Onyx Webb 6

by Diandra Archer

  Has worked for (or with) law enforcement: 23.9%

  Kills in one place, disposes in another: 87.2%

  Engage in conversation with their victims: 92.2%

  Uses charm or disguises to subdue: 71.6%

  The perpetrator is a serial predator: 92.2%

  Has an extensive collection of some sort: 77.4%

  Enjoys games and puzzles: 73.7%

  Socially adept and even charming: 81.4%

  Graduated college: 66.4%

  Good housekeeping skills and hygiene: 96.4%

  Maintains hiding place/kill room in home: 55.5%

  Has nighttime habits (versus “daytime”): 91.9%

  Takes photographs of victims: 87.4%

  Keeps a trophy from victim as reminder: 82.9%

  Additional Likelihoods:

  Motivation for abductions is for psychological satisfaction (not sexual). Ego-centric and lacks empathy and feelings of guilt. Methodical in way he lures his victims. Driven by anger, resentment, feelings of unfairness. Has been through a horrific experience (or experiences) that have left him physically and emotionally scarred. Desperately needs others to understand his torment and pain. Believes he’s smarter than everyone around him, including the police and the FBI. Sees what he is doing as a game that must be played out to its eventual conclusion. Won’t quit on his own. Beneath everything, he hates himself and wants to be caught. If he could, he would commit suicide, but lacks the emotional courage to do it himself.

  Liklihood victim is alive at time of this writing: 6.2%

  Chapter Eighteen

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  JUNE 2, 1993

  Stan Lee made his way down the tunnel toward the kill room, carrying a tray with breakfast plates, a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck.

  “Well, you’re finally big news,” Stan Lee said as he plopped down in a chair opposite Nisa’s wheelchair, right where he’d left her the evening before.

  “What do you mean?” Nisa asked.

  “The Mulvaneys just offered a million-dollar reward for your safe return,” Stan Lee said. “Press conference, full-page ads in every newspaper in the South. They’re going all out for you, just like I figured they would.”

  “I told you, Bruce loves me,” Nisa said.

  “That doesn’t explain the affair.”

  “What affair?”

  “Let’s agree to disagree. Are you going to eat today?” Stan Lee asked, loading a heap of scrambled eggs on a fork and placing it inches away from her lips, which were sealed tightly. “Okay, have it your way. I’ll eat them, and you can just sit there and watch.”

  Once the eggs were gone, Stan Lee tried enticing Nisa with a piece of bacon. “You know what my mother used to say when she made bacon? ‘I’ll bet you’re achin’ for some nice crispy bacon.’ He waved the brown strip of meat before Nisa’s face, but when she made no attempt to take it, Stan Lee popped it in his own mouth.

  “I have an idea,” Stan Lee said, setting the plate aside. “Why don’t we play a game? Do you like riddles?”

  “Not really,” Nisa said.

  “Okay, here goes: When you say my name, I disappear. What is my name?”

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

  “Silence,” Stan Lee said. “Get it?” My name is Silence. So, when you say my name, I disappear. Clever, huh?”

  Nisa remained silent.

  “Oh, I haven’t shown you this yet.” Stan Lee reached down and began unfastening his belt. Nisa looked away as his pants slid off his narrow hips and dropped to the floor. “You can look, Nisa. I’m wearing briefs. I’m not some kind of pervert.”

  Nisa opened her eyes but said nothing.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen prosthetic legs before.”

  “Were you born this way?” Nisa asked.

  Stan Lee shook his head. “No. These are the gift with purchase you get when you fall off a harvester and your grandfather doesn’t hit the stop button fast enough.”

  “Is that where you grew up? On a farm?” Nisa asked.

  “Don’t ask questions if you’re not interested in the answers,” Stan Lee said. “I hate it when people act like they’re interested but are just pretending.”

  “No, really, I want to know,” Nisa said. “You know so much about me, but what do I know about you? Nothing really.”

