Onyx Webb 7

by Diandra Archer

  Newt popped another Pringle in his mouth. Only five left now. Could he figure out what it meant in just five Pringles?

  Okay, so something was going on in Crimson Cove, Oregon, and—whatever it was—The Leg Collector wanted Newt to know about it.

  Newt had no idea what that something might be. And he probably wouldn’t until he figured out what the second anagram meant.

  Ten minutes passed, and the anagram remained unsolved.

  Newt left the final Pringle in the Ziploc baggie and sealed it. Per his internal rules, the last Pringle could not be eaten until the problem at hand was solved.

  Newt tossed his empty lunch bag in the trash and headed for the elevator. Behind him he heard someone call out, “Go back to your web, Spider Boy,” which was followed by the expected cacophony of giggles from other agents.

  It’s okay, Newt thought. Let them say what they want. Someday his theory about the similarities between spiders and serial killers would prove to be correct, and he’d have the last laugh.

  Besides, he kind of liked the nickname.

  Newt pressed the down button and then heard a girl’s voice behind him. “Ignore those guys. They’re Neanderthals.”

  Newt turned around and saw a petite brunette standing there. She was wearing a smart, school-girlish navy blazer, a starched white blouse, and brown tortoise-rimmed glasses.

  “Do I know you?” Newt said.

  “You do now,” the brunette said. “That’s how it works. My name is Maggie. I’m on loan from OSINT.”

  Newt knew OSINT was an acronym that stood for Outsourced Intelligence. Beyond that he had no idea what their function was. “Hi, I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” Maggie said. “Everyone knows who Newt Drystad is.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course they do,” Maggie said. “You know why no one talks to you?”

  Newt shook his head and waited.

  “Jealousy,” Maggie said. “And they’re scared of you. People are always afraid of things they don’t understand.”

  Newt released a nervous laugh. “What about you? Are you scared of me?”

  Maggie smiled. “Me? Why would the smartest girl at the FBI be afraid of the smartest guy at the FBI? So, are you going?”

  “Going? Going where?”

  Maggie pointed a pink-painted nail at the anagrams Newt had written on the outside of the file folder. “To the Onyx Webb Film Festival in Crimson Cove, Oregon.”

  Newt looked at the anagrams again:

  BOMBAX TWELVE SNIFFILY

  ONYX WEBB FILM FESTIVAL

  And then:

  ECONOMICS GOVERNOR

  CRIMSON COVE OREGON

  Unbelievable.

  And she’d solved it in seconds.

  Newt held out the Ziploc baggie containing the last Pringle. “Here, this is yours.”

  Maggie studied the bag for a moment. “What, did it fall on the floor or something?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Newt said. “It’s just that I always save the last Pringle until I solve the problem I’m working on, and you solved it.”

  “Huh? A single Pringle from a single guy,” Maggie said. “You are single, right?”

  Newt felt the blood rush to his face and hoped he hadn’t turned totally red. “Yeah, I’m not attached to anything—I mean, anybody.”

  “Okay, then I accept,” Maggie said, reaching out and taking the Ziploc baggie. “But two things. First, girls prefer chocolate. And second, ditch the pocket protector. Cute guys don’t need them to get a girl’s attention.”

  SUPAI, ARIZONA

  OCTOBER 30, 2010

  Quinn Cole was bent over, breathing heavy, sweat dripping from every pore in his body. “I need thirty more seconds.”

  “No, let’s go,” Graeme Kingsley barked.

  “I can’t breathe.”

  “God, you can be a whiney little joey,” Graeme said. “Remind me again—do I get my bonus for watching you rest?”

  It had been sixty-seven days since Quinn had convinced Graeme to assume the role of live-in personal trainer. Since then, Quinn was down seventy-one pounds, and his fat percentage was down from 44 percent to 33 percent—outrageous results by any standard.

  But Graeme expected no less. Quinn was obsessed with achieving his body transformation goal. As was Graeme.

