I gave him the day off. I don’t need to tell him anything beyond that,” Quinn said, stopping to catch his breath as they reached the top of the stairs. “If you think I’m breathing heavy now, you should have seen me during my first couple workouts with Graeme.”

  “Graeme’s an interesting guy,” Koda said. “I wouldn’t mind joining you for a session or two.”

  “No problem,” Quinn said. “Having two of us to focus on might keep Graeme off my ass.”

  “That tough, huh?”

  “You have no idea,” Quinn said. “But I can’t complain. It is why I hired him.”

  “I don’t follow Australian rugby, but his name seems familiar for some reason,” Koda said.

  “Graeme went to Auburn and played a few years for the Washington Redskins,” Quinn said. “Maybe—”

  Koda stopped dead in his tracks. That’s why he knew the name Graeme Kingsley.

  Auburn.

  His father’s knee.

  No wonder Graeme asked about his father.

  “What is it?” Quinn said.

  “No, it’s nothing,” Koda lied. It wasn’t nothing. Koda could only imagine the fireworks when his father found out Graeme Kingsley was staying in the house under his own roof.

  “Why is the mirror painted black?” Quinn asked when they entered the guest room.

  “It’s part of the process of self-hypnosis for going to the other side,” Koda said.

  “Are you saying—?”

  “No,” Robyn said. “We’re not going in. Juniper will be coming to us.”

  Robyn lit several candles while Koda got Quinn situated in one of the two chairs directly in front of the mirror. “Robyn, you sit next to Quinn,” Koda said.

  Robyn lowered herself into the chair next to Quinn as Koda turned off the lights.

  “I can’t believe I’m scared,” Quinn said.

  Robyn reached over and took Quinn’s hand. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Quinn. It’s not dangerous,” Robyn said.

  “No, it’s not that,” Quinn said. “I’m afraid Juniper blames me for—”

  “Trust me, Quinn,” Robyn said. “Juniper doesn’t blame you for anything. She blames herself. She’s more scared to see you than you are about seeing her. That’s why she wants to see you—so she can ask for your forgiveness,” Robyn said.

  “My forgiveness?”

  “Yes. For not listening,” Robyn said. “Juniper blames herself for everything.”

  Quinn let go of Robyn’s hand and wiped his eyes. “What do we do?” Quinn asked, reaching back and taking Robyn’s hand again.

  “Nothing,” Robyn said. “We just wait.”

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
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  MAY 7, 2005

  Stan Lee set the vibrating timer on his Nokia flip phone for fifteen minutes, closed his eyes, and leaned back in the leather Versace recliner in the center of the room.

  Stan Lee discovered the secret room three years earlier after returning from the Onyx Webb Film Festival. He’d gone to hang several of the photos he’d taken, and his hammer went right through the wall.

  Just as there had been a secret door in the basement of the slave quarters leading to the tunnel, there was a secret door at the other end of the tunnel—leading to the basement of the Mulvaney mansion.

  At the time of the tunnel’s construction, however, the mansion was part of the original Stono Plantation, built and owned by one of South Carolina’s most infamous founders, Elijah Ravenswood. There was no way to be sure, but Stan Lee concluded the tunnel had been dug by Elijah Ravenswood’s slaves to move people—food and other household goods—between the two buildings without detection.

  Now, one hundred and fifty years later, the tunnel served another purpose, providing Stan Lee access to the basement of the Mulvaney mansion—more specifically, to a room where Declan Mulvaney kept his most treasured works of art.

  A very secret room, Stan Lee thought.

  Why on earth would all this art be hanging down here and not be on display all over the mansion? Stan Lee wondered.

  There could only be one answer.

  The art was stolen.

  To verify his hunch, Stan Lee took pictures of the art and spent hours identifying each piece in books at the library and on the Internet. Several pieces were listed on the FBI’s website as “officially stolen” by the Germans during World War II.

  Someone had been a naughty boy.

  In all, there were fifty-six works of art, including: Nativity with San Lorenzo and San Francesco by Caravaggio, Storm on the Sea of Galilee by Rembrandt, Chez Tortoni by Édouard Manet, View of Auvers-sur-Oise by Cezanna, Portrait of a Young Man by Raphael, White Duck by Jean-Baptiste Oudry, Landscape with an Obelisk by Govert Flinck, and The Concert by Vermeer.

  The value of the art ran from several million dollars each on the low end, all the way up to twenty million for others.

  The most interesting of the paintings was called Painter on the Road to Tarascon by Vincent Van Gogh. According to most art scholars and historians, the piece was believed to have perished in a fire during the bombing of Magdeburg by Allied forces. But there it was—hanging on the wall in Declan Mulvaney’s basement.

  A very naughty boy indeed.

  While there was little reason to believe he’d get caught in the secret art room, Stan Lee always set the timer as a precaution. The last thing he wanted was to accidently fall asleep and find himself being awakened at the point of a gun.

  Besides, taking precautions had always served Stan Lee well. Like wearing disguises, even when there was no reason to believe anyone would recognize him in a given place. Even on the job—like when he’d worked at the Savannah PD, posing as Sergent Elton Nahum—he’d disguised his ability to walk by using the wheelchair.

  He was so very clever.

  Stan Lee leaned back and imagined what it was like to be Declan Mulvaney, sitting in the chair surrounded by several hundred million dollars of art—without having to set a timer, with no fear of being discovered. And then, when he was done, walk upstairs into his $50 million mansion and go to sleep in his $10,000 bed.

