Onyx Webb 7

by Diandra Archer

  Noah suddenly remembered one of his grandfather’s favorite sayings: “The pain passes, but the beauty remains.”

  Noah finally understood what he meant, making his left hand into a fist and squeezing it. True to his doctor’s word, the pain had passed. The tips were still a bit numb to the touch, but there was no pain.

  But the bike remained.

  All in all, not a bad trade—not that he’d want to do it again.

  The distance from the house to the Crimson Cove lighthouse was 160 miles—about three and a half hours on the motorcycle. But Noah didn’t mind. It was the first time he’d ridden any distance over a few miles, and every minute of the trip was a joy.

  Noah remembered making the trip once before. It was the day after he’d lost control of the band to their new lead singer, Alec Yost. Noah hopped on his old Suzuki and rode the entire day—first heading north to Astoria and then back down the coast until he saw the Crimson Cove lighthouse sitting majestically on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific.

  And then—quite by accident—Noah ended up at the Onyx Webb Film Festival.

  It was strange seeing the old black-and-white film clips of Onyx’s murder trial from the early forties. It was almost like watching a documentary on the History channel. And then there were the other two films made by George Dietz, the guy who owned the theater.

  The first film was of the woman in the cemetery at night, who George claimed was the ghost of Onyx Webb. The second was the statement by the Spilatro woman, Claudia, claiming she’d watched Onyx kill the local sheriff and throw his body from the cliff.

  As far as Noah was concerned, both films were bullshit.

  Onyx defended herself in court, and she sure didn’t look like a ghost. And as far as Claudia Spilatro was concerned, they arrested her for attempted murder and sent her away for twenty years. Anything she had to say was probably a lie.

  The only thing Noah knew for sure was that Onyx Webb was an extraordinarily beautiful woman.

  And the guy in the Lieutenant Dan outfit agreed.

  “That Onyx, she’s a badass,” Lieutenant Dan said as they left the theater that night. “I got a picture of her when she was six years old taken at the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair. Cute as a bug even then. How about you and I go get ourselves a beer?”

  Noah remembered pounding down a few pitchers of beer with the man and then—the next thing he knew—it was morning. He was in a motel room, lying on one of two twin beds, soaked in sweat—with no memory as to how he got there.

  Then Lieutenant Dan walked out of the bathroom wearing prosthetic legs rather than rolling out in his wheelchair.

  “We had ourselves some fun last night, didn’t we, sport?” he said. “I got an early flight back to Charleston, but you—you just take your time, you hear? Check out time isn’t until noon.”

  The road to the lighthouse was hard to see—more of a driveway than a road really. But Noah finally found it. He was still a good 150 feet from the base of the lighthouse when he heard the distinctive sound of a shotgun blast.

  Noah squeezed the brakes and the bike came to a stop—then he noticed a woman standing on the steps of the lighthouse, holding a shotgun. “Hello,” Noah called out. “Are you Onyx Webb?”

  “You’re on private property, whoever you are,” the woman called out. “It’d be best if you just turned yourself around and went back the way you came. I’ve got another shell in the chamber and several more in my pocket.”

  Noah climbed off the bike and pulled off his helmet.

  “My name is Noah Ashley,” Noah said. “You knew my grandfather, Alistar.”

  Noah watched as Onyx looked him over and then slowly lowered the shotgun. “Give me five minutes,” Onyx called back. “Then you may come in.”

  Noah pulled on the large lighthouse door and entered the foyer of the lighthouse. The inside of the structure was bigger than it looked from the outside. The walls were covered with paintings, and a grand piano sat in the center of the room.

  “I’ve got several ground rules for anyone who enters the lighthouse,” Noah heard Onyx say from somewhere above him on the spiral metal stairwell.

  “Let me guess,” Noah said. “The first rule of fight club is you don’t talk about fight club.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry. I know the rules, Onyx,” Noah said. “First and foremost, under no circumstances am I allowed to go beyond the red stair. Second, no recording devices. If I want to make a note, I can write it down on paper the way people did it back in the stone age.”

  “I see,” Onyx said. “So your grandfather spoke of me?”

  “No, he never said a word about you,” Noah said. “I wonder why that is.”

  “So how do you—?”

  “When my grandfather died, he left me a box of his notes,” Noah said. “I’ve been reading through them. It’s—riveting.”

  “Your sarcasm is noted,” Onyx said.

  “No, I wasn’t being sarcastic,” Noah said. “I think the things you shared with my grandfather are amazing. I’m reading every word, but there’s a lot more to go.”

  “That explains why you broke the third rule then,” Onyx said. “Your grandfather and I had an understanding. He was never to show up at the lighthouse unannounced. Technically, it was within my rights to have shot you for trespassing.”

  “How else was I supposed to contact you?”

  “The way people did it back in the stone age, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx said. “Written words on a piece of paper, dropped in the post with a stamp. I know the post office isn’t as efficient as it once was, but I believe it still operates.”

  “Yeah, well I just happened to be in the neighborhood,” Noah said.

  “The lighthouse is in a very remote location, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx said. “No one ever just happens to be in the neighborhood.”

  “Call me Noah.”

