Onyx Webb 4 Read online

  Onyx Webb: Book Four

  Diandra Archer

  ONYX WEBB, BOOK FOUR

  Copyright © Richard Fenton & Andrea Waltz 2018

  All rights reserved.

  Except as permitted under the United States Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher or authors.

  DISCLAIMER:

  This book is a work of fiction. And while some real locations, historical events, company names and easily recognizable public figures have been used, the story is strictly the product of the authors’ imaginations. Beyond that, any names and/or resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-947814-03-5

  Lust for Living Press is an imprint of

  COURAGE CRAFTERS, INC.

  Visit Our Webb-Page

  www.OnyxWebb.com

  Contents

  Quote

  From the Journal of Onyx Webb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Quote

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Quote

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Letter

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Quote

  Quote

  They say we don’t get the life we want, but rather, the life we deserve. Many days I find myself thinking I should have wanted less, and believed that I deserved more.

  - Onyx Webb

  From the Journal of Onyx Webb

  They say a person dies three times…

  Once when the heart stops beating.

  Again, when the person is laid to rest.

  And, finally, the last time someone speaks their name.

  But the dead know better.

  There are many ways to stop living before the final breath.

  We stop living when we give up on love.

  We stop living when we quit pursuing our dreams.

  We stop living when we refuse to forgive.

  We stop living when we are no longer able to see beauty in everyday things.

  And when we forget we are deserving.

  -Onyx Webb, Crimson Cove, Oregon

  Chapter One

  Episode 10: Trial of the Century

  Orlando, Florida

  August 9, 2010

  Koda Mulvaney owned three sports cars.

  The first was a fire-engine red McLaren F1, considered to be on the short list of the greatest production cars ever built. The second was a bumblebee yellow Koenigsegg CCR, designed and manufactured in Ängelholm, Sweden. The third was a jet-black Lamborghini Gallardo Superleggera, a gift from his father for his twenty-first birthday.

  For the trip to Georgia with Robyn, Koda decided on the Lamborghini.

  It had been a long time since Koda had taken any of them out for a spin. He couldn’t wait to find a stretch of straight road and open her up.

  “Do you need a special license to drive one of these?” Robyn asked from the passenger seat, the two of them belted in their seats like they were about to ride Space Mountain.

  “Nope,” Koda said, leaving off the fact that he hadn’t had a license of any kind for almost three years. “Don’t worry. I promise not to go over two hundred.”

  “That’s not funny,” Robyn said.

  “Only kidding,” Koda said. “Though there was this time when Dane and I were in Australia and someone told us about this long section of open road called 90 Miles Straight. Not even the slightest curve to slow you down. If you’re pointed right, you could lock your steering wheel and take a nap.”

  “That’s cool,” Robyn said.

  “Yeah,” Koda said. “The best part is it’s almost impossible to kill anyone because the population is like eighty people, and they all know to stay clear of the road. It’s so flat and remote pilots have landed planes there in an emergency.”

  “And you went there?” Robyn asked.

  “We did,” Koda said. “We rented a Bugatti Veyron in Perth and spent a day out there, driving up and back. We must have done the straight like six times each.”

  Koda turned and looked at Robyn and noticed what looked like a slight smile. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Robyn said. “I was just picturing the two of you, speeding down the road like idiots. It’s nice to think of Dane so full of life. Maybe Dane’s parents are right. Maybe it does get better.”

  Koda and Robyn stopped for lunch at a fast food chicken restaurant called Zaxby’s, in Valdosta, Georgia. When they’d finished eating, Robyn decided it was time to tell Koda what was bothering her.

  “There was a reason I called you last night—besides just checking in, I mean,” Robyn started.

  “Okay,” Koda said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “I figured something was up.”

  “Remember when I told you that someone had written something on my bathroom mirror?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Koda said. “The number eight.”

  Robyn nodded. “Well, more stuff has been happening.”

  “Like?”

  Robyn took several seconds to decide just how crazy she wanted to sound. “Small things mostly,” she said finally. “Lights turning on and off, coming home to find a kitchen drawer open, stuff like that.”

  “That doesn’t sound like anything—”

  “There’s something else,” Robyn said. “In the kitchen I have a big glass jar that I save wine corks in. Well, a few days ago I came home after work at, like, two in the morning to find that someone had pulled eight of them out and placed them in a circle on the kitchen counter. Eight of them, Koda. Just like the number on the bathroom mirror. That can’t be by chance, can it?”