  Graeme watched as Quinn pulled himself upright, just as Graeme knew he would. Even with seven years playing for the Sydney Roosters of the Australian Rugby League—and six working as a personal trainer to the rich and famous—Graeme had never met anyone who worked as hard as Quinn Cole.

  “I hate you,” Quinn said.

  “Yeah, well, if you don’t hate me at least twice each session then I’m not earning my money, am I? Now shut up and give me thirty kettle ball goblet squats,” Graeme said.

  The two-hour daily exercise sessions were just a part of the program Graeme had designed for Quinn. There were also daily psychological and mental reconditioning sessions to reprogram Quinn’s undisciplined thoughts and habits.

  Each morning Graeme had Quinn stand naked in front of a mirror and stare at himself for a full minute, asking Quinn to tell him what he saw. The first morning Quinn said, “I see a flabby, obese, tub of lard that can’t even touch his toes.”

  “Wrong,” Graeme said. “Pull your shorts up and meet me in the gym.”

  It wasn’t until day twenty-three that Quinn understood what Graeme wanted from him. “I see the strong, lean, athletic body I had ten years ago,” Quinn said.

  Graeme smiled. “Took you long enough.”

  Quinn’s daily exercises included time on the elliptical machine, power walking, swimming, the rowing machine, hiking, stair climbing, and Pilates. Cycling was not part of the program yet because Quinn was too large to sit on the seat for more than a minute at a time.

  Hydration also played a critical role in Graeme’s program, with minimum daily water consumption set at one half Quinn’s body weight in ounces—currently 165 ounces.

  Finally, there was the diet itself—designed as a detox program consisting primarily of 1,800 calories of fresh fruits and steamed vegetables.

  “I’m hungry,” Quinn whined.

  “Have a frozen grape,” Graeme said.

  The program was insane.

  And unsafe.

  And exactly what Quinn had asked for.

  Quinn had just finished a twenty-minute session on the rowing machine when the glass doors to the spa’s fitness center slid open and the resort manager entered with a folded piece of paper in her hand.

  “This was in your email. I thought you’d want to see this right away,” she said, handing the paper to Quinn.

  Quinn unfolded the paper.

  The message read:

  I made contact with Juniper. She said to tell you she knows who killed her. She also said to tell you that, in case you don’t believe it’s really her, she still has the gold ankle bracelet you bought in Myrtle Beach for her Sweet 16. Get here as soon as you can. -Koda Mulvaney.

  “We need to go to South Carolina,” Quinn said.

  “Sure,” Graeme said. “Why?”

  “It’s about my sister,” Quinn said.

  “I thought you said your sister was dead.”

  “She is.”

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  JANUARY 7, 2002

  Qnyx was about as angry and depressed as she could remember being in her entire life—or death for that matter. There were multiple reasons.

  For one thing, the film festival being held by the Dietz family had attracted horror fans and amateur ghost hunters to the coast, many of whom were unable to secure overnight room accommodations, opting to pitch tents in the woods—a number of them near the lighthouse—restricting Onyx’s ability to move about on her own property.

  More distressing was the news of Alistar’s death.

  The two situations led Onyx to contact Clay Daniels IV and insist that he come visit her at the lighthouse.

  �
��There’s only so much I can do, Onyx,” Clay said, standing at the bottom of the spiral staircase inside the lighthouse foyer. To the best of his knowledge, this was the furthest inside the lighthouse any Daniels man had ever been. “A couple of kids pitching a tent in the woods is hardly a crime.”

  “It is when the woods in question are my woods,” Onyx said from the stairs above. “My father bought the extra land around the lighthouse specifically for this reason, so I wouldn’t have to deal with people encroaching on my home.”

  “The Dietz kids have put us all under extra pressure with this damn film festival,” Clay said. “Every hotel, motel, and KOA campsite is booked up for thirty miles in every direction. Couldn’t you just—?”

  “No,” Onyx said. “I’m giving you fair warning, Clay. If anyone else encroaches on my property, I intend to pull out my shotgun and shoot them. Have I made myself clear?”

