Onyx Webb 9

by Diandra Archer

  “I’ll pass.”

  “No, seriously. Come on down sometime,” Fanning said. “I’ll introduce you to the devil’s daughter. She’s just about your age, Tommy—give or take ten thousand years. I’m sure the two of you would get along famously. Good times, that one is. Sassy.”

  “You talk a lot,” Tommy said.

  “Don’t get me mad,” Fanning said. “Remember the things I made you do when you were a bad boy?”

  “I’m not scared of you anymore, Fanning.”

  “That’s okay,” Fanning said. “I don’t care if you’re scared of me. What you should be scared of, though, is God.”

  “God? You might want to try something else,” Tommy said. “It’s pretty hard for me to be afraid of something I don’t believe in.”

  “Interesting,” Fanning said. “After all those years having your knuckles rapped by Sister Mary Margaret, and you came away a non-believer?”

  “No. You’re the reason I don’t believe in God,” Tommy said. “How could any kind of God ever allow something as evil as you to exist?”

  Fanning chuckled. “You couldn’t be more wrong if you tried. You say my existence proves there is no God? To the contrary, I’m proof of his existence and his perfection.”

  “His perfection?”

  “It’s a truth no one wants to acknowledge—that God, in all his wisdom and unlimited understanding, created good and evil. He had to, don’t you see? Everything in the universe is about balance. You’ve been pondering why God allows evil to exist? God doesn’t allow evil to exist—he created it. I’ve been trying to explain this to young Juniper here, but—”

  “He thinks God created evil,” Juniper said.

  “Of course, he did. God created everything—joy, happiness, the universe, life, heaven, hell—all of it is God’s doing,” Fanning said. “But make no mistake—the same God also created death, destruction, disease, depravity, poverty, crime, corruption, torture, murder—all of it. He had to.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Tommy said.

  “It might be better not to push him,” Juniper said quietly.

  “Juniper’s right. You don’t want to push me. Besides, I’m not finished,” Fanning said. “So when you find yourself asking God why evil and agony exists in the world, know they exist because when God created the world, he wanted it to be perfect. People curse the darkness, never taking the time to realize that God created the darkness. He had to. Without the darkness, how could the stars possibly shine?”

  “So that’s your purpose?” Tommy spat. “To provide the world with darkness?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we’re supposed to accept your darkness as something good?”

  “No, not good,” Fanning said. “But absolutely necessary.”

  Tommy and Juniper exchanged glances.

  “I would think the idea of darkness being good would make you feel better,” Fanning said.

  “Yeah, why is that?”

  “Because of all the people you’ve killed,” Fanning said. “You and that buddy of yours, Declan. How many have the two of you killed? Five? Eight? Help me out here, Tommy. I’ve lost count.”

  “The only people Dec and I ever offed deserved it,” Tommy said. “Only scumbags like you.”

  Fanning remained silent.

  “So are we gonna get this thing on or what?”

  “Are you sure this is the stand you want to take?” Fanning asked. “Aren’t you scared?”

  “Scared? Why should I be?” Tommy said. “You can’t kill me, or have you forgotten? The dead don’t die.”

  “You think you’re tough, Tommy? Ten minutes in hell, and you’ll be crying for Mama. Oh, wait, you never even met your mother, did you?”

  “Shut up,” Tommy said.

  Tommy took a step toward Fanning, but as he did, long black tentacles of darkness reached forward and wrapped themselves around Tommy’s shoulders, pushing him down to the floor on his knees.

  “Stop it!” Juniper said. “Let him up.”

  “I almost forgot how much I liked the look of you on your knees,” Fanning sneered. “Do you feel your shame, Tommy? Do you remember your sins?”

  “Being a victim is nothing to be ashamed of,” Tommy said. “I understand that now. I have no shame or guilt over the things you did to me or made me do.”

  “Of course you do,” Fanning said. “I remember you more than any of the others. Do you think about us, Tommy? Together?”

  “No, I just think about watching Declan bash your fucking skull in,” Tommy said.

  Juniper watched as more long tentacles of darkness grew from Fanning’s form and began crawling up the walls and across the ceiling, enveloping the entire room in blackness.

  3:19 A.M. EST

  ROUTE 17, OUTSIDE CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  AND THAT’S ALL the deputy director said?” Special Agent Gregory Bond asked from the passenger seat of the Ford Taurus as it raced down the icy road.

  “Yep. Get to the Mulvaney mansion, stat. That was the entire directive,” Special Agent Robert James said from behind the steering wheel. “Oh, and that the phone lines were down.”

  “The phone lines? Great,” Bond said. “You should have pressed for more information. You know that, right? God only knows what we’re getting ourselves into. That’s it?”

  “The Mulvaneys were having a party of some kind,” James said. “I’m telling you that’s all I know. So quit asking.”

  “I’ll quit asking if you slow the hell down,” Bond said. “Do you have any idea how icy these roads are?”

  “The deputy director was very specific when she said to get there stat. You do remember what stat means, right?”

  “I remember what alive means—that’s what I remember,” Bond said, pulling out a pack of Newport menthol cigarettes and digging in his pocket for matches. “Man, it’s dark out here.”

