Onyx Webb 7

by Diandra Archer

  Noah sold himself as brave then ran like he was scared.

  Noah made commitments, then quit when it got tough.

  Noah was the captain, but bailed when seas got rough.

  So where is Noah now, since he quit and went away?

  He’s cooking for posh hipsters with cash to throw away.

  Noah tossed his bandmates, into the proverbial ditch—

  But none of us care at all, cause now we’re f***ing rich!

  “That was the new hit single ‘Noah’s Gone’ off the debut album from the Alec Yost Band,” the announcer’s voice said over the radio.

  It wasn’t until Noah’s coworker took the knife from Noah’s right hand—and wrapped a wet towel around his bloody left—that Noah realized he’d sliced off two of his fingertips.

  ORLANDO, FLORIDA

  NOVEMBER 4, 2010

  Bruce Mulvaney hated being interrupted when his office door was closed, and everyone in the office knew it—especially his executive assistant—so when the door swung open, he knew it must be some kind of emergency.

  “The Restoring Savannah Foundation needs you to attend an emergency board meeting,” his executive assistant said.

  “The foundation? What’s the emergency?”

  “They wouldn’t say, but I got the impression it had something to do with Mika Flagler,” the assistant said.

  Bruce shook his head. He had no idea what Mika had done now, but, whatever it was, it probably wasn’t good. Which was a shame. Bruce had always been on Mika’s side, especially in her quest to marry Koda.

  Mika was everything Koda wasn’t. Ambitious. Self-motivated. Driven. And, until recently, she’d been stable and reliable. But something had changed, that was for sure.

  Bruce had noticed that Mika behaving differently lately, especially when she was around the house. She was distant. Evasive. Bruce was also still a bit peeved how seldom she’d been at the hospital when Koda was in his coma. It seemed that Robyn had been there virtually every minute of the day, but Mika? Mika had been MIA.

  And now—whatever Mika’s problem was—it seemed to have impacted her position with the Restoring Savannah Foundation, a position Bruce had recommended her for.

  Bruce had blown off the previous two board meetings, but having the foundation on his side was important to MPI’s real estate business. He had to attend. “Yeah, tell them I’ll be there. When is it?”

  “Five o’clock,” the executive assistant said with a grimace.

  “Today?” Bruce shook his head. Whatever Mika did, it must be serious. “Cancel everything on my calendar after three.”

  “I already did.”

  SAVANNAH, GEORGIA

  5:48 P.M.

  Serious turned out to be an understatement.

  “How much do you figure is missing?” Bruce asked after he’d been briefed on the situation.

  “Something north of a million,” a female board member said.

  “A million dollars?” Bruce repeated. “How did you let this happen?”

  “You mean we, right?” an older male board member asked. “You’re a board member too, Bruce. In fact, you were the one who—”

  Bruce held up his hand, cutting the man off. “Yes, I recommended Mika for board membership. I’ll take the hit for that. But I don’t remember being put in charge of financial oversight, so be careful. Okay? Now, it’s obvious you need my help; otherwise, you wouldn’t have asked me to be here. So, what do you want of me?”

  “We want to have the next foundation banquet at your place in Charleston,” the female board member said.

  “My place? First off, have you all forgotten that the event is called the Restoring Savannah Foundation? Why would we want to hold it in Charleston?”

  “We’re thinking we could go after a different donor base,” the female board member said.

  “She means a donor base that doesn’t know about how badly we screwed up,” the male board member added.

  Bruce nodded. “It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard, but, as big as the mansion is, there’s no way to accommodate even half the number of people as we can have attend. The Forsyth Park—”

  “The Forsyth Park Hotel is out,” the female board member said. “We thought they’d been paid for last year’s event, but they hadn’t. Not only won’t they host the next event, but they’re filing suit against the foundation for the $225,000 they’re owed.”

  “Okay, so move it to another hotel,” Bruce said.

  The male board member shook his head. “Can’t do it. We’ve tried. The word’s out that we stiffed the Forsyth Park. No one will agree to work with us.”

  Bruce released a deep breath of resignation. “What date are you considering?”

  “We were thinking about moving it up to December 21,” the male board member said. “It’s only six weeks away, Bruce, but we need to raise cash quick if we want to head off this lawsuit.”

  “What are we doing about Mika?” Bruce asked.

  The male board member shook his head. “You can’t get blood out of a turnip, so what’s the point?”

  Bruce squinted. “What do you mean?”

  “According to our sources, Mika Flagler’s broke,” the female board member said.

  “Worse than broke actually,” the male board member said. “Mika’s upside down to the tune of a half mil.”

  “Christ,” Bruce said. “I had no idea.”

  “None of us did,” the male board member said. “We had our lawyer send a certified letter terminating Mika’s position on the board, relieving her from her role as the event chair, and requesting a response regarding the missing funds.”

  Bruce waited. “And?”

  “She won’t come to the door, assuming she’s home that is,” the female board member said. “For all we know, she’s hopped a plane to Argentina. And now, with the DA pressing assault charges…”

  “Assault charges? What are you talking about?” Bruce stammered.