  “You don’t need to go shooting anyone to scare them off. You know that, right?” Clay said. “All you have to do is step outside in that mask and sleeve get-up of yours. I would think that would pretty much scare away most people.”

  “The people coming out here aren’t most people, Sheriff,” Onyx said. “Seeing me wearing my get-up as you call it is precisely what they’ve come out here for.”

  Clay released a long breath. “I’ll position a deputy at the edge of your property. Post some signs to let people know—”

  “The signs have already been posted,” Onyx said.

  “Well, at least there’s that,” Clay said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Onyx said. “I’m sure you heard about the accident out on Route 1 on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Sure did,” Clay said. “Hell of a mess. Had us out there all night and most of the next day. Poor son of a bitch was fried to a crisp.”

  “Well, that poor son of a bitch was my lawyer,” Onyx said. “His funeral is Wednesday, and I need to attend. As I have no means of transportation, I’d like you to take me.”

  “The sheriff’s department isn’t a cab service, Onyx. You know I can’t—”

  “The video of Claudia making her wild claims about seeing me kill your grandfather—how did the Dietz kids get that?” Onyx asked.

  “Now, come on, Onyx,” Clay said. “I’ve explained this already. We were clearing out the storeroom, and it accidently got sent over.”

  “Accident or not, you owe me,” Onyx said. “This film festival mess we’re in—it’s your fault. You will drive me to the funeral.”

  An hour after Clay left, Onyx heard what sounded like someone scratching at the outside of the lighthouse door. Then the scratching stopped. Onyx stood still, waiting to see if she heard the noise again. This time it wasn’t scratching that caught Onyx’s attention. It was the meowing of a cat.

  Onyx cracked open the lighthouse door a few inches and saw the green eyes of a cat starring up at her.

  A black cat.

  In all the years Onyx had been at the lighthouse, she could not recall ever having seen a cat—black or otherwise. Wolves? Plenty. Cats? Never.

  “What are you doing here?” Onyx said.

  The cat’s scratching and meowing had gotten Onyx’s attention, and now all the cat would do was stare blankly at her. “You got my attention,” Onyx said. “So, what do you want? Food?”

  The cat remained silent.

  “Do you belong to someone?” Onyx asked. “Are you lost?”

  The cat was not wearing a collar.

  “Do you have a name?” Onyx asked, as if the cat was somehow going to answer her.

  The cat began purring, took a step forward, and rubbed itself against the skin of Onyx’s bare leg. To the best of her memory, it was the first time Onyx had touched a living thing—either animal or human—in half a century.

  Anything that remained alive afterward, that is.

  “You better come inside,” Onyx said.

  The cat remained where it was.

  “Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Onyx left the door open a crack in case the cat changed its mind.

  It didn’t.

  Onyx made a mental note to add milk to the items she had delivered to the lighthouse two times each week. Milk and maybe a cat toy of some kind.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  JANUARY 9, 2002

  Stan Lee did not travel often. Not this far at least and rarely by plane. In general, travel was a hassle. More than that, however, was the uneasy feeling Stan Lee got when he was too far from home. Like a spider who’d gotten too far from the safety of its web perhaps?

  Additionally, he hated waiting in lines—and being the last in line really irritated him. Like now.

  Stan Lee preferred using Hertz because of their Gold Plus Rewards program, which allowed him to go directly to his vehicle. Unfortunately, there were no vans available when he’d made his reservation. Now he was forced to stand in line at the counter and talk to an agent.

  He’d also been experiencing dry skin and chaffing on his stumps recently—a reality of life for all amputees—and even standing still had become uncomfortable.

  Stan Lee had applied a generous amount of vanilla skin lotion on the plane, which he mixed and bottled himself, using his mother’s homemade recipe. As usual, people turned and watched, their faces a mix of curiosity and disgust. He was tempted to cover his lap with a blanket but decided against it.

