Onyx Webb 9

by Diandra Archer

  No matter what Quinn said or did, the answer would be the same.

  Quinn could ask a thousand times and the answer would always be the same.

  No.

  Their code was designed to justify acts that were clearly unjustifiable in any world in which Juniper wished to be.

  Juniper finished the note and placed it on the table. When she looked up, there he was—the dark force, the shadow man.

  Waiting.

  For her.

  “Who are you?” Juniper asked.

  “I am no one,” the dark form said. “I’m nothing—part of the void, an extension of the emptiness.”

  “What do you want?” Juniper asked.

  “What do you think?” the dark form rumbled.

  “I don’t know,” Juniper said.

  “Of course, you do,” the dark form said. “I want you, Juniper. You and your light.”

  Juniper rushed forward and slammed herself into the dark entity with all the force she could muster. Caught off guard, it grabbed her by the arm while stumbling backward and slamming full force into the mirror.

  The next thing Juniper knew she was back in the grayness of Loll, and the dark entity was nowhere to be seen.

  But Juniper knew he was there.

  Lurking in the shadows—a shadow himself blending in with the darkness like black paint on an all-black canvas—waiting patiently for another chance to emerge.

  Juniper knew she couldn’t stay in Loll. It wasn’t safe. The darkness made it impossible for Juniper to hide. She had to move on. But how?

  And to where?

  She needed help from someone who could tell her what to do. And the only person Juniper knew who might be able to do that was the blind woman—Gerylyn Stoller.

  Yes, that was her only option.

  Gerylyn might be able to tell her what to do. Which meant she had to go back to the living plane.

  She had to go back to the mansion.

  8:03 P.M. EST

  THE SAUNA ROOM AT THE MULVANEY MANSION

  QUINN COLE STEPPED out of the sauna next to the gym on the lower floor of the Mulvaney mansion and walked straight to the scale, dropped his towel, and climbed on. He weighed 273 pounds. The day Quinn hired Graeme Kingsley to be his personal trainer—on August 23 of that year—he tipped the scale at 407.

  Quinn dropped 134 pounds in 120 days.

  If Quinn lost another forty-six pounds in the next sixty days, he’d hit his goal of losing 180 pounds in 180 days. In doing so, he’d also owe Graeme an additional $100,000 bonus. It was a bonus Graeme intended on earning, and Quinn intended to pay.

  Quinn grabbed a fresh towel and headed back to the sauna. Once inside, he wiped the face of the clock with the towel to see what time it was and then sprinkled some water on the hot rocks and settled himself on the wooden bench. He needed to drop another five pounds if he wanted to button the tuxedo he rented for the evening.

  It was just after eight. Dinner wasn’t until nine. He had plenty of time.

  Unlike Wyatt.

  Quinn had failed Wyatt completely. With any luck, the governor would show up as planned, and Quinn could convince him that Wyatt was an innocent man.

  It was the last chance Quinn had for anything resembling redemption.

  8:06 P.M. EST (5:06 PST)

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  ONYX STOOD NEAR the window at the top of the lighthouse, painting yet another sunset on the cove.

  As with the previous 26,283 sunsets, the only color Onyx could detect was crimson red, like the name of the cove itself. The other colors she would paint from memory.

  Other than a single thin line of crimson red—a color present in every painting Onyx had ever done—the other colors were nothing more than varying shades of gray to her.

  Like her life had become after Noah left—every day the same, little more than different shades of gray.

  All those years spent with Ulrich, working to pretend that she loved him—when deep down she knew she didn’t—had been hard. Now spending her days pretending that she didn’t love Noah when she really did turned out to be even harder.

  Onyx finished the painting a few minutes after the sun sank into the depths of the ocean and darkness began eating away the final bits of sunlight in the distant sky.

  Like every other painting, Onyx would give it to Tara to sell. Tara would describe the painting in the most romantic terms—how the artist mixed and shaded each hue to enhance the impact on the human eye, as if each color was an ingredient in an exotic dish at an overpriced restaurant.

