Onyx Webb 8

by Diandra Archer

  It was a bit after seven.

  Sunset was still an hour away and there were several things Onyx wanted to do before heading out to walk the woods in search of energy.

  Onyx went to the caretaker’s house and found what she felt was an appropriate dress for the following evening, one that would go nicely with her mother’s starburst garnet broach, and then she headed back outside for her next task.

  To light the flame atop the lighthouse.

  Onyx filled the brass oilcan and began the ordeal of lugging the flammable black liquid up the 103 stairs to the top of the lighthouse. It was hard work—work that drained a fair amount of her energy—but something she did nonetheless. Like a cathartic religious ritual, it simply had to be done.

  It had also become a habit.

  Other than the night she’d gone to Portland with Tara for the gallery opening, Onyx had lit the flame every night for fifty-seven years without missing once.

  Recently there was a third reason for lighting the flame, one that was more practical than symbolic. As Onyx quickly learned, Noah slept without clothing—and it could get very cold in the lighthouse with the breeze coming in off the Pacific, even in the summer months.

  There was one last thing Onyx wished to do before leaving the lighthouse for the evening. Tara had become a good friend but there was much she couldn’t tell her. She needed to capture her current thoughts and feelings in her journal.

  Sometimes Onyx felt like her journal was a best friend—a friend you could tell anything to without the slightest bit of fear.

  Her journal never judged her.

  Onyx went to the piano in the lighthouse foyer where she’d made her journal entry the evening before and took a seat on the bench. Then she took her father’s fountain pen and dipped it in the bottle of Graf von Faber-Castell hazelnut brown ink Noah had given her for Christmas and began to write.

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  AUGUST 12, 2010

  I feel like an ass,” Noah said for the third time.

  “Why?” Clay said. “Just because you ruined my hunting trip so you could propose to Onyx one day early?”

  Noah couldn’t tell if Clay was truly pissed at him, but he was glad to get the hell out of that small cabin. Holed up with five smelly guys who thought blasting defenseless fowl out of the air with double-barrel shotguns was fun was not his idea of a good time. What in the hell was he even thinking when he’d accepted the invitation?

  “I want to propose tonight because I have to work all weekend,” Noah said.

  “Hey, I’m just busting your chops,” Clay said. “I’m pretty glad to get out of there, too. Have you ever been anyplace that smelled worse than that cabin? God, it smelled like—”

  “—sautéed cat pee?”

  Clay released a loud laugh. “I was going to say ass, but sautéed cat pee pretty much nails it.”

  Noah stood in the clearing, cloaked in darkness, holding the ring and rehearsing the proposal in his mind—the only visible light coming from the flame burning atop the lighthouse.

  Chances were good that Onyx had heard Clay’s car coming up the road. Soon she would make her way down the spiral staircase to find him.

  Noah went inside and lit a candle and then went to the piano and took a seat on the bench.

  And then he saw the open journal.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF ONYX WEBB

  August 12, 2010

  I discovered today through slip of tongue that the man I have come to love intends to offer a proposal of marriage.

  If true, it shall be a first for me.

  Though I have been married before, my union with Ulrich did not start with a marriage proposal. Our marriage was the result of the condition laid down when Ulrich attempted to force himself on me while in route to Chicago. I made it clear that while a church wedding was not required, a trip to a justice of the peace indeed was.

  Without such a legal document, there would be no sex...

  Period.

  It was amazing how eager Ulrich was to tie the knot once this was fully understood.

  With Noah, it was different.

  Noah has never been aggressive, nor has he once tried to force himself on me. Our relationship has proceeded at its own pace, like a boat on a calm lake—taking its time to drift to its destination—the way all good relationships should.

  To the degree that Noah has seduced me, he has done so by simply being who he is…

  Thoughtful.

  Kind.

  Considerate.

  In the end, it was I who ended up seducing him.

  Imagine that! Maybe I have finally become the liberated, modern woman I envisioned myself becoming the night I watched Marlene Dietrich perform at The Apache.

  It only took seventy-seven years to get here.

  There is one problem that must be dealt with, however.

  The secret that remains unshared.

  Not that I haven’t wished to share it.

  I have.

  The day I took Noah to the rocks on the beach I fully intended to open myself to him and tell him the truth. To tell him everything.

  At the last moment, I lost my courage.

  I simply couldn’t tell him.

  I simply could not find words to explain what I had done.

  What words could I possibly use?

  I killed your mother, Noah. But don’t be mad.

  It was an accident… a judgment call.

  Your mother was doing drugs in a cabin, and I decided the situation was hopeless and that her death was inevitable.

  I did her a favor.

  You understand, don’t you?

  No.

  These are words that must never be spoken.

  They say that everyone has one secret that would break another’s heart if they knew of it. This is such a secret.

  The type of secret one takes to the grave.

