Onyx Webb 10 Page 14

  “Onyx? Onyx told you to pretend to kill yourself and disappear?” Noah asked in disbelief.

  “Well, not in those exact words, but—yes—I got the idea from Onyx.”

  Noah listened as his grandfather explained how it was that his car went off the road and exploded on the cliffs below.

  “It started when I drove out to the lighthouse to tell Onyx it was over,” Alistar said.

  Noah felt like he’d just been punched. “So, you were having an affair with Onyx?”

  “An affair? God, no! Where did you get that idea?” Alistar asked. “From Kizzy?”

  Noah said nothing, relieved.

  “Yes, of course, it was your grandmother,” Alistar said. “No matter how many times I told her I wasn’t sleeping with Onyx, she could not let it go.”

  “You did spend a lot of time there, out at the lighthouse,” Noah said.

  “Onyx needed a friend, and I was that for her,” Alistar said. “It was nothing more, Noah, I swear.”

  “Okay. So you drove out to the lighthouse…”

  “Yes,” Alistar continued. “It was a Monday. I know because our normal get-togethers were on Friday, and Onyx hated it when I showed up unannounced. Onyx was upset because of the film festival, which had caused all kinds of problems for her. She had hoped I could put an end to it legally. I couldn’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then I told her it was my final visit out to see her,” Alistar said. “I explained that my going there had caused friction between Kizzy and me. I could tell how disappointed Onyx was, but I was determined to make a clean break and do whatever I could to repair my relationship with your grandmother, and if not going out to the lighthouse was the price, I was willing to pay it. Basically, I threw Onyx under the bus for Kizzy.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Noah said.

  “How could you? I never made it home to tell anyone.”

  “Right,” Noah said. “I see that now.”

  “Then, for whatever reason, my conversation with Onyx turned to my years as a musician,” Alistar said. “I don’t remember who brought it up, but I started recounting my early years, playing piano in the clubs here in Chicago. Onyx asked if I still played, and I told her I didn’t—that merely touching the keys made me ache for the life I’d given up—how I felt that had I stayed in Chicago, I would have had a career as a musician.”

  “Go on,” Noah said.

  “Well, Onyx was having none of it,” Alistar said. “She said that blaming Kizzy for my decision to become a lawyer was pathetic. She said that Kizzy may have pointed me down the path toward becoming a lawyer, but I was the one who chose to walk it. Her words cut me to the quick. If you knew Onyx, you’d understand how insightful the woman can be.”

  Noah remained quiet. It was obvious his grandfather had no idea about his relationship with Onyx.

  “Then Onyx said the words that really hurt,” Alistar said. “She said that maybe I’d become a lawyer to avoid finding out if I was as good a musician as I thought. And I realized she might have been right. Perhaps I’d given up on my dream of playing jazz out of fear. If playing music was truly what I wanted, why had I given up so easily? Why hadn’t I fought harder for my dream?”

  “Even if Onyx was right, that still doesn’t explain why you did what you did,” Noah said.

  “Perhaps not, but it played a big part,” Alistar said. “Onyx said it was our nature as human beings to take the easy road, the path of least resistance. The question was whether we could find the strength to fight our nature—to deny ourselves the shortest, easiest route—a path that we know deep in our hearts will only lead to temporary happiness.”

  “Onyx called you a quitter,” Noah said.

  Alistar nodded. “That’s when I told her it didn’t matter anyway. That even if I could summon the courage to follow my original dream, it was too late for me. Onyx said as long as there was a heart beating in my chest, it was never too late. But that I needed to get on with it. She said that every second I squandered was an affront to an unforgiving universe.”

  “So you decided to fake your death?”

  “No, not then,” Alistar said. “But an hour later, when the opportunity presented itself, yes—I took it. It wasn’t planned. Certainly, you don’t believe I sent a truck driver to his death just to fake my own?”

  “No, of course not,” Noah said.

  “Good. Because what happened was an accident, plain and simple.”