  “Where have you been, Bruce? The news is everywhere. Mika hit a reporter in the face with a pie.”

  “A pie?” Bruce snorted. “The district attorney is bringing charges against Mika for hitting a reporter with a pie?”

  “The pie was fresh out of the oven,” the female board member said. “The filling was steaming hot. And it wasn’t just any reporter. It was Domingo Gutierrez from WTOC. He’s got first- and second-degree burns all over his face. He might be scarred for life.”

  Mika couldn’t wait any longer.

  Neither could Tiny.

  The dog had been walking in circles near the back door for over an hour, but Mika couldn’t take the chance of being seen by the neighbors. The last thing she wanted was the additional shame and embarrassment of being taken away in handcuffs.

  “Just go in the hall, boy, or on the kitchen floor,” Mika said. “It’s okay, boy.”

  Tiny woofed but refused to go.

  Well, at least one of them still had standards, Mika thought as she pulled the drapes back a few inches to see if it was dark enough yet. “Hang in there, boy. Just a few minutes longer.”

  Bruce found the limousine waiting at the curb and climbed in the back seat. “Airport, correct?” the driver said.

  “No, I’ve had a change in plans,” Bruce said. “I need to go to Monterey Square.”

  The driver didn’t look happy. The change in plans would probably make him late for dinner, but he did what he was trained to do: he smiled, and he nodded.

  “And take Bull Street, not Drayton,” Bruce said.

  Drayton was faster because it was a straight shot with no squares to navigate, but Bruce loved the way the houses looked at night with their lights on. Many of the homes had been restored to their original splendor, a direct result of the work of the foundation. Others had converted into bed and breakfasts and, in a few cases, museums—like the Andrew Lowe House and the Telfair Academy.

  Bruce knew that if he didn’t live in Charleston with his father, this is where he’d move. He
certainly wouldn’t move to Orlando. Not that there was anything wrong with Orlando. He’d looked at places in Windermere, but it lacked the sense of history he wanted.

  The limousine reached Monterey Square, and the driver asked, “Anywhere in particular?”

  Bruce shook his head. “No, this is fine.” Bruce climbed out of the back and handed the driver a hundred-dollar bill. “I might be a few minutes. Just wait here.”

  Bruce glanced around and tried to orient himself. The square looked different in the dark, and it took a moment to remember which of the houses was Mika’s. Finally, he spotted the house with ornate ironwork and the wrap-around porch.

  As Bruce reached the top of the steps, his left foot went out from under him, slipping on the remains of several smashed pumpkins. Kids, no doubt, angry over not getting their treats a few nights earlier.

  The house was dark.

  Bruce banged on the door and waited.

  Nothing.

  Not a sound.

  Then Bruce heard a dog bark. As best as he could tell, it sounded like it was coming from behind the house.

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  May 25, 2005

  Declan Mulvaney was many things, but a poet was not one of them.

  Declan was invited to speak at Arlington Cemetery on Memorial Day to celebrate the sixtieth anniversary of the end of World War II. As best as Declan could tell, the invitation had been extended for two reasons.

  The stated reason was because of Declan’s heroism during the war. The unstated reason was because Declan was rich.

  Admittedly, Declan had no idea which carried more weight, but, if forced to make a choice, he believed it was the latter.

  Money talked.

  History walked.

  Declan had served as part of the reconnaissance team that had discovered thousands of pieces of art plundered by the Nazi’s and hidden in a castle in Bavaria.

  Certain circles within the U.S. Department of War believed that many of Germany’s top military leaders—including possibly Hermann Göring—were hiding in the castle. As such, they recommended an all-out air campaign to level the place.

  Others believed the Neuschwanstein Castle was being used as a storage depot for plundered art. Walt Disney went to the White House and personally lobbied the president to save the castle—a structure so beautiful, Disney contended, that he planned to build a replica of it as the centerpiece for a future theme park.

  There was reason to believe both groups were correct, placing Franklin Delano Roosevelt in the unenviable position of making one of the most difficult decisions of the war: Bomb the castle and take out Hitler’s leaders, risking the irreversible destruction of thousands of humanities most valued treasures, or don’t bomb, saving the art but running the risk that Hitler’s top men would escape and continue their march toward world domination.

  The answer came down to intelligence. Were the Nazi leaders hiding out in the castle? Was Europe’s plundered art being stored there? Were both things true? Neither?

  That’s where Declan came in. He was chosen for the six-man advance team to scale the mountainous walls surrounding the castle and report the findings back to Washington.

  As difficult as the assignment had been, it was nothing compared to the task before him now—finishing the poem he’d started writing for the occasion weeks earlier.

  Honor pledged, and promises kept

  Your souls turned over to the night,

  While those you loved, they sat and wept

  O’er coffin draped: red, blue, and white.

  It wasn’t Shakespeare, but at least it rhymed.

  Declan put down his pen, having no idea that exactly forty-three minutes later his world would turn upside down, and the poem he was writing would be the least of his concerns.

