It was cold, but not unlivable.
In the center of the room was what looked like a half-way decent bed, which he considered dropping himself into then and there.
Stan Lee had no idea how long he intended to stay, but if he laid low on the weekends and avoided being seen by the sheriff when he came by, he could stay for a month. Maybe more.
Which made him happy.
Zigzagging around the country, sleeping in the car, and staying in cheap motels with bad beds had worn on him. In a weird way, being there made Stan Lee feel like he was home.
But before he could rest, there was one other task that needed to be handled.
He needed to hide the car.
The sun had lifted itself further into the sky, the rays streaming through the windows enough for Stan Lee to see without the flashlight. He left it on the table in the front hallway and was unlocking the front door when he heard a noise.
Stan Lee froze.
And listened.
Then he heard the sound again. Only this time he could tell what it was.
It was the meowing of a cat.
Stan Lee turned the knob and opened the door. There, sitting on the front mat of the caretaker’s house, was a black cat with big green eyes staring up at him.
A black cat.
Stan Lee didn’t believe in omens, but finding a black cat on the front porch unnerved him even more than he was already.
“Scat,” Stan Lee said.
The cat didn’t move.
“Scat, I said,” Stan Lee said a bit louder, moving his foot toward the cat to scare it off.
Again, the cat did not move. It just sat there with its big eyes boring into him.
“Fine, let’s do it the hard way,” Stan Lee said. He took a step forward and swung his foot hard, and it went right through the creature.
Then the cat simply disappeared.
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
FEBRUARY 10, 2011
KODA AND ROBYN finished having breakfast at Pie Society, a small British bakery on Jefferson Street in Savannah’s historic district, and climbed into the McLaren.
“That was good,” Robyn said.
“Yeah, wasn’t it?” Koda said. He started the engine, glanced in the side mirror, and pulled into traffic.
“What time is your dad expecting us?”
“Not for a few hours,” Koda said. “That’s why I got us out early. I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“Hold tight, you’ll see.”
Five minutes later, Koda pulled the McLaren to the curb outside a house overlooking Monterey Square.
“What do you think of this house?” Koda asked.
“This one?” Robyn asked, looking out the car window at a large three-story house with ornate ironwork on a wrap-around porch with a set of stunning French doors. “It’s beautiful. Who lives here?”
“We do—if we want to,” Koda said. “You did say you wanted out of the penthouse.”
“Is it for sale?”
“Well, not exactly,” Koda said, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. “Come on.”
Robyn followed Koda into the lower level of the house, drinking in the surroundings and wondering what Koda still wasn’t telling her.
“It’s a bit over eight thousand square feet, with seven bedrooms and 6 ½ baths,” Koda said. “My father said it was designed by a famous New York architect in the 1850s.”
“What is that smell?” Robyn said, wrinkling her nose. “It smells like pumpkins.”
“You’ve got to admit it’s a terrific place,” Koda said, ignoring Robyn’s question. “At least it could be with a little work.”
“A little work?” Robyn repeated, raising her eyebrows.
“Well, you’re the one who said you wanted to try real estate flipping,” Koda said. “The market is tanked right now, and—”
“What does your father have to do with this?”
“He owns it,” Koda said.
“And it was just sitting empty?”
“Wyatt Scrogger was here for a couple of weeks,” Koda said. “But otherwise, yeah.”
Robyn’s eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Koda made a face and then dropped the bomb. “It was Mika’s house. My father bought it to help her out. He was letting her live here until she got back on her feet.”
“Mika?” Robyn said.
“Yeah, I know,” Koda said. “Living in Mika’s house, especially after all the shit she put you through, is probably not something—”
Robyn suddenly burst out laughing.
“What?”
“I don’t care about Mika,” Robyn said. “God, Koda—it’s not like Jack the Ripper lived here or something.”
Koda winced. “Well, there is something else.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Koda said. “Remember that limo driver who was killed?”
“That was here?”
Koda nodded. “Yeah, in the master bedroom upstairs.”
“Okay,” Robyn said. “It could be worse.”
Koda winced again.
“What? There’s something else?”
“This is also the place the Leg Collector left that woman reporter, Skylar Savage,” Koda said. “Outside on the porch swing.”
Robyn said nothing.
“I’m sorry. It was a crazy idea,” Koda said. “Asking you to live in a house that—”
“No,” Robyn said. “It’s not about me, Koda. This is about you. The same man who abducted and killed your mother left a dead body here. How could your father ask you to—?”
“I’m not sure he knows all of that—maybe he does, who knows,” Koda said. “All I know is that he’s stressed out of his mind, coping with my grandfather’s death and problems at work—not to mention seeing Chloe die and dealing with Krissy. It’s a huge weight he’s carrying, so when he asked…”
Robyn wrapped her arms around Koda and hugged him. “He’s not the only one who went through a lot lately. Call me selfish, but I’m only concerned with you—you and me.”
Koda nodded and hugged her back.