  Tara’s arrival had been nothing short of a miracle. Yes, Onyx had reservations about Tara’s past gambling problem—especially after dealing with Ulrich’s gambling in Las Vegas and subsequent stealing from the mob.

  Onyx shuddered at the memory of the Spilatro brothers catching up with them at The Palace hotel in San Francisco, with Ulrich tied to that chair, covered in blood.

  In retrospect, Ulrich deserved that and more. She should have let them have another five minutes before stepping in to save him.

  Now Onyx was no longer concerned with Tara. Tara had assured her that she had her gambling under control, and Onyx had no reason to doubt her.

  The only woman Onyx was concerned with now was the woman from the restaurant.

  Ellen.

  Onyx walked to the other side of the room and looked out the window across the clearing, in the direction of her father and Katherine’s graves.

  No one was there.

  For now.

  8:15 P.M. EST

  OUTSIDE YANCEYVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

  MAGGIE DROVE SOUTH on Route 86, having left Lynchburg an hour earlier for Charleston. Newt studied the GPS map on Maggie’s cell phone. “Take the 158 east toward Roxboro, and then we’ll drop onto the 501 south toward Durham.”

  Maggie flipped on the turn signal and took the exit as instructed. Other than brief discussions about things like which road to take, she and Newt hadn’t really talked since they’d left Lynchburg.

  “I’m surprised you have to keep checking the GPS,” Maggie said. “You used to be able to glance at a map and memorize the entire thing in a second or two.”

  “I took my meds before we left.”

  “You did? Why?” Maggie asked, though she thought she knew the answer. He’d taken them because of her.

  “Tell me about this guy you’re going to marry,” Newt asked.

  “You think that’s a good idea?” Maggie asked.

  Newt shrugged. “I’m not sure. Do I know him?”

  Maggie shook her head. “No. He started after you quit.”

  “So, he works at the bureau?”

  Maggie nodded.

  “And that’s how you met?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he any good?” Newt asked.

  “You mean is he smart?” Maggie asked.

  “No, I’m asking if he’s good in bed,” Newt said sarcastically.

  “Yes, he’s smart,” Maggie said. “Not as smart as you, but, then again, who is?”

  “Do you live together?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  After another long silence, Newt asked the question he’d wanted to ask for three years. “Why did you do it?”

  “Why does anyone get engaged? He asked me and—”

  “No, not that,” Newt said. “I mean the plan you and Pipi concocted. You pretending to like me so she could keep tabs on me.”

  “You’re right, Newt. Pipi used me, and I went along,” Maggie said. “But, believe it or not, Pipi cares about you.”

  “No,” Newt said, shaking his head. “There’s only one thing Pipi cares about, and that’s keeping her secret.”

  “What secret?” Maggie asked.

  “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

  “No way,” Maggie said. “You brought it up. What secret?”

  Newt knew he was trapped. “Do you remember the note I gave you to use as leverage against Pipi?”

  “Yeah, I
remember.”

  “Did you look at it?”

  “You didn’t seal it.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Newt said. “Have you figured out what 4-1-9-9-5 means?”

  Maggie shook her head. Newt was surprised. He thought for sure Maggie would have worked it out.

  “When you showed Pipi the note—how did she react?”

  “She looked scared,” Maggie said. “What is it about 4-1-9-9-5 that—”

  That’s when it hit her. Until then Maggie had only read the numbers on the paper, but now—saying it out loud—it was suddenly obvious. It was a date.

  April 19, 1995—4/19/95.

  “Oklahoma City?” Maggie said.

  Newt nodded.

  “The bombing of the Murrah Federal Building.”

  Newt nodded again.

  “What are you saying?” Maggie asked.

  “I’m saying that your boss—the deputy director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation—is dead. Pipi Esperanza is a ghost.”

