Onyx Webb 8

by Diandra Archer

  Noah led Tara and Clay down the hallway toward the master bedroom, stopping at the guest room on the immediate left.

  Noah turned the knob, opened the door, and stepped back.

  “Oh, my God,” Tara said, gazing at row after row after row of painted canvases, stacked from ceiling to floor. “There must be a thousand canvases in here.”

  “You’re probably right,” Noah said. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest.”

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  DECEMBER 11, 2010

  Do I really need to wear that?” Stan Lee asked, afraid the light blue carnation made him look feminine. “I don’t want people to laugh at me.”

  “Yes,” Oma said as she pinned the boutonniere on the lapel of Stan Lee’s jacket and took a step back. “Oh, it’s lovely. The blue goes so nicely with your eyes. We need to get pictures of you and your date when she gets here.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Stan Lee found himself in the passenger seat of Jimmy Teagarden’s Ford F-150 pickup, squeezed in next to Jimmy’s girlfriend, Erin O’Connell, whom everyone at school referred to as Evil Erin. Stan Lee had no idea what Erin had done to deserve the nickname since he did not hang with the cool crowd. He assumed there had to be a reason for it. His date must be waiting for him at the school?

  “That’s a pretty flower, Stan Lee,” Erin said, drawing out his name so it came out as Stan Leeeeeeeeee.

  “Thanks,” Stan Lee said.

  “Light blue—that’s the color all the legless faggots are wearing isn’t it, Jimmy?” Erin asked.

  “So, Stan, you used to run cross country, didn’t you?” Jimmy asked. “Before your accident, I mean.”

  “Yeah,” Stan Lee said, looking down at his stumps hanging off the edge of the seat. What was he thinking going to homecoming in his shorts? Normally he would have wrapped the stumps in flesh-colored ace bandages, but he’d gotten distracted by Oma and Opa with their damn insistence on his wearing a boutonniere and taking their damn pictures.

  “Can I touch them?” Erin asked.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Stan Lee said.

  “Cool,” Erin said, reaching down and placing her hand on the stump at the end of his right thigh, just above where his knee would have been. “Oh, wow, that’s weird. It feels rough, like the outside of a cantaloupe. No, worse—like the outside of a coconut.”

  “I usually put lotion on them, but I forgot,” Stan Lee said, feeling like he needed to apologize for his dry stumps.

  “Oh, I’ve got some lotion in my purse,” Erin said. Erin dug in her purse and pulled out a plastic Jergens bottle and squirted a large dollop of white lotion into her hand.

  Stan Lee watched as Erin began rubbing the lotion onto his stump. “How does that feel, Stan Leeeeeeee? Good? I’ll bet it feels good.”

  “We’re here,” Jimmy said.

  Stan Lee looked up and saw the vehicle’s headlights cutting through the darkness of the high school parking lot. The pickup came to a stop next to a homecoming float. Then, through the windshield, Stan Lee saw a group of kids.

  Wearing masks.

  Waiting.

  Stan Lee had seen pictures of groups like this, dressed in masks and robes—lit up by the headlights of a pickup truck or the glow of orange flames dancing off a burning torch—waiting like demons in the dead of night for the victim to arrive.

  “What is this?” Stan Lee asked.

  “Have you ever been in a parade, Stan Lee?” Erin asked with a devilish grin.

  Stan Lee could not move. The duct tape used to hold him against the metal pole was digging into his wrists, the weight of his body pressing down hard on the scarecrow’s legs, the straw digging into his stumps like sharp nails.

  “Please, don’t do this,” Stan Lee pleaded.

  “What? You want us to let you go?” Erin said as she worked a hat into place on Stan Lee’s head. “We can’t let you go. Someone’s got to be the scarecrow.”

  A wave of laughter worked its way through the crowd of onlookers, their faces hidden behind their plastic masks. The masks were all of the same face. Someone Stan Lee recognized—but he couldn’t place from where.

  A girl.

