Onyx Webb: Book One Read online

  “That’s Obedience Everhardt,” the shop owner said.

  Catfish’s heart skipped a beat. “Do you happen to have her address?” he asked.

  “Have it? I know it by heart,” the shop owner said. “I mail her bill to her every week—23 Hickory Street—never pays on time.”

  “Is it far?” Catfish asked.

  “23 Hickory Street is four blocks from where we’re standing,” the shop owner replied.

  A third miracle.

  Could there be a fourth?

  From the Journal of Onyx Webb

  The question I imagine you would want to have answered most is: why must a ghost kill to remain in the living plane?

  The answer to that is simple: energy.

  Energy, the thing of which all things in the universe are made…

  Energy, the bane of my existence…

  Energy, that which a ghost must have in order to move from the realm of the unseen—from a place of mist and shadows—to physical presence in the living plane.

  This is not to say that I do so indiscriminately. To the contrary, I follow a strict code that allows me to justify what I do. A rule that permits me to take only those who are terminally ill, drug addicted beyond saving, the most heinous of criminals, and those hell-bent on taking their own lives.

  It is a rule I have failed to abide by only once.

  I had ventured away from the lighthouse for the purposes of finding energy. I was standing in the darkness, watching a young boy and girl sitting on the rocks by the ocean’s edge. Even with the sound of waves crashing below I could hear every word they were saying.

  The girl hated her parents. They controlled everything she did. The boy said he understood, his parents were the same, and hated them as well. She didn’t think she could take another day, the girl had said. The boy said he’d had enough of his stupid life, too.

  “Do you ever think about doing it?” the girl asked.

  I leaned forward, listening for the word that would let me know they were mine for the taking.

  “You mean ending it all?” he said.

  “Suicide? I think about it all the time,” the boy replied.

  “How would we do it?” the girl said.

  I snapped, unable to take any more. Rage boiled up inside of me, overwhelming me to the point of suffocation.

  These ungrateful kids. How dare they? They had everything, yet appreciated none of it!

  “You want to die that badly?” I thought as I moved steadily toward them. “Then I am willing to oblige.”

  The boy looked up and saw me standing over them. He stood, but before he could utter a single syllable I was on him, wrapping a hand behind his head and lowering my mouth over his.

  The girl stood up but did not run. She remained there, frozen in a state of shock and fear, watching in horror. The boy went gray as I drained the life force from him, his lifeless body dropping limply to the rocks.

  The girl found her legs and began to run.

  She only got a few steps before I caught up…and it was over.

  But as I stood there, basking in the glow of the silver moonlight on my now vibrantly colored skin, I knew something was wrong.

  It was something I’d seen in their eyes—something that should not have been there.

  It was fear.

  They were scared, both of them, scared for their lives. They didn’t want to die. They wanted to live.

  And then I saw the cuts; multiple cuts on the inside of her arms. I didn’t have to check the boy, I already knew. Their talk of suicide was nothing more than that - just talk - not true feelings, merely adolescent cries for help.

  What had I done?

  I was overcome with wave after wave of agonizing grief and unspeakable sorrow. All they wanted was for someone to care, for someone to love them. To live a full and happy life, just like everyone. Just like me.

  In my rush to satisfy my lust for living, I had stolen theirs.

  I dropped to the ground and began to vomit, but summoned nothing.

  You see, ghosts do not eat.

  Nor do we drink.

  But trust me when I tell you, we feel regret.

  Chapter Twelve

  Savannah, Georgia

  June 3, 1979

  “Be calm,” Quinn Cole told himself for the sixth time in the last two minutes. Yes, he’d given Juniper a one o’clock a.m. curfew, but it was prom night, after all.

  But now—as he watched the small hand of the clock working its way toward 2:00 a.m.—he couldn’t help but feel anxious. Wait another fifteen minutes, and if she’s not home then…

  Quinn blocked the thought out of his mind.

  Juniper would walk in the door any moment.

  But she didn’t.

  2:03 a.m.

  Fortunately, Quinn had the foresight to get the boy’s home telephone number from him before he’d left with Juniper. He dialed the number and waited as the phone rang again and again.

  Just as Quinn was about to hang up, a groggy male voice answered. “Hello, who is this?”

  “This is Quinn Cole. Your son took my sister to the prom tonight and…”

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?” the man said.

  “Yes, I do,” said Quinn, “which is why I’m calling. My sister was supposed to be home by one o’clock, and she’s not. Can I talk to your son?”

  “No,” the man responded. “He’s staying at a friend’s house. Hang on…” Quinn could hear the sound of muffled voices before he came back on the line. “My wife doesn’t remember exactly which friend it was, but I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure that, what’s her name again?”

  “Juniper,” Quinn said, anger rising in his voice now. “Her name is Juniper, Juniper Cole. Are you telling me you let your son take my sister to the prom and you have no idea where he is or when he’s coming home?”

  “I’m not sure I like your tone,” the man said.

  “I want the names and phone numbers of all his friends and…”

  “Screw off,” the man said and hung up the phone.

  Unbelievable, Quinn thought as he looked up at the clock…

  2:17 a.m.