  Stop it, Stan Lee told himself.

  The reason he took the near-daily risk of being caught in the art room was to enjoy himself and relax—not to torment himself over the things he did not have.

  But today, for some reason, Stan Lee found himself seething with anger.

  Declan Mulvaney had everything. Houses, cars, wealth beyond imagine. The freedom to buy what he wanted, eat where he wanted, travel anyplace he wanted—anytime he wanted.

  Declan had a family.

  Declan had celebrity.

  Stan Lee’s fiftieth birthday was nine months away, and what did he have to show for half a century on earth? He lived in the slave quarters of a plantation next door to the man he hated most in the world—Declan Mulvaney—a man who went down into his basement and sat in a leather chair surrounded by the world’s most valuable art treasures.

  And him?

  Stan Lee went down in his basement and surrounded himself with a collection of severed legs.

  “What did you think was in here?” a girl’s voice said from the far side of the room.

  It was Kara.

  “Go away,” Stan Lee said, not bothering to open his eyes.

  “No, seriously,” Kara asked, gazing into a glass display case, which—with the exception of eight little antique-gold egg stands—was empty.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Stan Lee said, closing his eyes. “I come here to relax, and you’re not helping.”

  “You know that’s not true,” Kara said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You come here to relax?” Kara said. “Come on, Stan. It’s me. You know I can’t stand by and listen to you lie to yourself.”

  “Okay, if you’re so smart—why do I come here?”

  “The reason you come here is to remind yourself how much you hate him,” Kara said.

  “Hate him? I don’t hate him,” Stan Lee said.

  “Oh, my god, listen to yourself!” Kara shouted. “Why can’t you face the truth?”

  “The truth about what?”

  “That you hate Declan, and you plan to kill him,” Kara said.

  Stan Lee remained silent.

  “Well?”

  “Go away,” Stan Lee said.

  “Well, then why not turn him in?”

  Stan Lee’s eyes snapped open. “Turn him in?”

  “Yeah, for the stolen art,” Kara said. “Drop a dime on his ass. I’m sure the FBI would love to know about the treasures in this room. They’d probably give him life in prison.”

  “Life? No way,” Stan Lee said. “Ten years maybe.”

  “The man is almost eighty, Stan Lee,” Kara said. “A ten-year sentence is a life sentence.”

  That was an interesting thought.

  He could call the FBI.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  AUGUST 23, 2005

  Noah parked his motorcycle in a spot on the street, something that was only possible because he was working the morning food-prep shift. Parking on the street in Portland’s Pearl District was almost impossible from noon on.

  Noah locked the bike with an ABUS wheel lock that cost more than the bike was worth and made his way to the rear door of P.O.S.H.—a restaurant that, ironically, had been enlarged when the owners purchased the space in which his grandfather’s law office was once located.

  P.O.S.H. was an acronym originated a century earlier when well-to-do passengers traveling between England and India would request cabins on the port side heading out, and the starboard side coming home—placing them on the shady and more desirable side of the ship.

  In the restaurant, the joke was that P.O.S.H. meant Pay Out or Stay Home. The cheapest items on the menu were the fifteen-dollar top sirloin burger and the twelve-dollar sweet potato fries.

  “How are things on the ark?” Noah’s coworker asked when Noah entered the enormous restaurant kitchen.

  “Same as usual,” Noah said. “Two of everything, and it smells like shit. You got the prep list?”

  “On the wall,” the coworker said.

  Noah scanned the list. “I’ll start on the Apple Miso dressing. You take the Chanterelle relish.”

  By noon, Noah and his coworker were significantly ahead of schedule and stopped to take a lunch break. The challenge was to make something outrageous using mostly leftovers.

  Noah turned on the grill and went to the fridge. He perused the contents and returned with an armload of ingredients. “Butter the grill, would you?”

  The coworker dropped a hunk of fat on the grill, which began sizzling immediately. “Nothing better than the soun
d of sizzling fat.”

  “Amen to that,” Noah said, tossing a series of eclectic items on the grill, including cooked lobster, pre-cooked lamb bacon, jalapeño peppers, and a handful of shredded extra-sharp English sheepshead cheddar. Next to that, he dropped six sunny hen eggs and let it all fry.

  When the eggs looked done, Noah folded everything together and scooped half of each on two toasted sourdough rolls covered with mayonnaise on one side and mustard on the other. Then he topped it off with chopped pickles, sliced avocado, and a small scoop of creamy coleslaw.

  Noah waited for his coworker to take a bite.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s definitely missing something—oh, wait, I know—raw sea urchin. You’re slipping, man.”

  It was 2:30 p.m. when Noah ripped open a five-pound bag of onions, and grabbed his favorite knife.

  Noah’s instructor at the Culinary Institute had told the class no chef ever needed more than three knives:

  A large chef’s knife.

  A paring knife.

  And a bread knife.

  “The only person who will tell you that you need more than three knives is an amateur or a knife salesperson,” the instructor had said.

  The instructor was right.

  “You want me to put the radio on?” the coworker asked.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Noah said.

  Noah took his eight-inch chef’s knife with the lacquered, candy-red handle and placed the first onion on the cutting board. Fifteen seconds later, Noah was peeling, slicing, and dicing his way to the end of the shift.

  Then his coworker yelled over at him. “Hey, this is the song I was telling you about the other day.”

  Noah continued dicing and then keyed-in to the song lyrics:

  Noah made his promises, and pretended like he cared.