  “I prefer calling you Mr. Ashley.”

  “Yeah, well I prefer meeting with people who don’t hide themselves at the top of stairwells,” Noah said.

  “Very well, Noah,” Onyx said. “Are you a tea drinker?”

  “No, but I’ll take a Diet Coke or a Dr. Pepper,” Noah said.

  “I’m sorry. This is not a convenience store. I’m afraid your choices are limited to coffee or tea,” Onyx said.

  “That’s okay. I’m good,” Noah said.

  “Very well. Now, please tell me why you are here.”

  “The big question has been answered already,” Noah said.

  “Being…?”

  “Are you still alive?”

  “Well, aren’t you the charmer? Does a line like that work with the ladies these days?”

  “Only the ones who are still alive,” Noah said.

  “And what conclusion have you reached in my case?” Onyx asked. “Am I alive?”

  “That’s a good question,” Noah said. “I mean, 107 is pretty well up there—but I’m leaning toward yes.”

  “There are a lot of people around the cove who would gladly tell you otherwise,” Onyx said.

  “Yeah, I know. I was at the film festival.”

  “Oh, I see,” Onyx said. “What was your favorite part?”

  “The trial was cool, but the part where you killed the sheriff and dropped him off the cliff was gnarly.”

  “Gnarly?”

  “Outrageous, extreme, radical,” Noah said.

  “And what if it happens to be true?” Onyx said.

  “True that you killed the sheriff?”

  “No. That the people in town are correct—that I am indeed dead.”

  “Well, if you were, I could publish your stories,” Noah said. “Couldn’t I?”

  From the Journal of Onyx Webb

  January 9, 2006

  Today marks the fourth anniversary of the day I attended the funeral of my friend and lawyer Alistar Ashley and watched as his casket was lowered into the ground and covered with dirt.

  That was also the day I saw Alistar’s grands
on, Noah.

  My encounter with Noah was brief but memorable.

  So was meeting Alistar’s wife.

  I imagine the slap was hard enough to hurt. I wouldn’t know.

  Now, Noah has come to visit me here at the lighthouse.

  And I had the same feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  The feeling of want…

  The same twinge of excitement…

  The flutter of the heart…

  The stirring of emotion.

  The visit has filled me with both hope and fear.

  These feelings are so strong they have almost made me remember what it was like to be alive.

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  NOVEMBER 13, 2010

  I still don’t understand,” Quinn said. “What makes you think this time will be any different?” Robyn didn’t have an answer and looked to Koda for help.

  Koda sat in the chair next to Quinn and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, Quinn. We’re not experts in the paranormal or the afterlife. We just got pulled into it.”

  Quinn was starting to wonder if he’d misjudged the situation. Maybe Koda Mulvaney was crazy—or maybe this was some kind of sadistic game.

  Five straight days in a row the three of them had climbed the stairs to the second-floor guest room and sat there, waiting hours on end for Juniper to appear.

  As of yet, she hadn’t.

  Not once.

  “Why don’t I just take Quinn into Loll?” Koda asked.

  “No way!” Robyn said. “No one is going anywhere without Gerylyn being here.”

  Quinn pulled himself out of his chair and approached the mirror, placing the palm of his right hand against the painted glass—and his hand went right through it, all the way up to his elbow as if the glass was not even there.

  Quinn released an audible yelp, more from surprise than from any kind of pain, and he tried—without success—to pull his arm free from the glass. He tugged harder, but whatever it was inside the mirror refused to let him go.

  Koda stepped forward and grabbed Quinn’s elbow, pulling as hard as he could, but he could not pry Quinn’s arm loose either.

  Then—all of a sudden—whatever it was let go, sending Quinn and Koda flying backward to the floor. Koda jumped up and helped pull Quinn to his feet.

  “Oh my God,” Robyn said. “That’s a new one.”

  “No kidding,” Koda said. “What in the hell was that?”

  “I think it was a message,” Quinn said.

  “A message?” Robyn said. “A message from who?”

  “From Juniper,” Quinn said, holding out his hand. In the center of his palm was the gold ankle bracelet Juniper had been wearing the night she went missing.

  Seconds later, the ankle bracelet dissolved, leaving nothing but tiny grains of gold dust in the palm of Quinn’s hand.

  Robyn volunteered to stay in the guest room to monitor the mirror on the outside chance Juniper decided to appear, while Koda and Quinn went to the fitness center for their afternoon workout session with Graeme.

  With Koda’s recovery weeks ahead of where the doctors had projected, Koda made the unilateral decision to discontinue working with the physical therapist, opting for daily sessions with Graeme instead.

  Koda now wondered if he’d made the right decision. He’d never experienced anything as painfully exhausting as his work with Graeme—until each following morning, that is. He could only imagine what Quinn must have felt like the first few days after he started his sessions with the demanding trainer.

  “Hey, how’s my little roo doing?” Graeme called out when Quinn and Koda entered the fitness room. Koda knew the comment was directed at him, not Quinn. “Still got the DOMS?”

  DOMS was an acronym that stood for Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness, an effect that occurred twenty-four to forty-eight hours after strenuous physical activity that resulted in thousands of small, almost microscopic tears in the muscle—followed by mild inflammation and limited pain. Mild and limited, my ass, Koda thought.

