Onyx Webb 7

by Diandra Archer

  But it was too late now.

  What was done was done.

  Loiza instructed everyone to fill up their tanks outside Annapolis and drive straight through Annapolis, Baltimore, and Washington without stopping. Then they should meet up in Richmond at the Civil War Museum in Gambles Hill Park on the south side of downtown next to the river.

  But as they reached the outskirts of Richmond, Loiza started second-guessing himself again. Choosing Richmond was a bad idea. The city was too big. Too many eyes. Too many well-trained police.

  No, no, no. Richmond was all wrong. Damn it, he should have chosen Lynchburg. Lynchburg was a much better choice.

  Loiza pulled out his cell phone and made three calls, one to each of the other vans. Each call lasted less than five seconds. On each call, Loiza said the same seven words: “Change of plans. We’re going to Lynchburg.”

  It was a few minutes before 4 a.m. when Loiza pulled into the parking lot of a Food Lion grocery store a few blocks off Route 460 on the south side of downtown Lynchburg.

  “What are we doing here?” the driver of the second van asked. “Waiting for the store to open up? Why?”

  It was one hell of a good question. What was there to be gained by sitting in a grocery store parking lot?

  “Because I said so,” Loiza said.

  The man shrugged and went back to his van.

  No one ever second-guessed Loiza—not to his face at least. They didn’t have to, Loiza thought. He’d been doing a pretty good job of second-guessing himself all on his own.

  The last time Loiza felt this unsure of himself was…

  Loiza tried to shake the thought from his mind. But he couldn’t. The answer was contained in two words:

  Pendle Hill.

  That was the day in 1612 that Loiza executed his hair-brained plan to have his entire band of gypsies mistaken for witches and hanged so they, too, would be dead—and they could all walk the earth together forever as ghosts.

  “I died of the black death on the banks of the Seine in the year of our lord 1347,” Loiza told them, “and returned to this earth during the blackening of the sun in the year 1406. I have walked among the living ever since. I was here for the start of the Renaissance and watched Joan of Arc burn at the stake. I was here when Guttenberg invented the press on which our death notices were printed earlier this morning. I watched Michelangelo paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I watched the first performance of a play written by William Shakespeare. And this is the gift I offer to each of you—the ability to be here two hundred years hence. This is why I have brought you to Pendle Hill and sealed your fate, so that you, too, may stand witness to the many great and wonderful things to come. So that you shall—in death—experience life.”

  Then, one by one, they were hanged.

  Finally, it was time for Jofranka to be hanged. “Do ye have any last words for the gathered, witch?” the hangman asked.

  Jofranka remained silent and leaned forward, allowing the hangman to slip the noose over her head and tighten the rope around her neck.

  The hangman gazed at Jofranka for a moment, as if apologizing for his involvement in the affair. “Don’t look to me for forgiveness,” Jofranka told the hangman. “That is God’s responsibility, not mine.”

  Jofranka turned and fixed her gaze on Loiza. Loiza had never seen such hatred in the eyes of a person in three hundred years. Then Jofranka was hoisted skyward, her feet involuntarily kicking at the air as if they could find purchase on some imaginary ledge, until—eventually—she was still.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, we shall burn the one who calls himself the king,” the hangman said.

  Rather than having a noose dropped around his neck like those before him, Loiza was tied to a wooden stake and doused in lamp oil.

  The priest touched the torch to Loiza’s feet and stepped back quickly as his entire body was engulfed in a woof of searing hot flame.

  Loiza did not scream.

  Nor did he flail in pain as the onlookers had expected.

  Instead—once the ropes had finally burned away—Loiza silently stepped forward from the flames and walked through the crowd of horrified onlookers.

  Suddenly, Loiza found himself jarred from the memory by the sound of tires squealing into the parking lot and a flood of spotlights directed at the vans from a half-dozen police cars that swarmed around them.

  Being burned at the stake was nothing for a ghost who could feel no pain. The thing Loiza feared worst was happening now—in the parking lot of the Food Lion grocery store.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  JANUARY 11, 2008

  Noah didn’t think too much of it when his grandmother came home from the mall with shopping bags of new clothing a few months earlier. Or when she bought new furniture for the living room. But now Noah couldn’t help but wonder where the money was coming from.

  Something strange was going on.

  Since the day Alistar died, Kizzy had done nothing but complain about how broke she was, with the blame going to Noah’s grandfather. And rightly so. Alistar had done the unforgiveable by giving their life savings to keep Onyx Webb in the Crimson Cove lighthouse.

  Little did Kizzy know he was now visiting Onyx.

  There was a difference, however. Noah had no money to give the old woman, even if she’d asked—which technically she hadn’t. But he was lying about where he was spending his time. Like he was probably going to have to do again today.

  Noah pulled his jacket on and headed for the garage.

  “Where you off to?” Kizzy asked from the kitchen table, where she was flipping through a cruise line brochure.

  “Job hunting as usual,” Noah said.

  “Well, that would be nice,” Kizzy said, flipping to the next page. “Imagine that, getting a few dollars toward food and rent.”