  The one thing Noah must never know.

  Onyx was still on the far side of the clearing fifty yards away when she realized someone was inside the lighthouse. Whoever it was, they weren’t moving—but she could sense the person’s presence.

  Onyx climbed the steps to the lighthouse door and pulled it open, immediately seeing the lit candle on the piano.

  Then she saw Noah sitting there—with her open journal on the piano in front of him. Onyx took several steps forward. “You’re back early,” Onyx said.

  “You were never going to tell me?” Noah asked.

  “I tried, Noah. I really did.”

  “Well, maybe you should have tried harder.”

  “Yes, I know,” Onyx said, taking another step forward. “There was never the right time. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “You didn’t want to hurt me?” Noah said.

  Onyx remained silent, listening to the sound of Noah’s breathing and the sound of his heart pounding in her ears.

  “The contract you had with my grandfather is officially null and void. In fact, it has been since before it was written. Please be advised that I intend to publish your story.”

  Noah pulled the ring from his pocket and laid it on the piano next to the open journal. Onyx dropped to her knees and reached for Noah’s hand, but Noah stepped back. “Don’t touch me, Onyx. I think you’ve taken enough of my time and stolen enough of my energy for this lifetime.”

  “Noah, please…”

  “Goodbye Onyx,” Noah said, pulling his hand from hers. “As of this moment, you are not only dead to the world. You are dead to me.”

  LYNCHBURG, VIRGINIA

  DECEMBER 19, 2010

  Newt couldn’t believe the program had been wrong—which meant that he was wrong.

  Ten agents, ten separate locations, eight hours a night for three straight nights. That was 240 agent hours, most of which had been paid at time-and-a-half—plus the cost of the rental vehicles.

  And no one saw anything.

  Not that success was ever guaranteed, of course.

  The Leg Collector could have
shown up there, but made the agent.

  Or he might have shown up—not noticed the surveillance—but there were no girls who fit his profile and he simply went home.

  Or, as good and as accurate as Newt believed the program to be, it could have been off by a day or two in either direction.

  Or maybe Pipi had used a bunch of retirement-age knuckle-draggers who couldn’t have cared less if the they caught the guy or not. Maybe Newt should have insisted on using ten bright-eyed recruits from Camp Peary—the FBI training facility near Williamsburg—who were eager to get a leg up on the competition.

  Or…

  Or…

  Or…

  A million and one things could have gone wrong.

  Not only had he failed, Newt felt sick about having dragged Maggie into the middle of it.

  The only thing that was keeping Pipi from referring Maggie to the Office of Professional Responsibility was the fact that Pipi would be held equally responsible. Fortunately, Pipi’s sense of self-preservation was too strong to allow that to happen.

  The thing that gnawed at Newt most was the possibility that he’d made some stupid input error—typing in a six rather than a five or something equally mundane—which could have altered the prediction by two miles or three days.

  Going back through everything was pointless. Even if he discovered an error, he’d burned his one and only chance with Pipi. There was no going back. The opportunity had an expiration date on it, and the date had passed.

  Still, Newt felt compelled to know what went wrong.

  His phone rang. Newt glanced over and saw Maggie’s name on the caller ID. Not now, Newt thought.

  He had a lot of work to do.

  Over again.

  Newt finished re-inputting the data eleven hours later, just as the sun began peeking through the window. Then he held his breath and pressed enter. In less than a minute he would know if he’d screwed up.

  Newt exhaled when the results appeared.

  They were the same.

  Which didn’t solve anything really. But at least now he could let it go, knowing he’d done everything correctly and everything he possibly could.

  Newt poured himself a large glass of water and went about the task of packing everything pertaining to the Leg Collector into cardboard legal boxes.

  Newt stacked the boxes in the corner by the door and then grabbed his cell phone. He had twenty-three messages, all of them from Maggie. He needed to call her, but he was so tired he was afraid how he’d sound. He’d gotten less than an hour’s sleep in the last three days.

  Sleep first, then call.

  Newt heard footsteps coming down the hall and stopped to listen. Moments later, he saw the shadow of someone stopping at his door.

  Three letters slid across the floor and came to a rest near his feet. The mail would have to wait. He was too exhausted to read.

  Newt went to the bathroom, pulled his clothes off, and climbed in the shower. The hot water felt good. Five minutes later he was still standing there, letting the hot water stream over him.

  When he finally got out, Newt crossed the room, lowered the window shade, and collapsed on the bed in complete exhaustion without bothering to dry himself off.

  Less than two minutes later, he was snoring.

  Newt woke and sat up on the side of the bed. He looked at the clock and was surprised to discover he’d been out cold for almost eight hours.

  Newt got up, ate a power bar, and washed it down with a glass of water. He then picked up the mail from the floor.

  There were three pieces.

