Onyx Webb 7

by Diandra Archer

  “No? Here, come take a look,” the police chief said, walking to the window and pulling open the blinds.

  Newt and Maggie stood and looked out the window. Sure enough, there was a parade of gypsies exiting the station and heading to the curb, where a yellow school bus was waiting to take them back to their vans in the Food Lion parking lot.

  “What the—?” Maggie said.

  “Wait here,” Newt said. “I’m going to go talk to Pipi and find out what’s going on.”

  “No, let me do it,” Maggie said. “I’ve had the lead on this, so it’s my responsibility.”

  Maggie pushed past the two men and left the office.

  “She’s a ball buster,” the chief said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Several minutes passed and Maggie hadn’t returned, so Newt decided to go see what was happening. After checking several offices and finding them empty, Newt walked toward the holding cells where he and Maggie last saw the gypsy king, the one they called Loiza.

  Newt opened the door and discovered he was in the wrong room. He was in the room that connected to it—the one on the other side of the two-way mirror.

  Newt looked through the mirror and saw Maggie and Pipi in the interrogation room sitting on opposite sides of the table. It didn’t take a lip-reading expert to tell the exchange between them was heated. The hand gestures alone told the story.

  Then—in the upper left corner of the room—Newt saw the video camera, which had been turned off. Newt stepped over to the control panel and turned the camera on, and the room filled with sound.

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” Newt heard Maggie say. “The man murdered a child, Pipi. An eight-year-old child.”

  “There are things you wouldn’t understand,” Pipi said.

  “Like what? Explain it to me.”

  “It’s above your pay grade, Maggie,” Pipi said. “Are we done?”

  “No, we’re not done,” Maggie snapped. “What am I supposed to tell Newt?”

  “I’ll handle Newt,” Pipi said.

  “Oh, really? Well, if you’re so good at handling Newt, then why did you ask me to get close to him in the first place?” Maggie said.

  Newt’s heart skipped a beat.

  “I asked you to get friendly and keep tabs on him,” Pipi said. “I never told you to sleep with him.”

  Newt felt the room begin to spin around him.

  Pipi rose to her feet and leaned forward until her face was only inches from Maggie’s. “Listen to me and listen good, Maggie. I plucked you from OSINT obscurity because you reminded me of myself—a girl filled with talent that was going to waste. Don’t think for one second that I would hesitate sending you back—because I will. You understand me?”

  Newt staggered back and dropped himself into a chair, working to catch his breath. Why hadn’t he seen it earlier?

  The way Maggie appeared at the exact instant someone called him Spider Boy in the lunchroom. Telling Newt he was the smartest guy at the FBI. Wearing that cute little outfit—an outfit Newt now realized was exactly to his tastes—an outfit Pipi probably picked out based on one of the many psychological profile tests the FBI required for employment. And, of course, how Maggie figured out the anagram so quickly. There were 22,282 combinations. He worked on it for an hour, and Maggie got it in seconds.

  She’d already seen the anagrams.

  Pipi had showed them to her.

  Oh God, it had been a set up from the very beginning.

  No girl like Maggie would be interested in a nerd like him.

  But they’d been together for five years. Had it all been a lie? Did she love him at all?

  It wasn’t until Pipi pushed herself away from Maggie that she saw the small red light on the video camera. When she came in to interview the gypsy an hour earlier, Pipi had turned the camera off.

  Now it was on.

  “We’re not finished,” Maggie said as Pipi started for the door. Pipi ignored her. Please be empty, Pipi thought.

  Pipi held her breath and pulled the door open to find Newt sitting in a chair, completely motionless.

  “Newt?” Pipi said.

  Newt did not respond.

  Pipi approached Newt and touched his shoulder. “Newt?”

  Nothing.

  Pipi shook Newt and said his name louder. “Newt!”

  Still nothing.

  “The Leg Collector,” Pipi said.

  Newt did not respond.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Maggie asked from the doorway.

  “John Wayne Gacy!” Pipi yelled.

  No response.

  “Is this the thing that used to happen when he was a kid?” Maggie asked.

  “Damn it, Newt. Wake up.”

  Newt was frozen.

  And then Maggie realized what Pipi already knew. Newt had heard the two of them talking. Newt knew what she and Pipi had done.

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  NOVEMBER 22, 2010

  Getting fired hadn’t pissed Koda off anywhere near as much as he’d pretended it had. In fact, he was relieved—as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The only reason he took the job was because he was forced into it, and the only reason he hadn’t quit was because he wasn’t courageous enough to do it yet.

  The situation with Robyn was another matter altogether.

  Koda looked at his cell phone and saw that Robyn tried to reach him five minutes earlier. As tempted as he’d been to throw her out the minute Stormy showed him the eBay printout, he knew it was better to cool down first, which—after two days—he still hadn’t done. He knew he’d need to deal with Robyn’s betrayal at some point. Might as well be now.

  Koda pushed return call. “Hey, what’s up? I was looking for you,” Robyn said on the other end.

