Onyx Webb 10 Read online

“No, I mean get out get out—as in move,” Robyn said, sitting up.

  “What? I thought you loved Orlando.”

  “I do,” Robyn said. “I grew up here. It’s this apartment. It reminds me of—”

  “—Mika?”

  Robyn nodded. Then, to Koda’s surprise, Robyn started to cry. “Damn it. I promised I wasn’t going to cry over her,” she said, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of Koda’s T-shirt and laying her head on his shoulder.

  Koda lifted his arm and wrapped it around her. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “God, how I hated her,” Robyn said. “I hated Mika so bad there were times I actually wished she was dead. And now—well, I can’t stop thinking about her dying out there on that road in the cold and all alone. I keep wondering what her final thoughts were.”

  “I know exactly what Mika was thinking about,” Koda said. “She was thinking about what she always thought about. Herself.”

  “Still,” Robyn said. “It’s so sad.”

  “I know what will fix this,” Koda said.

  “What?”

  “Carrot cake.”

  “From The Dessert Lady?” Robyn asked, her tone brightening.

  “Yep,” Koda said. “If you fly, I’ll buy.”

  “Deal,” Robyn said, standing up.

  “God, Dane used to love that damn carrot cake,” Koda said.

  Robyn nodded and smiled at the thought.

  She was thinking the same thing.

  “What do you want? Two slices or a whole cake?” Robyn asked.

  “Get a whole cake,” Koda said. “That way we’ll have some left over for breakfast. I think we’ve got milk in the fridge.”

  Robyn took the private elevator down to the lobby and pushed through the front doors of the 55 West building into the brick courtyard and walked east toward Church Street Station next to the old Cheyenne Saloon.

  Which was just past the railroad tracks.

  For the most part, Robyn stayed away from the tracks, where she watched Dane get hit by the train—and die—six months earlier.

  Six months and twenty-one days to be precise.

  A lot had happened since then. At the time of the accident, she and Dane had been a thing.

  A steady thing.

  Looking back now, it was hard to say they were in love. It might have been love. Or it might have simply been the giddy excitement and infatuation one felt in most new relationships.

  Robyn really didn’t know.

  All she knew for sure was that she was in love with Koda now and was certain he loved her too. It was real. The true love she’d always hoped to find one day. That she knew for sure.

  The other thing Robyn knew for certain was that she was tired of people dying around her. Or discovering the people around her were dead already.

  As was the case with Juniper.

  And Stormy Boyd.

  And Gerylyn Stoller’s husband, Raymond.

  And Tommy Bilazzo.

  And now Mason’s mother was dying—her sister-in-law up in Georgia. Robyn’s brother had been putting on a brave face, but they both knew the truth.

  How much death could one person handle? Robyn thought. Whatever the point was, she knew she was past it.

  Way past.

  Maybe that’s why Mika’s death had been weighing on her.

  And then there was Declan.

  Robyn still hadn’t told Koda the truth about what really took place in the ambulance—that his grandfather hadn’t died from being stabbed by the Southern Gentleman. He was taken by his friend, Tommy Bilazzo, at his own request. In some ways, it was the perfect way to die—to be in the arms of someone you loved and trusted, someone who was there to help you pass over.

  On the other hand, death was death—even if she now knew that death was never final. No one ever dies, not really—they just change form and become something else.

  Something different.

  Something new.

  The knowledge of that truth should have been enough to make her happy, Robyn thought. Maybe someday she would find peace in that knowledge.

  Robyn was on her way back from The Dessert Lady with the carrot cake, the street jammed with people now. The game between the Magic and Celtics had just let out at the Amway Center two blocks away. In minutes, the bars and restaurants would be packed too, and she was glad she went out when she did.

  Robyn looked down at the ground as she approached the railroad tracks once again, being careful not to trip. When she looked up, everyone was gone.

  The streets were empty.

  Not a soul in sight anywhere.

