Onyx Webb: Book One

by Diandra Archer

  Tiny when compared to Mark Cuban’s Boeing 767-277, which had been fitted with custom seats large enough to accommodate the tallest Maverick players, Koda’s smaller Bombardier BD-700 had become a significant part of his public persona. It could carry eight people at a cruising altitude of 51,000 feet for a distance of 6,500 nautical miles, a range that permitted the plane to fly nonstop from Tokyo to New York or Los Angeles to Moscow. It was outfitted with everything a jet-setting playboy really needed: a fully stocked bar and a king-sized bed.

  Koda felt his cell phone vibrate in his pant pocket. Whoever it was would have to wait.

  “You’ve been linked to Paris Hilton and too many Victoria’s Secret models to name them all.”

  “Isn’t that why they put out the catalogue?” Koda said. The audience laughed again.

  “Interesting,” Steele said, as if she were Koda’s therapist. “Is that how you think of women? As products in a catalog you can simply shop for and then bed?”

  Koda did not answer.

  “My sources tell me you’ve nicknamed the plane Nisa,” Steele continued. “One of your many conquests, I assume?”

  Shit.

  Koda had made a mistake, having opened the door to a topic he didn’t want to discuss—especially on worldwide television and with a pounding hangover-headache no less.

  “This Nisa must have been quite good in the sack to name your plane after her,” Steele prompted.

  “I never kiss and tell,” Koda said, attempting to deflect the question as the cell phone began to vibrate once again.

  “Come on, Koda, you can tell us,” Steele said, egging him on. When he did not bite, she turned to the studio audience and said: “You want to know who Nisa is, don’t you?”

  A cheer went up.

  There was nowhere to run.

  Koda turned in his chair so he was squarely facing the show’s host and leveled a glare at her before speaking. “Nisa is my mother’s name—short for Manisamahpiya, her full Sioux Indian name.”

  “So, you named your love jet after the mother who abandoned you when you were six?” Steele asked to the gasps of the audience.

  Koda had had enough and removed his microphone. “Is this how you treat all your guests?” Koda asked.

  “No, just the cocky ones,” Steele said. “Now, stop being a daft knob-head and finish the interview. Who knows, maybe I’ll even let you show me that plane of yours when we’re done.”

  “In your dreams,” Koda said as he stood and dropped the mic on his chair as his cell phone began vibrating for the third time.

  “You agreed to the full hour,” Steele said.

  “Sue me,” Koda said over his shoulder, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket to see who wanted to reach him so badly. It wasn’t one of his friends—no one he knew would call before two o’clock in the afternoon.

  There were three text messages, short and to the point:

  Watching the show, you look like shit.

  Your trust fund is 100% depleted.

  It’s time to come home and go to work.

  Koda didn’t need to see who the messages were from. He already knew. Each had come from the same person in Orlando, Florida.

  From his father.

  Chapter Four

  St. Louis, Missouri

  August 5, 1904

  Obedience Everhardt sat in front of the bedroom mirror, working her long gray hair into a braided pony tail that, when she was finished, hung down her back almost to her knees. She then stood and went to the closet to choose exactly the right dress. “What about the blue one?” she asked aloud and waited for her daughter to answer. Yes, the blue dress was the perfect choice.

  It had worked every time before, hadn’t it?

  Obedience buttoned the front of the pale blue garment and placed her long, braided ponytail over her shoulder. How long has it been since I cut it last? Long ago, she thought. So long, in fact, that she could not remember exactly when it had been.

  Perhaps it was the year she and Titus had moved here to St. Louis, during the early years of the war, before he was called to serve. “So unfair,” she said aloud to her daughter. Titus had moved the three of them to Missouri specifically because it was a neutral state that wanted no part in the conflict between the North and the South. And then, unexpectedly, things changed and Titus was called to serve anyway.

  “So very unfair,” Obedience said again.

  No, it must have been later, Obedience realized as she slipped on a pair of brown knee-high boots and pulled tightly on the laces. Lucinda was already in school, so it had to have been sometime after 1864.

