Onyx Webb 10 Read online

  Newt knew why he hadn’t opened it yet. It was because of what would happen once he did. He knew the moment he read the note his thoughts would shift into overdrive—then the frustration would set in, followed by anger, and finally self-doubt as to whether he was equal to the task of catching the bastard.

  Which wasn’t true, of course. Newt knew he was smart enough to catch him. Eventually. But fifteen years of failure was hard to ignore.

  It had worn him down.

  The only other thing on the table was the cup of Scrabble tiles the envelope had been leaning against. Every tile in the cup was tested for fingerprints. As Newt expected, no prints were found.

  Of course, there were thousands of prints all over the house. None were a match to any known person in the system. Not that Newt expected any matches to be found, but it would have been nice.

  Beyond that, the other interesting discoveries inside the house included:

  •Binoculars hanging from a hook next to a window that looked out toward the Mulvaney property.

  •Women’s clothing—blouses, dresses, sweaters, shoes, etc.—in the bedroom closet.

  •Bras, panties, and scarves in the dresser drawers.

  •Assorted mail in the hallway, including an electric bill, addressed to Glenn Oren Mattheus—which happened to match one of the names on the list of possible anagrams Newt had compiled a month earlier.

  The two most important finds, however, were:

  1.A painting in the living room that matched the description of the painting stolen from Mika Flagler’s living room on the night the limo driver was bludgeoned to death in her bed.

  2.A pair of older-model prosthetic legs, the kind used in the 1970s, in one of the bedroom closets.

  The painting in the living room confirmed Newt’s belief that the Leg Collector killed the limo driver in Mika Flagler’s house, which—when combined with Beatrice Shaw’s statement that the man driving her catering truck sped up just before hitting Mika in the middle of the road—bolstered his belief that she had been the Leg Collector’s target. Why the Leg Collector wanted to kill Mika Flagler was unknown and, quite frankly, immaterial.

  The old prosthetic legs found in the closet, however, were extremely promising—since the serial numbers were still on them.

  Very promising.

  The door to the conference room swung open, and Maggie came in with a cardboard tray containing two cups of Starbucks coffee and two muffins in one hand, and her laptop in the other.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late. I couldn’t bear the thought of another bad cup of coffee from the commissary,” Maggie said. “How long have you been here?”

  Newt shrugged. “I don’t know. A few hours.”

  “You never went back to the hotel, did you?” Maggie asked.

  “I wanted to get started,” Newt said.

  Maggie glanced at the stack of unopened files and saw the envelope—the one addressed to Spider Boy—sitting on top of the stack like a paperweight.

  “Get started my ass,” Maggie said. “You haven’t opened the envelope yet.”

  Newt remained silent.

  “It’s evidence, Newt. There could be a clue in there,” Maggie said.

  “There isn’t,” Newt said.

  “You don’t know that,” Maggie said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Prints then,” Maggie countered.

  “You know we’ve got four thousand prints from the house already,” Newt said.

  “God, aren’t you curious?”

  “I already know what’s in the envelope.”

  “And what is that?” Maggie asked.

  “Bullshit,” Newt said. “Just more of his mental bullshit games designed to make me crazy.”

  “Well, it seems like it’s working,” Maggie said, placing a coffee cup in front of Newt.

  Newt said nothing.

  Maggie placed a muffin next to Newt’s coffee and quickly snatched the envelope away from him. Newt reached out and tried to grab her hand, but she was too quick. “If you won’t open it, I will.”

  Newt took a deep breath and released it. “Fine. Whatever.”

  “Spoken like a true member of the FBI,” Maggie said, holding the envelope up to her nose. “Vanilla. Nice.”

  Maggie stuck a pink fingernail under the flap and ripped the envelope open. She pulled out the card and saw a hand-drawn cartoon of a scared boy trying to get away from a giant spider in a web.

  The message was clear:

  The Leg Collector was the spider.

  Newt was the scared boy.

  “Well?” Newt asked.

  “Like you thought. He’s trying to screw with you,” Maggie said, holding up the card for Newt to see. When she did, she saw the handwriting on the reverse side of the card. “Who is Sam Loyd?”

  Born in Philadelphia in 1841, Sam Loyd was a well-known chess player, mathematician, and creator of puzzles and games. He also garnered immense scorn from the mathematics community for being a liar, braggart, and self-promotional hustler.