  “Don’t worry,” Jimmy said as he pulled a plaid shirt around Stan Lee’s shoulders. “It won’t be that bad. How many people could be out there in the stands anyway? Five hundred maybe?”

  Another wave of laughter rolled through the group of students that had swelled to several dozen now.

  “Come on. We’ve got to hurry,” Jimmy said. “It’s almost time.”

  “Okay, okay,” Erin snapped. “Are you ready, Stan Lee?”

  “Please, please let me—”

  Then Stan Lee noticed the girl standing in front of him was no longer Erin.

  It was Kara.

  “Kara, please. Don’t do this to me,” Stan Lee said.

  “Me? Me do this to you?” Kara said. “I’m not doing this to you. You’re doing this to yourself. This is your dream, not mine.”

  Suddenly the float began to move and Stan Lee could see the high school band marching in front of him. They led the float through the back of the end zone out onto the football field, where hundreds of students filled the bleachers, cheering and laughing.

  Laughing and pointing.

  Stan Lee leaned forward and looked down to see what they were pointing at. He was naked from the waist down.

  Then everyone began to chant:

  Scarecrow, scarecrow, raggedy and worn,

  Your hat is old, and your clothes are torn.

  With arms and legs both made of hay,

  Out in the field, to keep the crows away.

  Stan Lee, Stan Lee, strapped to your pole,

  With legs of hay and a heart made of coal.

  Out in the field, pecked by the crows—

  Eating your eyes and pecking your nose.

  Stan Lee closed his eyes and concentrated, the way he used to when he was trapped in Dr. Pandor’s sensory deprivation chamber at the Dunning Asylum.

  Anywhere but here, Stan Lee thought.

  Take me away.

  Take me away.

  Anywhere but here.

  The searing pain of something tearing into the skin of Stan Lee’s cheek pulled him from his trance, and his eyes snapped open. Where was he? Stan Lee thought as he peered into the darkness, trying to get his bearings.

  He wasn’t in a cornfield, he knew that much. It looked like–grapes?

  He was in a vineyard.

  Stan Lee felt something moving near his head. He looked to the left and saw a large crow sitting on his shoulder, its head bobbing up and down. Stan Lee looked down. Gone was the metal pole from the homecoming float. He was now secured to a wooden pole with ropes tied around his arms and torso instead of duct tape.

  Just then, the crow on his shoulder sent its beak deep into his neck, and Stan Lee yelled. A second crow arrived—then a third—digging their claws into his skin and pecking at his face, neck, and chest. Several more birds arrived, swooping and diving around him, walloping his head with their flapping wings, cutting and tearing as he squirmed and screamed helplessly.

  He had to get down. Now.

  Stan Lee pulled desperately with both arms and noticed the rope on the left was looser than on the right. He pulled as hard as he could until—finally—he worked his hand free. He then reached across and untied his other wrist, holding his head down as best he could to keep the swarming crows from pecking his eyes.

  Moments later, he dropped to the ground and began crawling through the vines, desperately trying to get away as the crows landed on his back and started to peck through his shirt.

  Stan Lee found himself completely naked, lying face down on the dirty in the tunnel floor.

  He pulled himself upright on his stumps and saw he was only twenty feet from the stairs that led to the basement. He began waddling in that direction—his stumps sending jolts of pain through him as he went.

  By the time Stan Lee arrived at the b
athroom, he remembered most of the dream.

  He hobbled his way to the bathtub, turned on the faucet, and then got enough leverage to pull himself up—placing one hand on the sink and the other on the edge of the tub—and lowered himself into the water.

  He watched as the water turned brown from the dirt.

  And red with blood.

  Stan Lee reached over and grabbed his shaving mirror from the edge of the tub and looked at his reflection. Nearly every inch of his body was covered with cuts and scratches.

  From the birds.

  NAPA VALLEY, CALIFORNIA

  DECEMBER 11, 2010

  Chloe Archer dipped the cutting blades of the pruning shears in the bucket of isopropyl alcohol solution to sterilize the blades. The crew had already earthed the base of the vines to protect against potential frost. Now it was time to dig in and start clipping away dead vines and cutting back shoots so grapes would develop on the short stubs in the spring. It was an important job—one that only she and a few select employees could do.