“I’ll leave it up to you,” Robyn said. “I have no problem staying here for a while and helping your dad get rid of the place. It’s really up to you. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just a house. Besides, we wouldn’t be here that long, right? What are we looking at? A few months?”
Koda shrugged. “I don’t know. Six months, a year maybe.”
“Well, if we do decide to stay here, I do have one condition.”
“What?”
“That wall,” Robyn said, pointing.
“Yeah, what about it?”
“It breaks up the natural flow of the room,” Robyn said. “If we knock it out, it will make the place look twice as big. That’s got to increase the value by at least $100,000 all by itself.”
STURGIS, SOUTH DAKOTA
FEBRUARY 13, 2011
NOAH SAT BEHIND the steering wheel of Alec’s Hummer, while Alec studied the map in the passenger seat. They’d just left Devils Tower in Northeast Wyoming. As much as Alec had hoped to climb the mountain to the spot Richard Dreyfuss had reached in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, his physical state simply wouldn’t allow it.
“According to the map, all we need to do is stay on the 14 East until we hit the 90, and then take that right into Sturgis,” Alec said. “After that, we can zing south down through Deadwood into the Black Hills National Forrest.”
“Too bad it’s not August,” Noah said. “That’s when they have the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally.”
“By August I might be gone,” Alec said. “Just passing through the town is enough to cross it off my bucket list.”
“You know what no one ever puts on their bucket list?” Noah asked.
“What?”
“Buy a bucket.”
Alec snorted. “God, I’ve never heard so many bad jokes from one person. You’re making me second-guess my decision to bring you along.”
“Did I tell you the one about—?”
“Yes, you did,” Alec said.
As expected, Sturgis was a snow-covered ghost town, but Alec spotted a place called Crazy Horse Motorcycles.
“Pull over here,” Alec said.
Noah parked the Hummer, and they climbed out, the air brisk and refreshing. “You smell that?” Noah asked.
Alec took a deep breath. “I don’t smell anything.”
“Exactly,” Noah said.
“You’re right. It’s nice,” Alec said. “Seattle used to smell like that, pine trees and nothing else. Not anymore. Too many people now. Too many cars.”
Noah pulled open the door to the bike shop and let Alec inside.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Noah said.
Noah walked across the street to a storefront with an FTD sign hanging in the window and went inside.
“Let me guess,” an old man said from behind the counter. “A dozen red roses?”
Noah was taken aback for the briefest moment, and then he saw there were at least ten people in the shop behind the man, all busy making flower arrangements.
Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day.
“You got it,” Noah said. “Can I get them to Oregon by tomorrow?”
“All depends,” the old man said. “As long as there’s an FTD or 1-800-Flowers within thirty-five miles, there should be no problem. What’s the name of the city?”
“Crimson Cove, Oregon,” Noah said.
The man pulled a book from beneath the counter and flipped through the pages. “How far is Newport from there?”
Noah had no idea what the exact distance was. “Not far.”
“Then you’re in luck.”
By the time Noah got back to the motorcycle shop, Alec was waiting in the passenger seat of the Hummer.
“What, nothing worth seeing?” Noah asked, climbing behind the steering wheel.
“It was a good shop, lots of Indians,” Alec said. “They’ve got a red-and-black ’58 Ariel Cyclone 650 for sale—if you’ve got $300,000 to burn.”
“The one Buddy Holly owned?” Noah asked.
“Same model, same production run, but no, it wasn’t the bike Buddy owned. The owner offered to let me test-ride it, but I’m just too shaky. I can barely hold a bottle of water, let alone work a throttle.”
“Does that mean we’re skipping Wall Drug?”
“Hell, no,” Alec said. “I want to get my picture taken sitting on that big jackalope statue they’ve got out front.”
“Long way to have your picture taken on a plastic jackalope. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, probably. What were you doing across the street?”
“Nothing much,” Noah said.
“Flowers for the ghost girl?” Alec said.
Noah nodded and started the Hummer’s engine.
“Tell me about her,” Alec said.
“There’s not much to tell,” Noah said.
“No, really, I want to know,” Alec said. “We’ve got eighty miles before we get to Wall. Now start talking.”
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
FEBRUARY 14, 2011 – 5:41 P.M. (PST)
CLAY STRIPPED THE skin off a third avocado, removed the pit, and dumped it in the bowl. He glanced at the recipe. Roma tomatoes, cilantro, and an English cucumber. Good luck finding any of that in the cove.
Under normal circumstances, he’d have shopped at Tom’s Grocery & Deli on Main Street in Crimson Cove. But the produce selection at the Price N’ Pride in Lincoln City was ten times better.
Not that Clay cooked—he didn’t usually—but this was a special occasion, and he’d be damned if he was going to use mushy, overripe avocados.
The occasion was Clay’s birthday—and not just any birthday. It was his fortieth.
For most people, hitting forty signaled the halfway point of life, and if you were lucky and had good genes, maybe longer. But in Clay’s situation, forty could mark the end of the line.
