Bruce came out onto the back deck carrying two glasses of iced tea to find Declan peering through a pair of binoculars.
“See anything new today?” Bruce asked.
“Yeah,” Declan said. “A snail kite and a lark sparrow.”
For Father’s Day, Bruce bought Declan the American Birding Association guide—complete with checklist—as well as Peter Pyle’s Identification Guide to North American Birds. Declan had spent six hours a day on the back deck ever since.
It was the perfect hobby for house arrest.
Two weeks earlier, Declan had filed papers claiming to have spotted a Bachman’s warbler, though—according to the book, the bird hadn’t been seen in the United States since 1962. A week before that, Declan was certain he’d spotted a Vermilion flycatcher, which turned out to be a run-of-the-mill cardinal.
Declan’s conclusion was that bird watching was more art than science. But it filled up the time.
“Dad, come sit,” Bruce said. “I want to run something past you.”
Declan set the binoculars on the table and lowered himself into the chair opposite Bruce. “What’s up?”
“Something happened in DC when I read the poem for you at Arlington,” Bruce began.
Declan shook his head. “I should have never asked you—”
“No, Dad, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Bruce said. “It’s something else. I got approached by someone who wanted to see if I was interested in running for senate.”
“The senate? From South Carolina?”
“No,” Bruce said. “Florida.”
“Florida?” Declan repeated. “Maybe they’ve changed things, but I’m fairly certain you’ve got to live in the state you’re running in.”
“Well, by the time of the election, I would,” Bruce said. “You know the building that’s going up across from our offices in downtown Orlando? 55 West? I’m thinking of buying the penthouse there. Put it in my name. That would give me residency.”
“You’re serious about this?”
Bruce nodded. “Yeah, why not? The biggest problem most candidates have is money, and we’ve got that handled. And money buys name recognition.”
Declan broke eye contact with Bruce and looked off toward the trees.
“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked. “You don’t think I’d win?”
“It’s not that,” Declan said.
“Okay, then what?”
“Frankie warned me this was going to happen,” Declan said, shaking his head.
“Frankie?”
“Sinatra,” Declan said. “He called me early one morning. Woke me up. He said, ‘Tell your son running for office is a bad idea.’ That it turned out bad for Jack and for Bobby, and that I shouldn’t let you do it.”
“When in the hell was this?” Bruce said. “Sinatra’s been dead for what? Five years?”
“Nine,” Declan said.
“Well, then how did Frank Sinatra—oh, no, please don’t say what I think you’re going say.”
“Frankie called me from the grave,” Declan said. “Think what you want, but that’s what happened. And he told me to tell you not to run for office. And now you tell me you’re thinking about running for the senate. What do you call that?”
“I call it sounding nuts,” Bruce snapped. “Is this like when you say you saw your mother standing at your bedside when you were a kid at the orphanage? It was probably just a nun.”
“It wasn’t a nun,” Declan said. “You see, this is why parents should never tell their kids a god damn thing.”
Bruce laughed and took a sip of his iced tea.
Stan Lee looked out the kitchen window and saw Declan Mulvaney out on the rear deck of the mansion again. With the exception of a few stormy days, Declan had not missed a day of bird-watching in over two months.
How ironic. In ten years, Stan Lee rarely ever saw Declan outside his house but after being sentenced to house arrest, the man was outside all the time.
That Declan got off with only house arrest still galled him. And the fine? Fifty million was a lot to most people, but to Declan it meant nothing. Other than a new fascination with bird-watching, Declan’s life hardly changed at all. Maybe Kara was right. Maybe there was no way to hurt the man without actually hurting him.
Physically.
Stan Lee had never really considered killing Declan. Nor had he considered killing Bruce or Declan’s grandson, Koda. But maybe that was the only way to get to Declan. Taking Nisa sure shook things up. Killing Bruce or Koda would get the old man’s attention.
Stan Lee grabbed his binoculars and slid the rear door open and went outside. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and focused on the two men sitting there drinking iced tea. Stan Lee wondered what they were talking about. Probably some big business deal.
It certainly wasn’t birds.
Declan gazed across the expanse toward the house across the way and saw the man was outside again. Declan had never noticed the man much before—then again, he wasn’t really looking. “We should have gotten that prick out of there a long time ago,” Declan said. “We were lazy.”
“We weren’t lazy, Dad. We were busy,” Bruce said. “There’s a difference. What was the name of the real estate woman who screwed us over? Logan something?”
“Lullaby Logan,” Declan said. “They say she jumped off a bridge. You’d think the body would float up somewhere.”
Bruce’s cell phone rang, and he answered it. “Yes, that’s good news,” Bruce said into the phone. “No, right away. Have the plane ready at eight in the morning and tell them I’ll be there by noon.”
“What was that?” Declan asked, his binoculars pointed toward the slave quarters a hundred yards away.
“You know that lighthouse in Oregon I’ve been trying to get my hands on for twenty years? It looks like the old woman is finally ready to sell.”