  “You seem to be getting along okay,” Noah said. “New clothes, new furniture—now you’re going on a cruise?”

  “As a matter of fact, I might,” Kizzy said. “Your grandfather promised to take me to Tahiti once. Never did. What time should I expect you home?”

  Noah shrugged. “I don’t know. Midnight maybe?”

  “Really? Do they do job interviews that late?”

  Noah finally had enough dancing around.

  “Where have you been coming up with all this money, Grandma? Seriously? Your boyfriend?”

  “My boyfriend?” Kizzy said, closing the cruise line brochure and facing Noah.

  “Yeah, you know—Mr. Firebird, the smoker,” Noah said. “I see him leaving here every now and then. Even when I don’t see him, I smell him.”

  “Mind your own business, Noah.”

  “Fine, Grandma. You do the same.”

  Noah got to Crimson Cove an hour early, but he knew better than to show up early for his meeting with Onyx. He’d also learned to eat before he went since Onyx never had a damn thing to eat at the lighthouse. He wasn’t even sure she had a refrigerator.

  Noah parked the Harley at the curb outside Spilatro’s Place, the only decent restaurant in town, and took a seat in one of the booths.

  A waitress arrived with a menu, but Noah already knew what he was going to order.

  “Yeah, I’ll have the BLT on wheat, light mayonnaise, fries with extra ketchup, and a Diet Coke,” Noah said. “And bring me a chicken Caesar salad to go.”

  “Dressing on the side like always?” the waitressed asked.

  “Yeah, good memory.”

  Noah’s food had just arrived when he looked out the front window and saw a Crimson Cove sheriff’s cruiser pull to the curb. The sheriff got out and walked toward the restaurant and then stopped to look at Noah’s Harley. After a minute, the sheriff came inside and took a seat in the booth directly behind Noah.

  The waitress sauntered over. “Afternoon, Clay. Haven’t seen you in a while. Edgar has started to think you don’t like his food anymore.”

  “Nah, it’s nothing like that,” Clay IV said. “Just busy is all. Seem
s we got us a pot farm operating somewhere nearby. Parents complaining someone’s pushing over at the high school. You hear anything on the street about it?”

  “The street? Well, come to think of it, Clay—we did have a bunch of Crips and Bloods in here last week. Crips sat over there,” the waitress said, pointing to the far side of the restaurant. “The Bloods sat in the booth you’re in. Fighting over their territory, I assume. Good tippers, those Bloods. The Crips? Not so much.”

  “Your sarcasm is dully noted,” Clay said. “Bring me two cups of coffee. I got someone coming to meet me in a bit.”

  Noah was halfway finished with his BLT when a man with a chiseled chin, tan khakis, and highly polished shoes pushed through the front door of the restaurant. Noah didn’t know much about federal law enforcement, but something about the man had DEA written all over him.

  The DEA guy glanced around the restaurant and then went straight to the booth behind Noah and slid in opposite the sheriff.

  “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, Clayton,” the DEA guy said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Coffee’s cold.”

  “That’s because you’re late.”

  “Well, I got caught up in traffic,” the man said.

  “That’s the excuse you gave me last time you left me twisting in the wind,” Clay said “And you and I both know there’s no traffic to get stuck in up in the cove, not this time of year at least.”

  “Well, you got me,” he said. “Truth is I was thinking of blowing you off entirely. So, what can I do for you—again?”

  “I’ve got a pot problem,” Clay said.

  “Well, that stuff is addictive, or so the department keeps telling us,” the man said.

  “You know what I mean,” Clay said. “I’m pretty sure someone has a farm somewhere not too far from here.”

  “Well, I’d be surprised if there wasn’t one,” the DEA guy said. “We helped take down three hundred in Oregon alone last year. Probably hit four hundred this year.”

  “How about you help me make it 401?”

  “Help you? How?”

  “The way you guys help everyone else,” Clay said. “I need a helicopter to do aerial thermal imaging to see if we can find where this place is.”

  The DEA guy laughed. “Seriously? You think the DEA is going to pay $25,000 on a thermal imaging run to catch some kid growing four plants down by the river? I’ve got cities ten times the size of Crimson Cove on a waiting list for two years for a helicopter. And they’re willing to foot the bill, too. You got $25,000 in your budget, and I’ll put you on the waiting list.”

  The DEA guy got up. “You want to find your pot farm, Clay? Look for people who’ve been buying lots of new stuff they wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford. Nine times out of ten, they’re up to no good. Cheaper than a helicopter, too.”

  Noah watched the DEA guy leave and finished his sandwich—the man’s words ringing in his ears.

  “Look for people who’ve been buying lots of new stuff they wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford. Nine times out of ten, they’re up to no good.”

  Noah tried to put the thought from his mind.

  It couldn’t be. Could it?

  How in the hell could his grandmother get involved in illegal activity like growing pot? It’s impossible.

  Unless…

  Noah closed his eyes and shook his head.

  Mr. Firebird, Noah thought.

  The smoker.

  That’s when Kizzy started having all the extra money to spend. Could his grandmother actually be involved in—?

  “Here’s your salad and the check,” the waitress said. “The salad is on me. Come back and give me a ride sometime, and we’ll call it even.”

