Onyx Webb 8

by Diandra Archer

  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

  Olympia knew the reason for the building’s collapse had nothing to do with any of the reasons that were being batted about. The building hadn’t collapsed. It had been destroyed.

  By Nathaniel.

  There was no doubt in Olympia’s mind.

  Hopefully her insurance covered ghosts.

  Olympia also wanted to give Stormy Boyd a phone call to let him know how bad things had gone. Was it her fault because she’d done something wrong? She had shortened some of the readings and made her own holy water—but it seemed more likely than not that Stormy had given her bad information.

  What if Nathaniel was a super ghost of some kind, immune to religious parlor tricks? Olympia had seen the Exorcist. Father Karras took a header down the back stairs, and Father Marin had a heart attack. They were ordained priests wearing church-issued robes who supposedly knew what they were doing, and a ten-year-old girl kicked their ass.

  Olympia was an ex-TV show host who’d made her own holy water with a recipe from the Internet. If Nathaniel was a super ghost, what chance could she possibly have?

  Olympia took a nap and then grabbed the Podcasting for Dummies book off the nightstand and opened it to where she’d left off earlier in the day.

  Chapter Two: “Getting the Gadgets You Need.”

  Olympia knew absolutely nothing about podcasts; therefore—when it came to podcasts—she was indeed a dummy. But she did know she was unemployed. And she also knew that podcasting was her only viable option for making a living—assuming she didn’t want to work at Burger King.

  After Olympia walked out on her show, she’d asked her agent to make some calls. No one seemed very interested in her.

  “You can’t walk out on a show and expect the world to greet you with open arms,” her agent had said. “Maybe you could launch a podcast.”

  Olympia had never been the entrepreneurial type, but the more she researched the subject, the more she saw the idea held some promise.

  Podcasts had been around for a decade in one form or another but until recently had remained at the fringe of the media world. But when one of Olympia’s favorite radio personalities, Adam Corolla, launched a regular weekday podcast the previous year, Olympia noticed—as did everyone else. Now, with Apple’s iTunes on board, the hurdle of distribution and process of finding an audience was significantly easier.

  If she did start a podcast, the only things Olympia would need would be a laptop computer, a decent microphone, and a killer first guest. And she had just the person in mind: Dr. Gerylyn Stoller, the blind paranormal researcher with a new book and a hot, newsworthy topic.

  Gerylyn Stoller was convinced there was going to be an apocalyptic ghost attack during the upcoming solstice eclipse.

  Olympia dug in her purse and found her cell phone. She went to Google, typed in “solstice eclipse,” and waited for the results to appear.

  Olympia clicked on the first result and saw the date and time of the eclipse. She hadn’t missed it.

  Olympia went to her phone directory and began scrolling through the numbers and held her breath.

  “I see,” Gerylyn said once Olympia finished telling the whole story behind her sudden departure from the TV show.

  “And now so do I—finally,” Olympia said. “I understand now that ghosts are real.”

  “Is that why you called?” Gerylyn asked. “Why do I sense you have another reason for reaching out to me?”

  Gerylyn Stoller may be blind, but she was also extremely perceptive.

  “There is another reason,” Olympia said. “I’m launching a podcast, and I’d like you to be my first guest. Is there any chance you’d let me interview you during the solstice eclipse?”

  “During the eclipse?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Olympia. I’m attending a charity event with my publisher that evening. It would be quite impossible—”

  “A charity event? Where?”

  “At the Mulvaney mansion in Charleston,” Gerylyn said.

  “Oh, my God,” Olympia shouted. “We could do the interview there. It’s perfect. Can you bring me as your guest?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Gerylyn said.

  “Please, Gerylyn,” Olympia pleaded. “I’m begging you to do this for me. If you had any idea what I’ve been through. I’ve lost everything. I’m living at the Comfort Inn in Hoboken, for the love of God. Please!”

  “Let me call you back,” Gerylyn said.

  Ten minutes later, Olympia’s cell phone rang.

  Olympia answered on the first ring. “Yes?”

  “I just spoke with my husband, Raymond,” GerylynOlympia said. “He’s agreed to let you attend the event in his place. You may come as my guest.”

  “Is he sure?”

  “Yes,” Gerylyn said. “I suspect Raymond was looking for an excuse not to attend, and you just provided him with one.”

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  FEBRUARY 23, 2010

  Noah handed Clay a package of plastic sheeting he’d purchased at the hardware store earlier the athat afternoon before. “Here, cover the piano with this, and I’ll start getting the paintings off the walls.”

  “Did they say how long it was going to take to finish painting the outside of the lighthouse?” Clay asked.

  “The rest of today and most of tomorrow morning,” Noah said. “I told them to do the foyer last.”

  “Are you having them paint the inside red, too?”

  “No, I’m having them paint the inside white,” Noah said. “Red seemed too intense and would probably make the place feel more claustrophobic than it already is.”

  “Speaking of being claustrophobic, have you gone to see your father in jail yet?”

  Noah shook his head. “I’d been told he was dead since I was born,” Noah said. “As far as I’m concerned, he still is.”