  Maggie looked straight ahead, concentrating on the road and trying to process the insanity of what Newt was saying.

  “Do you really think Pipi wandered around the streets of Dallas and Houston in a state of amnesia? For three years? Come on, Maggie. Think about it.”

  Maggie said nothing.

  “Oh, and how about this. Do you remember when we arrested the gypsies for killing the boy? Why do you think Pipi allowed Loiza and his group to walk?”

  “God, I hope this is the meds talking. You want me to believe that Pipi is a ghost? You sound completely insane.”

  “Insane, huh? Okay, I’ll prove it to you.”

  “Prove it to me? How?”

  Newt grabbed Maggie’s cell phone and flipped through the directory until he found Pipi’s number and pressed call.

  The call went straight to voice mail.

  “Pipi, this is Newt. I’m with Maggie, and I told her that you’re a ghost—that you’ve been dead for the past fifteen years. Along with me, that makes two people who know the truth now. If you don’t want me to add the director to the list, call us back.”

  Newt hung up the phone.

  “You’re out of your mind,” Maggie said.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

  8:19 P.M. EST

  MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

  PIPI ESPERANZA HAD just finished seeing a movie, having taken a rare sick day. Ghosts never got sick, of course, which was exactly why she needed to take a sick day every now and then. To never call in sick would be tantamount to hanging a sign that read ghost around her neck.

  Pipi sat around most of the day, reading books and watching television. Then, despite having called out ill, she found herself catching up on bureau paperwork. It had to get done sometime.

  Eventually, Pipi decided to head out to a movie.

  The movie turned out to be bad—but what happened afterward was worse.

  As she was walking to her car, Pipi heard loud groans coming from a vehicle several rows behind her. An elderly man was having a heart attack, and she couldn’t let the opportunity pass.

  She should have.

  Seconds after she finished taking the old man, Pipi looked up to see a college-aged woman standing there, staring at her through the windshield.

  The girl took off running.

  The code should have been enough for Pipi to let her go, but the fear that the girl could identify her was too great.

  Pipi jumped from the car, leaving the old man slumped over the steering wheel, and took off after the girl.

  The girl raced down the line of cars, darted between two SUVs, and knelt to hide herself. For several seconds Pipi had lost her.

  Pipi stopped and went still.

  Listening.

  Somewhere in the distance she could hear a man and woman laughing. Far away—a hundred yards or more.

  Not her.

  Then Pipi heard someone breathing off to her left. Heavy breathing, filled with fear.

  The girl.

  Seconds later, Pipi was on her.

  “I didn’t see anything,” the girl said. “Honest I didn’t.”

  “I know,” Pipi said. “I know.”

  Pipi didn’t want to take the girl, but she had no choice.

  Pipi made her way back to where her car was parked, careful not to be seen by anyone else, climbed into the front seat, and slammed the car door closed.

  Why had she been so reckless? Taking someone from the parking lot of the Tysons Corner Mall? What was she thinking?

  Pipi’s cell phone rang, and she fished it from the glove box. The call was from Maggie.

  After all the shit that Maggie had pulled recently—giving her files and laptop to Newt against bureau regulations—leading to his failed, massively expensive stakeout—there was no way Pipi was going to answer the call.

  Maggie was on Pipi’s shit list.

  Whatever Maggie wanted, it could wait.

  8:32 P.M. EST (5:32 PST)

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  ELLEN GALVIN STEPPED to the computer terminal and tapped the appropriate buttons for the food order—another thing that was better since Noah Ashley had purchased the restaurant. Generally, Ellen wasn’t a fan of change, but every now and then some changes turned out well.

  Ellen hit the send button, and seconds later she heard Carlos barking the now familiar “order in” alert to the rest of the kitchen.

  Ellen got along well with Carlos, which wasn’t the case for some of the regular diners who still couldn’t grasp the idea that a Hispanic was cooking their dinner instead of clearing the tables. Minorities in positions of power and authority were something you saw in big cities like Portland and Seattle—not in the cove. But they were learning to get over it since Carlos’s shrimp tacos were to die for.