“That’s good,” Declan said. “I think maybe the guy next door is a bird-watcher.”
Bruce took the binoculars from Declan and pointed them at the house next door. Sure enough, the man was standing on his deck and looking through binoculars right back at them.
“If he is, he must think you and I are birds.”
“If knowing every secret in the universe matters to you, your time on earth will be a disappointment. The number of secrets is infinite; the capacity to understand is not.”
The 31 Immutable Matters
of Life & Death
Episode 21
King of the Gypsies
This Episode Dedicated to:
Matt & Ross Duffer
Twins who write and work together professionally as The Duffer Brothers, Matt & Ross are best known for their work on the series, Wayward Pines, and for creating the science fiction-horror series, Stranger Things. Yes, Diandra will be sending them a complete set of Onyx Webb books when the series is complete.
And to the following
Onyx Webb “Super Fans”…
Imani
Lieze Neven
Tirza Campbell
Without your support, Onyx would cease to exist.
Written primarily to music by:
Aerosmith
In particular…
“Sweet Emotion”
“Janie’s Got a Gun”
“Living on the Edge”
“I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing”
“Dream On”
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
AUGUST 21, 2007
If there were three things Noah had learned over the previous eighteen months visiting Onyx at the lighthouse, they were:
1)Onyx was serious about the rules—all of them—especially the rule about never going past the red step on the spiral staircase…
2)Sitting on the metal stair could become extremely uncomfortable after an hour or two...
3)There was never, ever anything to eat.
As such, Noah made it a habit to stop at Spilatro’s Place for lunch on the way to the lighthouse, usually getting a Caesar
salad to go for Onyx. Onyx was not a fan of the restaurant, even though no member of the Spilatro family had been connected with the place for years. But she seemed to like their salads, so Noah kept bringing them.
“Thank you, Noah,” Onyx said when he told her he’d brought her a salad. “That’s very thoughtful.”
“Want me to bring it up there?” Noah asked, already knowing the answer.
“Just leave it on the step. I’ll get it later,” Onyx said.
Noah set the salad down and lowered himself on the red stair. “I finally finished organizing my grandfather’s notes by date, and there’s one period that you never said anything about. It’s the three years between the time you killed Ulrich and showed up at the trial in 1942. I was wondering where—?”
“I have a bit of a problem,” Onyx said. “I was hoping perhaps I could get your advice.”
“Sure. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is money,” Onyx said. “It seems I no longer have any.”
“What about my grandfather’s money?” Noah said.
“Your grandfather was a very generous man,” Onyx said. “Without his help all these years, I’m not sure what I would have done. But now there is a sizeable tax payment due on the lighthouse. Should I be unable to come up with the funds, the state will foreclose.”
Noah was speechless.
“I’m not asking you for money, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Onyx said.
“Okay, so what then?” Noah asked.
“There is someone who has been trying to get his hands on this property for years,” Onyx said. “Have you ever heard of a man named Bruce Mulvaney?”
“I’ve heard of Mulvaney Real Estate,” Noah said. “Is that who you’re talking about?”
“Yes, they are one and the same,” Onyx said. “Bruce Mulvaney is the person who hired your grandfather to take the lighthouse away from me years ago. Bruce Mulvaney is the man who gave your grandfather the Aston Martin to come to work for him.”
“Why have I never heard any of this?”
“That is something you will need to ask your grandmother,” Onyx said. “The purpose of my bringing any of this up is I was hoping perhaps you could make a deal with Bruce Mulvaney for some small portion of the land surrounding the lighthouse, without having to sell the lighthouse altogether.”
“Can’t you just call a real estate agent?” Noah asked.
“Yes,” Onyx said. “But I trust you more.”
“How much is the tax bill?” Noah asked.
“This one is for $15,750,” Onyx said.
Noah rode his Harley into town and went to the only office supply store in town to rent the only computer in town with Internet access. After that it only took a few minutes to determine a ballpark figure for the value of Onyx’s land.
Which was worth considerably more than Noah thought.
Noah went outside to get a cell phone signal. Eventually he got two bars and dialed the number for MPI in Orlando.
Bruce Mulvaney wasn’t in.
“Yeah, give Mr. Mulvaney a message. Tell him that Onyx Webb wants to talk to him about selling her land.”
Noah left his cell number and headed back toward where he’d parked his bike. Before he could get there, his cell phone rang.
“That is good news,” Onyx said from somewhere up on the spiral staircase. Her voice sounded distant and weak. “When will you know if there is a deal to be made?”
“He’s flying in tomorrow,” Noah called up the staircase. “He’ll be here at noon.”
“I told you he’d be eager to entertain an offer,” Onyx said. “Be careful, though. He’ll present himself as sweet and charming, but beneath the cool exterior is a cunning businessman who will rip you to shreds if you allow it.”
“Wait. Aren’t you going to talk with him?”
“No, I’d rather you did it,” Onyx said. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather, as they say. I’m afraid you will be on your own.”