  Everyone simply disappeared. And then she saw him. Down the tracks about a hundred feet, standing in a sea of gray mist.

  It was Dane.

  “Hey,” she heard him say, even though he was so far away it should have been impossible to hear him.

  Robyn opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything,” Dane said, as if reading her mind.

  Robyn instinctively took a step toward Dane, but he held up his hand. “No, it’s better that you don’t,” Dane said. “I just came to tell you that it’s okay. You and Koda—you’re good together.”

  Robyn nodded, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “I miss you,” Dane said. “And yes, I did love you. Know that. Now be happy. You deserve it.”

  “Wait,” Robyn called out. “I’ve got carrot cake. Your favorite. Koda’s upstairs. He misses you too.”

  Dane smiled, and his image began to fade.

  “No, don’t go!”

  Then Robyn felt a hand on her arm, and she heard someone behind her. Robyn turned and saw a man standing there. “Hey, lady, are you okay? You can’t stand on the tracks like this. It’s dangerous.”

  Robyn looked around and saw the streets were filled with people again. Then she turned back and looked up the tracks.

  Dane was gone.

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  FEBRUARY 4, 2011 – 8:38 P.M.

  NOAH TOOK A CHAIR from the kitchen and dragged it down the hallway, placing it next to the door. Then he grabbed Onyx’s old double-barrel shotgun, which he’d set there earlier in the day, and pointed it away from him since he was unsure if the gun was loaded.

  Noah had fired a pump-action shotgun before, but he was unfamiliar with a break-action model that needed to have the shells loaded directly into the chamber of the gun barrels.

  It took a moment to figure out how to open the gun, but he finally found the latch and lowered the barrels away from him. The gun was empty, so there was no need to discard spent casings.

  Noah pulled two twelve-gauge shells from the box in the entry table drawer and slide one in each barrel. He brought the barrels back up and closed the break until he heard them click. Then he shoved an additional four shells in his pocket, along with a small flashlight, and sat down.

  Noah glanced at his watch. It was 8:38. If tonight was like the previous eight evenings, the howling would start in exactly six minutes.

  The howling started the night Noah showed Clay Onyx’s letter. And it always started at the same time. 8:44 p.m.

  Every single night.

  The first six nights, Noah tried to ignore it. Wolves could often be heard howling in the woods. There was nothing unusual about it. Until he noticed the howling began at precisely the same time.

  When the howling began on the seventh night, Noah went outside and saw a big gray and brown wolf standing next to the gravestones at the edge of the clearing, the animal’s features lit by the moon above.

  “Get out of here,” Noah yelled. The wolf stopped howling but did not move.

  When the howling began on the eighth night, Noah stormed outside banging a metal spoon on a large stockpot. Again, the wolf stopped howling but didn’t budge.

  This was the ninth night.

  Noah sat in the chair waiting and looked at his watch. It was 8:
44. He stood, picked up the shotgun, and placed his hand on the doorknob.

  Seconds later, the howling began.

  Noah opened the door, took several steps outside, and pointed the gun toward the sky and pulled one of the two triggers. The wolf immediately stopped howling.

  A second later, the wolf began again, and Noah pulled the second trigger. The wolf went silent.

  Noah stood there, waiting to see what the wolf would do, and the wolf began howling once again.

  Enough was enough.

  Noah started across the clearing—the ground soft and spongy beneath his feet from a hard rain earlier in the day—dropping the barrels, discarding the spent shells, and loading the gun again.

  Noah got about fifty feet from the wolf and stopped. He planted his feet and aimed the gun directly at the wolf and pulled the trigger—both barrels at once.

  The wolf stopped howling but made no attempt to run.

  “Fine. You want to die? Have it your way,” Noah yelled and started walking toward the gravestones, reloading the shotgun as he went.

  With the gun reloaded, Noah stopped approximately twenty feet from the large gray beast and pointed the shotgun.

  And fired.