  “Okay,” Stan Lee said, walking over to the cabinet where he kept his medical supplies. “Just let me get something first.”

  Stan Lee found the bottle of vanilla skin cream he was looking for, then sat back down in the chair. He removed his prosthetics—the right leg first, and then the left—letting each drop to the floor as Nisa looked on.

  “This doesn’t bother you, does it?”

  Nisa shook her head.

  “Good. You have no idea how bad my stumps hurt sometimes,” Stan Lee said. “The key is to moisturize. I use the same cream my mother used to use. I make it myself. Beeswax, canola oil, and coconut oil. Forty-seconds in the microwave, stir, and repeat until the wax and oil are melted together.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” Nisa said.

  “Don’t I wish,” Stan Lee said, dripping some of the lotion directly on his left stump and rubbing it in. “But there’s more to it. Next, you’ve got to add Borax, distilled water—not regular water, distilled—and brown sugar. That goes on the stove in a saucepan on medium heat until the sugar and borax dissolves.”

  Stan Lee lowered his left stump and raised his right, applying the lotion.

  “What was your mother’s name?” Nisa asked.

  “Mary Ann.”

  “And she lived on the farm with you?”

  “Later,” Stan Lee said. “I haven’t finished explaining the lotion recipe yet. Once the borax and brown sugar dissolve, you take everything and pour it all together, and mix it with a whisk, adding in a teaspoon of vanilla extract as you go. Then, you wait an hour or so for the lotion to thicken, and you’re done.”

  “How often do you make it? The lotion?” Nisa asked.

  “Once a week. Every Wednesday just like my mother did.”

  “It sounds like you loved her a lot,” Nisa said.

  Stan Lee nodded. “Yeah, well, if Declan had loved her half as much as I did maybe things would have been different.”

  “Declan?”

  “Yes,” Stan Lee said. “Declan Mulvaney and my mother were a couple—you know, like in, together. She got pregnant, had a baby, and you’ll never guess what she named him.”

  “Bruce? Bruce is your brother?”

  “Give the lady a Kewpie doll,” Stan Lee said.

  “I don’t believe you. Bruce has never said anything about having a brother.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t know,” Stan Lee said. “There are a lot of things Declan hasn’t told Bruce. Like how he went off to make his millions, but left us in a small apartment, trying to scrape by on pennies. You know what my mother did to pay the bills? She became a stripper. Vanilla, that was her stage name. Vanilla.”

  “Speaking of vanilla, you need to do something about the smell,” Kara said. “Give her a bath—or spray some perfume on her. God, she stinks to high heaven.”

  Stan Lee ignored Kara as he pulled his prosthetics back on, and pulled up his pants. He returned the bottle of vanilla-scented lotion to the cabinet, then walked over to the wheelchair. “Believe me, there’s more. So very much more.”

  He leaned forward and kissed Nisa on the forehead. “But we’ve got time, right? You and I, we have time—lots and lots of time.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  APRIL 12, 1995

  Energy. The thing of which all things in the universe are made. Energy, the thing a ghost must have in order to maintain a physical presence in the living plane. Energy, the thing Onyx needed...

  Again.

  Once per month like clockwork.

  Onyx had a code—a code which allowed her to justify her actions—that perm
itted her taking a human life.

  The most important thing to Onyx was to never take energy from the young. Or the healthy. Or those with a strong will to live.

  To do so was unthinkable.

  Onyx only took energy from those who were terminally ill. Or drug addicted beyond saving. Or the most heinous of criminals. Or those hell-bent on taking their own lives.

  Onyx moved silently through the darkness, weaving her way through the pine trees stretched tall toward the sky before her, until she reached the ocean.

  Onyx found a spot at the edge of the cliffs, high above the beach and overlooking the length of the horizon. It was a place she’d come many times before. How many had she taken here? Onyx had lost count long ago and worked hard to forget.

  But there were several she couldn’t forget.