  Her cell phone rang. Chloe glanced at the screen and saw it was Bruce. Again.

  Screw him. Bruce never returned her calls.

  He could wait.

  Chloe met Bruce Mulvaney at a Napa Valley wine event seventeen years earlier when she was working as the publicity manager for one of the valley’s major vineyards. Bruce had come to drink wine and network with Napa’s movers and shakers.

  Chloe introduced herself to Bruce and found him smart and charming. And he knew wine. More importantly, Bruce knew what he didn’t know. Chloe was tired of pompous wine snobs who came to events, sipped a cheap Syrah, and declared it a ninety-three out of a hundred with hints of musty pine and bashful marmalade—while simultaneously trying to slip their hands up her skirt.

  Bruce was different.

  Admittedly, Chloe was the aggressor. And, as the saying goes, one thing led to another. Nine weeks and two red lines on a plastic stick later, Chloe’s worst fear was confirmed.

  She was pregnant.

  Repeated calls to Bruce’s office went unreturned. Finally, at the end of May 1993, Chloe took the last few dollars from her checking account and flew to Orlando and caught Bruce just as he was leaving histhe office for the night.

  After a few hours of discussion, an agreement was reached. Chloe would have the baby. Bruce would quietly support them.

  Bruce went to the ATM, withdrew $3,000 and paid cash for a suite at a hotel in downtown Orlando, and handed her the rest of the money.

  And that was that.

  Several days later, Chloe saw the news on TV—Bruce’s wife, Nisa, had gone missing. The FBI was called in, but she never returned.

  Soon thereafter, Bruce bought Chloe the winery. This way Chloe could support herself and the baby from the profit of the business without Bruce having to make child support payments that might accidentally be discovered.

  The few times Bruce had visited the winery to see his daughter, Chloe introduced him as her business partner, Mr. Mulvaney.

  Krissy had met her father but had no idea.

  When Krissy turned ten, Chloe began pressuring Bruce to tell Krissy the truth. She deserved to know who her father was. Bruce said he’d think about it.

  He’d been thinking about it for six years.

  Chloe’s phone rang again. “I’m out in the vineyard,” Chloe said. “Let me call you back.”

  “I’ll only take a minute,” Bruce said. “I’ve got good news.”

  “What?”

  “I served our wine at Thanksgiving dinner, and everyone loved it,” Bruce said. “I’m making it the featured wine at the Restoring Savannah Foundation event. I’ll need sixty cases of the 2007 cab. The foundation will pay retail for it, of course.”

  “Only if I get to come and introduce it,” Chloe said.

  “What?”

  “It’s my wine, Bruce.”

  “It’s my wine, too.”

  “No, it’s not. Your money may be behind it, but I’m the one who makes sure the vineyard is sprayed every summer to fight off the red spiders and the moth grubs and the beetles. I’m the one who sits here twenty-four hours a day with a shotgun to scare off the raccoons and the crows. You know what I’m doing right now? It’s fifty-three degrees, and I’m out here with pruning shears, freezing my ass off.”

  “Fine,” Bruce said. “I’ll send you the details. But—”

  “Yeah, yeah, let me guess—not a word to anyone.”

  Chloe clicked off and smiled. It had taken sixteen years to find her backbone, but she was finally able to stand up to him.

  Her smile faded. Chloe looked in the distance and saw one of the scarecrows was missing from its metal cross.

  Chloe dropped the shears in the bucket and started walking in the direction of the empty stand. Then she spotted it. The scarecrow was lying face down on the ground about twenty yards away.

  As she approached the lifeless form, Chloe noticed that some of the vines had been ripped from their trellises. Who would have done this? Vandals? High school kids screwing around?

  Chloe approached the scarecrow and bent down next to it. Then turned it over.

