Onyx Webb: Book Three

by Diandra Archer

  Mary Ann made Stan Lee his breakfast and several hours passed with no sign of Declan.

  Then the phone rang.

  “Listen, I can’t talk long,” Declan said. “I just called to tell you that I love you, and no matter what happens—no matter what you hear people say about me—I want you to know I did it for us.”

  “Did what, Declan? What did you do?”

  “I’ve got to go,” Declan said. “Just wait for me, okay? No matter how long it takes, I will be back for you, okay? I promise.”

  “Wait,” Mary Ann said. “There’s something I need to tell—”

  The line went dead.

  Mary Ann sat on the edge of the bed, the telephone receiver still in her hand, until the urge to vomit overcame her, and she stumbled to the bathroom—just as she had every morning for the past two weeks.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Richmond, Virginia

  July 12, 2010

  Gerylyn Stoller’s story about her husband’s death at the hands of the police left Koda and Robyn searching for the right words to say but coming up empty. What do you say to someone who has just shared the most intimate—and horrific—moment of her life?

  “But then how did you get into—what’s the term? Parapsychology?” Robyn asked, breaking the silence.

  “It was August 7, 1974. I was on Broad Street. I can’t even remember why, but a big storm had rolled in, pouring rain for hours. I was making my way to a taxi stand, and I heard a cracking noise, having no idea an electric power line had snapped and was dancing in the street.”

  “Oh, my God,” Robyn said.”

  “I was electrocuted not fifty feet from where Raymond had died in my arms. And the next thing I knew, I found myself floating in the air, looking down at my dead body.”

  Koda and Robyn remained silent, mesmerized.

  “You would think that floating in the air looking at myself, dead, would be shocking enough,” Stoller said. “But what really caught my attention was the fact that I could see. For the first time in twenty years, I could see. Dying gave me back my eyesight. And then I saw him.”

  “Saw who?” Koda said.

  “My husband,” Stoller said. “This was amazing for two reasons. The first reason, of course, was Raymond was dead. And the second reason was that when Ray and I met each other—”

  “You were already blind,” Robyn said.

  “Yes,” Stoller said. “This was the very first time I’d seen what the man I’d married looked like.”

  “Then how did you know it was him?” Koda asked.

  “He was sitting on the bus bench in the exact place he’d died in my arms—no longer covered in blood, just sitting there, relaxed, smiling—as young and healthy as I imagine he looked on the morning of the day he died. I didn’t need to be told it was him—I simply knew. Deep in my soul, I just knew.”

  Gerylyn reached for her water and took another sip.

  “I said, ‘Raymond, it’s me, Gerylyn,’ but he had no idea who I was—I was a stranger to him. I kept repeating his name, but he just stared off, as if he were watching a sailboat in the distance out on a lake only he could see. And then the light appeared.”

  “The light?” Robyn asked.

  “It started with a blinding burst of energy that lasted perhaps a second, no more, but in that second I knew every secret of the universe. It was an overwhelming sense of joy and understanding beyond words. And as fast as it had begun, it was over. But what remained was a glowing light, beckoning me to enter it, and Raymond—still sitting on the bench in front of me. It felt as if the universe was asking me to choose between staying there with Raymond or entering the light.”

  “Suddenly, Raymond touched my hand and said, ‘Gerylyn? Is it really you? Where have you been? I’ve been waiting here for so long. Don’t worry, Geri, the pain is gone now.’ The next thing I knew I was lying on my back, feeling my rain-soaked body on the cold cement. I opened my eyes and knew immediately that I was alive again.”

  “How?” Robyn said.

  “Because I couldn’t see,” Gerylyn said. “I was blind.”

  “That’s quite a story, Gerylyn,” Koda said. “And you tell it very well. I imagine it’s helped you sell a ton of books.”

  “Koda!” Robyn snapped. “Why would you say that?”

