Onyx Webb 8

by Diandra Archer

“No,” Declan said, holding his hand up. “Quinn will just look like a loon. I know the governor. He’ll just dig his heels in even more.”

  “That’s why I came to you,” Koda said. “I thought maybe you could call him.”

  “I could,” Declan said and Koda brightened a bit. “But I’m afraid my trying to convince him the story is true would have no greater chance of succeeding than Quinn’s efforts have.”

  “So, we’re screwed.”

  “Not necessarily,” Declan said. “There might be an even better way to convince him.”

  Declan waited for Koda to leave the study and then picked up the phone to call Stormy—then he changed his mind and set the phone back down. Instead, Declan reached in his pocket and removed the small plastic device Stormy had given him several days earlier.

  “A caregiver call button?” Declan had asked. “What would I need—?”

  “Just in case,” Stormy said.

  “In case what?” Declan snapped. “In case I’ve fallen and I can’t get up? Christ, Boyd, you’re treating me like I’m an old man on his death bed.”

  Stormy said nothing.

  Declan realized in that moment he might be able to fool the others, but there was no fooling Stormy. He was an old man. And he was on his deathbed. Well, not entirely. Declan still had the ability to pull himself together and make his way downstairs to the study or kitchen—when the pain was tolerable enough to allow movement at least.

  Declan pushed the button and waited, curious to see if the system worked the way Stormy said it would. Fifteen seconds later, Koda rushed into the study.

  “What is it? Are you okay?” Koda asked.

  Before Declan could answer, Bruce and Graeme came racing into the room. Followed seconds later by Quinn. Ironically, the only person Declan didn’t see was Stormy.

  “Goddamn it,” Declan said. “Why—?”

  “I gave receivers to everyone,” Stormy said from the corner of the room in front of the mirror.

  “What exactly did you tell them?” Declan asked Stormy once everyone had gone.

  “Only that you haven’t been feeling well,” Stormy said.

  “So, they don’t know that—?”

  “You’re dying? No.”

  Declan nodded and leaned back in his chair.

  “Well, now that we have that out of the way, what did you want?” Stormy asked.

  “I’d like you to add the governor of Georgia to the invitation list for the Restoring Savannah Foundation event.”

  “Very well,” Stormy asked. “Should I add the governor of South Carolina to the list as well?”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Declan said. “I don’t know Governor Haley very well, but the event is being held in her state. Thank you for suggesting it.”

  Stormy stood. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. I need you to find me a cassette recorder,” Declan said. “There must be one laying around here somewhere. And I’ll need a blank tape.”

  “Very well,” Stormy said. “And Declan—”

  “Yes?”

  “Next time you need me to run an errand, please use the phone.”

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  JANUARY 3, 2010

  The only thing Noah liked about the plan to raid the illegal marijuana farm on the outskirts of Crimson Cove was that it was almost over.

  Against his better judgment, Noah let Onyx out of the car so she could follow the scruffy man in the red Firebird into the woods—as if there was any way to stop her. Once Onyx made up her mind to do something, all you could do was get out of the way.

  True to her word, Onyx returned to the lighthouse just before dawn to find Noah, Clay, and Tara awake and nervously waiting—which, in retrospect, Noah realized was never necessary. What could anyone possibly have done to Onyx anyway? Kill her?

  Not only was Onyx able to pinpoint the location of the pot farm, but she could also overhear several men discussing a large drug shipment scheduled to leave at dawn three days later—on a Sunday morning when the roads would be clear and the world would still be asleep.

  Armed with the information provided by Onyx, Clay convinced his contact at the DEA to execute a raid of the farm at four that morning. When asked how Clay found the farm, Clay lied and said he’d stumbled on it one day while hunting—telling the DEA he’d gotten the tip from a ghost was out of the question.

  Noah glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was 6:10 a.m. All he could do was sit and wait for the phone to ring.

  The call Noah was waiting for didn’t come until just before eight. “So, it’s done?” Noah asked.

  “Signed, sealed, and delivered,” Clay said, the glee of the successful raid evident in his voice even over the phone. “Or, more accurately in this case, not delivered.”

  “Was the place as large as Onyx described?”

  “Bigger,” Clay said. “Definitely a complex operation with advanced hydroponics growing highly potent cannabis. Hundreds and hundreds of plants, both indoor and outdoor.”

  “What about my grandmother?” Noah asked. “Was there anything there that might be used—”

  “It’s too soon to know,” Clay said. “Just sit tight. I’ll do my best to keep her out of it.”

  Kizzy entered the kitchen a few minutes after nine to find Noah sitting at the table waiting for her.

  “Oh, so you’re home,” Kizzy said. “Please tell me you’re here to get the rest of your stuff out of here. Like I said, I want to use your room for—”

  “Sit down, Grandma,” Noah saidnapped. “We need to talk.”

  “I’m not lending you any money, if that’s what you want,” Kizzy said.

  “I don’t need money,” Noah said. “Now sit down.”

  Kizzy dropped herself in a chair. “Okay, Noah, I’m sitting. What is it?”