  “Stop calling me roo,” Koda said.

  “No problem, mate,” Graeme replied. “As soon as you start acting like a grown-up boomer, I’ll stop calling you roo.” Graeme approached Quinn and asked, “What about you, Quinny Bear. You ready to go, or do you want to chuck another sickie?”

  “I was ready five minutes ago. I’m just waiting for you lovers to quit pashing on each other.”

  Graeme smiled. “Pashing? Not bad, Quinn. We may make an Ozzie out of you yet. Now, how about you two bludgers grab a kettle ball, and let’s tear some muscle.”

  When Koda and Quinn got back to the second floor of the mansion after their workout, they were surprised to find Robyn standing outside the guest-room door.

  Koda noticed the serious look on Robyn’s face. “Everything okay?”

  Robyn nodded. “I didn’t want you to just walk in without knowing.”

  “Knowing what?” Quinn asked.

  “Juniper’s back,” Robyn said.

  “That’s great,” Koda said. “Did you ask her where’s she’s been?”

  “Yes. She said she had to stay away because she was being followed by the Shadow People. She didn’t want to draw them here to the house if she could avoid it.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” Quinn asked.

  “We’ll explain it later,” Robyn said. “Right now, Juniper wants to see you, Quinn. Alone.”

  * * *

  Quinn kept his eyes lowered as he stepped into the guest room and pulled the door closed behind him. He realized that—while he’d fantasized about having the opportunity to see his sister one more time—he was completely unprepared to do it now that the chance had presented itself.

  “Hello, Quinn,” he heard a female voice say. His breath caught—he recognized the voice immediately.

  Quinn raised his eyes and saw her image floating in the mirror. There was a transparency to the image, almost as if she were on film or a hologram. But it was her. This wasn’t some cruel hoax or elaborate prank. There was no doubt in Quinn’s mind: it was Juniper.

  Quinn’s mind was instantly transported back thirty-one years to that evening—Juniper in the same pale blue prom dress she was wearing now.

  So young.

  So beautiful.

  So innocent.

  Quinn remembered how young he was, too, with no idea of the tragic event that lay ahead—and how it would change him forever.

  “Oh, Juniper, I, I—”

  Tears rolled down Quinn’s cheeks. He couldn’t finish.

  “Come closer, so I can see you,” Juniper said.

  Quinn walked slowly to the mirror, fearing that if he moved to quickly she’d suddenly disappear.

  Quinn reached his hand toward the mirror, and Juniper took a step back.

  “Sorry. We better not,” Juniper said. “Bad things happen when I get too much energy.”

  “Oh,” Quinn said.

  Juniper leaned forward, and her face came through the glass, and she looked Quinn over. “You look good. Older, but good.”

  Quinn smiled and shook his head. “You always were a good liar. I look like shit.”

  “Trust me, you look—”

  Juniper stopped mid-sentence and glanced over her shoulder. “I’m going to have to go.”

  “Because of the Shadow People?” Quinn asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What do they want?”

  “I’ll explain more the next time,” Juniper said.

  “When? When will I see you again?” Quinn asked.

  “Soon.”

  “Just tell me this—was it Wyatt?” Quinn asked.

  “Wyatt? What about Wyatt?”

  “Was Wyatt the person who killed you?” Quinn asked. “I’ve got to know. It’s important.”

  “No, of course not,” Juniper said. “What would make you even ask a question like that?”

  “Nothing,” Quinn said.

  Juniper glanced over her shoulder again. “Th
ey’re here. I’ve got to go now.”

  “Go,” Quinn said. “Be safe.”

  The mirror went dark and Quinn lowered himself into one of the two large chairs in front of the mirror, angry at himself for what he failed to say—that he loved her—and equally as angry for what he had said. He’d actually just told his dead sister to be safe.

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  AUGUST 21, 2007

  Declan was seven months into his house arrest, wearing an ankle bracelet over a sock that itched like mad. But in the big scheme of things, he knew he’d gotten off easy.

  Martha Stewart had finished a five-month stint at the federal prison camp in Alderson, West Virginia, a year earlier—followed by a two-year term of supervised release during which she was forced to wear an electronic monitoring device, though Declan was pretty sure Martha had decorated hers. All for a measly couple hundred grand.

  Yes, Declan had gotten off easy.

  The big question that everyone wanted an answer to was: why did you do it? Declan had all the money in the world and could have purchased anything he wanted. So, why did it have to be that specific art?

  The answer wasn’t sexy, and it certainly wasn’t what people expected it to be. It wasn’t even what Declan expected it to be. He’d convinced himself that he’d bought the stolen art because he loved art, and that by owning it he could go downstairs to his secret little room, sit in his chair, and drink in the beauty anytime he wanted.

  The truth was Declan bought the stolen art because it once hung on the walls of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins—all of them loving the art—and loving each other.

  The art had hung in a home. It was part of a family.

  The two things Declan wanted most.

  As irrational as it sounded, owning the art helped fill an otherwise unfillable hole inside of Declan. In retrospect, of course, it would have been cheaper to see a psychologist.