  “Meet me in my room in five minutes, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  In all the time Robyn had been staying at the mansion, Koda had never invited her to his room—not that it necessarily meant anything. Then again…

  It had been over a month since Koda had suggested that she was the reason he’d made it through the car accident. More than that, Koda had suggested he’d have remained in Loll—would have stayed dead—had it not been for her. And then after that?

  Nothing.

  After that, Robyn felt like she and Koda drifted back to simply being friends.

  Had she read things wrong? She didn’t think so. Then again, maybe her desire for the relationship to go deeper made her read more into things. But she didn’t think so.

  Robyn went to the closet and surveyed the limited wardrobe she’d brought with her from Orlando. There was nothing wrong with what she was wearing, but there was always something better.

  Robyn found a white cotton blouse she’d purchased five pounds ago and put it on. When she buttoned it, it fit just a bit tighter than it should have. Perfect.

  Now, a touch of lipstick and she’d be good to go.

  Twenty minutes later, Stormy Boyd held the rear door of the limousine open, and Robyn climbed in the back, doing everything she could to hold herself together and try to wrap her brain around what just happened.

  No, she didn’t recognize any of the items. What were they? His things being sold on eBay, Koda said. eBay? She’d never even been on eBay. Had she taken any of his personal belongings when she’d left the penthouse at 55 West? Of course not. How could he even ask that?

  Then Koda asked her to leave.

  No, he’d told her to leave.

  “Don’t bother packing,” Koda said. “I’ll have your stuff shipped to you. I considered selling your stuff on eBay, so you could see how it felt but being vindictive isn’t my style.”

  The limo had barely made it to the front gate before the tears finally came in deep, suffocating sobs. How could things go from being so good to being so bad so quickly?

  And then it hit her.

  There was only one possible answer.

  Mika.

  �
��The best way to deal with matters of hate, jealousy, anger, fear, and regret is to be so busy living your life that you simply have no time for any of them.”

  The 31 Immutable Matters

  of Life & Death

  SNEAK PREVIEW

  from

  Book Eight...

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  NOVEMBER 20, 2010

  Declan woke in severe pain and peered at the digits on the clock glowing in the darkness. He pulled the covers back and staggered to the bathroom.

  Blood, again.

  As he expected.

  Declan flushed the toilet and turned back toward the bedroom. And then he saw the shadowy figure sitting in the chair in the corner of the room.

  “Who’s there?” Declan asked.

  “I think you know,” a familiar voice said. Declan hadn’t heard the voice in seventy years, yet he knew who it was instantly.

  Father Fanning.

  “Surprised to see me?” the dark form asked.

  “Surprised?” Declan said. “What do you want? Are you here for me?”

  A deep sigh emerged from the corner of the room. “You? Of course you think I’m here for you—the world revolves around you, doesn’t it? Actually, I’m here for the girl.”

  “The girl?” Declan asked. “What girl?”

  “The girl Koda saw in the mirror, of course. Juniper.”

  Declan didn’t respond.

  “You don’t know, do you?” Fanning said. “Juniper is here. In fact, you’ve got quite the collection of the dead hanging around the mansion. Let’s see: There’s Juniper, the one in the bowler hat, and the black man with the blind woman. That makes three right there. Oh, and now me—four. It’s almost as if you’re running a bed and breakfast for the deceased—a dead and breakfast, if you will.”

  “Why don’t you come out of the shadows and show yourself?” Declan said.

  “Oh, I am showing myself. Don’t you see that, Declan? This is what I am at my core—beneath the robes and the smile and the outstretched hand. This is what I’ve always been when the outer shell is stripped away. At least, it’s all that’s left of me now.”

  “Is that why you’re here for Juniper?” Declan asked.

  “Very good,” Fanning said. “Quite the ball of light that one is—young, innocent, full of energy—just my type.”

  Fanning shifted to the left and then the right, his motions jerky and uneven. “You know who killed her, don’t you?”

  Declan remained silent.

  “It was Stan Lee.”

  “Stan Lee?”

  “Yes, you remember Stan Lee, don’t you, Declan? Mary Ann’s boy—the one you abandoned at the Dunning Asylum when you picked up Bruce.”

  “You’re lying. Stan Lee is dead.”

  “Okay, have it your way,” Fanning said. “If you want, I can always take your confession while I’m here.”

  “Take my confession?” Declan asked, fighting off the urge to lunge at the shadow sitting in the chair.

  “Come on now. We go too far back to be playing games with one another,” Fanning said. “You’re sick. I can hear it in your breathing. I can smell it emanating from your every pore. I could take you now, if you’d like—end your suffering.”

  “I can take care of my own death, thank you.”

  “Ah, just as I should have expected. Putting on the brave face—acting strong,” Fanning said. “Everyone thinks they’ll be strong in the final minutes, but then the final minutes come and that plan goes right out the window.”

  “What do you want?” Declan asked.

  “You blame me for a lot of things, don’t you, Declan? My dalliances with the boys. But the truth is we all sin. Big sins, small sins. I spent many a night standing in the darkness of the dormitory after lights out, watching your bed sheets move up and down. Who were you thinking about? Let me guess. Sister Katherine? That’s every schoolboy’s fantasy, isn’t it? Having a nun drop to her knees for you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Very well. Let’s leave masturbation off your list of sins and go straight to the big stuff. How many men have you murdered so far, Declan? Two? Three? Five? It’s okay if you don’t know the exact number. I’m sure God knows.”

