Onyx Webb 6 Read online

  “Do you have any idea why?” Declan asked.

  Robyn shook her head. “I have no idea. Where’s Mika?”

  “I thought it best that the two of you not be here at the same time, so we sent her away,” Declan said. “She got extremely agitated that Koda kept asking for you.”

  “I’ll bet,” Robyn said.

  “Is there a problem between you and Mika?” Bruce asked.

  “You could say that. Two weeks ago, Mika showed up at Koda’s apartment and told me to get out,” Robyn said. “That’s why I was staying up in Georgia.”

  “Why were you staying at 55 West?” Bruce asked. “Are you and Koda seeing each other?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of our business,” Declan said.

  “That’s okay. The answer to your question, Bruce, is no,” Robyn said. “Koda and I are good friends, nothing more. He was simply helping me out by letting me stay there.”

  “In any case, Mika has no right to do what she did,” Declan said. “I’m telling you, Son, the girl is trouble.”

  Bruce dropped the subject, as did Declan—but he planned to let Mika have it when he saw her next.

  At 11:20 a.m., Koda opened his eyes.

  “Hey, mister,” Robyn said, standing next to the side of the bed. “You wanted to see me?”

  Koda nodded and motioned for her to come closer, and Robyn leaned forward.

  “What is it?” Robyn asked.

  “I saw Dane,” Koda said loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “What is he talking about?” Bruce asked.

  Robyn shook her head and shrugged. “You saw Dane?” Robyn asked.

  Koda nodded.

  “Where?” Declan asked. “Where did you see Dane?”

  Mustering all the energy he could, Koda raised his arm and pointed to the far side of the room.

  “In there,” Koda said.

  Robyn, Bruce, and Declan all looked to see what Koda was pointing at.

  He was pointing at the mirror.

  Koda’s doctors were pleased when they heard the clarity of his speech for themselves. It told them that any brain damage he’d suffered was minimal. On the other hand, Koda’s insistence that he’d met with a deceased best friend—inside a mirror, no less—was disconcerting.

  “Lack of oxygen to the brain always results in some level of hypoxia,” one of the doctors said after Koda had drifted back to sleep. “When the supply of oxygen to the brain is cut off for longer than five minutes, neurons in the brain begin to die. There may be memory loss, learning difficulties, problems with motor skills and coordination. That his speech is so clear, however, is a very good sign.”

  “During the first week of his coma, Koda experienced significant spasticity,” another doctor said. Spasticity was a central nervous system disorder that caused Koda’s muscles to constantly tighten and contract. “Each contraction momentarily woke Koda’s brain. Fortunately, the baclofen we injected into Koda’s spinal canal relieved most of the spasms, but he didn’t get more than two or three minutes of uninterrupted REM sleep for several days.”

  “I’m far more concerned with infections,” a third doctor chimed in. “We must remember: the limousine didn’t go into a chlorinated swimming pool—it was submerged in dirty, stagnant pond water. Koda’s lungs were not only filled with water, they were filled with microscopic, soil-borne organisms that can attack the nervous system. In a worse-case scenario, these organisms could still make their way to his brain.”

  The energy drained from the room.

  “The good news is there have been none of the obvious, outward symptoms yet—fever, vomiting, seizures, and the like,” the first doctor said in an attempt to lighten the mood. “We’ll know if he’s in the clear in the next two weeks.”

  “But this can all be treated,” Bruce said. “You said it yourself, his speech is clear. This is all temporary, right?”

  It was a question none of the doctors would answer.

  Chapter Four

  QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

  MARCH 24, 1991

  Like most young recruits, Pipi Esperanza dreamed of making a name for herself as a special agent in the FBI’s ViCAP unit.

  The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, ViCAP, was created in 1985 for the purpose of linking serial homicides with killer profiles and behavior patterns. Unfortunately, three years after joining the FBI, most of Pipi’s time was spent getting coffee for the director and doing filing. So much for being special.

  Then Silence of the Lambs came along.

  In a rare moment of cooperation, the bureau allowed portions of the film—starring Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter and Jodie Foster as young FBI trainee Clarice Starling—to be shot at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia.

  Pipi was invited to be an extra.

  After its release, the movie’s success proved to be a recruiting bonanza for the FBI, which saw the number of applicants triple. But it wasn’t good for the agents working there already. Though the character was fictional, Clarice Starling’s success at tracking down an important serial killer placed every agent under enormous pressure to become the organization’s next darling.

  Damn that Clarice.

  Then Pipi started getting the letters. She thought they were cute but also annoying since it was her job to deal with them.

  Sent to the FBI by a ten-year-old boy named Newton Drystad, the letters offered advice for their unsolved serial killer cases. Pipi knew Newt was young because of the handwriting. She knew he was ten because of the P.P.S. on the most recent letter—which meant he was only eight when he started writing.

  But the latest letter changed everything.

  March 11, 1991

  To Whom It May Concern:

  I have been following The Dallas Ripper case and believe your agents are on the wrong track. Based on currently available information, it is clear that:

  - The killer is male with an overprotective mother, perhaps a schoolteacher or nurse, probably from the Amarillo area.