  “It’s Dane’s lacrosse number,” Koda said.

  “What?”

  “Eight,” Koda said. “I didn’t think of it until after we’d hung up, but the number on Dane’s lacrosse jersey. It was number eight.”

  Jackson, Georgia

  Koda dropped Robyn at her brother and sister-in-law’s house in Augusta, and then made the 130-mile drive to the Georgia Department of Corrections Prison near Jackson. Having no idea how long the visit with Wyatt Scrogger would take, he didn’t see a reason to drag Robyn along, leaving her sitting in the waiting area for hours.

  When Koda arrived, he was met by the warden, who’d been told by the governor to personally escort Koda through the prison.

  “Allowing someone to meet with a permanent is not something we commonly do,” the warden said.

  “A permanent?” Koda said.

  “Yes,” the warden replied. “Someone who will serve their entire sentence here at GDCP before taking the walk.”

  “Did you tell him who asked to see him?” Koda asked.

  “The only thing Wyatt Scrogger knows is that he has a visitor,” the warden said. “I’m sure he thinks it’s his lawyer.”

  When Koda was ushered into the room, Wyatt Scrogger was already seated. And he wasn’t anything like what Koda expected.

  Koda had seen photos from the late 1970s and early ‘80s—photos provided to him by Private Detective Stormy Boyd—none of which resembled the man chained to the concrete seat at the table opposite him. It had been thirty years since the pictures had been taken, but Scrogger looked like he’d aged a hundred years.

  “Let me guess,” Scrogger said. “You’re from the Naked Clown Society, soliciting donations to buy big shoes and rubber noses for new members?” Scrogger leaned to his left and glanced at Koda’s feet. “Nah, not the Naked Clown Society. Your feet are too small, and your shoes are too expensive.”

  “And I’m wearing clothes,” Koda said. “I would think someone from the Naked Clown Society would be naked.”

  Scrogger nodded. “Finally, a man with a sense of humor. That’s hard to come by in here. So, what do you want, Mr. Sexy Man? Or would you prefer I call you Mr. Mulvaney?”

  “They told you who was—?”

  “No, no one tells anyone shit about anything in here,” Scrogger said. “But they do let us watch TV an hour a day at least. Most guys watch ESPN or Locked Up on MSNBC, which makes no sense whatsoever. Me? I prefer Inside Edition and Jersey Shore. That Snookie is a real hoot. But I can’t imagine you’re here to talk about health hazards posed by excess tanning.”

  “No, I’m not,” Koda said. “I’m here about Juniper Cole.”

  Scrogger leaned back and shook his he
ad but said nothing.

  “I was wondering if you had any idea who killed her,” Koda said.

  “Well, that should be easy,” Scrogger said. “Didn’t you hear? They caught the guy thirty years ago. A struggling stand-up comedian with a vicious sense of humor. Want to hear some of my new material?”

  Scrogger didn’t wait for Koda to answer and launched into his routine.

  “A lot has changed in the thirty years since I was convicted. In 1980, I had long hair. Now I’m longing for hair. I used to go to parties once a week with a KEG—now, once each year, I go to the prison doctor for an EKG. When I was locked up, I was into acid rock. Now I’ve got acid reflux. When I came in here, I was hoping for a nice BMW—now I’m just hoping for a good BM. Pretty good, huh? I mean, for a guy who is scheduled to die by lethal injection in 123 days, seventeen hours, and eleven minutes. But, hey, who’s counting?”

  “We’ve got twenty minutes left,” Koda said. “Do you want to tell jokes or—?”

  “You know the one word that no one says in here?” Scrogger asked. “Jesus. You know why? Because it reminds people of their last supper.”

  “Now we’ve got nineteen,” Koda said.

  “Want to hear something weird?” Scrogger said. “Did you know they swab your arm with alcohol before they give you the final injection?”

  Koda shook his head. “Is everything a joke to you, Wyatt?”

  Wyatt Scrogger leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “Let’s get something straight, okay? I live in an eight-foot by ten-foot room with three solid walls, all painted white. My cell door is made of six-inch thick, see-through polycarbonate so they can watch me pee in my small toilet and sleep in an iron bunk twenty-four seven. The lights never go off in here. Did you know that? I mean never. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in virtual solitary confinement for the better part of thirty years? Deprived of almost all human contact? It’s an existence without hope. This thirty minutes in this room talking to you? This is the highlight of my year. The only way to cope with being in here is to constantly find new ways to pretend you’re not in here. So, do I joke around a bit? You bet your sweet, free ass I do. And if you don’t like it, well that’s just too God-damn bad.”