  Her thought was interrupted by the sounds of a girl’s screams from the floor below. Screams that could barely be heard from inside the house and could not be heard whatsoever from the street. No one was ever invited into their home.

  Not ever.

  Just herself and Lucinda, they were the only ones allowed—oh, and Titus, of course, whenever he returned from the war. He’d written and said he was on his way. The South had surrendered. He would be coming on a ship with other prisoners of war who’d also been released. He would be home any day.

  Obedience stood and examined herself in the mirror, from head to toe.

  The outfit said simple…

  The outfit said safe…

  The outfit said she was a mature woman who wouldn’t hurt a fly, that she could be trusted… that there was no reason to be afraid. It was perfect.

  Obedience walked into the main sitting room and grabbed her shawl, the screams from the cellar a bit louder now, in part because this was the closest point in the house to where the girl was tied in her chair, but also because she was a smart girl.

  The girl’s time was up.

  “It’s almost time for your birthday, isn’t it, Lucinda?” Obedience asked aloud, again waiting for an answer from someone only she could hear. “That’s right,” she said, a smile forming on her face: “time for your birthday party.”

  For the final touch, Obedience pinned the button she’d been given by the fair organizers to the front of her dress. “Ask Me, I Live Here,” the button declared in bold red letters.

  Yes, you look safe and helpful, Obedience thought.

  Now, where exactly should she go to find her new Lucinda? The fairgrounds were enormous, with so many options. But Obedience knew there was really only one perfect place.

  The Ferris wheel.

  Children just loved the Ferris wheel.

  Chapter Five

  Savannah, Georgia

  June 2, 1979

  The last person Quinn Cole expected to see standing at his door was his high school friend, Wyatt Scrogger.

  “How’s it hanging, dropout?” Scrogger asked as Quinn opened the door. “What’s it been, a year?”

  Two, Quinn thought, but who’s counting. “Nice you could finally stop by,” Quinn said.

  Quinn and Wyatt had been best friends since the fifth grade, when Quinn was about to get his ass kicked by four schoolyard bullies. Wyatt had stepped from the group of onlookers: “Hey, did you guys hear that new Helen Keller joke? Don’t worry, neither did she.”

  The bullies stared at Wyatt.

  Wyatt stayed with it. “So, why can’t Helen Keller drive? Because she’s a woman, get it?”

  He got a snicker from one of the four.

  “How do you get Helen Keller to keep a secret? Break her fingers.”

  All four began to laugh, so Scrogger went in for the knockout: “How did Helen Keller’s parents punish her for swearing? They washed her hands with soap. How did Helen Keller burn her face? She tried to answer the iron.”

  As far as Quinn was concerned, the jokes weren’t funny but they had the intended effect on the bullies. The guys laughed, then seemed to forget what they were after, somehow disarmed by Wyatt’s sense of humor.

  Quinn had come to learn that Wyatt Scrogger could be a complete ass sometimes, but he had saved his bacon that day and they’d been close ever since. When Quinn
dropped out of college, they’d sort of lost touch with each other.

  Scrogger slid past Quinn and went straight to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and started searching around. “Milk, orange juice, Fresca,” Scrogger said. “No beer?”

  Quinn did not answer. When Wyatt looked up, Quinn held up a single index finger and pointed at the ceiling.

  “Oh,” Scrogger said, lowering his voice. “Your mom’s on the sauce again, huh?”

  “Never really stopped,” Quinn said. “Days go by she doesn’t even bother to get dressed.”

  “What about your dad?” Scrogger asked.

  Quinn shook his head. Scrogger had known things were bad at home for Quinn, which was why he’d made the decision to drop out of college the middle of his freshman year, but he had no idea that Quinn had literally become the man of the family.

  “I had no idea” was the only thing Scrogger could think to say.

  “How could you possibly,” Quinn said.