  - He killed small animals, but probably kept them. Have your agents cross-reference all taxidermy schools in a 500-mile radius of last killing.

  - You should also check arrest reports between 1945–1955, as he most likely was arrested for petty crimes as a teen (maybe even assault).

  - The killer is not stupid, like the papers think. Probably the opposite, pre-med perhaps? Check for drop outs at medical schools in Texas and Oklahoma, 1948-1955. In any case, he will have falsified a college/medical degree to impress people.

  - Married, divorced; twice possibly.

  - Gunshots to back of head suggests inability to look victims in the eye due to low self-esteem.

  Please reply. I am available to assist.

  Newton Drystad, Tusseyville, PA

  P.S. I believe the label “Dallas Ripper” being used by the media misses the point. The killer isn’t a “ripper”; he’s a collector. Eyes?

  P.P.S. Please don’t let the fact that I am 10-years-old stop you from accepting my help. I know what I am talking about.

  Pipi almost fell off her chair.

  The bureau had just arrested Charles Frederick Albright for the murder of a part-time prostitute. He’d apparently killed two other women before this one. In all three cases, the medical examiner’s reports indicated the killer had removed the victim’s eyes and taken them—a fact that had not been released to the media.

  The kid had been correct on almost every detail—right down to the falsified medical degree found hanging on Albright’s apartment wall.

  Pipi checked the envelope again. The letter was postmarked on March 12—ten days before the FBI had identified the suspect.

  Two hours later, Pipi had reviewed every one of Newt Drystad’s previous letters—letters she’d simply filed and ignored. More often than not, his profiles were right on the mark. And he’d done it only with information available to the public.

  Pipi looked up at the plaque she’d hung on the wall behind her desk when she’d fi
rst joined the bureau.

  It read:

  Some people were born to be serial killers. Others were born to catch them.

  Pipi knew that—with Newt Drystad’s help—her career within the FBI was about to change. For whatever reason, the young boy had been put on the earth to catch killers.

  And she was the one who’d found him.

  Chapter Five

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  APRIL 19, 1986

  “Enough about me,” Alistar said on his fourth trip out to the lighthouse, sitting on his red step with his red teacup. “Tell me about yourself, Onyx, and how you came to be living in this drafty old lighthouse.”

  “For a moment I thought you were going to say dodgy lighthouse,” Onyx said.

  Alistar laughed. “Don’t worry, Onyx. I know better than that. Now, please—tell me your story.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid you wouldn’t find anything about my life very interesting, Mr. Ashley.”

  Alistar remained silent, sipping his tea.

  “Very well,” Onyx said. “I grew up in a houseboat on the northern banks of the Pontchartrain, not too far from the city of New Orleans.”

  “I’ve heard of Lake Ponchartrain,” Alistar said.

  “Not Lake Ponchartrain,” Onyx said. “The Ponchartrain. My father used to make the point that the lake wasn’t a lake at all but an estuary.”

  “The difference being?”

  “I’m certain I have no idea,” Onyx said with a laugh. “All I know is that, to me, it was big and blue and wet, with endless marshes and wetlands packed with sturgeon, paddlefish, snapping turtles, and alligators. And it didn’t matter where you were—when you looked up there were giant gulls and brown pelicans soaring overhead and bald eagles decorating the moss-draped cypress like Christmas ornaments. The haunting beauty of the bayou was so intoxicating, my father vowed he’d never leave.”

  “So why did he?” Alistar asked.

  “Who says he did?”

  “The gravestone,” Alistar said. “I noticed it on my way out, that first day after you fired the shotgun at me.”

  “Very observant,” Onyx said. “For the record, I did not intentionally discharge my shotgun at you. It was an accident.”

  “And that would be your defense had you killed me?”

  “Am I on the witness stand, Mr. Ashley?”

  “And the grave next to it?” Alistar asked.

  “A dear friend,” Onyx said.

  “Tell me,” Alistar said.

  “Another time perhaps,” Onyx said.

  “Very well,” Alistar said, choosing not to press. “My attention is yours. Tell me what you wish.”

  “My father was a great man,” Onyx began. “Don’t get me wrong—Daddy could be stubborn. In many ways he was the most difficult person I’ve ever known. But everything my father ever said or did, he did out of love. Things weren’t like they are today, where you run down to the corner store and buy what you need. Life was hard, but my daddy was harder. I consider him the best man to ever walk this earth.”

  “Tell me more,” Alistar said.

  “Well, first and foremost he was French Cajun. His name was André, but he never answered to that, except with my mama. In the bayou he was known as Catfish Webb, earning his living trapping catfish deep in the marsh. Built his own slat traps from cypress and white oak.”

  “I thought people in the bayou hunted alligators.”

  “They hunt a lot of things in the bayou, Mr. Ashley. Elk, pheasant, rabbit, bear, wild boar, snake, catfish like my daddy. But people hear stories about alligators because they’re big and dangerous.”

  “Bears are big and dangerous,” Alistar said.

  “True, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx said, “but have you ever heard of anyone making an expensive purse or belt from a bear?”

  “I see your point,” Alistar said. “If you loved the Bayou so deeply, why did you leave?”