  The scarecrow was simple: made of straw and wrapped in wires. The legs were uncovered. The and the upper body was in a blue-and-white plaid shirt—which was covered with holes, hundreds of them—holes made by the pecking of birds.

  That birds pecked through the scarecrow’s shirt did not surprise her. What alarmed Chloe were the dark brown stains surrounding each of the holes—stains that hadn’t come from grapes. The grapes had been harvested months ago.

  No, these stains were something else.

  Chloe had cut herself enough times to know the color of dried blood when she saw it.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  MAY 15, 2009

  When it rains, it pours, Noah thought as he looked out the kitchen window of his grandmother’s house and watched big streaks of water work its way down the glass. Noah dropped two halves of an English muffin into a toaster. Rain wasn’t unusual in Portland, of course. Only right now it was raining money, too.

  Lots and lots of money.

  It started when Noah discovered the Levi’s in the caretaker’s house, followed by a seemingly endless stream of additional items to sell, of which Onyx gave Noah a 25 percent commission.

  Then Onyx gave Noah the $85,000 he needed to buy Spilatro’s Place, followed by an additional $75,000 to remodel and upgrade the kitchen a bit. Noah felt awkward accepting the money, but Tara Schröder had been right. Onyx’s paintings were selling like mad and for amounts even greater than Tara had predicted.

  Then Kizzy walked in and tossed an envelope addressed to him on the kitchen table. “What’s this?” Noah asked as he spread butter on thea toasted English muffin and took a bite.

  “How would I know?” Kizzy snapped. “I didn’t even know you lived here anymore.”

  Kizzy had been pressing Noah to tell her where he was spending all his time, which he usually deflected by saying he was staying with friends. He finally decided it was time to tell her the truth. He was spending time at the Crimson Cove lighthouse.

  With Onyx.

  Kizzy didn’t take the news well. She considered Noah’s actions a betrayal—ranting that Onyx was a witch who had cast a spell on the Ashley men. “What bizarre hold does this woman have on you? Are you possessed, Noah? Like your grandfather was? If you’re living with the old tramp full-time now, maybe you could be kind enough to move the last of your stuff out of the house,” Kizzy said. “Your bedroom would make a great sewing room.”

  “I’m not living with Onyx,” Noah said, tossing his half-eaten muffin on his plate. “I stay over in the caretaker’s cottage sometimes, so I don’t have to ride home in the dark. But I will move out, if that’s what you want—as long as you stop lying.”

  “Lying? Lying about what?”

  “About whatever it is you’ve gotten yourself into,” Noah said. “What? Do you think I’m stupid? The new furniture. Th
e clothes. The car. Come on.”

  “I have nothing to—”

  “You’re selling drugs,” Noah spat. “Don’t deny it. My guess is that you want my room so you can stack bundles of weed or have an extra room for the smoker, whoever the hell he is.”

  Kizzy closed her eyes and released a breath. “Stay out of things that don’t concern you, Noah.”

  “So, you admit it?”

  Kizzy turned and stormed from the room. Noah hadn’t planned on confronting his grandmother, but at least the topic was out in the open.

  Noah picked up the envelope and read the return address. It was from EMI—the record label that signed The Alec Yost Band.

  Noah grabbed the butter knife, wiped it with a napkin, and slid it under the flap and sliced open the envelope. Inside was a check for $41,557.23.

  The detail portion attached read: Songwriting Royalties.

  The money was for the two songs Alec had used on the band’s first album.

  When it rained, it poured.

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  MAY 15, 2009

  “You must be very pleased,” Onyx said when Noah told her about the unexpected song royalties. “I would think $40,000 is quite a bit of money to be paid for writing a song.”

  “Two songs actually,” Noah said. “But I. And I’m not sure I feel right about cashing the check.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Because I didn’t write them. My grandfather did.”

  “Oh, I see,” Onyx said. “In any case, not cashing the check would be ridiculous. Use the money for the restaurant. It’s what Alistar would have wanted. And, speaking of the restaurant, I saw the changes you’ve made.”