  “How can you smoke that menthol shit?” James asked as he steered around a curve—and then slammed on the brakes, sending the Taurus into a 150-foot skid before coming to a stop at the side of the road.

  “What the—?”

  “Didn’t you see that?” James asked.

  “See what?” Bond asked, catching his breath.

  “There was a body lying in the middle of the road!”

  “Bullshit,” Bond said.

  “Oh, yeah?” James said. “Come on.”

  The two FBI agents stood in the middle of the ice-covered road looking down at the blonde woman’s body on the ground, her dead eyes gazing up at the night sky.

  “Someone had to have hit her,” Bond said. “And recently.”

  “Stella McCartney,” James responded.

  “What? Are you saying you know her?”

  “No, the dress,” James said. “Stella McCartney, the fashion designer—it’s from her fall 2009 collection.”

  Bond shot James a look.

  “No, nothing like that,” James said. “My wife wanted me to buy her the same dress for her birthday, but the damn thing was like $9,000.”

  “So whoever she is, she’s got money,” Bond said.

  “Didn’t you say there was some kind of function happening at the mansion?” James asked.

  “Yeah. Restoring the city or something. She must have been one of the attendees,” Bond said. “But why is she out here in the middle of nowhere—and without a coat?”

  “You see a purse anywhere?”

  “No,” Bond said.

  “Well, let’s get her in the car and—”

  “No way. We don’t have time,” Bond said.

  “What? We’re just going to leave her here?” James asked.

  “Our directive is to haul ass to the Mulvaney mansion and protect the Mulvaneys. Does she look like one of the Mulvaney men to you?”

  Agent James remained silent.

  “Come on. We’ll call it in on the way,” Bond said. “Stella’s not going to get any deader.”

  Beatrice Shaw was huddled in Mika Flagler’s
wrecked Lamborghini, doing her best to keep warm and cursing herself for getting out of the catering truck. The temperature inside the refrigerated compartment was fifty-eight degrees, which seemed cold at the time.

  Maybe there was a blanket or something in the trunk, Beatrice thought. She should have looked before she wedged herself in the small area inside the vehicle that hadn’t been completely crushed.

  Beatrice slid to her left, trying to avoid cutting herself on the shards of broken glass that covered virtually every inch of the car’s interior. And then she saw the two men standing over Mika’s body in the center of the road.

  “Hey! Hey! Over here!” Beatrice yelled. “Help! Over here!”

  The men couldn’t hear her.

  Then she saw them turn and walk off.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” Beatrice repeated aloud to herself. She had to get to them before they left. If not…

  Beatrice pressed her hand down to get leverage and felt the searing pain of glass as it cut into the palm of her hand, but she kept going. It was better to be bloody and alive than frozen to death like a hundred-pound bag of ice. Seconds later, Beatrice managed to free herself from the vehicle and pull herself to her feet.

  Beatrice ran toward the road, screaming as she went. “Hey, wait! I’m here! Help me! Help—”

  Beatrice reached the road just in time to see the rear taillights of the car pulling away and driving off into the distance.

  3:24 A.M. EST

  INSIDE THE MANSION BALLROOM

  “I SAID TO let him up!” Juniper said. The black tentacles extended from Fanning across the room and wrapped around Tommy’s shoulders, holding him down on his knees.

  “He likes it there. Don’t you, Tommy?”

  “I said, let him up!”

  “Or what?” Fanning asked as more black tentacles extended from his dark form and crawled up the walls and across the ceiling.

  “Are you going to love me to death?”

  “Why do you hate yourself so much?” Juniper asked.

  “You think I hate myself?” Fanning responded.

  “Of course you do,” Juniper. “No one could be so evil to another person without hating themselves. Why else would you carry the burden of your hatred and self-loathing for so long?”

  “What about your hatred?” Fanning asked.

  “I have no hatred,” Juniper said.

  “Interesting,” Fanning said. “Then how do you feel about the man who killed you?”

  “Let Tommy up, and I’ll tell you how I feel about him,” Juniper said.

  “Very well,” Fanning said. The black tentacles lifted from Tommy’s shoulders, allowing him to get back up on his feet.

  “You think you’re tough, don’t you?” Tommy said.

  “Be quiet,” Fanning said. “Another word out of you, and I’ll do more than make you kneel before me. Now, Juniper, the man who killed you. You forgive him, I take it? And what? You want to send him love and a box of chocolates?”

  “I send him love and forgiveness because that’s what human beings do when they know someone is hurting and in pain. Like you.”

  “You think I’m in pain?”

  “What was it that happened to you? How did you allow yourself to become so filled with hatred you could hurt a child?”

  “This isn’t about me,” Fanning said.

  “It’s all about you. Everything in your selfish, pathetic life has always been about you. Your robes and your cross are nothing but a costume—a false front used to hide behind—to hide the immense hate you must be filled with.”

  “You know nothing,” Fanning bellowed.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Juniper said. “What happened to you?” That’s what I want to know.”

  “What is this? You want me to kneel in your confessional now?”