  “In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have,” Onyx said. “But, as what tends to happen with young restless women…”

  “They fall in love?” Alistar said.

  “Yes, Mr. Ashley. But in my case, I did not fall in love with a man. I fell in love with the blissful notion of being swept off my feet by a man. I fell in love with the idea of being in love.”

  “So, did you and your husband get a divorce?”

  “Of sorts,” Onyx said. “Ulrich died.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alistar said.

  “And I am not,” Onyx said.

  “I see,” Alistar said. “Is that why there’s no grave for him?”

  “No,” Onyx said. “There is no grave for Ulrich because after I bludgeoned him with an oil can and set him on fire, there was little of the man left to bury.”

  Alistar released a loud laugh, then quieted down when he realized Onyx wasn’t joking. “My heavens. You’re serious.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ashley. It turns out that when lovers die in the movies, they call it romantic. When it happens in real life, they put you on trial for murder.”

  “And you’re telling me this because…?”

  “You are a lawyer, Mr. Ashley. It stands to reason you have access to state records and would learn of it eventually anyway,” Onyx said. “Better to have it come from me.”

  “When was this?” Alistar asked.

  “January 1942,” Onyx said. “Six weeks after Pearl Harbor.”

  “And you went to prison?”

  “No,” Onyx said. “The judge determined my actions were done in self-defense. I have lived here ever since.” Onyx had no desire to elaborate further—to do so would only complicate matters.

  Chapter Six

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  OCTOBER 4, 2010

  The air-ambulance helicopter transferring Koda Mulvaney from the hospital in Orlando to the Mulvaney mansion in Charleston was led by a helicopter from the Florida Highway Patrol. Following behind were six more helicopters, representing various national media outlets, and a Cessna airplane pulling a banner advertising a law firm.

  “So this is how OJ felt,” Bruce said. “Only we’re in a green helicopter rather than a white Bronco.”

  Three days earlier, the first of the leaked photos hit the tabloids. Pictures of Koda in his hospital bed. Pictures of Koda taking his first steps. Pictures of Koda shuffling down the hallway with his ass hanging out of his hospital gown.

  This was followed by a People Magazine cover story titled:

  “Koda Mulvaney: The Sexiest Miracle Alive!”

  The tabloid article that pissed off Bruce most featured a photo of Declan and Robyn helping Koda out of his hospital bed. The caption read: “Where’s Bruce?”

  Next to the photo was a picture of Bruce, photo-shopped with a red-and-white striped Where’s Waldo? hat.

  Enough was enough.

  Koda demanded to be released so he could continue his rehab at home. Against their better judgment, the doctors signed off on three conditions:

  One: Because the Mulvaney mansion was twelve miles from the nearest hospital, one doctor and one nurse was required to be on-site at all times.

  Two: Koda needed to get four hours of rehabilitation therapy each day to ensure he regained his mental and physical functions.

  “What’s the third condition?” Bruce asked.

  “The staff wants to throw Koda a being released party,” the doctor said. “They’ll be crushed if they can’t say goodbye.”

  Before being rolled out the back entrance of the hospital, Koda was brought into a room decorated with balloons and streamers. A large cake was presented with purple frosting script that said: We’re glad to see you go!

  No one was entirely sure how they meant it.

  “I know I’m probably supposed to say something witty,” Koda said. “I hope thanks is enough, even though I know it never will be. I want to be eternally grateful for my gratitude.”

  The doctors were right, Declan thought. It was going to be a long road to recovery.

  Per ambu
lance helicopter protocol, Koda was lying flat on his back—strapped to a gurney—looking straight up at the interior ceiling.

  “I’m going to need wheels,” Koda said.

  Bruce shot Declan a look. It was obvious that—despite the agreement upon which Koda had been released from the hospital and allowed to recover at home—he wanted to return to his normal life. They would have to work at reigning him in.

  “Mika is at the house,” Bruce said. “When you’re okay to go out, she’ll drive you. Or we will.”

  “And Robyn said she’ll be driving up on Thursday,” Declan said. “We’ll put her in the upstairs guest bedroom in the main building.”

  “She’s staying?” Bruce asked. “I’m not sure having Robyn and Mika at the house at the same time is such a good idea.”

  Mika was a mile from the Mulvaney mansion when she saw a teenage girl holding a sign:

  Jesus Saves. Koda is Living Proof!

  The girl peered into Mika’s car as she drove past. She obviously not read the paper or watched the news to know Koda was being brought in by helicopter.

  Idiot.

  Mika rounded the curve doing seventy miles per hour and then slammed on the brakes when she saw the swarm of people lining both sides of the road—again, the majority young girls—holding even more signs. “I Love You, Koda!” “Marry Me, Koda!” “Have My Baby, Koda.”

  The final sign was held by a woman next to the private drive leading up to the mansion. She was wearing a bikini, a snorkel mask, and swimming flippers. The sign read:

  I Want to Drown in Your Blue Eyes!

  Mika rolled down the passenger-side window and yelled, “If you want to drown, what’s with the snorkel gear?” The world was filled with idiots—how else could you explain it?