Onyx Webb 6

by Diandra Archer

  “Yes,” Robyn said.

  “If I told you there was a crystal in this room and asked the two of you to find it, could you have?”

  “Of course,” Robyn said. “Once we knew there—oh, I get it.”

  “I see the veil of understanding has been lifted,” Gerylyn said. “Tell me, Robyn, what did you just get?”

  “There are things in this room that we can’t see—not because of our inability to see them but because we didn’t know to look.”

  Gerylyn smiled. “Yes. Just because you did not know to look for the crystal, that did not make it any less real. The first step in seeing is the knowledge that there is something to be seen. The second step is knowing how to see it.”

  “The mirror,” Koda said.

  “Yes, the mirror,” Gerylyn said. “In the same way that people say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, mirrors are portals to move from one realm to the next. That’s why, in days past, people would cover their mirrors when someone died.”

  “That’s why you suggested people should smash their mirrors during the solstice eclipse?” Robyn said.

  “Yes,” Gerylyn said. “We’ll talk more about that later. For now, suffice it to say that we will be using a mirror to our advantage, rather than the ghosts using it to theirs.”

  “So, we’re not really going into the mirror,” Koda said.

  “Correct,” Gerylyn said. “By staring into a darkened mirror we’ll be able to place ourselves in a trance-state, allowing us to enter the etheric realm.”

  “Wait, Gerylyn,” Robyn said. “How can you—?”

  “Stare into a mirror?” Gerylyn said. “I can’t, of course. Being blind I don’t have to. I’m always in darkness. The mirror is for Koda.”

  Koda nodded. “Okay, so when do we do this?”

  “We’ll start tomorrow,” Gerylyn said. “First, we need to prepare the mirror.”

  Koda suddenly looked stricken. “Please don’t say we need the mirror from the Forsyth Park Hotel.”

  “No,” Gerylyn said. “The only reason that specific mirror was important before is because Juniper was drawn to it. At this point, any mirror will do. We’re not using it to draw Juniper to us—we’re using it to go to her.”

  Robyn returned from the store with most of the items Gerylyn sent her out to get. The list included:

  A quart of black acrylic paint

  Two flat sponge brushes

  A plastic tray for the paint

  A hundred-foot roll of black plastic sheeting

  A pint bottle of white vinegar

  A clump of sage or sweet grass

  A bag of rock salt and a shallow bowl

  An egg timer

  A box of twenty-four tea candles

  Twenty-four glass candle containers (red, if possible)

  A package of flat-weave microfiber cleaning cloths

  A meditative music CD (other than Yanni)

  Vanilla incense

  In the meantime, Koda gathered the other items they needed: a standing floor mirror, two comfortable chairs, matches, a Phillips-head screwdriver, and a bottle of red wine—preferably cabernet—though Gerylyn said a dry Syrah or Zinfandel would also do.

  After everything had been brought to Gerylyn’s room, the three of them went about preparing the mirror.

  Black plastic was laid on the floor to protect the carpet. Next, Gerylyn had Koda remove the screws that held the large mirror in the frame and then lay it face-down on the plastic.

  “Robyn, while Koda’s doing that, why don’t you pour an inch of the black acrylic paint in the plastic tray,” Gerylyn said. “Koda, how are you coming along?”

  “I’m done. What’s next?”

  “I sit here and wait while the two of you paint the back side of the mirror with the black paint,” Gerylyn said.

  “And then?” Koda asked.

  “We let it dry,” Gerylyn said.

  “When do we go?” Koda asked.

  “Yes, there is an issue,” Gerylyn said. “I have an interview scheduled tomorrow afternoon at CNN in Atlanta, and Fox and Friends in New York on Sunday morning. The earliest I can possibly return is late Sunday afternoon.”

  “Okay. We’ll do it Sunday night,” Koda said.

  “That will be fine, assuming the travel hasn’t worn me out,” Gerylyn said. “And one last thing. I hope won’t be an imposition, but I’ll have my nephew with me.”