  Clay helped Noah pull one of Onyx’s larger paintings off the wall and carry it outside.

  “Well, you should think about it,” Clay said. “I’m guessing the reason he came to the restaurant was to see your success. For all you know, that might have been the best day of his life.”

  Noah looked up at the workmen who were perched on wooden platforms held by the temporary metal scaffolding, none of which had been erected until Tara and Onyx had left for the gallery opening in Portland.

  “I still can’t believe Tara convinced Onyx to go to the opening,” Noah said.

  “Well, Tara did have to lie a bit to get it done.”

  “Lie a bit? About what?” Noah said.

  “Tara told Onyx the gallery wasn’t open yet. That she was only taking her to see the empty space to get her opinion about the location,” Clay said.

  “Oh, God,” Noah said. “Onyx is going to freak.”

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  “The gallery is already open?” Onyx asked from the other side of the hotel room. “You lied to me?”

  “Yes, Onyx, I lied,” Tara said. “I knew you wouldn’t come otherwise.”

  “You’re right, Tara. I wouldn’t have.”

  “Oh, Onyx. Please come. There will be hundreds of people, every one of them coming to look at your paintings. Your paintings, Onyx. This is opening night of the showing you missed so long ago. I did this for you.”

  “I’m not going,” Onyx said. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?” Tara asked.

  “Is there a difference?” Onyx asked.

  “Okay, Onyx. I can’t drag you there, and I’m not going to beg. You want to stay in the room because you’re too afraid to be with people who love your art, fine—sit here and sulk. There’s nothing I can do about it.” Tara walked to the door and then turned back. “In case you change your mind, there’s a dress and some shoes in the closet.”

  The opening was an invitation-only event with the doors scheduled to begin open at 7:00 p.m. seven. Tara had begged Noah to let Carlos cater the evening, which meant closing Noah
’s B&G for the night. Noah agreed on the condition that Tara not tell anyone who provided the food. The last thing Noah needed was to have someone steal Carlos away from him.

  By eight, the gallery was mobbed, with a quarter of the paintings tagged with red “SOLD” signs.

  By nine, the food was gone—which was entirely by design. Tara wanted everyone drinking wine and champagne and not eating. Spending $15,000 for a painting wasn’t a big deal for the type of people she’d invited. Writing a check for $50,000 and up, though, usually required a certain level of intoxication.

  At 9:25 p.m. Tara recognized one of the whales on the invitation list. The woman was standing on the far side of the room, smoking a cigarette directly in front of one of the “NO SMOKING” signs Tara had installed around the gallery.

  What the hell, Tara thought. If Mika Flagler wanted to smoke, who was she to stop her?

  Tara grabbed two glasses of champagne and approached Mika from behind. “That’s a beautiful piece, isn’t it? Very intense, like you, Ms. Flagler—assuming what I’ve heard about you is correct.”

  Mika turned and looked Tara over. “Do I know you?” Mika asked, taking another drag off her cigarette and blowing smoke in Tara’s direction.

  “No, but I know you—by reputation at least,” Tara said. “I’m Tara Schröder. This is my gallery.”

  Mika turned away and gazed at the painting without responding.

  “Let me take this,” a woman said from over Tara’s shoulder. Tara turned to see Onyx standing there, breathtaking in the red Valentino dress she’d brought for her.

  Tara nodded and backed away.

  “When you look at this painting, what do you see?” Onyx asked Mika, stepping into Tara’s place.

  The painting was a multi-hued abstract—seventy-two-foot wide and forty-eight-foot high—with large splashes of both oil and acrylic paint covering the canvas in a frenetic cacophony of colors and emotion.

  “I see anger,” Mika said.

  “Very good, Ms. Flagler. Would you like me to tell you what was happening the day Onyx did this piece?”

  Mika turned and looked Onyx over. “Yes, please do.”

  “This painting was done late in the afternoon on December 23, 1937—two days before Christmas. Onyx had just discovered her husband was trying to poison her to death. To say she was angry is an understatement.”

  “Interesting,” Mika said. “What about the spider on the signature?”

  “Just childish whimsy,” Onyx said. “Nothing more.”

  “And you know all this because…?”

  “We do a lot of research.”

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  FEBRUARY 24, 2010

  I can’t wait to tell Noah and Clay about last night,” Tara said as she made a hard right turn down the dirt road that led to the lighthouse. “Do you realize how much business we did?”

  “Yes, Tara, you’ve told me three times already,” Onyx said. “Almost $200,000.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” Tara said. “You were amazing! You know, if you came to work full time…”

  Onyx turned and leveled a look at Tara. “There’s one more surprise I didn’t tell you about yet,” Tara said, pointing through the windshield. “Look.”

  Onyx looked through the windshield and couldn’t believe her eyes. The lighthouse was no longer white.

  It had been painted red.

  Tara pulled the Chrysler to a stop and turned the engine off and—as if on cue—Noah and Clay stepped through the lighthouse door and walked toward the car.

  “So, what do you think?” Noah asked, his arms outstretched towards the lighthouse.

  “I’m not sure,” Onyx said, getting out of the car and gazing at the red monstrosity reaching toward the sky in front of her.