  Stan Lee was the one who’d endured the pain of having his legs ripped off by the farm reaper followed by a lifetime of discomfort. Screw them. They could watch.

  Stan Lee watched as a short Hispanic woman, accompanied by a tall, rail-thin young man wearing thick glasses, walked in his direction.

  The woman and kid looked familiar, but Stan Lee couldn’t figure out why. Then it hit him.

  It was Pipi Esperanza and Newt Drystad from the FBI.

  Stan Lee turned and faced forward, holding his breath and waiting for them to pass. They didn’t. Instead, they got in line behind him.

  Fifteen minutes later, Stan Lee sat hunched behind the steering wheel of a dark green Toyota Corolla in the Hertz parking lot. Compared to a van, the Corolla was cramped and uncomfortable, bringing on periodic waves of claustrophobic panic—a side effect that lingered as a result of Stan Lee’s time in Dr. Lilith Pandor’s sensory deprivation program at the Dunning Asylum.

  Even thirty years later.

  But renting a van was out of the question. A van would have been too easily noticed. The Corolla was small and discreet. Stan Lee didn’t mind a little discomfort if it allowed him to follow the agents and figure out why they were in Portland. It certainly wasn’t to arrest him—if it were, they’d have already done it. No, there could only be one possible explanation.

  Son of a bitch, Stan Lee thought.

  The FBI had cracked the anagrams.

  “What do you want to do first?” Pipi asked from behind the wheel of the red Camaro convertible.

  “I didn’t think the bureau allowed us to rent sports cars,” Newt said as the chilly January wind rushed through his hair.

  “They don’t,” Pipi said with a smile. “Is it too cold for you?”

  Newt nodded. “Maybe we could put the heater on?”

  Pipi set the heater on high. “So, this is your trip. Take me through our agenda.”

  “I thought we should start by going out to the lighthouse,” Newt said. “See if we can interview Onyx Webb.”

  “What, we just knock on the door?” Pipi asked. “I’m told she doesn’t take kindly to unannounced visitors.”

  “Yeah, well she doesn’t take kindly to announced visitors either,” Newt said. “I’d rather try to catch her off guard.”

  “Okay. Your call,” Pipi said.

  When Newt went to Pipi with the idea of traveling to Oregon, he was surprised at how quickly she’d agreed. Now seemed like a good time to explore why.

  “I thought you said ghosts were strictly off limits,” Newt said.

  “Did I?” Pipi said. “Well, things chan
ge.”

  Yes, they do, Newt thought. But he decided not to push it. Not yet anyway. The primary reason he and Pipi were there was to determine why The Leg Collector had written anagrams that translated “Onyx Webb Film Festival” and “Crimson Cove Oregon” on the British girls’ torsos.

  Did he think they’d never figure them out? Perhaps. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe it was because he knew they would—and he wanted them to come.

  “And then?” Pipi asked.

  “Then we’ll go to the film festival.”

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  Onyx stood inside the door of the lighthouse and glanced at the clock. Sheriff Clay Daniels IV was supposed to drive her to Alistar’s funeral.

  And he was late.

  Five more minutes passed until Onyx heard the patrol cruiser make the turn toward the lighthouse.

  Onyx stepped outside and locked the door, pulled up her black shoulder-length gloves, and adjusted her veil. Every inch of her had to be covered for there was no way for a 103-year-old woman to explain beautiful, flawless skin.

  At the last minute, Onyx reached in the pocket of her dress and found the pin her mother, Jofranka, had left her when she died—a gold, star-shaped pin with rhinestones at the points—and pinned it to the front of her dress.

  Onyx had considered not wearing the pin, fearing it was too festive and, therefore, inappropriate.

  The bigger question, however, was how appropriate Kizzy Ashley would feel it was for Onyx to be at the funeral in the first place.

  Stan Lee remained well back from the red Camaro, careful to make sure he wasn’t seen, which was difficult since Route 99 W. had been as straight as an arrow for the last fifty miles.