  “No problem. We have plenty of room,” Koda said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  DAYTONA BEACH, FLORIDA

  MAY 29, 1996

  Fourteen months after they started rebuilding the Porcupine, Declan and Kajika rolled the bike out onto South Beach.

  “Who gets the honors?” Declan asked.

  “It’s your bike,” Kajika said.

  Declan swung his leg over the leather seat and both men held their breath. They needn’t have worried as the engine roared to life. Then each man took the bike around the block for a spin.

  Then Declan broke the news about the trip.

  CUSTER COUNTY, SOUTH DAKOTA

  “I don’t understand,” Kajika said for the third time. “If Declan’s donating the money, why do I have to give the speech? You know how much I hate speaking in public.”

  “Declan doesn’t want to hog the limelight, Kajika,” Bebe said as she slid the ornate turquoise stone of the bolo tie in place beneath the collar of her husband’s shirt. “Besides, Crazy Horse would want you up there speaking on his behalf, don’t you think?”

  The Crazy Horse Memorial, located on privately held land in the Black Hills of South Dakota, had been under construction for almost forty years.

  And the going was slow.

  When completed, the sculpture was planned to be 641 feet wide and 563 feet high. The head alone will be eight-seven feet high. By comparison, the heads of the four U.S. presidents on Mount Rushmore were sixty feet high. Kajika felt this was a fitting tribute, not because the American presidents were small men, but because—to the Lakota—Crazy Horse was bigger.

  Without Kajika’s knowledge, Declan had arranged a special tribute to Nisa, who—three years later—was still missing. It was amazing how cooperative the foundation had been once Declan announced the size of the donation.

  “Welcome, my name is Kajika, a proud member of the Lakota Sioux, having grown up on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation not all that far from here,” Kajika said after stepping to the microphone. “Standing by my side today are my wife, Bebe, and my grandson, Koda—whose full given name is Takoda Wicasa Mulvaney. In the Sioux language, Takoda means ‘friend to everyone’ and Wicasa means ‘of wealthy parents.’”

  Kajika waited for the mild laughter to subside.

  “It was once suggested that the face of Crazy Horse be sculpted as part of Mount Rushmore, with Washington and Lincoln,” Kajika continued. “I am glad this did not happen. Crazy Horse was a one-of-a-kind leader who deserves to stand alone, so the white man may come here, to the Black Hills of South Dakota, and see that the red man had great heroes, too—heroes worthy of having a mountain of their own.

  “This does not mean, however, that the red man and the white man should be separated, or segregated, forever. When my daughter came to me, saying she wished to marry into the Mulvaney family, I fought it—almost as hard as Crazy Horse may have. And I know that Declan Mulvaney fought it, too. But, in the end, all wounds must be allowed to heal. The wounds of the body, and the wounds of the heart. The wounds of the mind, and the wounds of the spirit. For each of us, the day must come to release our anger and make peace. This was a difficult lesson to learn, taught to me by the person I least expected—a white man—who extended his hand in friendship at a time I needed it most. That man is Declan Mulvaney, to whom I am forever grateful.”

  Again, Kajika paused and waited for the applause to die down before continuing.

  “Let me leave you with this,” Kajika said. “If a man like Declan Mulvaney—who once held anger in his heart against the
red man—and a savage Sioux like myself can find a way to live together in peace and love, there is hope for all mankind.”

  To Kajika’s surprise, every person in the audience stood and gave him a prolonged ovation. And then, just as Declan had arranged, the event came to a spectacular conclusion with a series of simultaneous detonations, bringing tons of rock tumbling down the mountain—followed by billowing clouds of dust reaching up to the South Dakota sky.

  When the family returned to the airport, Kajika discovered there was one last surprise in store for him. There—sitting on the runway next to the jet—was the rebuilt Porcupine. Next to it sat a red-and-black 1958 Ariel Cyclone 650.

  “Don’t get too excited,” Declan said. “That’s not the Cyclone Buddy Holly owned, though it is from the same limited-edition production run.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Kajika said. “But what are they doing here on the runway?”