  Sheriff Hell Daniels was one of them. As far as the Daniels family went, he’d been the kindest to her. They had an understanding—unspoken perhaps—but an understanding nonetheless.

  Hell Daniels knew what Onyx was and what she was doing. As long as she stuck to the terminally ill and those with evil intent, Hell would take her secret to the grave. Which he did. Onyx drained the life from him fifty years earlier on the very spot she was now standing, and dropped his cancer-riddled body off the cliff to the rocks below. Hell had come to her and asked her to do it, and she’d obliged.

  Alistar Ashley would have called the arrangement a quid pro quo.

  Then there was the drifter with the knife, preparing to murder the young couple and their teenage daughter on the beach. But they weren’t just any couple: it had been Alistar and Kizzy. And their daughter, Rainbow.

  The irony was not lost on Onyx.

  Onyx had saved Alistar, Kizzy, and their daughter, Rainbow—only to later take Rainbow in the small cabin in the woods years later. And, in a further twist of fate, it was Alistar who showed up to take the lighthouse away from her. Who would have guessed that Alistar would then become her protector? Onyx certainly hadn’t.

  Now, a decade later, Alistar had saved the lighthouse—and her—too many times to count.

  Perhaps Katherine Keane was right. Perhaps God was looking out for her. On the other hand, where was God when she made the decision to run off with Ulrich?

  These were questions for another time perhaps.

  Right now, Onyx needed energy.

  Onyx found herself watching a young boy and girl sitting on the rocks by the ocean’s edge. Even with the sound of the crashing waves, she could hear every word they were saying.

  The girl hated her parents. They controlled everything she did.

  The boy said he understood—that his parents were the same and he hated them just as much.

  The girl said she wasn’t sure if she could take another day. The boy said he’d had enough of his stupid life, too.

  “Do you ever think about doing it?” the girl asked.

  Onyx leaned forward and listened closer.

  “You mean ending it all?” he said.

  “Yes, do you ever think about suicide?”

  “I think about it all the time,” the boy replied.

  The girl remained silent.

  “How would we do it?” the boy asked finally.

  At that moment, something in Onyx snapped, a feeling of rage boiling up inside in her, overwhelming her to the point of suffocation. These ungrateful kids. How dare they? They had everything, yet appreciated none of it!

  More than that, they were alive—and willing to throw away the greatest gift of all.

  Life.

  Fine, Onyx thought, moving toward them in a rush. If you want to die that badly…

  The boy looked up and saw Onyx standing over them. But before he could utter a single syllable she was on him, wrapping a hand behind his head and lowering her mouth over his.

  The girl stood up but did not run. She remained there, frozen in a state of shock and fear, watching in horror. The boy went gray as the life force drained from him, his body dropping limply to the rocks.

  The girl finally found her legs and began to run, but she got only a few steps before Onyx was on her.

  And it was over.

  Onyx stood there, basking in the glow of the silver moonlight on her now vibrantly colored skin, and knew something was wrong.

  It had been something she’d seen in their eyes.

  They were scared. Scared to die. They didn’t want to die. They wanted to live.

  Onyx looked down at the bodies at her feet and saw the cuts on the inside of the girl’s arms. She didn’t have to check the boy. She already knew.

  Their talk of suicide was nothing more than that—simply talk. Not true feelings, merely adolescent cries for help.

  And how had she helped?

  Onyx was overcome with guilt, feeling wave after wave of agonizing grief and unspeakable sorrow wash over her as she realized the truth. All the boy and girl wanted was for someone to care. For someone to love them. To experience a complete, happy life—the kind of life everyone longs for.

  The kind of life she longed for still.

  Onyx dropped to the ground and released an anguished scream—for the boy, for the girl, and for herself.

  Yet not a tear would be shed.

  Ghosts do not make tears when they cry.

  Chapter Twenty

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  OCTOBER 14, 2010

  Gerylyn Stoller worked her way across the guest accommodations on the second floor of the Mulvaney mansion, moving her cane back and forth in front of her. “Does the room ever end?”