  “Three hours ago the DEA raided the pot farm you got yourself messed up with.”

  “Oh, God, Noah—do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  “Yeah. I just saved your ass from going to prison with that chain-smoking asshole, whoever he is,” Noah said.

  Kizzy closed her eyes and shook her head. “Yeah, well there’s something I didn’t tell you. That chain-smoking asshole just happens to be your father.”

  SAVANNAH, GEORGIA

  DECEMBER 17, 2010 – 1:35 A.M.

  In all, Stan Lee had identified six types of girls that could be found in almost any bar. Bars were, of course, the absolute best place from which to abduct someone.

  Type #1: The Broke Girl—out of cash, begging with puppy-dog eyes for someone to buy her a drink...

  Type #2: The Drunk Party Girl—singing, dancing, and pounding down shots of whatever was in vogue at the time...

  Type #3: The Waiting Girl—a husband or boyfriend on the way…

  Type #4: The Working Girl (which came in two varieties): working, as in nine to five, and “working”—as in midnight to four…

  Type #5: The Angry Girl—upset about something, usually an asshole boyfriend—and sure to let everyone around her know about it…

  Type #6: The Sad Girl—upset about something, usually an asshole boyfriend, but keeping it to herself.

  Stan Lee had taken several girls from each of the six categories. But the easiest by far was type six.

  The Sad Girl.

  Sad girls had usually downed enough alcohol to make it hard to fight back, but not so much that they couldn’t walk.

  Unlike The Drunk Girl.

  Drunk girls were unpredictable and usually loud. They drew too much attention, and attention was always bad.

  Stan Lee wanted things to go as easy as possible, which is where sad girls came in. And fortunately for him, the bars around Savannah were filled sad girls.

  Maybe it had something to do with the South?

  No, it wasn’t the South. The reason there were lots of sad girls was because there were lots of asshole boyfriends.

  Thank God for assholes.

  The best thing about sad girls was
that they were always looking down when they left the bar, as if searching the pavement for pennies, completely unaware of what was going on around them—or who was coming up from behind.

  The sad girl Stan Lee had his eye on tonight was a young blonde, sitting by herself at a corner table in a dive bar at the intersection of Abercorn and Hull, not far from the Savannah College of Art and Design. He’d just watched her finish her third drink. If she ordered a fourth drink, she’d stop being a sad girl and become a drunk girl.

  The girl opened her purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

  She was going to pay the tab.

  Stan Lee pulled out a twenty of his own and tossed it on the bar. Seconds later he was headed for the door.

  When she left the bar, he’d be outside in the van.

  Waiting.

  The FBI agent assigned to the intersection of Abercorn and Hull was wedged behind the steering wheel of a red Camaro. He seemed to remember them being roomier when he was in his twenties. Either Camaros had gotten smaller, or he’d gotten bigger.

  He’d normally have been in one of the bureau’s standard-issue four-door sedans, but the agents selected to work the six locations around Savannah were instructed to rent vehicles that wouldn’t be made by someone suspecting a stakeout.

  The bar he was assigned to watch was called The Inkwell, a popular place among students pursuing degrees in journalism and creative writing at the local college. This was the third and final night of the assignment during which he was supposed to keep his eyes peeled for a man between the ages of forty-five and fifty-five—likely driving a windowless van and possibly in a wheelchair—showing an interest in young women.

  The killer would be looking for blondes with nice legs.

  The irony of the profile was that it pretty much described him, the agent thought. He was in his fifties. He liked young blondes, especially young blondes with nice legs.

  Hell, maybe he was the serial killer. If he’d been in the white cargo van parked behind him, he’d have fit the profile to a T.

  All in all, it wasn’t a half bad assignment—if it weren’t for his constant need to pee. A dozen cups of coffee from an oversized thermos could do that to a man.

  The agent looked at his watch. It was 1:35 a.m.

  He’d be damned if he was going to pee in a cup again.

  The FBI agent entered the bar he’d been surveilling and noticed the attractive blonde sitting alone in the corner. She was a perfect fit for the profile—the type he’d have hit on himself thirty years earlier.

  Great legs, too.

  But first things first. He had to find the men’s room.

  The agent pulled up his pants and fastened his belt and then went to the sink to wash his hands. His wife was a nurse who hadn’t been sick in twenty years, crediting her health to washing her hands for two minutes with hot water and soap anytime she used a public restroom. His wife was also a pain in the ass—but she was probably right about washing up.

  The agent exited the restroom a minute later, thinking how great it would be to have a bite of food and a quick beer before wedging himself back into the Camaro. And there just so happened to be an empty stool at the corner of the bar.

  The agent took a seat, ordered a basket of wings and a Sam Adams, and then turned to surveil the attractive blonde coed in the corner.

  But she was gone.

  The agent looked toward the front of the bar. From where he was sitting, he could see the red Camaro on the opposite side of the street through the window—and the empty parking space directly behind it, where the white cargo van had been.

  The agent rushed outside and looked up and down the street. The girl was nowhere to be seen.