  Koda said nothing. He understood. Well, not entirely—what free person could possibly understand what the man sitting before him had been through?

  “Why did you come here?” Scrogger asked. “What in the hell do you want from me?”

  “I came here to tell you I don’t think you killed Juniper Cole,” Koda said.

  “Wow, that’s great,” Scrogger said, feigning a look of mock-relief. “Where were you during my trial? Oh, that’s right. You weren’t born yet.”

  Koda glared at Scrogger but, again, said nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” Scrogger said softly. “It’s a habit—a defense mechanism. It’s all I’ve got.”

  Koda nodded.

  “The TV shows say you saw a ghost girl in a mirror—at the Forsyth Park Hotel,” Scrogger said. “Is that true?”

  Koda nodded.

  “And this girl, you think it was—?”

  “Yes, it’s Juniper,” Koda said. “I hired a private detective who proved it. He also dug up some interesting information that just might get you the hell out of this place. But first I need you to do something for me.”

  “Me?” Scrogger asked. “What could I possibly do for you from in here?”

  “I want you to tell me I’m right,” Koda said. “I want you to look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t do it.”

  Chapter Two

  Houston, Texas

  January 17, 1942

  It was Saturday morning, a morning Catfish Webb would have preferred to have slept in. But he dragged himself out of bed anyway.

  The aging Cajun put his eye patch on, laced his boots, pulled on the only coat he owned, and began the six-block walk against a howling wind on an unusually cold morning—unusually cold for Houston, Texas, at least.

  Then he saw the line.

  Catfish disliked the cold. And he hated waiting in lines. He wasn’t even that much of a moviegoer. But he was eager to see the Saturday morning newsreels that played prior to the feature—whatever the feature happened to be.

  Catfish took one of the only remaining seats in the very front row of the theater.

  The newsreel started with a recap of the December 7 attack—as if people didn’t know—then clips of President Franklin D. Roosevelt declaring war on Japan, proclaiming December 7, 1941, to be “a date that would live in infamy.”

  Black-and-white footage of Japanese Kamikazes flying their planes into the decks of American warships filled the screen to the horror-filled gasps of the audience.

  The images were worse than Catfish had anticipated. The idea of 2,402 Americans burning to death in fiery explosions enraged him. Catfish felt like he should go down to the recruiting station and enlist. Not that the United States needed—or would take—a man in his sixties.

  As the newsreel continued, Catfish decided he couldn’t watch any further and made his way to the aisle to leave. Then he heard a name he hadn’t heard in almost fifteen years.

  A name he knew all too well.

  Ulrich Schröder.

  Catfish turned and looked up to see Ulrich’s broad, German face filling the screen as the newsreel narrator said things Catfish wasn’t sure he was really hearing.

  German lighthouse keeper murdered in cold blood…

  Doused in oil and set aflame while still alive…

  Ghost woman roaming the woods at night…

  Trial of the century in Crimson Cove, Oregon.

  The movie screen flickered with images of a woman walking through the woods. She was far away, but even at a distance Catfish could tell who the woman was.

  It was his daughter.

  It was Onyx.

  Catfish rushed from the theater and down the block to a newsstand where he bought a copy of the Houston Telegraph.

  The front page contained nothing of interest. Nor did the second page. But there, on page three, the headline read:

  Ghost Woman, Onyx Webb, to Stand Trial for Murder of Husband

  Catfish read the entire article, word for word. Then he read it again. It was time to pack.

  Catfish was going to Oregon.

  To a place called Crimson Cove.

  Chapter Three

  Chicago, Illinois

  January 13, 1966

  “I ain’t all that hungry,” Tommy Bilazzo said, standing against the wall next to Sal Tombo’s regular booth in the rear of The Purple Pig, watching as Fat Sal wiped what was left of his butternut squash ravioli in brown butter sauce from the plate with a big piece of generously buttered garlic bread. Fat Sal had abandoned his weight loss plan months earlier when he discovered that no matter how much food he consumed, his weight never went much above 525 pounds.

  Next to Fat Sal sat Phil Spilatro, eating the same food but from a plate half the size, while Chuckie Bags stood in his normal spot, picking imaginary lint from the lapel of his suit.