  The first was the monthly statement for the hotel room. The second was a letter from his mother. The third was the postcard he knew would be there.

  Unlike the previous thirteen postcards, this one did not have a picture of a serial killer.

  Instead, there was a poem.

  The poem read:

  A Fine Southern Gentleman

  A fine Southern Gent came strolling along,

  Smiling a smile and singing a song.

  Holding a door open wide for a belle,

  Who has no earthly idea she is headed for hell.

  For buried inside this well-mannered “Gent”

  Lay a soul that is wounded and damaged and bent.

  But with practice he’s mastered his lies, with a grin,

  That hides searing pain festering deeply within.

  How dapper, he thinks, as he polishes his spats,

  And fingers a choice from a collection of hats,

  Then grabbing his cane, his heart fills with glee,

  For he’s already found victim number three.

  A dishwater blonde, so much like the rest,

  With long slender legs that pass his strict test.

  Just living her life, minute by minute,

  Sans any thought this monster is in it.

  And the official response of the federal bureau?

  To send Spider Boy to save the young girl!

  How sad for the lad to be so unable,

  To rescue the damsel strapped to his table.

  Newt sat on the edge of the bed and wondered why the card was different from the others. And why the poem, which seemed very…

  Personal.

  The only thing he could come up with was that it had something to with primes.

  2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, 37, 41…

  This was the fourteenth card he’d received. What was so special about the fourteenth prime number—which was forty-three—to change the pattern?

  To the best of Newt’s knowledge, there were no known serial killers with forty-three verified victims.

  There was one with forty-two: Ahmad Suradji.

  And forty-five: Wang Qiang.

  And forty-eight: Alexander Pichushkin.

  And forty-nine: Gary Ridgway.

  But none with forty-three.

  Unless…

  The Leg Collector had forty-two confirmed victims. Was the Leg Collector telling him he’d killed another girl? Did this mean the number of victims was now forty-three? That’s why there was no photo of the killer. What was the Leg Collector supposed to do? Send a picture of himself?

  Newt turned the postcard over to see it had been postmarked on the final day of the FBI stakeouts. Either he’d taken the girl from somewhere other than where Newt had identified or the agents conducting the surveillance had missed him.

  Newt was betting on the latter.

  Newt reread the poem. There was something about it that bothered him—but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  What wasn’t he seeing?

  In the all the time he’d worked with the FBI, Newt had never created the ubiquitous bulletin board like they do in the movies, showing every suspect, victim, location, vehicle, and piece of evidence connected by lengths of string or yarn. It was a real method. The bureau offered a three-day workshop on the topic. Some of the more detailed agents would often use different colored yarn to differentiate the various connections.

  Newt had always done it in his head.

  Should he look at everything again? The mere thought of it made him nauseous. But what else was he going to do?

  Newt looked at the clock. It was 4:25. But was it morning or evening? He honestly didn’t know.

  Newt walked across the room, raised the shade, and sunlight flooded into the room.

  Good. Office Depot was open until five.

  Newt looked around the room and calculated the number of cubic feet of space he had to work with. He was going to need several thousand feet of string and a hell of a lot thumbtacks.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  OCTOBER 20, 2010

  Noah sealed the last of the manila envelopes and slid it in the backpack with the others. This would bring the number of book manuscripts mailed to publishers up to eighteen.

  Of the previous twelve publishing houses he’d mailed, seven had not responded—most likely tossing the 436-page typed draft in a stack with hundreds of o
ther unsolicited manuscripts—or simply tossed it into the trash unopened.

  Five of the publishers had been polite enough to send rejection letters at least—one of which stated that while the writing was acceptable, the story was completely unbelievable. Noah found it hard to argue.

  Noah went downstairs and saw Kizzy was in her usual position on the sofa, smoking a cigarette and watching Days of Our Lives. Noah didn’t bother saying goodbye, knowing his grandmother would ignore him anyway. She was still livid with him for putting an end to her cash-cow income stream from the pot farm, never mind that it was illegal. Or that her partner in the endeavor was none other than his father—a man she and his grandfather had told Noah was dead.

  Kizzy would come around. Eventually.

  And if she didn’t? Whatever.

  SHERIDAN, OREGON

  After Noah dropped off the manuscripts at the post office, he began the ride to the ocean. Today, however, he would pull the Harley into the visitor’s parking lot at the Federal Detention Center in Sheridan, Oregon, where his father was being held for a slew of state and federal drug trafficking violations.

  Noah told himself the only reason he was finally visiting the man was because Clay had pushed him into it.

  In truth, Noah had a lot of questions for Myron Kroll.

  “So, the prodigal son has come to visit,” Myron said as Noah sat down across the table from him in the prison visitorsvisitors’ area.

  “You obviously have no idea what prodigal means,” Noah said. “And don’t call me son. I’m not your son.”