  “Listen,” Scrogger said, “I’ve got a few bucks from some gigs I’ve been doing. How about you and I go get a pizza and a pitcher or two, catch up on things?”

  “Bad timing,” Quinn said. “Juniper’s heading off to the prom in a bit—”

  “Juniper’s here?” Scrogger asked. “Cool, I want to see her.”

  “She’s in the shower and…”

  “Who is that?” a voice called out from the second floor of the house.

  “Sounds like she’s out,” Scrogger said.

  Scrogger left the kitchen and headed back toward the front door, near the base of the stairs, Quinn trailing behind. “Is that you, carrot top?” Scrogger yelled. “Get your scrawny little freckled-butt down here. I’ve got some new jokes I want to try…”

  Wyatt Scrogger stopped mid-sentence, his mouth literally hanging open.

  Quinn caught up to Scrogger and the two of them watched as Juniper made her way slowly down the stairs toward them, being careful not to trip on her powder-blue prom dress.

  “Wow, now that’s a dress,” Scrogger said.

  “Be careful, that’s my sister,” Quinn said.

  Juniper reached the bottom of the stairs and threw herself into Wyatt Scrogger’s arms and hugged him: “I missed you, Scroggs!”

  “Did you hear me mention that’s my sister?” Quinn asked.

  “Step back, let me take a look at you,” Scrogger said as he released her and looked her over. “Same red hair, same freckles. Holy crap, Juniper, you grew boobs!” Scrogger turned to Quinn: “You’re going along with her tonight as a chaperone, right?”

  “Jesus,” Quinn said under his breath, though he knew it was useless. And though he knew his friend was simply joking around—as he always did—Quinn found himself feeling uncomfortable. “She’s a grown woman, Scroggs, Juniper can take care of herself,” Quinn said, hoping it was true.

  “How’s college?” Juniper asked. “Great, I’ll bet.”

  “Yeah, I’m majoring in girls and minoring in pick-up lines,” Scrogger said, “doing some small clubs at night.”

  “Tell me some jokes,” Juniper said. She loved jokes and could always count on Scrogger for an endless stream of them.

  Scrogger said, “Okay, Carrot Top, you play the gorgeous girl sitting at the bar and I’ll be the obnoxious guy who’s trying to pick you up.”

  “Wait until I get in character,” Juniper said, lifting a pretend drink in her hand and then looking away as if totally disinterested. “Okay, go ahead and pick me up.”

  Scrogger reached out, tapped Juniper on the shoulder. “Excuse me, miss? I was wondering if I could take your picture because I’d like to show Santa exactly what I want for Christmas.”

  Juniper fought off the urge to smile. “Please, sir, may I have another?” she said.

  “Your father must have been a baker, because you’ve got great buns,” Scrogger said.

  “That’s pretty good,” Juniper said, “It could actually work.”

  “Did you hear me earlier when I mentioned she’s my sister?” Quinn interjected.

  “Quinn, we’re just playing,” Juniper said. “More, please.”

  “If I could rearrange the alphabet, do you think U and I could be together?” Scrogger said and Juniper burst out laughing.

  “If you were a booger, I’d pick you first,” Scrogger said, then:

  “That must be a space suit you’re wearing because your body is out of this world…”

  “Excuse me, I’m new in town and I was hoping you could give me directions to your place…”

  “It’s a good thing I brought my library card with me tonight because I’m totally checking you out…”

  “Okay, stop, you win,” Juniper said. “I’ll go out with you.”

  “Over my dead body,” Quinn said a bit too seriously.

  “Accept it, man, your sister is the mayor of Woodville,” Scrogger said. Then to Juniper: “Juniper, you’re still playing the piano, right?”

  Juniper looked away and said nothing.

  “She’s taking a break,” Quinn said. “As soon as she turns 18—”

  “In less than a year,” Juniper said.

  “Then she can legally sign documents and be in control of her own accounts.”

  “I don’t get it,” Scrogger said. “What?”

  “Our dad drained all of Juniper’s accounts—every penny she’d made in appearance and recording fees from the age of five to the age of sixteen—then ran off with some bimbo he’d met on a business trip to California.”