  Quinn walked to the front room of the house and looked out the door at the driveway. He thought about calling the boy’s father back but decided there was no point.

  Then Quinn realized there was another option. He headed up the stairs, two at a time, and walked to his mother’s bedroom.

  The door was closed as usual. He lifted his hand to knock but changed his mind and continued down the hall to Juniper’s room. He rarely went into her room, so he wasn’t exactly sure where to look, but a small pink phone directory was lying in plain sight on the dresser.

  He knew there were eight people in the group, which meant there were three other girls. One of the girls was someone he’d never heard of before and couldn’t recall the name, but the other two were Juniper’s best friends.

  Quinn looked for the first girl’s name, but it wasn’t there. He took a deep breath and flipped forward to the “K” tab.

  Thank God. Her number was there.

  Quinn dialed the phone.

  It rang only once, and a young girl answered. “Robbie, I told you to quit calling. You’re going to wake my parents.”

  “Karen, this isn’t Robbie. It’s Quinn Cole, Juniper’s brother.”

  “Oh, hey, Quinn, did Juniper get home okay?” Karen said.

  Quinn’s heart dropped. “What? Why would you ask that?”

  “Because she wasn’t there when the limo arrived,” Karen said. “We wanted to wait for her but the guys wanted to split. So are you saying Juniper’s not home yet?”

  “Karen, when was the last time you saw Juniper?” Quinn asked.

  “Gee, I don’t really know,” Karen said.

  “Think, Karen. When’s the last time you saw my sister?”

  “Well, it was probably like about 10:30 or so. Her date was being like a jerk, pushing her to, you know, and she just walked off. I d
on’t remember seeing her after that,” Karen said. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I just assumed she’d gotten a ride with someone else.”

  Quinn hung up the phone and looked at his watch.

  2:34 a.m.

  The tightness in his stomach released and turned into a wave of fear that swept through him with a level of intensity beyond anything he imagined possible.

  They say there’s nothing worse for a parent than the loss of a child. Quinn wasn’t Juniper’s father, but he now knew it was true.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Savannah, Georgia

  January 23, 2010

  Mika Flagler didn’t give a damn about the old, musty building she was saving from the wrecking ball. All she knew was that being the event committee chairperson of the Restoring Savanna Foundation gave her a platform that placed her front and center in the old money circles that mattered to her most.

  As the remaining heir to the fortune created by Henry Morrison Flagler—John D. Rockefeller’s lesser-known partner and co-founder of Standard Oil—Mika’s money was not only old, but she also had enough of it to make people sit up and take notice. $230 million worth, to be precise.

  But who was counting?

  Actually, she was.

  Mika was tired of the letter M, as in million, having set her sights on the much prettier letter—B, as in billion.

  That’s where Koda Mulvaney came in.

  She thought she had Koda reeled in. Then, two days after graduation from Syracuse, he’d run off to sow his wild oats.

  That was nineteen months and twenty-three days ago, and Mika was tired of waiting.

  Mika checked into her suite at the Forsyth Park Hotel—one of the oldest and most prestigious hotel destinations in Savannah, Georgia—a few minutes before ten in the morning.

  She was right on schedule.

  Mika required ample amount of time to complete her eleven-step beauty routine before the evening’s event, which started promptly at 7:00 p.m. That gave her exactly nine hours, and she knew she would need every minute of it.

  Step one: The facial she’d learned from her mother that involved mixing cold cream, honey, yogurt (plain, of course), aloe vera, and avocado in a portable blender, then applying the mask and allowing it to set for twenty minutes before removing it with cleansing facial pads.

  Step two: Moisturizing her skin by placing two ounces of Elemis Pro-Collagen Cream in a portable electric warming tray (she’d tried placing the lotion on radiators and heating vents, always with disastrous results) and applying the warm liquid over every inch of skin from the chin down.

  Step three: Rubbing a freshly cut lemon on all rough spots—especially elbows, knees, and heels—to both soften the skin and lighten dark areas.

  Step four: Hand treatment, which involved combining a banana, two heaping tablespoons of cold cream, three drops of tea tree oil, and a teaspoon of olive oil in a blender, and applying liberally before slipping hands into a pair of rubber gloves and placing the gloved hands beneath a heating pad for fifteen minutes.

  Step five: Exfoliating the skin by mixing one cup brown sugar, one cup raw oatmeal and one cup olive oil in a bowl—by hand, not in a blender—and then rubbing it on her skin in slow circles, then waiting thirty minutes before rinsing off in a cold shower.

  Step six: The Shower Sauna. This involved placing several ounces of lavender-scented oil on the shower floor, then running the water at the hottest temperature possible for approximately fifteen minutes before reducing the heat slightly and stepping in.

  Step seven: In-room body massage. Ten minutes prior, pour two cups of Evian water into electric teapot, bringing water to a boil then adding one cup of firmly packed rose petals to scent the air. Close shades. Conduct entire massage in dimly lit room. At conclusion, have masseuse roll table to edge of bed and slide in. Set alarm for one REM (ninety minutes).

