Onyx Webb: Book One

by Diandra Archer

  The Mohawk was not concerned.

  A fierce and fearless tribe, the Mohawks accepted any kind of work, usually involving dangerous conditions—bridges, skyscrapers, tunnels, it didn’t matter—often at below-average, non-union wages.

  In that way, Mohawk Joe and Ulrich were birds of a feather. Fortunately, the drunken Indian got off the train in Chicago as planned.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Savannah, Georgia

  June 5, 1979

  The big question, Sergent Elton Nahum thought to himself as he carried a three-foot tall, cylindrical glass container down the staircase was: Why had he kept Juniper alive so long? He hadn’t intended to.

  When the truth hit him, he refused to acknowledge it, but the truth was the truth. Or, as his mother used to say, “Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but those who act faithfully are His delight.” She’d say things like that all the time, having been raised on a farm in the middle of Wisconsin by fanatically religious parents who controlled her every move. At least, that’s how she described his grandparents.

  So she ran away and got knocked up at the age of sixteen, became a stripper and was beaten to death by the club owner for stealing money from the safe.

  Everybody’s got a story, right?

  Nahum placed the glass container on a metal rolling cart and, for safe measure, secured the container to the cart with bungee cord. The last thing he needed now was to break the only glass container he had—if he did he’d need to keep the girl alive for another two or three days until a replacement arrived.

  And that could be dangerous.

  He was becoming attached to the girl as it was.

  Okay, attached might be a bit of an overstatement, Nahum thought as he wheeled the container through the one-hundred-yard-long dark tunnel.

  He’d bought the house with no idea the tunnel even existed, discovering it by accident when he was preparing his secret room in the basement. Based on where the tunnel led, Nahum assumed it had been built during the civil war, presumably by slaves who were connecting the main plantation house to the slave quarters. Maybe they used it to move food back and forth or were planning an escape. He really didn’t care what the reason had been. He was simply glad it existed, making his secret place all the more secret.

  Nahum rolled the cart with the glass container into the room where Juniper was being held, still lying on her back, secured to the metal table with leather straps. Nahum didn’t bother addressing her—he wasn’t there to talk. He was there to prepare.

  Juniper had other plans.

  “What is that for?” Juniper asked.

  Nahum unstrapped the glass container from the roller cart and set it on a nearby table, then left. Ten minutes later, Nahum returned—this time with a brown box—which he set on the floor.

  “What are you planning to do to me?” Juniper asked. “I want to know.”

  “What I have to do,” Nahum replied.

  “What you have to do?” Juniper said. “No one has to do anything.”

  “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Nahum said. “There are many things a person must do in this world, many of them things we wish we didn’t have to. Go to school, go to work, walk the dog, brush our teeth before we go to bed. The list is endless.”

  “I’m not talking about those things,” Juniper said. “I’m talking about—”

  Nahum turned to her. “What I’m going to do is not nearly as important as why. You already know what I’m going to do—and you already know there is nothing you can do to stop it from happening. I would think the thing you’d want to know is why?”

  “Okay,” Juniper said. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I tell you what, Juniper,” Nahum said. “I’m going to show you something no one else has ever seen.”

  “What is it?”

  “My collection,” Nahum said. “I’ve been putting it together since the age of six. Do you want to see it?”

  “I’m not—okay, yes,” Juniper said. Part of her didn’t want to see whatever he was going to show her, but then she realized as long as she was doing as he asked, maybe there was still a chance.

  Nahum walked over, grabbed the metal table with Juniper on it, and rolled it to the other side of the small room where a curtain hung like a partition. He grabbed a latch on the side of the table and pulled it, adjusting the table from a horizontal position to an almost vertical one, so Juniper was upright. Then he grabbed the end of the curtain and pulled it back.

  “Take a look, Juniper,” Nahum said. “You want to know what I’m going to do to you, and more importantly, why? You’re a smart girl. Figure it out.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Murphysboro, Illinois

  March 18, 1925

  Thomas Bilazzo had driven this particular delivery route for the Murphysboro Milk Company for so long he was pretty sure he could do it with his eyes closed, which was something he wished he could do at that very moment.

  God, he was tired.

  His first child—Tommy Bilazzo Junior—had been born two weeks earlier, and getting a full night’s sleep had been impossible ever since. It wasn’t like he could simply stay in bed while his wife tended to the parental duties. She worked just as long and hard as he did, maybe more so. Returning to her job as a fourth grade school teacher after only three days of rest, Luisa had to deal with the demands of twenty-six students as well.

  But, Christ, he was tired.

  Thomas glanced down at his watch. It was 2:43 in the afternoon. He was fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Certainly there would be no harm in simply closing his eyes for just ten minutes. He steered the truck to the side of the road and turned off the engine. Ten good minutes was all he needed, he told himself, closing his eyes and relaxing back in his seat.

  And that’s when he heard the sound.

  It started as a deep hum, making him think he hadn’t turned off the motor. But he knew he had. Thomas opened his eyes, and there—on the distant horizon—he saw what could best be described as low rolling clouds, boiling up from the soil like ash erupting from a volcano. He sat upright and rubbed his eyes.