  “No, it’s alright,” Stoller said, reaching out and taking Robyn’s hand in hers. “Koda has every right to question my motives, especially after the experience of having been taken in so publicly by Mr. Vooubasi—or should I say by Vijay Sharma? And truth be told, my story has helped me sell a lot of books and brought me a certain amount of fame within the parapsychology community. But, with all that said, the story is true, and I can prove it.”

  “Prove it?” Koda asked. “How, exactly?”

  “We’ll discuss that later, Koda, once we’ve gotten to know each other better,” Stoller said. “Right now, I’d like to ask you a question, Robyn.”

  “Me?” Robyn said.

  “Yes. It’s about your friend—the one whose death brought you to Lily Dale.”

  “Yes, Dane,” Robyn said.

  “Yes, Dane. Were you and Dane in love?” Stoller asked.

  Robyn remained silent, in part because she was finding herself becoming too choked up to speak, but also because she didn’t know how to answer. “I loved him, yes,” Robyn managed to say.

  “But you’re not sure if he loved you?” Stoller asked.

  “Well, it’s not something he ever said.”

  “Oh, I see,” Stoller said. “Let me ask you this then. Does a man who jumps in front of a train to save his girlfriend have to say the words for you to know how he felt?”

  That was all it took, as the weight and stress of the last several days poured from Robyn’s eyes like water being released at a dam.

  “It’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it?” Stoller said. “To be loved so fully by another person that they would be willing to die for you?”

  Richmond, Virginia

  Gerylyn Stoller walked down the hallway, not bothering to turn on the lights. What would be the point? Then she headed quickly and confidently toward the kitchen, counting the steps as she went.

  Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…

  Gerylyn stopped and set her purse on the kitchen table without having to check to see if the table was there. It was right where she knew it would be, exactly where she positioned it almost fifty years earlier when she’d moved into the townhome, using the settlement money from the state of Virginia for its culpability in Raymond’s brutal murder at the hands of state police.

  The size of the award was nowhere as large as the amounts granted by trial juries in recent years—but it did allow her to buy the townhome. And it had been home ever since.

  “How did it go?” came a man’s voice from the darkness.

  “It went well,” she said. “And I met a young man—someone with a great deal of money who might allow us to move my research forward.”

  “How so?”

  “Come here and give me a kiss first,” Gerylyn said, holding her hand out in the darkness as the young, handsome black man stepped toward her and took the seventy-year-old blind woman in his arms.

  “Should I be jealous?”

  “Oh, Raymond,” Gerylyn said. “If anyone had a reason to worry about one of us growing tired of the other, it would be me.”

  “Never,” Raymond said, the two of them making their way to their regular seats on the sofa in the living room. “So, who is he?”

  “Koda Mulvaney,” Gerylyn said.

  “The billionaire?” Raymond asked, surprised.

  “Yes, he approached me after my talk.”

  “And did you tell him about—?”

  “Yes,” Stoller said.

  “But not everything,” Raymond said.

  “Of course not, Ray,” Gerylyn said. “No one can ever know everything.”

  Quote

  “Everything in the universe is temporary, yet everything lasts f
orever. And it does not matter if you believe this—it will be true with or without your consent.”

  The 31 Immutable Matters

  of Life & Death

  From the Journal of Onyx Webb

  When I was young and full of life, much of my time was wasted dreaming dreams of the wonderful things I would one day have, see, and do. But what do I find myself longing for now?

  The simple things I took for granted … things one rarely ever thinks of or appreciates until they are gone.

  The feel of wet grass beneath my feet...

  The sound of my heart beating in my chest...

  The smell of buttered popcorn in a movie house...

  The taste of strawberry preserves on a piece of toast...

  The sick feeling in your stomach when you fall in love.

  The multiple colors of a sunrise melting into one another, changing by the second until the light of day swallows them up, only to spit them out again at dusk.

  I miss it all.