  “We’re not flying back with everyone else. We’re riding.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  JULY 4, 1995

  There were only three situations in which Clay Daniels III took a drink: The first was on a holiday. The second was on his birthday. The third was when he was really, really pissed off.

  On this particular day, Clay III hit the trifecta:

  It was the Fourth of July.

  It was his fiftieth birthday.

  And the FBI’s unwillingness to get involved with the situation with Onyx Webb had him boiling. Who in the hell did Pipi Esperanza think she was anyway? And Newt Drystad, the supposed wunderkind with all his statistics?

  What a joke.

  Now, three months after the teenager’s bodies had been discovered in the cove, the town’s worst fear had come true. Tourism was off 40 percent. Several shops had closed their doors. And the Crimson Cove Merchant Association—what was left of it anyway—was circulating a petition to have him removed as sheriff. As if anyone wanted the thankless job.

  Clay III drained the rest of his tenth beer and set the mug down hard on the bar. “I call the F’in-B-I, and what they do?” he slurred in the direction of the bartender. “Nothin’ is what they done. Sent me Pipi Longstockings and New-frickin’-Dry-dock, with his big numbers and his little… hey, don’t just stand there. Get me another ‘un.”

  “Can’t do it, Clay,” the bartender said. “Serving alcohol to someone who is already in a state of inebriation is against the law.”

  “I am the law,” Clay III said. “Least I was.”

  “Go home, watch the fireworks, kiss the kids,” the bartender said.

  “Only got the one,” Clay III said, pulling himself off the barstool.

  “Trust me,” the bartender said. “You had enough tonight you’ll be seeing double.”

  Clay III pushed through the front door of Spilatro’s Place and stumbled his way down Main Street to the station. He was fairly certain there were a few beers in the lunchroom fridge.

  Nope, all gone.

  Clay III fumbled for the key to the evidence locker. Clay IV often stored beer in there, assuming he and his friends hadn’t taken it to the cove to drink while they watched the fireworks.

  The room was not much bigger than a large walk-in closet, the walls jammed with stolen guns, DVD players, jewelry, counterfeit IDs—and other items seized by the department over the years.

  Now, if I were beer, where would I be hiding? Clay III thought. With the drugs, of course.

  Clay III turned around and found the beer, sitting on the shelf—right next to the marijuana.

  That’s when the idea hit him.

  He knew how he was going to get Onyx.

  Several months earlier, by pure chance, one of the Crimson Cove deputies stumbled on a complex hydroponics operation deep in the woods with approximately eight hundred marijuana plants. That Oregon was a hotbed for marijuana production was nothing new—plant-growing operations in the area went all the way back to the 1920s and ‘30s—when the Spilatro family controlled West Coast activity for the Chicago mob.

  After the big bust, the DEA swooped in and—as the feds usually do—took the credit.

  But they didn’t take the pot.

  Even in his drunken state, Clay III was smart enough to park out near the main highway and schlep to the lighthouse on foot—which turned out to be a lot further than he remembered. Twenty minutes later, he reached the clearing at the edge of the woods just as the Fourth of July fireworks began exploding over the cove.

  In addition to the beer and the bag containing several ounces of dried cannabis buds, Clay III also brought a pair of binoculars. He didn’t need the binoculars to know Onyx was there, however—he could hear her singing, even over the sound of the fireworks.

  He’d have to wait.

  Clay III glanced around and noticed the gravestones near the base of a large spruce. The stone on the left read Beloved Father. The other simply had the letters KK etched on it. The stone reading Beloved Father was the larger of the two, and he lowered himself to the ground and leaned against it.

  Lot of history in these woods, Clay III thought as he popped open the first can of beer. It was warm, but so what? He killed the first beer and crushed the can as streams of red, white, and blue fireworks filled the sky.