  Then, from behind the cloud of dust, it became visible: A behemoth of a funnel cloud, a twister unlike anything he’d ever laid eyes on.

  He reached for the key and started the engine as the low-grade hum grew into a vibrating rumble, which escalated quickly into an ear-shattering roar. The wind began pushing dust at him, the front edge of the giant cloud swirling in front of him, throwing rocks, sticks and leaves.

  He knew he needed to go. But where? Where could he go? The storm was all around him now, coming down on him like a freight train and twice as loud.

  Thomas looked over at the small basket on the passenger seat, a basket with a sleeping little boy in it, tucked under a small blanket.

  Today had been Thomas’s scheduled day off. But then the phone had rung. Someone had called out sick. Could he cover the route? His first instinct was to say that he couldn’t, but the thought of the extra income from the overtime was simply too enticing.

  Now, here he was with no options.

  Then Thomas had an idea.

  Ninety-seven miles northwest, Katherine Keane sat up on the sofa in the living room of her small St. Louis apartment, finding it almost impossible to breathe, fear and panic welling up in her chest.

  It happened again.

  She just had another vision.

  The visions had started twenty-one years earlier, shortly after she’d died and then been saved—or, resurrected—in Obedience Everhardt’s storm cellar.

  And they’d never stopped.

  Every few weeks she’d wake up in a panic, as she had just now, thinking she’d simply had a bad dream. And if anyone was entitled to a bad dream here and there, it was Katherine. Being held for six years as a prisoner in a crazy woman’s basement—a crazy woman who’d hit her in the mouth with a ball-peen hammer, knocking out several teeth and scaring her for life—will do that to someone.r />
  But these weren’t normal dreams. They were visions in which Katherine would literally be inside another person, seeing the world through their eyes and living their experience, including their fear, panic and pain.

  This time, she’d been napping in the front seat of a delivery truck when the rumbling of a tornado awakened her. The sight of the mammoth twister bearing down on her caused fear as thick as bile to rise in her throat, something she was all too familiar with.

  Looking down, she could see her hands on the truck’s steering wheel and knew the person in the front seat—the person she was inside—was a man.

  On the seat next to him was a small baby, a newborn. A boy, no more than a few weeks old.

  Katherine could feel the man’s love for the boy. She also could hear him thinking the boy’s name over and over again.

  Tommy. Tommy. Tommy.

  Tommy Bilazzo Junior, named after his father.

  It was as though his thoughts were her own. He quickly reviewed his options. None of them were good. There was nowhere to go… nowhere to run… nowhere to hide.

  Maybe they could get under the truck?

  Then, the thought of the large metal milk cans—the ones he delivered full of milk to the commercial accounts, to hospitals and restaurants—entered his mind.

  There were several empty ones in back.

  Thomas snatched the basket containing his son and jumped from the truck, the winds so strong he could barely fight his way through it, sticks and stones ripping at his skin.

  At her skin, too.

  He reached the back of the truck and swung the door open, exposing two rows of large metal milk cans. One row of cans was filled with milk, but the cans in the other row were empty.

  He grabbed one of the empty cans, the truck rocking violently from side to side, and opened it. Then he lifted his young baby boy from the basket and placed him into the empty can.

  Yes, Katherine thought. This is good. Don’t worry, Thomas, God will take it from here.

  Hold onto the can, Katherine could hear Thomas Bilazzo thinking. No matter what, don’t let go of the can.

  No, Katherine thought, let go. Let go!

  She felt the man’s hands begin to release their grip on the can, knowing he could hear her just as she could hear him. But his human instincts would not let him, nor would his instincts as a father.

  Thomas tightened his grip on the can again, trying to hold on as the roar of the twister battered his eardrums, the full brunt of the windy beast only seconds from reaching the truck.

  It’s going to be fine, Katherine thought loudly. Let go and let God handle it. Trust God, have trust in Him and just let go!

  “I love you, son,” Thomas said aloud. “And you, Luisa, my darling wife. I love you both so very much.” And then, in an act of pure faith, Thomas Bilazzo released his grip and allowed the force of the wind to rip the can from his hands, hurling it upward into the black, swirling sky.

  Katherine was still breathing heavily when she climbed from the sofa and went to the small kitchen of her apartment for some water. Then she grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil to write down the man’s name.

  And the message—Tommy Bilazzo.

  During every vision, there was always a message; a message she had come to trust over the years.

  She didn’t worry about the spelling being correct, for she knew it would be. God didn’t make mistakes. Ever.

  Then she wrote down the message God had sent:

  Our Lady of the Open Arms.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Orlando, Florida

  February 4, 2010

  There were four elevators in the main lobby area of the 55 West building. Three ran from the ground floor to the thirtieth floor, with a button for each floor in between.

  The fourth was a private elevator that went from the lobby directly to the penthouse on the thirty-first floor—with no other stops—and required a key.

  Koda heard the elevator doors slide open but did not move.