  -Onyx Webb,

  Crimson Cove, Oregon

  Chapter Sixteen

  Episode 8: Orlandoland

  Chicago, Illinois

  January 27, 1964

  Neither Chuckie Bags or Phil Spilatro could remember seeing Fat Sal so distraught.

  It had been six months since the heist at The Purple Pig, and Sal Tombo was under pressure to account for the money that had been stolen the night of the Liston-Patterson heavyweight fight.

  To top things off, the Kennedy assassination six weeks earlier had sent shock waves through the mafia. There were people in Washington convinced the mob had played a role in the shooting, which was ridiculous. But everyone was on edge due to the extra scrutiny they were under.

  “I’m afraid Sal’s gonna have a heart attack,” Phil said.

  Chuckie Bags nodded in agreement. “With his weight where it is, it’s a wonder he hasn’t keeled over already. I’ve been telling Sal he needs—”

  “What do I need?” Fat Sal said, squeezing his way through the doorway.

  “I was saying you need to take better care of yourself,” Chuckie Bags said. “Come down to the gym with me later. A little exercise would do you good.”

  “You know what would do me better?” Fat Sal said. “What would do me better would be if one of you worthless teste di cazzo’s got me my money back before Momo has all our asses.”

  In addition to losing the take from the fight, Fat Sal complicated matters by lying to Sammy Giancana, telling his boss he’d loaned the money out in a big real estate deal in Florida. The lie worked. But if Fat Sal didn’t get the money back soon, there’d be more explaining to do.

  “Phil’s the dickhead who lost the take,” Chuckie Bags said, defending himself.

  “Yeah? Who opened the door without asking for the password?” Phil said.

  “Shut up, the both of you,” Fat Sal snapped. “All I want is for the both of you ... for ... for you both to ... to ... to ...”

  Chuckie Bags got to the big man first, with Phil a half-step behind. But even with the two of them holding on, Fat Sal was going down. The only question was which of the two men he was going to crush on the way.

  The answer was both of them.

  An hour later, all three men were in the hospital—Sal Tombo with a severe case of hypertension, Chuckie Bags with a broken left arm and three cracked ribs, and Phil with a broken collar bone.

  When Tommy Bilazzo heard what happened, he drove to the hospital and found all three men waiting for him to arrive.

  “Took your sweet time getting here, Tommy,” Chuckie Bags said, pulling himself gingerly to his feet, the pain in his ribcage worse than anything he’d ever experienced.

  “You’re lucky I wasn’t there with you guys,” Tommy said. “If I had been, we might all have been admitted and there’d be no one to pick any of us up.”

  “Just get us back to The Pig,” Fat Sal said.

  “Get some food in you, and you’ll feel better,” Tommy said. “The kitchen cooked up some spiced lamb and spinach lasagna just for you.”

  “What will make him feel better is getting the money back,” Phil said. “And if you ask me, my money’s still on Mulvaney.”

  “Not this again,” Tommy said, pulling into traffic and making a sharp u-turn, which made the other three groan in unison from the pain. “I told you schmucks already, Declan had nothing to do with it.”

  “I don’t know,” Chuckie Bags said. “Mulvaney needed money, and it wouldn’t have taken a genius to know there would be heavy betting on fight night. Add to that, Phil here is stupid enough to bring the guy to the—”

  “Enough!” Fat Sal said. “I don’t want to hear another word about who did what. I just want it taken care of. Capiche?”

  In truth, Tommy had begun to wonder himself. Did Declan have the nerve—and stupidity—to take money from the mob? If Declan had done it, Tommy was in the soup, too. He’d personally vouched for Declan, and then there was the gun.

  “But if it was Mulvaney,” Fat Sal said, ignoring his own demand for silence, “he’s got una grande serie di palle and I’m gonna hanno le palle di Tommy Bilazzo tagliati e montati sulla parete.”

  “I heard my name in there somewhere,” Tommy said. “Chuckie, what’d he just say?”