  Declan learned something about the FBI that day. The first was that when they’d come to help—like they had twelve years earlier when Nisa went missing—they were quiet, discreet, and well-mannered. When they arrived with a warrant to search the premises, however, they were loud as hell and as mean as dogs.

  “Declan Mulvaney?” the agent holding the warrant asked.

  “Yes, may I ask what this—?”

  “No, you may not,” the agent snapped. “We have a warrant to search the premises. Please step aside.”

  Tank appeared behind Declan at the door.

  “That means you, too, sir,” the agent said.

  Declan made a hand gesture for Tank to comply, and the big body guard did as he’d been instructed.

  Tank counted the agents as they filed past into the house. “Fourteen,” Tank said. “I could have probably taken ten of them but fourteen? Fourteen’s a lot.”

  Declan didn’t know much about the inner workings of the FBI, but fourteen agents did seem like a lot—a complete matter of overkill, regardless of what they were looking for. To the best of his knowledge, no one in the house was doing deals with a Columbian drug cartel. What could they possibly be looking for that required such a show of force?

  Unless…

  Declan released a long breath and looked out the door to see a line of media trucks pulling up the driveway toward the mansion.

  “You want me to call Bruce and get him back here?” Tank asked.

  Declan shook his head. Bruce was in California finalizing a deal on a winery and interrupting him would serve no purpose. “No, just hang back and let them do what they’re going to do anyway,” Declan said.

  Declan went to his study and dialed his lawyer, who answered on the first ring. Declan rarely called the man, and only when it was extremely important.

  “Listen closely,” the lawyer said after Declan explained the situation. “Starting this second, you do not say another word, understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Apparently not,” the lawyer said. “I mean, not even to me. Understood?”

  Declan stayed silent this time.

  “Good,” the lawyer said. “The FBI has the authority to search the premises, but only the areas specified in the warrant. With any luck, they search in places they’re not allowed to, which will give us the ability to get whatever they find thrown out in court—not that there’s anything to find, right?”

  Declan remained silent.

  “Good,” the lawyer said again. “Next, they do not have the authority to make you answer their questions. Most of these guys have backgrounds in law, and they’re trained to make people feel scared and guilty, so no matter what they ask, you stay as mute as Helen Keller. Got it?”

  Declan remained silent.

  “Good,” the lawyer said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  The lawyer hung up.

  Declan hung up the phone and an agent walked into the study.

  “Mr. Mulvaney, would you care to join me downstairs? I’d like to ask you a few questions about your art collection.”

  Declan remained silent.

  Declan knew he might be going to prison, but it sure in hell wasn’t going to be because of something he’d accidently said to the FBI.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  JULY 19, 2005

  Onyx glanced up at the sky and could tell that sunset was less than an hour away. She went to the caretaker’s house and grabbed a roll of medium-texture cotton stretched canvas, which she triple-primed herself with acid-free gesso.

  It took longer to prime the canvas itself—considerably longer—which was the point. Money had been tight for most of her 107 years on the planet, but she’d always had plenty of time.

  Onyx exited the caretaker’s house with the canvas roll under her arm, carrying the brass oil can in her other hand—the same oil can she’d carried to the top of the lighthouse every night since the day her father died fifty years earlier.

  It also happened to be the same oil can she’d used to bludgeon Ulrich over the head and douse him in oil before setting him ablaze. Of course, she had no idea Ulrich was still alive when she dropped the match on him.

&nb
sp; A second later it was obvious.

  Onyx climbed the 103 steps to the top of the lighthouse, counting each step as she went as if one day the number would be different—which it never was. And, as was the case for the past three years, the black cat followed her every step of the way.

  For several months after its arrival, the cat refused to go beyond the red-painted stair, making Onyx wonder if perhaps the cat was the reincarnation of Alistar Ashley. The cat had, after all, appeared on her doorstep mere days after Alistar’s tragic accident. Of course, Onyx had no way of knowing. She’d been dead for sixty-seven years and still did not know everything about being a ghost—what was she supposed to know about reincarnation?

  Onyx poured the lard oil in the lamp bowl and put a match to it, the flame igniting with a whoosh. Then she cut a two-foot by three-foot length of canvas from the roll and secured it to a thin wood board with masking tape and placed the board on the easel.

  Onyx gazed through the glass windows at the sunset developing before her and set about choosing the colors she wanted to use: diamond blue, colonial white, meadow mist green, vermillion red, soft marigold, almond flower, mustard seed, burnt sienna, golden glow yellow, and steel gray.

  To Onyx, there was nothing more beautiful than a sunset.

  She’d read about the technical reasons why the light at sunset was different than at any other time of day—how, because the sun was low on the horizon, the light passed through more of the Earth’s atmosphere—which caused the scatter effect of colored violet and blue light, permitting the vibrant colors of yellow, orange, and red to continue on their path to the eye.

  Per Onyx’s calculations, she’d witnessed over twenty thousand sunsets since she’d died. With the exception of a thin line of vermillion red that lasted for the final two or three minutes before the sea swallowed the sun, every sunset Onyx had seen was nothing more than shades of black, white, and gray.