  The only person in town having trouble getting over something seemed to be Ellen herself—that thing being Noah.

  She and Noah had been dating for months—no, strike that—they’d been a couple for months. Yes. That’s what they were—a couple. Then, without a word as to where he was going or so much as a kiss on the cheek, Noah had flown off to South Carolina.

  “Who is Noah seeing in Charleston?” Ellen had asked Carlos.

  “I’m not Noah’s babysitter,” Carlos said. “And how do you know he went to Charleston?”

  Ellen didn’t answer.

  The only reason she knew where Noah went was because she’d followed him to the airport.

  It was obvious that Carlos was covering for Noah.

  That’s what men did, wasn’t it?

  Ellen reached under the counter and dug her cell phone out of her purse to see if Noah responded to her last text message.

  He hadn’t.

  Enough was enough.

  WHERE IN THE HELL ARE YOU? HOW DARE YOU LEAVE WITHOUT TELLING ME WHO YOU’RE SEEING? THIS IS NOT THE WAY A MAN TREATS SOMEONE HE LOVES!!!

  Ellen read the message and then thought better of it. The last thing she wanted was to come off too strong, so she deleted the final two sentences.

  WHERE IN THE HELL ARE YOU?

  There, that was better.

  8:36 P.M. EST

  OUTSIDE THE MULVANEY MANSION ON THE BACK DECK

  KODA COULDN’T BELIEVE the number of hoops that he needed to jump through for the governor of Georgia’s helicopter to be permitted to land on the Mulvaney property. This included signoffs from federal, state, city, and local zoning commission officials.

  Then the United States Forestry Service got involved.

  “The helicopter isn’t landing in a forest,” Koda told the agent who came to the house to survey the landing site. “It’s landing in our backyard.”

  “Your yard is your yard, but do you see those woods?” the Forestry official said. “Those woods are our woods, and your backyard butts up against our woods.”

  Translation: Koda would need a permit from the USFS. Koda threw up his hands and went to his grandfather for help.

  “Damn it,” De
clan said. “If I had purchased the lot next door like I should have years ago, we wouldn’t have to pay the fines every time someone set down.”

  “The fine?” Koda asked.

  “You haven’t been trying to get approvals, have you?” Declan asked. “Just land the helicopter, pay the damn fines, and be done with it.”

  “How much are the fines?” Koda asked.

  “I have no idea,” Declan said. “Whatever they are, they’re not enough to run around kissing bureaucratic ass over.”

  Good information to have known a week earlier.

  Declan, Koda, and Bruce waited on the back deck as the governor of Georgia’s helicopter set down on the lawn. “You look thin, Dad,” Bruce said. “You feeling okay?”

  Declan shot Koda a look. “I’m fine, Bruce,” Declan said. “A bit tired perhaps. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  Once the rotors stopped, Koda grabbed Declan by the arm and helped him down the deck stairs to the lawn, with Bruce trailing behind. “You’ve got to let him know what’s going on,” Koda said quietly.

  “I will,” Declan said. “When the time is right.”

  The governor came across the lawn, keeping his head ducked out of caution like people did in the movies—even though the rotors were no longer turning.

  “Declan Mulvaney,” the governor said with a broad smile. “How very wonderful to see you. Thank you for the invitation.”

  “You know my son, Bruce,” Declan said. “But I’m not sure you’ve met my grandson, Koda.”

  “Only from television,” the governor said, reaching out and shaking Koda’s hand. “That ghost stuff you got yourself involved in was a hoot. What’s that guy’s name? The one who tricked you so badly? Voodoo something or other?”

  Vooubasi, Koda thought, but didn’t say.

  “What do you say we get you inside so your security detail can relax a bit,” Declan said, taking the governor by the arm. “Besides, there’s someone I want you to meet.”