  “In about two more steps you’ll hit the base of the bed,” Koda said. “The bathroom is on your immediate right, and the sitting area is through a door to your left.”

  “I know, it’s huge,” Robyn said. “My room is identical, up on the third floor directly above yours. If you need anything, just tap your cane on the ceiling.”

  Robyn had called Gerylyn after they’d seen her on TV, and they’d talked for almost an hour. Robyn updated Gerylyn on the situation with Dane and The Shadow People coming into the house through the mirror tucked in the bedroom closet. Gerylyn focused her attention on Koda’s accident and how he was doing.

  Finally, Robyn had asked the question: “Is there any chance you could come to Charleston?”

  “We were surprised to see you on The Fudge Factor,” Koda said once Gerylyn had gotten settled at the mansion. “Isn’t the purpose of that show to debunk stories about the paranormal?”

  “Yes, it is,” Gerylyn said. “But the show has a very high viewership, and it’s important I reach as many people as I possibly can.”

  “To sell more books,” Koda said.

  “Yes,” Gerylyn said. “It is important that I sell books, but not for the reason you think. You see, I don’t care about the money—I care about saving lives. And the more books I sell, the more lives that will be saved. In sales, I believe it’s what they call a win-win.”

  Koda winced and shook his head.

  “I heard that,” Gerylyn said.

  “Are you really sure?” Robyn asked. “I mean, how do you know this thing with the ghosts is going to happen?”

  “Because it’s happened before, 372 years ago in France,” Gerylyn said. “And if I’m right, it will happen again precisely sixty-six days from now—here in the United States. Only this time, it will be ten times more devastating.”

  “Why?” Robyn asked.

  “Because in 1638 the population in France was less than twenty million. The population in the United States is over a billion.”

  “Those numbers can’t be right,” Koda said. “I didn’t pay much attention in social studies, but I’m pretty sure the population of the United States is only about 350 million people.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the living, Koda,” Gerylyn said. “I was talking about the dead.”

  Robyn and Koda shot each other a look.

  “Robyn, would it be impolite if I asked for a few minutes with Koda?”
Gerylyn asked. “Alone.”

  “No, that’s fine,” Robyn said, getting up and walking quickly to the door, closing it behind her before Koda could object—just the way she and Gerylyn planned it.

  “I know Robyn thinks I’m having trouble dealing with what happened, the accident and—everything,” Koda said.

  “Yes—and it’s the and everything that has us concerned,” Gerylyn said. “You know the saying, a problem shared is a problem halved?”

  “That’s funny, my father says a problem shared is a problem doubled.”

  “Maybe in the workplace, but Robyn and I are acting as friends,” Gerylyn said. “Our only incentive is to help you. Do you understand that Robyn has nothing but your best interest at heart?”

  “I know,” Koda said. “I know.”

  It took almost an hour for Koda to share everything that happened, from the moment the truck hit the limo to being greeted on the other side by Dane, right up to the moment he saw Juniper.

  “Are you sure it was Juniper?” Gerylyn asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Even in the fog, even in your state of confusion, you knew it was her and no one else?” Gerylyn asked.

  “Yes, it was her,” Koda said. “No doubt.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” Gerylyn said.

  “Wonderful?” Koda said.

  “When and where did you say Juniper went missing?” Gerylyn asked.

  “Savannah, Georgia. 1979. In June or July, I think.”

  “Yes, this is very good. Think about it, Koda,” Gerylyn said. “When someone passes over, they are usually greeted by someone who knew and loved them when that person was alive. There is a connection between them—a connection that is so strong that it creates a bridge through both space and time—and across the distance between life and death.”

  “Okay,” Koda said.

  “That Dane was there to greet you is expected. But for you to see Juniper? Savannah is what—three hundred miles from Orlando? And Juniper went missing thirty years ago? The idea that the connection between the two of you is so strong that she’d be there waiting—it’s nothing short of remarkable.”