  “I was on my way home, driving through the town of Crimson Cove, and the Aston Martin broke down. I got out of the car with the snow falling all around me, and the only place that was open was the diner on Main Street.”

  “Spilatro’s Place,” Noah said.

  “Oh, so you’ve been out to the cove?”

  Noah nodded but decided not to elaborate.

  “Well, then you know what a desolate, out-of-the-way place Crimson Cove is,” Alistar said. “Anyway, by pure chance, the girl behind the counter knew a bit about cars. She turned a screw or two, and got the Aston started. I slipped her a twenty and went on my way, trying to beat the snow, which was coming down hard at that point.”

  “So you were back on the road again and…?”

  “And three miles out of town, the Aston Martin’s engine died again along a curve,” Alistar said. “I tried to use my cell phone, but there was no signal. So I got out of the car and walked a hundred feet or so up the road to see if I could get a signal, and—”

  Then Noah understood. “The truck came around the curve and hit the Aston Martin.”

  Alistar nodded. “Yes, a terrible thing to see happen—both vehicles going through the guardrail and off the cliff like that. But an accident, plain and simple.”

  “What about your body?” Noah said. “They said they found your body in the car burned beyond recognition.”

  “That is perhaps the worst part of what happened,” Alistar said. “As I was leaving Crimson Cove, just before the accident, I’d picked up a hitchhiker—a transient.”

  “Jesus, the hitchhiker was—?”

  “—in the car when the truck hit it?” Alistar said. “Yes, he was. But, as tragic as it was, it provided me with an opportunity. And I decided to make the most of it.”

  “How did you get back to Portland?”

  “I was lucky,” Alistar said. “I knew the area because I’d been out there so often, but also because that’s where your mother died—in a cabin a couple of miles from there. Fortunately, I had on a heavy coat and gloves and was able to get to the cabin before the snow made it impossible to walk. In the morning, I made it back to the road and hitched a ride into the city. That’s exactly how it happened.”

  “You realized that people would assume you were in the car,” Noah said.

  “Yes. For all intents and purposes, I was dead. I waited until the funeral was scheduled to start, and then broke in—making it look like a burglary. I grabbed the Stratocaster, my money clip, a few pieces of clothing, and $300 in cash we kept hidden in the top drawer for an emergency. I even grabbed some of Kizzy’s things for good measure. Then I caught a bus headed for Chicago.”

  “You were free to do whatever you wanted.”

  “Yes,” Alistar said. “In the most ironic way, dying had given me my life back.”

  Noah remained silent.

  “I suppose this is the part of the conversation where I ask you what’s new with you,” Alistar said.

  Noah shook his head and smiled, and then started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Alistar said.

  “Funny? Nothing’s funny,” Noah said. “But we do have something in common.”

  “You mean besides music?”

  “Yes, besides music,” Noah said. “What we have in common is Onyx.”

  “So are you saying you met her?” Alistar said.

  “Met her? No, I didn’t just meet Onyx,” Noah said. “I married her.”

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  FEBRUARY 19, 201
1

  KRISSY SAT IN the passenger seat of Bruce’s Maybach, with Bruce behind the steering wheel. The idea that her mother’s business partner was her father still felt weird, and she knew getting used to it would take a long time. Krissy had yet to call Bruce Dad—except once when talking with Koda. She wasn’t sure she ever would.

  “So where are we going?” Krissy asked.

  “I’ve been asked to stop by the local FBI field office,” Bruce said. “Then I’m going to file for a permit to tear down the mansion.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Krissy said. “Tearing the house down, I mean.”

  Bruce nodded.

  “Why does the FBI want to see you?” Krissy asked.

  “That’s a good question,” Bruce said. “They aren’t very forthcoming with information. Ever.”

  “Then why don’t you tell them to cheese off?” Krissy asked.

  Bruce glanced over and shook his head.

  “It’s just an expression,” Krissy said. “You know, like—?”

  “Yeah, I get it,” Bruce said.