  Step eight: Shampoo hair with generous amount of Philip B’s White Truffle Moisturizing Shampoo, followed by—ironically—coconut oil conditioner from Trader Joes.

  Step nine: Hair.

  Step ten: Nails.

  Step eleven: Make-up.

  Mika leaned forward and peered at her reflection in the vanity mirror as she applied a generous amount of Guerlain Diamond-Studded Lipstick, Color No. 850 Moka Shake. The lipstick itself was not expensive, available in most stores for $8—but the lipstick holder was made of eighteen-karat gold and adorned with 199 diamonds weighing 2.2 karats—with a price tag of $62,000.

  In Mika’s opinion, there was no one on the planet who possessed as much taste as she.

  There was a dog barking in the hallway. Mika looked at her watch and smiled. Attention to detail combined with rigid planning had put her a full six minutes ahead of schedule.

  Even though she knew it wasn’t necessary, Mika took one last look in the mirror.

  Perfect.

  She opened the door and found her assistant standing there, leash in hand, as expected.

  “Someone called the office and…”

  Mika ignored him and placed her attention solely on the dog—a half-Great Dane, half-Newfoundland mix-breed—that stood six feet four on his hind legs and weighed in at 245 pounds.

  His name was Tiny.

  “There’s my baby!” Mika said in playful, baby-talk voice. “Did you have a nice day at the doggy day spa?”

  “I’m not sure if we can take him there again,” the assistant said. “He started humping a miniature poodle and some of the regular customers complained that he frightened them.”

  “Did you hump a poodle?” Mika said to the dog. “Did you? Did you? What a good boy you are!”

  Mika took the leash from the assistant.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Wow! You look really…”

  There was no need for the assistant to finish the sentence—Mika was already halfway down the hall.

  “So this is how the other half lives,” Koda Mulvaney said as he and Dane entered their room. The accommodations—a standard room with two queen-sized beds and a single bathroom—had been arranged by the MPI travel department per company guidelines.

  “Trust me, the other half would give their right arm to stay in a place like this,” Dane said. “I should know—I am the other half.”

  Even with the small digs, Koda was relieved to get out of Orlando for a few days. “I never thought I would ever have to ask anyone this question,” Koda said, “but which bed do you want?”

  Dane laughed.

  For Dane, the last two years had been an experience beyond his wildest dreams. And he’d never forgotten his upstate New York roots, acutely aware that the day would come when he’d be forced to return to the real world.

  But for Koda, things were different—very different. He’d lived in a bubble of wealth, celebrity, and entitlement his entire life. And now that bubble had burst.

  To everyone’s surprise, Koda had—after those first few days of adjustment—gotten down to work and impressed co-workers with his intelligence and natural business skills. Skills he’d never been challenged to use before now.

  Koda looked at his watch. “We better get going.”

  “You sure they got your measurements?” Koda called from the bathroom, attempting to tie his bowtie for the fourth time. It’s just like tying your shoe, his father had said, but for whatever reason he couldn’t get the hang of it.

  “Yeah, I faxed it on Thursday.” Dane yelled back, wearing only his boxer shorts and black over-the-calf socks. “They said…”

  There was a knock on the door. “In the nick of time,” Dane said as he walked to the door and pulled it open.

  It wasn’t his tux.

  It was Mika Flagler.

  Chapter Fourteen

  St. Louis, Missouri

  August 7, 1904

  Six-year-old Onyx Webb had never seen anyone tied to a chair before. She had also never seen anyone die. Now she was about to see both.

  “Help me!” pleaded the young girl again. “Plea
se!”

  Onyx wanted to help—knew she should help—but she simply couldn’t. Not only had she been told not to, she found herself paralyzed with fear and unable to move a muscle.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” said the girl with more urgency. “You’ve got to…”

  “She told me not to or I couldn’t go home,” said Onyx, cutting her off.

  “Home? You’re not going home,” Katherine said. She pulled, the ropes digging into her wrists, blood seeping from her torn skin, tears streaming down her face. “None of us goes home, not ever!”

  Onyx began to cry. “I… don’t… understand,” she said, choking the words. “Who… who is… she?”

  “That doesn’t matter right now!” shouted Katherine. “What matters now is that you help get us out of here!”

  “Don’t yell at me! I didn’t do anything wrong, I… just…”

  Katherine stopped tugging on the ropes and looked at Onyx. “I’m sorry, you’re right,” she said in a calming voice. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s Onyx.”

  “Onyx,” Katherine said, nodding and forcing a smile. “That’s a real nice name, pretty.”

  “My other name is Webb,” Onyx said, “with two letter b’s on the end.”

  “Listen to me, Onyx Webb with two letter b’s… my name is Katherine, and I need your help. I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

  “Okay,” Onyx said.

  “Good. I need you to look around and find something to cut this rope with,” Katherine said.

  “Something sharp, right?” Onyx said.

  “Yes, something sharp, Onyx. There’s got to be something—a knife, a piece of metal maybe. Back there, under the stairs, look over there.”

  Onyx made her way toward where Katherine directed her when she spotted the cabinet. “What’s in here?” Onyx asked.