  Onyx saw Noah’s shoulders slump forward and his head drop. He looked stricken.

  Onyx felt a wave of remorse coarse through her. She knew she could not take back the words, nor could she salvage the moment she had just ruined.

  “We’re going to run,” Clay said. “Come on, Tara.”

  Noah waited until after Tara and Clay had driven off before speaking. “You said the only color you could see—”

  “Is red, I know,” Onyx said. “I’m sorry. It’s just that the last man who tried to seduce me by painting a lighthouse was Ulrich, and that didn’t turn out so well.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not Ulrich.”

  Noah turned and started walking toward the caretaker’s house and then turned back toward Onyx. “You’re a beautiful woman, Onyx. Maybe that makes you think every man is trying to seduce you. Some of us are just trying to make you happy. But now I don’t know. Maybe that’s just not possible.”

  Onyx waited several hours to see if Noah was going to come back to the lighthouse on his own. When he didn’t, she decided to go get him.

  “The place is emptying out nicely,” Onyx said when she found Noah in the guest bedroom of the caretaker’s house.

  Noah glanced up at her but did not respond.

  “Come with me,” Onyx said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  Outside, Onyx asked Noah to carry the brass oilcan, which she’d filled to the top, and led him across the lawn to the lighthouse. Once they were inside, Onyx started up the spiral staircase, but Noah stopped when he got to the red stair.

  “It’s okay,” Onyx said over her shoulder.

  Noah stepped past the red stair for the first time and followed Onyx up the narrow staircase lined with bookshelves all the way to the top of the lighthouse.

  Once they’d arrived at the top, Noah walked to the window and gazed out at the ocean as streaks of vermillion and burnt orange spread out in lines on the horizon. Onyx poured the black liquid from the oilcan into the lamp and put a match to it.

  “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Noah said, still gazing out the window.

  “I didn’t bring you up here to show you the view, Noah.”

  Noah turned around and realized he’d spoken a moment too soon. The ocean at sunset was beautiful, but it was nothing compared to the sight of Onyx standing there before him—her dress on the floor, around her ankles.

  PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

  DECEMBER 14, 2010

  Simon Prentice sat in an egg-shaped chair in the corner of his downtown Philadelphia office reading a six-hundred-page unsolicited manuscript and realized he was holding his breath. Was it the writing? No. The writing was simple with minimal description. Was it the genre? Simon loved supernatural thrillers, even if they were harder to market. But no. That wasn’t it either.

  It was the story.

  And the characters, each was fully fleshed out and totally believable—almost as if they were real instead of fictional. This was a work of fiction, right? Now Simon wasn’t so sure.

  Unlike most of the ghost stories he was sent, this book didn’t rely on cheap thrills. There was no graphic sex—the story didn’t need it. There was no reliance on the f-word. No blood-soaked slasher scenes—yet at times Simon could barely turn the page.

  Simon knew he’d have to act quickly. With any luck, the rights to the manuscript hadn’t already been sold to another publisher. He climbed out of the chair and went to his desk, then and pressed the intercom button on his phone. “Yes, Simon?” the male assistant said.

  “Good, you’re still here,” Simon said. “Do we have extra seats for the charity thing at the Mulvaney mansion?”

  “No Simon, please,” the man said. “You said you planned to take me with you, remember?”

  “Well, plans change, sweetie,” Simon said. “I’ll make it up to you—I promise.”

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  DECEMBER 18, 2010

  Stan Lee knew that going cold turkey off the kKetamine would be the hardest thing he’d ever done, but recent incidents had convinced him he had no choice.

  First was when he woke in the morning, got dressed, and drove ninety m
iles to a job he hadn’t worked at for two decades. And losing his camera, which he thought might have had photographs of his last victim on it.

  Then the half-dream, half-astral projection incident. Being strapped naked to a pole on a high school homecoming float was enough to get his attention all on its own. Dreaming he’d been attacked by crows in a vineyard—then waking up covered with pecks and scratches—well, that was fubar.

  But the third incident had pushed him over the edge.

  Stan Lee had gone to Savannah to abduct his forty-third victim from the area around the local college. The next thing he knew, he was standing by the side of the highway near Charleston looking for the girl in the pouring rain. The next morning, he’d watched the news but there was no mention of a girl being found.

  Had he even taken the girl at the bar?

  He didn’t know anymore.

  Kara stood in the corner of the basement, watching Stan Lee pace. “So, what are you going to do?”

  Stan Lee looked up and saw Kara standing there. “Just perfect.”

  “What’s perfect?” Kara asked.

  “You being here. That’s what. You have a knack for showing up at the worst possible times, you know that?”

  “Just trying to help,” Kara said. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “The only thing I can. I’ve got to get off the K.”

  “Finally,” Kara said. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Stan Lee raised his left hand and gave Kara the finger before disappearing into the mouth of the tunnel. A moment later, he stuck his head out. “Are you coming?”

  “You want me there?”

  Stan Lee nodded.

  Kara shrugged. “Sure, why not? Watching you sweat and writhe in agony sounds like a ball of laughs.”