  Krissy looked straight ahead through the windshield, wondering why she was working so hard to test him. It wasn’t like Bruce had done anything to her—other than donate the sperm that made her mother pregnant and not say anything for the next sixteen years.

  It was strange. On one hand, she blamed him for her mother’s death—after all, her mother wouldn’t have been at the party if it weren’t for him. On the other hand, Krissy knew she wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him.

  The world was complicated.

  And it pissed her off.

  Bruce took the bridge across the river and navigated to the FBI field office in Mt. Pleasant without using the GPS. He’d been there so many times he knew the way by heart.

  This time, however, Special Agent James didn’t meet Bruce.

  “Thank you for coming down, Mr. Mulvaney,” Special Agent Bond said, extending his hand.

  “This is my—my daughter, Krissy,” Bruce said.

  “Good to meet you, Krissy,” Bond said, shaking Krissy’s hand.

  “Where’s Special Agent James?” Bruce asked.

  “Out in the field,” Bond said. “Listen, Krissy—I’m going to need a few minutes with your dad. Alone.”

  “Coming down here is getting tiresome,” Bruce said as he lowered himself in the chair opposite Bond.

  Bond nodded and pulled a manila envelope from his desk drawer. The envelope was sealed with tape that read Top Secret, Department of Defense.”

  “What’s that?” Bruce said.

  “I have no idea, and I never will. It was couriered here by the DOD. I was told to allow you one hour maximum to read whatever is in it, and then have you reseal it with this tape before giving it back to me.” Bond set a roll of tape on the edge of the desk. “May I have your cell phone, please?”

  “My cell phone?” Bruce said. “What—?”

  “So you don’t take photos of the contents,” Bond said, holding out his hand. Bruce gave him the phone. “You people kill me,” Bruce said.

  “I’ll return your phone when you’re finished. You have one hour.”

  “What did they want?” Krissy said once she and Bruce were back in the car.

  “They wanted to show me your grandfather’s service file,” Bruce said as he started the car.

  “What was in it? Something bad?”

  “No,” Bruce said. “It was something good.”

  “Well, if it was something good, how come you don’t look happy about it?” Krissy asked.

  “Let’s get lunch,” Bruce said as he started the Maybach’s engine and pulled into traffic. “What do you like?”

  And then it hit him. He had a sixteen-year-old daughter, and he knew nothing about her. Bruce wasn’t even sure how much he knew about his son. Is that the way it is with all parent-child relationships? Bruce wondered.

  Maybe it was. But it wasn’t what he wanted.

  Not anymore.

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  FEBRUARY 19, 2011 – 11:26 A.M. (PST)

  STAN LEE DROVE the Honda Pilot down the dirt road toward the lighthouse, being cautious in case the sheriff happened to come by a day early. Just because the sheriff said he went to check on the lighthouse on the weekends didn’t mean he couldn’t come a day early.

  Fortunately, the coast was clear.

  Stan Lee grabbed the groceries he’d just bought at a store in Lincoln City, thirty miles to the north, and put them away. He was smart enough to stay out of the local stores, and this time he bought enough that he wouldn’t have to go out again for another week.

  When he was done, Stan Lee drove the car back into the woods and covered it with branches, as before. Then he walked back to the caretaker’s house.

  Stan Lee went into the kitchen and used a handheld opener to take the top off a can of tuna. He dumped the tuna into a bowl, added a bit of mayonnaise, and mixed it together. Then he spread the tuna on a piece of Wonder Bread, placed sliced pickles on top, and trimmed off the crust—exactly as his mother used to do.

  As he was sitting at the table eating his sandwich, Stan Lee grabbed the card from the vase of roses and read it for the fifth time since the flowers had arrived four days earlier.

  Onyx…

  I know you probably won’t be there to get these, but thought I should send them just in case. Happy Valentine’s Day…

  Love, Noah

  Stan Lee was having trouble wrapping his mind around the apparent relationship between Noah Ashley and Onyx Webb. He’d met Noah twice now—once during the Onyx Webb Film Festival here in Crimson Cove nine years earlier—and then again at the solstice eclipse party eight weeks ago.