  “Get the hell out of my house,” Declan said.

  A deep laugh rumbled from the dark form in the chair. “Until the next time then.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” Declan said.

  “Yes, there will,” Fanning said, his black form lifting itself out of the chair. “You’ll see.”

  Declan watched as the black form crossed the room and climbed into the mirror above his dresser.

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  MARCH 14, 2008

  I reviewed the list of items you wish to sell,” Onyx said from her position above Noah on the spiral metal staircase.

  “And?” Noah asked.

  “I have no qualms with letting go of most of it, but I still find it hard to believe any of this will bring much money,” Onyx said.

  “I remember you saying the same thing about the Singer sewing machine,” Noah said. “Do you remember what that sold for?”

  “Yes, Noah, I remember. $1,500.”

  “Yes. And what about the white dinner jacket?”

  “I only wanted to keep it for the nostalgia,” Onyx said. “I was here when it arrived from Bullock’s department store in Los Angeles. Ulrich put it on to model it for me, and I laughed at his foolishness.”

  “Like ordering thirty-six pairs of Levi’s?” Noah asked.

  “At least Ulrich could wear the Levi’s,” Onyx said. “But the dinner jacket? What was he going to use a dinner jacket for out here in the middle of nowhere—to trim the hedges?”

  “Yeah, well it sold for $700,” Noah said.

  “Yes, yes, you’re right,” Onyx said. “It seems that if a person lives long enough everything they own becomes a collector’s item.”

  “So, it’s okay for me to sell what’s on the list?”

  “I suppose,” Onyx said. “With the exception of the Victor Victrola, that is. That should stay, as it is not mine to sell. It belonged to the caretaker who lived here prior to us.”

  “The one who Ulrich murdered to buy the place, you mean?” Noah asked.

  “It was never established that Ulrich did the deed, but I have always believed it to be so,” Onyx said. “As did Hell Daniels.”

  “The sheriff.”

  “My, my, you really have been studying up,” Onyx said.

  “He was a big part of the film festival,” Noah said. “He’s also mentioned a lot in my grandfather’s notes.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he is,” Onyx replied, wishing she’d had the good sense to keep her mouth shut.

  “So, the Victrola?”

  “I said, it stays.”

  Noah grunted and crossed the Victrola record player off the list, knowing the machine would have brought a minimum of $2,500.

  Since discovering the Levi jeans seven months earlier, Noah had helped Onyx sell $18,000 worth of unused and unwanted items collecting dust in the caretaker’s house—allowing him to keep 25 percent of the proceeds for doing the work.

  Eventually they’d run out of items to sell, of course.

  And then?

  “Well, I’m off,” Noah said. “I want to get back to Portland before dark. Don’t forget your salad.”

  “Yes, Noah, I’ll come get it in a bit,” Onyx said. “You know you’re always welcome to stay in the caretaker’s house, should you wish.”

  “Well, maybe when the place is emptied out and we can get Orkin in there,” Noah said.

  “Orkin?”

  “The exterminators, Onyx—you know, to professionally fumigate the place,” Noah said. “The last time I stayed I got eaten by bedbugs or something. I itched for a week.”

  “That’s not possible,” Onyx said. “I’ve never had any such experience.”

  “Well, I did.”

  “I shall change the sheets the
minute you leave, but I’m fairly certain your bites were obtained elsewhere.”

  Onyx waited for darkness to fall before opening the lighthouse door to discover Poe sitting like a sentry on the landing, its eyes trained on some invisible object in the darkness.

  “What are you staring at?” Onyx said. “Go inside and get warm.”

  The cat ignored Onyx and remained on duty.

  Though the cat arrived at the lighthouse after Alistar’s death six years earlier, Onyx didn’t name the animal until recently because she feared she’d become too attached to it. Then one day, as she climbed the lighthouse stairs, she spied the black cat among the thousands of books she’d borrowed from the Crimson Cove Public Library.

  In the story by Edgar Allen Poe, a man owns a beautiful black cat named Pluto, which he kills one night in a drunken rage. When the man’s house is destroyed in a fire, he becomes convinced it’s the cat’s doing. Eventually the man kills his wife and conceals her body behind a brick wall in the basement. When the police arrive, the man believes he is safe—until the sound of the cat screeching behind the bricks gives him away.

  Shortly after re-reading the book, Onyx began calling the cat Poe.

  “Very well, Poe, have it your way,” Onyx said.

  Onyx walked through the darkness to the caretaker’s house. Once inside, she located a set of clean sheets and took them to the master bedroom where Noah claimed to have been bitten by bedbugs, which—despite her protestations—he very may well have been.

  Ghosts do not sleep. As such, Onyx had never slept in the bed to know. And even if she had, she would have no way of knowing if a bug had bitten her.

  Onyx went to the base of the bed and grabbed the sheets, but, before she could pull them off, she heard Poe begin to wail and screech outside. What was that cat up to now? Onyx wondered. But when the screeching abruptly stopped, Onyx knew something was wrong.