  “He’ll come back,” Juniper said.

  “Dad is gone, Juniper. He is never coming back. I won’t let him.”

  Juniper turned her back on Quinn, leaned toward Wyatt and kissed him on the cheek. “Nice seeing you, Scroggs. We missed you.” Then Juniper hiked up her dress and started up the stairs: “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a date with a curling iron.”

  “Sorry things have been so rough for you, man,” Scrogger said after Juniper was gone. “You sure you don’t want to head out for a few beers?”

  “No, but thanks,” Quinn said. “Juniper’s date is going to be here in a half hour or so, and I’ve got to be here to give him the talk.”

  Scrogger shot Quinn a look. “The talk?”

  “Yeah, you know. The talk fathers give to their daughter’s boyfriends, the one where I threaten to kill the poor son of a bitch if he so much as looks at her wrong.”

  “You’re a good brother, Quinn.”

  Chapter Six

  From the Journal of Onyx Webb

  My name is Onyx Webb, and I have a story to tell, a number of them actually. But for now, I intend to share just one… Mine.

  Not all of it, mind you, but enough to understand the basics of my life: Where I was born, how I ended up marrying the wrong man, and why he wanted me dead. How I came to live in the old lighthouse on Crimson Cove, and—of course—how I ended up being a ghost.

  The event that changed my life, or, more accurately, ended it, occurred 75 years ago as of this writing. As far as the universe is concerned, three-quarters of a century is a very brief time.

  I should know.

  Should I choose, I can literally exist forever.

  Please notice that I didn’t say “live” forever. Living people eat food and drink wine. The living can experience fun and joy and happiness. The living can cry real tears and have human hearts that beat.

  And they feel love.

  For a ghost, none of this is possible. To make my existence even worse, there is something I must do… something ugly, something inherently evil.

  To maintain my existence in the living plane, I must…

  Kill.

  I know what you are wondering: if what I must do is so intolerable, why continue? There are two reasons:

  First, my existence—as empty and vapid as it may seem—is the closest thing to life I have, and life is a very hard thing to let go of—even in death.

  And then there is the other reason, the oldes
t reason there is. I have met a man. A man who may finally be “the one,” a man who may love me the way a woman should be loved. He is a man who may finally bring me the joy and happiness I have thirsted for.

  And he knows the truth. He knows that I am not the living woman I had portrayed myself to be.

  And yet, even with the knowledge, he still professes his love.

  He says I am everything he’s ever wanted, and that I make him feel whole…

  that he can’t live without me.

  And to prove it, he did something I am forbidden to do for myself. He gathered my bones, long scattered beneath the tall pines these many years, and buried my body. At least, the little that remained.

  How’s that for a demonstration of love?

  The question now is: Will my cold hands and dead heart be enough for him?

  Equally as important, will it be enough for me?

  Chapter Seven

  Orlando, Florida

  January 11, 2010

  Koda Mulvaney gazed out the jet’s window and could see Orlando International Airport off in the distance, the runways looking like Band-Aids, applied haphazardly in a crisscross pattern, to the wounded earth below.

  Several miles beyond was Orlando Executive Airport, where Mulvaney Properties International—MPI, for short—maintained a private hangar that housed three additional planes: his father’s Bombardier Global XRS, a Gulfstream V used as a loaner to lure corporate clients, and an old 14-cylinder, 8-passenger Boeing Vultee, which belonged to a friend of his grandfather’s whom he’d never met. To the best of Koda’s knowledge, the Vultee hadn’t been in the air in over 40 years.

  “I still don’t understand why you hate your old man so much,” Dane Luckner said, sitting in his usual seat across from Koda.

  Dane was not only Koda Mulvaney’s best friend, he was his only friend. His only true friend, at least.

  Like most super-wealthy people, Koda was surrounded by hordes of acquaintances—people who claimed they were friends—as long as the party invitations and free drinks kept coming.