  A large chunk of Catfish Webb’s concrete gravestone behind the wolf exploded, shattering from the impact of the shotgun pellets.

  The wolf stood there, unharmed by the blast.

  The pellets had gone right through the animal.

  The wolf was a ghost.

  A moment later, the wolf turned and walked toward the trees. Then it turned back and looked at Noah, as if to say, “Well, are you coming?”

  Noah could barely see, so he pulled out his flashlight and stepped slowly into the woods.

  The wolf walked at a slow pace, as if knowing Noah was having trouble finding his footing in the dark, even with the flashlight. Finally, about forty feet into the woods, the wolf stopped at the base of a tall, hundred-year-old pine.

  “What?” Noah asked.

  The wolf stood there, looking up at Noah as if he were trying to send a telepathic message.

  “What?” Noah said louder this time, as if that was going to help.

  Then Noah watched as the wolf began scratching at the ground, gently at first and then harder. The wolf dug its claws furiously into the ground until finally it stopped and took several steps back.

  Noah stepped forward and looked into the hole and saw what the wolf was trying to show him.

  Bones.

  Then Noah understood.

  Onyx.

  Noah turned to look at the wolf, but it had disappeared.

  SAVANNAH, GEORGIA

  FEBRUARY 5, 2011 – 1:14 P.M.

  THE MAIN BALLROOM in the Forsyth Park Hotel was packed with reporters from all over the country. They were here for the press conference being held by Simon Prentice, who was announcing his new book deal with recently pardoned death row inmate, Wyatt Scrogger.

  Wyatt sat behind a narrow table with Simon on one side, and Wyatt’s lawyer on the other. Both the publisher and lawyer appeared thrilled to be there.

  Wyatt didn’t.

  “Wyatt, tell us in your own words what it feels like to be a free man after thirty years on death row,” Savannah reporter Domingo Gutierrez asked from a seat in the front row.

  “Scary,” Wyatt said. “Not Brooks-I’m-going-to-carve-my-name-in-the-rafters-and-hang-myself-Shawshank-Redemption scary, but it’s pretty damn weird being on the outside again.”

  “This question is for Simon. Is there a title for the book yet?”

  “Yes,” Simon said. “Cheating Death: An Innocent Man’s Story of Life on Death Row.”

  “How fast will it be released?”

  “Faster than my client was,” Wyatt’s lawyer quipped, followed by waves of nervous laughter from everyone in attendance.

  “Isn’t there a law that says a convicted felon can’t profit from the publication of a book?” someone called out from the back.

  “Yes, there is,” Wyatt’s lawyer said. “But since the governor of our great state has seen fit to provide my client with a full pardon, that law no longer applies. Wyatt is free to do whatever he pleases just like any other innocent person.”

  “Wyatt, tell us what it was like to be mere minutes away from execution?”

  “Oh, pretty much like any other day,” Wyatt said. “Except for maybe the part where I wanted to scream every ten seconds or so.”

  “It’s been reported that you were invited to appear on the Jay Leno Show, but turned it down,” a reporter asked. “Is that true? And if so, why?”

  “Yes, Wyatt was invited to be on the show,” Simon said. “But it’s too soon to be making the rounds. Trust me, when the book is ready for release, you won’t be able to turn the dial without seeing Wyatt’s face.”

  “But isn’t it true the book is already written? That you wrote it while you were on death row waiting to be executed?”

  “Yes, that is true,” Wyatt said.

  “So the book isn’t going to be a feel-good story about being released so much as a final message to those who stole thirty years of your life,” the same reporter asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Simon interjected. “The book will be plenty uplifting after we add the final few chapters, which will include this very happy ending.”

  “Wyatt, do you have any words of hope for the people you left behind on death row who are still facing execution?” another reporter asked.

  “Yes,” Wyatt said. “First, for your last meal, ask for the all-you-can-eat salad bar. Second, because most executions are held at night, ask for the death-by-solar-panel option. And, third, hire a lawyer who believes in your innocence and has access to good drugs.”