  He was lying on the sofa, an episode of The Real World: New Orleans on the sixty-inch flat screen TV, the sound muted. Koda knew little about the long-running reality series and nothing about any of the characters.

  And he didn’t care.

  He wasn’t watching the television—he was watching the mirror mounted next to it.

  Mika Flagler entered and surveyed the array of empty pizza boxes, crumpled-up Jimmy John’s sandwich bags, and a half-dozen empty Tito’s vodka bottles.

  “You know your mailbox is full, right?” Mika said.

  Koda shrugged and said nothing.

  Mika began rummaging through the mess, finally locating Koda’s iPhone under a cushion at the end of the sofa. She grabbed it and navigated her way to Koda’s voicemail.

  Five of the calls were from her.

  Delete.

  Six calls were from Koda’s father, Bruce, no doubt telling Koda to get his ass back to work.

  Delete.

  Some of the calls were from Dane.

  Definitely delete.

  The only call of any interest was from someone at TMZ who’d been tipped that Koda was living in Orlando. While the majority of celebrities considered TMZ, and other paparazzi-based outfits to be a nuisance, Mika considered them essential to her goals.

  Save.

  “Get dressed. We’re going out,” Mika said.

  “How’d you get up here?” Koda asked, eyes still fixed on the mirror.

  “I got the keys from your father,” Mika said. “He’s very concerned about you.”

  “My father is worried about me?”

  “Okay, check that,” Mika said. “He’s pissed as hell.”

  Koda shrugged and said nothing.

  Mika grabbed several empty sandwich bags and walked over to a garbage can and stuffed them in. “What happened to your maid service?”

  “I don’t want them here,” Koda said. “I don’t want you here either.”

  “You can’t send me away like you did Dane,” Mika said. “I’m not some old college pal. I’m your fiancé.”

  “I don’t remember proposing again,” Koda said.

  “Don’t worry, you will,” Mika said.

  In so many ways, Koda Mulvaney was less than the perfect choice for Mika’s needs. He wasn’t ambitious, lacking anything that resembled a work ethic. He wasn’t faithful and made no attempt to hide his indiscretions. And while Koda was far from dumb, he wasn’t going to be invited to join Mensa anytime soon, either.

  But in the two areas that really mattered, Koda was perfect for her. First—even though he’d managed to run through his initial $20 million trust fund in less than two years—he would have access to $2 billion when he reached the age of twenty-five. And second, he was gorgeous and looked great on Mika’s arm.

  But this mirror thing was starting to get on her nerves.

  “So, has this ghost girl of yours shown up again?”

  Koda shook his head.

  “Maybe it was…”

  “She was real, Mika,” Koda barked.

  “I believe you, honey,” Mika said, though in truth she really didn’t. “I was about to say maybe it was a one-time thing. You know, like a drive-by haunting.”

  Mika sat down on the sofa next to Koda, took his hand and placed it in hers. “You look like hell and you’ve got to eat. If this girl is real, she can come back after dinner.”

  Koda didn’t understand why, but his heart ached to see the girl again. But Mika was right, he had to eat.

  Mika leaned in and kissed Koda on the cheek. “Shave, okay?”

  Mika waited until Koda closed the bedroom door behind him and then grabbed his iPhone and pressed the number for TMZ.

  “Wear your blue Bugatti shirt,” Mika called out. “It matches your eyes.”

  Blue also photographed extremely well.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  September 8, 1934

  Las Vegas was even worse than On
yx had anticipated. She and Ulrich had been in the city for over a year, and things weren’t getting any better. The city was small, dirty, and filled with men desperate for work like her husband.

  The only paved thoroughfare in Las Vegas—Fremont Street—had just installed the city’s first traffic light. She’d gone from being free to roam a city that had everything to being trapped in a dust-filled hell-hole in the middle of nowhere.

  Of course, Ulrich had picked Las Vegas for the same reason he picked every place they’d ever lived—because he could get work. In this case, it was on the dam being built at the direction of President Herbert Hoover. Again, it would be Ulrich’s unique background as a trapeze artist that would have him earning a living at terrifying heights.

  When they arrived, the city was in the throes of chaos. The state legislature had just legalized gaming, which led to an overnight explosion of bars, casinos and showgirl theaters. Most were controlled by the Chicago mob and designed to entertain workers who flooded the town on weekends in pursuit of the three G’s: gin, girls and gambling.

  The most dangerous of the three was definitely gambling. Too much gin, you simply passed out. Too many girls? Yes, if one had too many girls, you would pass out from exhaustion.

  But gambling?

  Gambling was different.

  No matter how long you gambled, you could always gamble more—especially when you were winning. Of course, for many, they would never win because they couldn’t quit.

  Nothing could wipe away a week’s pay faster than gambling, and if a shylock got their hooks into you, your last paycheck was the least of your problems. The rule was simple—pay your debts or pay with your legs.

  Or worse.

  It was a lesson Ulrich was forced to learn the hard way.

  When he wasn’t working out at the dam, Ulrich could be found at the poker tables in one of three places on Fremont Street: Club 21, the Northern Club, or the aptly named Las Vegas Club.