Another challenge, Noah thought.
Hopefully he was up to it.
“I’m like, pretty exhausted, too,” Noah said. “I was thinking maybe I could sleep over in the caretaker’s house rather than ride home in the dark, just to come all the way back in the morning.”
After a long silence, Onyx finally replied. “There is no electricity, so you would be without light or heat. And you’ll have to move things about to even find the bed. But, should you choose to stay, the key is under the flowerpot, and I believe there is a flashlight just inside the door.”
Noah had no more than placed the key in the door to the caretaker’s house when he realized Onyx wasn’t kidding about the place being a mess. The flashlight was exactly where Onyx said it would be, and he switched it on.
Fortunately, it worked.
Noah pointed the flashlight down the hall. Things were stacked everywhere: paintings, art supplies, and endless stacks of storage boxes jammed with clothing and other personal belongings. And the place had a musty smell that almost made him gag.
Covering his face with his shirt sleeve, Noah squeezed through the narrow path and followed it toward the bedrooms. He opened the first door, which turned out to be a bathroom. The next door he tried was what he assumed to be the master bedroom.
When Noah opened the door and panned the flashlight beam around the room, he was happy to find it considerably cleaner and less cluttered than the rest of the place. And the bed was accessible, with only a few boxes and stacks of clothing that needed to be moved. All of this was good news because Noah could barely keep his eyes open.
Noah tossed his wallet and keys on the nightstand and climbed on top of the quilted bedspread. He had no idea how long it had been since the sheets had been changed, and he had no desire to find out what variety of creatures lived near the beach in the summer.
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
AUGUST 22, 2007
When Noah woke up in the caretaker’s house, he could see the bedroom was not only cleaner than the rest of the house, it also looked newer. It was almost as if the walls were constructed of a different type of wood. Noah made a mental note to ask Onyx about it later.
Noah sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He was in the same clothes from the day before and felt like taking a shower. Was there running water in the caretaker’s house? Onyx hadn’t mentioned it one way or the other.
Noah knew where the bathroom was, having found it the night before. But there was no shower—only a bathtub. Noah was six the last time he took a bath, and he was pretty sure a rubber duck involved.
The shower would have to wait.
Noah went back to the bedroom to get his wallet and keys. But, as he did, he noticed several very old and weathered boxes stacked just inside the bedroom door. The side of the boxes read:
Levi Strauss & Company
San Francisco, Cal.
Lot 501XXc / One Dozen
Noah wasn’t entirely sure, but he seemed to remember hearing that vintage jeans were selling for a lot of money on eBay. Of course, nothing said the contents of the box matched the label. It could be a box of dishrags for all he knew.
Noah pulled the box from the stack, set it on the bed, took a deep breath, and pulled the lid open.
It contained blue jeans.
1937 Levi Model 501 Denim Jeans.
With the tags still on them.
Noah went to the corner and grabbed the second of the three boxes and saw it was sealed.
Noah used one of his keys and carefully sliced through the yellowed tape, and opened the box. The first box had eight pair of jeans inside. This box contained the full dozen. The third box did as well. Noah was looking at thirty-two pair of vintage Levi jeans.
Noah parked the Harley at the curb and turned off the engine. He was tempted to tell Onyx what he’d found but decided to confirm the value of the jeans first. Which is why he was back at the office supply store. Fifteen bucks per hour to use their computer seemed ridiculous, but what choice did he h
ave?
Noah got to eBay’s website and typed “1937 Levi 501 Jeans” and pressed enter. Three seconds later, the results appeared.
Current Bid: $22.00…
Current Bid: $35.57…
Current Bid: $26.88…
Noah felt the air go out of him. The bids weren’t as high as he thought they would be. Not anywhere near as high. Disappointed, Noah carefully read the description of the jeans.
Bingo.
All three pair were reproductions of the original 1937 501s—not authentic originals.
Noah went back to the search box and this time he typed in “Original Levi Strauss 1937 Lot 501XXc” and pressed enter again.
The results appeared.
Holy crap, Noah thought.
Noah looked at his watch. It was 11:25 a.m. Bruce Mulvaney would be at the lighthouse in thirty-five minutes.
Bruce Mulvaney pounded on the door of the lighthouse for the third time. For the third time no one answered. If this kid—Noah whatever his name was—was jerking him around, there would be hell to pay, Bruce thought.
“You got the kid’s number, right?” Tank called out from his position leaning against the Lincoln Town Car. “Call him.”
“I tried,” Bruce said. “There’s no signal.”
When Bruce got the message that Onyx Webb was finally willing to sell, Bruce was ecstatic. Bringing Tank along was a last second thing. The San Francisco Giants were playing a three-day home stand against the Cubs at Candlestick, which was less than an hour away in the jet. Barry Bonds was on a home run tear, setting the record for home runs in a regular season a few weeks earlier. Bruce thought Bonds was probably juiced, but so what? Records were made to be broken, and who cared if a few steroids were involved.
Onyx Webb 7 Page 13