  “What did you have for your last meal?”

  “Barbeque pork ribs, with a side of GHB,” Wyatt said.

  The next question was directed at Wyatt’s lawyer. “How would you describe those final hours waiting to see if there was going to be a last-minute reprieve from the governor?”

  “A damn good day at the office,” Wyatt’s lawyer said.

  “Would you like to elaborate on that?”

  “Sure,” Wyatt’s lawyer said. “Any day a lawyer gets to stick their thumb in the eye of a broken system that railroads innocent people is an f’ing damn good day at the office.”

  “But you were disbarred, and isn’t there still a chance that you’ll be brought up on charges by the DA for your actions?”

  “Only if the governor and the district attorney are idiots.”

  “Is it true you’re suing the State of Georgia for $3 million?” a female reporter asked.

  “No,” Wyatt’s lawyer said.

  “So the reports that you’ve filed suit are wrong?”

  “No, the reports that we’ve filed suit are correct,” Wyatt’s lawyer said. “What’s wrong is the amount. We’re suing for $30 million.”

  The room filled with the sound of reporters murmuring to one another and writing furiously in the notepads. “That sounds like a ridiculously large amount,” Domingo said.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Wyatt’s lawyer said. “I read about a reporter who sued a woman for $1 million just because she hit him in the face with a pie. Oh, wait—that was you.”

  Every reporter in the room laughed. Everyone except Domingo.

  “Wyatt, have you spoken to your childhood friend, Quinn Cole? And have you forgiven him for putting you on death row in the first place?” Domingo asked.

  “The answers are no and no,” Wyatt said. “No, we haven’t spoken—and no, I haven’t forgiven him because he did nothing that requires my forgiveness.”

  “But he testified against you at—”

  “Let’s get something straight here, shall we,” Wyatt said. “Quinn got caught up in circumstances just like I did, and his testimony isn’t what put me in prison. Bad police work put me in prison. The jury put me in prison. The State of Georgia put me in prison. The system put me in prison. The person who fr
amed me put me in prison. My own actions and stupidity that evening put me in prison. Not Quinn. Quinn Cole didn’t put me in prison. Along with my lawyer, Quinn Cole got me out.”

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  FEBRUARY 5, 2011 – 1:10 P.M. (PST)

  NOAH FOUND A pillowcase in the bedroom closet and grabbed an old rusted spade—the same one he’d used to dig the holes for the rose bushes just before Christmas—and headed for the woods.

  When he reached the edge of the clearing, Noah saw the damage to Onyx’s father’s headstone from the shotgun blast the night before—a large chunk of the front of the stone missing.

  In an odd way, Noah was glad that Onyx wasn’t there to see the damage.

  Noah walked straight into the woods, taking the same path from the night before, and found the tall pine with the hole beneath it. Then he looked in and saw the same thing he saw the night before.

  Bones.

  Onyx’s bones, picked clean by animals and decayed by the ravages of time—buried in the dirt for the past seventy years.

  Noah had asked Onyx about the night she died. At first Onyx resisted, but Noah pushed her. He wanted to know.

  Now he wished he didn’t.

  Noah tried to imagine what it was like for Onyx to have been sitting there at the base of the pine tree, badly burned—dehydrated, cold, exhausted—only to have the wolves come for her.

  Yes, it would have been better not to have known.

  Noah knelt next to the hole and took a closer look at the bones. Now, in the light of day, he could see that not all the bones belonged to Onyx. Some of the bones were clearly from an animal of some kind.

  The wolf from the night before.

  It took over an hour for Noah to recover all the bones from the hole and separate the human bones from the wolf bones. Once he was finished, Noah placed Onyx’s remains in the pillowcase and kicked the wolf’s bones back into the hole.

  Noah took Onyx’s remains to the edge of the clearing, where the gravestones were, and started digging. When he was done, the grave Noah dug for Onyx was not much bigger than the grave for the cat, Poe.