  “Fat Sal just said that if it was your buddy, he’s got a big set of balls on him, and he’s gonna cut yours off and mount ‘em on the wall.”

  Orlando, Florida…...

  Roughly 980 miles to the south and flying at an altitude of three thousand feet, Declan gazed out the rear window of a single-engine Cessna at the acres of empty land below.

  “Like I said, a lot of nothing,” the pilot said through the headset.

  Declan did not respond. He was deep in thought, trying to put himself into the mind of Walter Elias Disney, who—if what he’d been told was true—had flown over the exact area months earlier. And it wasn’t the first time someone from the Disney organization had flown over the area.

  Which is how Declan stumbled on the information.

  Declan had been on a private jet with Frank Sinatra, departing from a private airport near Sinatra’s Palm Springs home to Las Vegas.

  “I fly some of Disney’s executives out of here several times a month,” the pilot had said.

  “Not to Vegas, I hope,” Sinatra said. “I’d hate to hear Walt had a stretch of bad luck and lost the Magic Kingdom.”

  “No, I fly them to Orlando,” the pilot said.

  “Orlando?” Declan asked the pilot. “What’s in Orlando?”

  “Not a damn thing,” the pilot said. “Hell, sometimes I don’t even land the jet. We just do circles over the area and leave.”

  That was all it took.

  What was so important about Orlando that a company like Disney would send people there, and do nothing but fly over it and leave? And why drive a hundred miles to fly out of Palm Springs? Why not just fly out of Santa Ana or Long Beach?

  The answers to those two questions led Declan to one conclusion: Disney was doing something big in Orlando. And whatever it was, they didn’t want anyone to know about it.

  But what could the Disney executives possibly be looking at that didn’t require them to land? The question was the answer.

  Land. Disney was buying land.

  “Got what you came for?” the pilot asked through the headset.

  “Loop back around one more time to the south,” Declan said.

  “No problem. It’s your dime.”

  Declan had completed the easy part of his plan—stealing the money, which turned out to be a tad over $280,000—and getting the cash into a series of bank accounts and safety deposit boxes throughout Florida. The tricky part was determining exactly where Disney was looking to build what he assumed would be a second theme park.

  It was common knowledge that Walt Disney was disturbed by the number of strip clubs, pawn shops, and seedy motels that sprung up on the edge of Disneyland after the park opened. So it was fair to as
sume Walt would be buying up considerably more land this time around to ensure he had a “buffer zone” around the park itself.

  Flying over the area himself, Declan decided the most likely place was south of downtown, somewhere near the area where Interstate 4 bisected the Sunshine State Parkway.

  But how would Walt Disney go about buying up thousands of acres without drawing attention? If word of what he was doing leaked out, land prices would skyrocket.

  The answer had to be dummy corporations.

  Knowing the general area wasn’t good enough—Declan needed to know exactly where Disney was buying. He could guess, but why squander money on worthless land?

  The only way to be certain where Disney was planning on opening the new theme park was to identify someone within the Disney organization with knowledge about what was going on. But hiring an airplane pilot to fly Declan around was very different than worming his way into Disney’s inner circle.

  Declan needed to hire a private detective.

  When Declan got back to his small apartment, he dialed Mary Ann’s number—something he found himself doing more and more. But, as he’d done every time in the past, he listened to her answer, then hung up without saying a word. He simply wanted to hear her voice.

  Declan wanted to tell Mary Ann what he was doing, but he knew doing so was a bad idea. The less Mary Ann knew, the better. Because the less she knew, the less she could tell someone else.

  One wrong word could ruin everything.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Orlando, Florida

  July 23, 2010

  “Well, Grandpa, I saw my first ghost,” Koda said as he slid into a booth at DJ’s Chophouse, directly across the street from the SunTrust building where Mulvaney Properties International maintained offices on the twenty-sixth and seventy-seventh floors.