Because of the curse.
If the curse continued as it had for every Daniels man for the last three generations—his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather—there was no guarantee Clay would be alive twenty-four hours from now.
Clayton “Hell” Daniels died on his seventieth birthday, jumping from the cliffs to the rocks below.
Hell’s son, Clay Daniels Jr., died on his sixtieth birthday, accidently shot in the woods while out hunting.
And his son, Clay Daniels III, had fallen—apparently drunk—from the same place Hell Daniels had a half-century earlier.
One person dying on their birthday was possible.
But his son?
And then his son?
And now his son too?
Each one, ten years earlier than the last.
70.
60.
50.
40?
That remained to be seen.
Clay still had six hours and nineteen minutes to go to find out.
The origin of the curse itself was interesting—if the tale that had been passed down from generation to generation was accurate.
It all started the day Clay’s great-great grandmother, Enid, bought a watch from a band of traveling gypsies in the early 1940s on the eve of her husband’s birthday.
The gypsy wanted thirty dollars for the gold watch, which Enid considered an outrageous amount for the time—especially since she was dealing with a lying gypsy.
Enid offered twenty dollars. The gypsy woman refused and tucked the watch back in the pocket of her coat. Enid told the gypsy woman she suspected the watch was not crafted with real gold.
“You think it fake?” the gypsy woman spat. “Fine, have it for your offer.”
But when the gypsy handed Enid the watch, she grabbed Enid’s hand tightly and said:
Cursed is the one who cheats,
So, one by one, man by man,
Each who heads your cursed clan,
Will die upon his date of birth,
Each one minus ten- year’rs worth:.
Seventy, sixty, fifty, on—until the last is gone.
Enid left with the watch, thinking the gypsy woman was crazy, glad to have made the better deal.
Until Hell Daniels died on his seventieth birthday.
Maybe the curse was real after all.
Regardless, the watch remained in the family, passed from father to son. As was the curse.
Clay was no longer in possession of the watch, having thrown it off the cliffs near the lighthouse and letting it wash out to sea.
Did that remove the curse?
Clay would know soon.
He had received a birthday card from his mother a week earlier with a quote on the front that read:
“Life begins at forty.”
–W.B. Pitkin
Inside was a recipe for Clay’s favorite dish—a tomato and avocado salad—ripped from the Martha Stewart cookbook in his mother’s kitchen.
His mother loved that cookbook. The message was clear: she loved him more.
Clay picked up his phone and dialed Tara’s number for the third time. Again, she did not pick up.
Fine.
If Tara didn’t want to have Valentine’s Day dinner with him, he would have dinner alone. And—with or without her—Clay was going to do it up right, with all his favorite foods. Tuna casserole. Cornbread. Martha Stewart’s tomato and avocado salad. A big slice of German chocolate cake—and an expensive bottle of red wine. Maybe two bottles.
If this was his last full day on Earth, cost be damned.
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
FEBRUARY 14, 2011
WHAT ABOUT THE coffee table?” Robyn asked.
Koda looked over from the opposite side of the room and shrugged. “I don’t care. It’s up to you.”
Robyn pulled a red Post-it note from a pad and placed it on top of the table, adding it to furniture that would be taken out the following day and donated to Goodwill. Mika apparently had no immediate relatives an
d died without leaving a will.
“Hey, it’s ten minutes to four,” Koda said, glancing at his watch. “Time for you to skedaddle.”
“That’s just wrong,” Robyn said.
“What? That I want you out of here for a while?”
“No. For a young guy to use a word like skedaddle,” Robyn said. “My grandfather used to tell me to skedaddle. It’s weird hearing you say it.”
Koda realized he’d gotten the word from his grandfather, and it made him smile. “Well, if you stopped lollygagging,” Koda said.
Robyn shook her head and grabbed her purse. “When can I come back?”
“Between six and six thirty,” Koda said. “Not a minute earlier.”
Koda spent the next fifteen minutes dragging furniture from the living room over to the dining room on the opposite side of the house. When he was done, he was covered in sweat, but the room was empty.
Five minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Robyn was going to be very surprised.
Robyn had not intended to be out of the house and had given zero thought about how to kill two hours. She could go to the mall but wasn’t really in the mood for shopping—or crowds.
Then again, maybe she could take in a movie? She’d been hinting at it for weeks, but Koda didn’t seem interested.
Robyn pulled to a stop at a red light and watched as people crossed the street in front of her.
Including a man with a dog.
A dog.
“Of course,” the woman said from behind the counter at the humane society. “What size dog do you have in mind? Small, medium, or large? We’ve got the cutest caramel-colored toy poodle available.”
“It’s for my boyfriend,” Robyn said. “I think I’m interested in something—”
“Manlier?” the woman said.
“I was going to say bigger, but yes—that too.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” the woman said. “I have just the dog.”
Onyx Webb 10 Page 12