  As best as Stan Lee could tell, Noah was about thirty years old. And, according to what he knew, Onyx Webb was well north of 110 by now. Bizarre to think that she was still alive at all.

  Stan Lee stood, took his dishes to the sink, and put the mayonnaise in the refrigerator.

  Was it possible the two of them were actually man and wife? Stan Lee shook the thought from his mind. It was unthinkable.

  But there was something going on between them. If it wasn’t a relationship in the sexual sense of the word, what was it? Maybe it was time to find out what was over in the lighthouse.

  The lighthouse door was locked up tight as a drum. Stan Lee knew this because he’d tried to open it several days earlier.

  Stan Lee went to the shed, which was unlocked, and rummaged around for a crowbar or something similar with which to pry the door open. There wasn’t one. But he did find an old rusted hammer, and a regular-head Craftsman screwdriver. At least Sears was still good for something.

  Stan Lee crossed the grass between the shed and lighthouse, his shoes slipping a few times as he went, and climbed the steps to the lighthouse door.

  Stan Lee inserted the head of the screwdriver in the crack between the door and the doorframe, just above the lock itself, hammered it in and pulled.

  At first it didn’t look like it was going to work—and if it did, it was going to take considerable time. But what else did he have to do?

  Stan Lee was a lot of things, but a quitter wasn’t one of them.

  It took the better part of twenty minutes, but finally Stan Lee was able to pry the lock out of the door jam. A moment later, he was inside.

  The downstairs area of the lighthouse was dark, even after he’d turned the light on, so Stan Lee left the door open to allow light to come in from the outside.

  The inside was circular, as expected—the same shape as the lighthouse itself—with the only furniture being a grand piano in the center of the room. But what made the room interesting was the art that was hung on the walls.

  Large pieces, most of them. Each of them stunning in their own way. Spectacular sunsets and multi-colored abstracts, very much like the one he’d taken from Mika Flagler’s living room the night he’d bludgeoned the limo driver by mistake.

  That painting had been sign
ed in the lower corner with a single word: Onyx. As were the paintings hanging on the walls of the lighthouse before him now.

  There was no doubt about it—Onyx Webb had painted them all.

  Stan Lee felt a shiver run up and down his spine, unsure as to whether he should hum “It’s a Small World After All” from the Disney ride or the theme from the Twilight Zone.

  Do-do do-do, do-do do-do...

  Stan Lee noticed a large manila envelope lying on top of the piano and opened it. It was wedding photos—photos of Noah Ashley and a beautiful young woman with dark flowing hair in a wedding dress.

  Stan Lee recognized the woman immediately, though he had no idea how what he was seeing was possible.

  It was Onyx Webb.

  Stan Lee’s curiosity was on fire now, his imagination running wild with the possibility that Onyx Webb was a ghost. What other logical explanation could there be?

  Unless the women in the photo was her granddaughter. Or great-great-granddaughter.

  Yes, that was a more logical explanation.

  Stan Lee walked to the bottom of the spiral metal staircase and noticed that one of the steps had been painted red. There must be a story behind that, Stan Lee thought.

  Then Stan Lee noticed the shelves, working their way up the lighthouse walls for as far as the eye could see, jammed tight with books. All the classics. Don Quixote. War and Peace. Moby Dick. The Great Gatsby—each was the property of the Crimson Cove Public Library, if the sticker on the spines were to be trusted.

  Borrowed but never returned?

  Stan Lee pulled a dusty copy of The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer from the shelf and opened it. The card from the library was still in the pocket. The last time the book had been checked out was 1947.

  Stan Lee had always wanted to read the classics but had never taken the time. TV was just too seductive. And easy. Reading a book was a rewarding experience, but at his core Stan Lee knew he was a lazy person. People who still read books were a rare breed—and becoming more rare all the time.