  Both Clay III’s father and grandfather had died near this place. The body of his father, Clayton Daniels Jr., had been discovered in the woods one hundred yards to the left, after being accidently shot while hunting on his sixtieth birthday. The body of his grandfather, Clayton “Hell” Daniels, was found near there, too—at the bottom of the cliffs in an apparent suicide—on his seventieth birthday.

  The coroner declared the causes of death to be accidental for the former and natural causes for the latter.

  Natural causes, my ass, Clay III thought. Too bad there was no classification for “Death by Onyx.”

  Clay III checked his watch.

  It was 9:02 p.m.

  Hell Daniels had died on his seventieth birthday. His father had died on his sixtieth birthday. If he could avoid dying for the next two hours and fifty-eight minutes, Clay III would have survived his fiftieth birthday—quite an achievement considering his family history.

  If Newt Drystad were here, Clay III was sure the kid would pull some statistic from his macabre collection of morbid trivia on the statistical probability of being the third Daniels man in a row to kick the bucket on his birthday.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

  OCTOBER 17, 2010

  Even as she was in the middle of the dream, Olympia knew she was dreaming—and that it wasn’t a typical dream either. It was Nathaniel playing mind games with her.

  In the dream, Nathaniel was pitching a show in Oregon. “Oregon? What in the hell is in Oregon?” Olympia asked.

  “A real, honest-to-goodness ghost,” Nathaniel said. “I checked her out already. She’s the real deal.”

  To Nathaniel, they were all the real deal. “Does this ‘real deal’ of yours have a name?”

  “Yep,” Nathaniel said. “Her name is Onyx Webb.”

  “Onyx Webb,” Olympia repeated. “Good name for a ghost. Creepy yet pretty—has a nice ring to it.”

  “Wait, I haven’t gotten to the creepy part,” Nathaniel said. “At the age of six, Onyx was kidnapped by Obedience Everhardt—the infamous Child Snatcher of St. Louis—during the World’s Fair in 1904.”

  “Sounds a bit more serial killer than supernatural.”

  “I’m not done,” Nathaniel said. “There was another girl, Katherine Keane—tied naked in a chair—and Onyx was forced to sit and watch Obedience choke her to death.”

  Olympia nodded. “Yeah, I’m with you. Young, naked girls are always good for ratings, especially when they’re tied to something. But without a supernatural angle, it just isn’t the type of story we do. We need spooky, sugar.”

  “Okay, how’s this for spooky?” Nathaniel said. “After the Keane girl dies, the cop who
finds them gives the girl mouth-to-mouth, and—wait for it—he drops dead and the girl miraculously comes back to life.”

  “And this is verified?” Olympia asked.

  “The St. Louis Post-Dispatch ran a detailed account of the entire thing,” Nathaniel said, his eyes gleaming. “But wait! The kicker is Onyx Webb is still alive!”

  “I’m confused. I thought you said she was a ghost.”

  “Okay, she’s still dead—whatever,” Nathaniel said. “What I’m saying is Onyx Webb is still around. And get this—she lives in a lighthouse! Could it get more classic-ghost-story perfect than that?”

  “And we’ve got permission to shoot there?” Olympia asked.

  “Of course not,” Nathaniel said. “When’s the last time a ghost gave us permission to film?”

  He had a point.

  “And did I mention we get to tape part of the show in St. Louis?” Nathaniel said.

  “St. Louis? Well, why didn’t you say so?” Olympia said. “I used to date a guy from St. Louis. It was like going to bed with a can of Campbell’s soup—umm, umm good. Count me in.”

  Olympia woke up, her face wet from the memory. It wasn’t just a dream, she realized. It was a memory of Nathaniel pitching one of their first shows together. God, he was excited. She’d never seen Nathaniel more alive.

  Alive.

  I miss that little three-dollar bill, Olympia thought.

  “I’m right here,” Nathaniel said.

  Olympia spun her head to the left and saw Nathaniel—or, more accurately, the specter of Nathaniel—standing at the side of the bed. “Damn, you scared the hell out of me,” Olympia said, rubbing her neck with her hand. “I almost went full Exorcist on your ass.”