  Noah nodded as if he was listening.

  He wasn’t.

  He was thinking about how he was going to keep his grandmother out of prison.

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  NOVEMBER 20, 2010

  Bruce Mulvaney pulled his new 2010 Rolls-Royce Phantom through the gate and up the drive toward the mansion. The convertible was not a car he would normally have chosen for himself. Nor would he have chosen white. But when the $229,000 car was offered as a sweetener to get him to sign a real estate deal he’d already decided to do, he thought he’d give the car a try.

  This afternoon, however, the Phantom car was the last thing on his mind. Bruce’s thoughts were on the latest situation with Mika.

  Assaulting a reporter with a hot pie was stupid.

  So was stealing money from the foundation.

  But murdering a limo driver in her own bed?

  Now there was a distinct possibility the DA was going to charge Mika with first-degree murder. How much more of Mika’s shenanigans was he was willing to involve himself in?

  Mika was innocent, of course.

  Well, maybe innocent was the wrong word. Mika Flagler was anything but innocent. It took a while for Bruce to see it, but now he understood: Mika was a narcissistic, pathological liar. But bludgeoning someone to death? Bruce had a hard time believing it—plus the evidence didn’t add up:

  There was no blood on Mika’s clothing.

  There was no blood on Mika’s person. No microscopic blood splatter on her face, hands, or in her hair.

  The hole that was cut in the window next to the kitchen suggested a burglary, plus there was a stolen painting.

  And Mika’s dog, Tiny, was found chewing on a prosthetic leg, which had to have come from somewhere.

  More than anything, Bruce knew Mika was innocent when he saw the god-awful photos taken of her that morning. It was clear she’d found the body, panicked, and immediately dialed the police. If it had happened any other way, Bruce knew Mika would have taken fifteen minutes to put herself together.

  Bruce pulled the car to a stop in the drive and hit the button that raised the vehicle’s roof—then he saw something.

  Someone—or something—had been standing in the window of one of the second-floor guest rooms. Looking down at him. Watching. But when he looked up, whoever it was disappeared.

  Bruce knew Koda had several guests staying at the mansion, coming in and out. And then there was Robyn, who, for all intents and purposes, seemed to live with them now.

  But it wasn’t Robyn.

  Robyn was slight, 120 pounds maybe, and five foot five at best. Whoever this was, he was big and muscular—ominous by the very nature of his size.

  Bruce headed for the front door of the mansion, determined to locate Stormy Boyd and ask him for a detailed list of everyone who was staying in the house.

  Screw Stormy Boyd, Bruce thought as he punched his ten-digit password into the digital keypad on the safe in his office. Since when did he need to go to someone else to find out who was living in his house? Besides, isn’t this precisely why he’d purchased the Glock 9mm?

  Forty-five seconds later, Bruce reached the top of the stairs and approached the door to the guest room that faced the front of the house, directly above the front doors.

  Bruce reached up with his left hand and knocked on the door, the Glock in his right—safety off—with his index finger lightly squeezing the trigger the way he’d been taught.

  “Hey, who’s in here?” Bruce said loudly. “Whoever it is, come to the door.”

  Bruce waited and listened but heard nothing.

  “This is Bruce Mulvaney. I’m coming in.” Bruce turned the knob and opened the door. He glanced around the room but saw no one. But he did see something that disturbed him.

  Greatly.

  On the far side of the room were two chairs positioned directly in front of a six-foot-tall standing floor mirror, the glass painted black. Around the room were dozens of candles, and it smelled like someone had been burning incense.

  Bruce released a long breath.

  Damn it, Koda.

  Bruce wanted to believe that Koda’s infatuation with the occult and the supposed dead girl in the mirror thing was behind him. Obviously it wasn’t. Then Bruce heard a high-
pitched squeak come from somewhere to his left—from the closet, he thought—like the sound of metal on metal.

  Someone was in the room after all.

  Bruce took several steps to his left, grabbed the handle on the closet door, and yanked it open—the Glock leveled at whoever was inside.

  “Don’t shoot, mate!” Graeme squealed, looking down the barrel of the Glock and holding his hands up in the air in surrender.

  “Who in the hell are you?”

  “Graeme,” Graeme said. “Graeme Kingsley.”

  Graeme Kingsley? Bruce recognized the name but couldn’t place where he’d heard it. Bruce studied the man standing in the closet for a moment—and then lowered the Glock.

  Now he remembered.

  November 12, 1983.

  Georgia Bulldogs vs. the Auburn Tigers.

  That’s why he knew the name. Graeme Kingsley was the guy who’d taken out both of his knees, ending any chance for a career in the NFL.

  Bruce brought out a second six-pack of Sierra Nevada Wet Hops, handed one to Graeme and kept another for himself, and then lowered himself into one of the chaise lounges on the back deck.

  “So, you were seriously scared that I’d find out you were here?” Bruce asked.

  Graeme took a long pull on his beer and nodded. “Scared shitless, mate. Quinn didn’t tell me where we were headed, and by then it was too late to get off the plane.”

  “And who is Quinn again?”