  “No,” Juniper said. “I’m not asking you to admit your evil deeds. What I want is to know the evil that was done to you that made you this way.”

  Juniper felt the room begin to shake and vibrate around her. A large painting behind her fell off the wall and crashed to the floor.

  “Tell me,” Juniper yelled. “What happened to you? Tell me. Tell me. I’m listening!”

  “Good, show your anger,” Fanning said. “Send me your anger. Send me your hatred. Send me your rage.”

  And that’s when Juniper understood.

  What was it Fanning said before? Are you going to love me to death?

  Things said in jest were often the truth hiding in plain sight. Yes, that was it.

  The thing evil feared most.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” Juniper said.

  “What?”

  “That’s why you want my light? You don’t want it for yourself at all, do you? No. You want it so you can destroy it—destroy it because you fear it.”

  “You know nothing.”

  “No, I think I do,” Juniper said. “You don’t want to possess the light because you covet it, but because you hate it. You fear it. Why do you fear it, Fanning? Why? What is it about love and caring and kindness that scares you so much?”

  “I said to—”

  Once again, the room began to shake and vibrate, so violently that more paintings dropped from the wall to the floor and the glass flower vases started exploding, shards of glass and water flying in every direction.

  Juniper felt a surge of energy swell from deep within her, a feeling unlike anything she’d experienced—a power unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.

  Then she realized the vibrations weren’t coming from Fanning. They were coming from her.

  Juniper raised her arms and held her clenched fists out in front of her, as she’d done before—the bolts of light dancing between her fists. “You were right. I do have the light inside me,” Juniper said.

  The previous time, Juniper worked to contain the light—to push it down inside her.

  This time would be different.

  This time she would let it out.

  INSIDE THE PANIC ROOM

  “What is she doing?” Quinn asked as Juniper raised her arms and held her clenched fists out in front of her and bolts of light began dancing between her fists.

  “You want my light?” Juniper’s voice came through the speakers in the panic room. “Fine. Here it is. Take it!”

  The bolts of light between Juniper’s clenched fists grew bigger and brighter—until the light was so intense that everyone in the panic room had to turn and look away.

  A second later, sparks began to shoot from the security monitors.

  “Get down!” Stormy yelled, and everyone dropped to the floor as all twelve of the screens exploded, sending shards of glass flying in every direction.

  3:28 A.M. EST

  ROUTE 17, OUTSIDE CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  THE FORD TAURUS drove past the Mulvaney mansion without stopping, not because the two FBI agents were being cautious, but because the building was so dark they literally didn’t see it. A half-mile later they realized their mistake and turned around.

  “There, up on the left,” Bond said from the passenger seat.

  Agent James took his foot off the accelerator, and the vehicle slowed as they approached the mansion’s front gate, which was open. “This doesn’t look good,” James said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Bond said, looking at the dark building. “You think we should drive up to the house or park out here and walk in?”

  “I say we park here and walk in,” James responded.

  “Have you got flashlights?” Bond asked.

  “Yeah, in the trunk.”

  “Good, we’re gonna need them.”

  The two FBI agents grabbed flashlights from the trunk, turned them on, and followed the beams of light toward the front gate.

  Then they both stopped.

  “Holy shit—I’ve got a body here,” Bond said when the flashlight beam landed on an elderly man in a security guard uniform lying face up on the drive.

  “There’s another one over here,�
�� James said as the beam from his flashlight illuminated a second security guard.

  “I’ve got two more over here,” Bond said, shining his flashlight across the mansion’s expansive lawn. “I’m thinking we should wait until—”

  Suddenly, a blinding burst of light came through the windows of the mansion, so bright that each of the agents raised their hands to shield their eyes.

  Then, out from the light, the agents saw a woman and a man running toward them.

  “She’s got a gun!” Bond yelled, drawing his weapon.

  Then he raised his gun.

  And fired.

  The bullet tore through the black woman’s shoulder, and she dropped to the ground.

  The man behind her screamed. “You shot her!”

  Agent James raced up the drive to the woman lying on the ground, kicked the shotgun away, and trained his gun on the man. “Get on your knees, and keep your hands where I can—”

  “It’s a prop, damn it. It’s not loaded,” the man said as he dropped to his knees on the icy pavement next to the woman. “Get an ambulance! We need an ambulance!”

  A second later, the light emanating from the windows of the house grew even brighter—then, as if a bomb had been detonated inside the building, every window in the house blew out.

  3:34 A.M. EST

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  IT DIDN’T SEEM possible, but no one was able to locate the governor. No one.

  Word had it the man had flown off to a fundraiser, but no one in his office would say where the event was being held. Or they simply didn’t know.

  Either way, the situation was unacceptable.

  His client, Wyatt Allen Scrogger, was scheduled to be put to death by lethal injection in exactly two hours and twenty-four minutes. The appeals process was finished. The only chance to save Wyatt’s life was a commutation or full pardon from the governor himself—and the man could not be reached.

  What made matters worse was the sickening feeling he had that Wyatt Scrogger was innocent of the crime.

  The lawyer glanced at the picture of his wife and daughter on the edge of his desk. Was he actually going to go through with what he was thinking of doing?