  Nor was the van.

  The agent walked to the red Camaro and climbed inside, hoping he’d written the van’s plate number on the surveillance log.

  He hadn’t.

  The agent didn’t bother going back in for the wings and the beer. He’d lost his appetite.

  He knew he had only two options available to him: tell his supervisor exactly what happened or say nothing.

  It was exactly stupid moves like this that had caused him to be passed over for promotion after promotion.

  Saying nothing would be best.

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  DECEMBER 17, 2010 – 3:23 A.M.

  It had been chilly in Savannah but the skies were clear. But now, as he approached the outskirts of Charleston, Stan Lee found it necessary to turn on the windshield wipers. Moments later, it was raining cats and dogs.

  A funny phrase, raining cats and dogs. There had to be something he could do with it. Let’s see, Stan Lee thought. Cats and dogs. A second later it hit him:

  It’s raining cats and dogs. I know—

  I just drove through a poodle.

  Stan Lee glanced back at the sad girl strapped to the metal table in the back of the van. “I just drove through a poodle. Get it?”

  The girl didn’t respond.

  Stan Lee would have been surprised if she had. He’d stuck her in the neck with athe syringe an hour earlier, injecting the blonde coed with enough kKetamine to keep her down until he got home.

  Speaking of kKetamine, Stan Lee knew he’d have to get into Charleston and score more Ketamine soon. He was almost out. He could go tomorrow, but he preferred to avoid buying drugs in the light of day.

  Or he could go right now.

  Stan Lee glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was 3:23 a.m. He could drive into the city with no traffic, get what he needed, and be home with the girl before five—as long as he had her into the house before daylight, everything should be fine.

  The raindrops splattered in big drops, and Stan Lee turned the wipers to a higher speed and started to sing:

  “It’s raining, it’s pouring.

  The sad girl is snoring.

  She went to party

  The stupid little smarty,

  And won’t wake up in the morning.”

  A moment later, the rain suddenly stopped and Stan Lee turned the wipers off.

  “The rain stopped, it dried up.

  The sad girl is tied up.

  She walked from the bar

  But she didn’t get far,

  And she’ll never see the morning.”

  Then, just as fast as the rain stopped, he drove into another downpour. Stan Lee turned the wipers back on and continued with his song:

  “Here comes the rain again,

  Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

  Can’t wait till she begs,

  Please don’t take my legs!

  She won’t be walking in the—”

  Stan Lee didn’t see the flooded section of road until it was too late. The front wheels of the van hit the water and sent it hydroplaning out of control—spinning, spinning, spinning…

  Stan Lee fought for control of the vehicle, desperately trying to keep from turning over, finally sliding to a stop next to the side of the road.

  Amazingly, the van was still upright.

  Stan Lee sat there—squeezing the steering wheel, his heart pounding out of his chest—then erupted into laughter.

  “Holy, shit! Did you see that?” Stan Lee said, turning to the girl in the back of the van. But she wasn’t there. The rear doors of the van were open and the girl—table and all—were gone.

  Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.

  Stan Lee opened the door and jumped out of the van, peering through the darkness. It was so dark he couldn’t see a damn thing. Then headlights. A vehicle was coming down the road.

  Stan Lee stepped behind the van and waited for the vehicle to pass. As it did, the headlights reflected off something along the side of the road on the other side of the street.

  It was the table.

  Stan Lee rushed across the street to the table, but the girl wasn’t on it.

  Stan Lee spent the next minute trying to find her but to no avail. How far had he skidded? Fifty feet? A hundred? She could be anywhere.


  Stan Lee knew he had to get out of there. He couldn’t afford to have someone stop, or worse, take down his license plate number. He grabbed the table, threw it in the back of the van, and slammed the doors closed.

  With any luck the girl was dead.

  Even if she wasn’t, she hadn’t seen his face.

  HOBOKEN, NEW JERSEY

  DECEMBER 17, 2010

  Olympia’s mother had always told her that—no matter how bad things seemed at any given time—there was always a bright side. All she had to do was look for it.

  Olympia ran through the possible checklist of things to be happy about:

  She was alive.

  She had her purse and her credit cards.

  She had enough available credit to pay for a room at the Comfort Inn & Suites in Hoboken, New Jersey, while she waited for her insurance company to call her back.

  Hopefully she’d paid the most recent premium.

  Olympia was good when it came to paying her bills on time, but quitting the show had thrown her routines into disarray. She simply couldn’t remember.

  Olympia looked at the clock and saw it was 6:58 p.m. and turned on the TV to see what was being said about the incident involving her building. Olympia didn’t have to wonder if the story would be covered—it had led every local newscast for two solid days.

  As expected, the unexplained event was, once again, the first story covered.

  What was the reason for this bizarre accident? the news anchor asked. Substandard construction? Shoddy workmanship using poor materials? Improperly mixed concrete? Water erosion? Root damage of the building’s foundation? Bad architectural design? Timber rot? Insect damage? A natural gas leak? At least no one was killed!