  But his puzzles were fun and challenging, and Newt had always enjoyed working them out—though he was usually able to do so in a matter of seconds.

  “What does the card say?” Newt asked.

  Maggie read the riddle from the card aloud:

  “When the hour and minute hands are at equal distance from the number six, what time will it be exactly?”

  -Sam Loyd

  It was a puzzle Newt had heard before, and he already knew the answer.

  “Do you know the answer?” Maggie asked.

  “8:18 and 27 9/13th seconds,” Newt said.

  “Okay,” Maggie said. “What does it mean?”

  “I’m guessing it’s a date,” Newt said. “8:18 and 27 9/13ths rounds up to 8/18/28.”

  “Or it could be a Bible verse,” Maggie said.

  “Thought of that. Nothing looks right.”

  “God, I hate that you can do that,” Maggie said.

  “You hate that I read the Bible?” Newt said.

  “No, not that you read the Bible—that you memorized the Bible,” Maggie said. “And the Koran, the Talmud, the Bhagavad Gita—”

  “I’ve got a good memory, so sue me,” Newt said.

  “Okay, let’s check birthdays,” Maggie said, opening her laptop and typing in Birthdays 8/18/28.

  A few seconds passed and then results popped up.

  “Okay, first result: Luciano De Crescenzo,” Maggie said. “Italian writer and film director. What am I looking for?”

  Newt shrugged. “Who knows? It could be anything—part of their history, where they were born, a quote.”

  “Well, here’s a quote,” Maggie said.

  “Read it to me.”

  “‘We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another,’” Maggie said. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Maybe,” Newt said. “What else is there?”

  “There’s one more here, but I can’t imagine the relevance,” Maggie said.

  “Who is it?” Newt asked.

  “Rosalynn Carter,” Maggie said.

  “Go straight to the quotes,” Newt said.

  “Okay, here’s one. ‘You must accept that you might fail; then, if you do your best and still don’t win, at least you can be satisfied that you’ve tried.’ Which of the two quotes do you think he wanted you to find?”

  “Both,” Newt said. “The first quote is his way of saying that he and I are kindred spirits—that each of us is broken and damaged somehow. And the second quote is his way of saying he thinks I’ll never catch him. That I’m going to fail.”

  “Wait a second,” Maggie said, getting up and walking out of the conference room. A minute later she returned holding a plastic Ziploc baggie containing a single Pringle, and dangled it in front of Newt.

  “You kept that?” Newt asked.

  “Well, it was kind of different,” Maggie said. “I couldn’t eat it, and it’s kind of hard to pu
t in a scrapbook.”

  Maggie laid the plastic bag on the table.

  “You’re giving it back?” Newt asked.

  “Yeah,” Maggie said. “Under two conditions.”

  “What?”

  “One, you can’t eat it until you catch this asshole.”

  Newt nodded. “And condition number two?”

  “I get to be there to watch.”

  WASHINGTON, DC

  DECMBER 29, 2010 – 2:48 P.M.

  THE LIMOUSINE HAD been waiting at the curb in front of the Four Seasons in Georgetown for twenty minutes when Koda, Robyn, Bruce, and Krissy exited the hotel wearing heavy winter coats and climbed in the back.

  The vice president himself had briefed the limo driver. He wanted to make sure there were no hick-ups. “This funeral is a BFD,” the vice president said. “Don’t ‘f’ it up.”

  “The vice president offers his condolences,” the limo driver said once the four passengers were inside. “I will be at your service for the duration of your time here in Washington, so if there is anywhere you need to go, or would like to see while you are here, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you,” Bruce said. “Would you mind taking the Memorial Bridge over the river. It was one of the things my father loved most about DC, and I’d like my family to see it.”

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA – 3:32 P.M.

  “Wow,” Krissy said as the limousine came across the bridge and entered the Arlington National Cemetery. “This place is massive.”

  “And look at the wreaths,” Robyn said, tearing up and reaching in her purse for a tissue.

  “There’s a non-profit group that lays them every holiday season now,” the limo driver said. “The Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts help put them out. It’s a big job.”

  “How many wreaths do they lay?” Bruce asked.

  “This year’s the most they’ve ever done,” the driver said as the limo came to a stop. “The latest count is 245,000. It’s a shame that most of the people who come here will see something so beautiful on one of the saddest days of their lives.”

  The funeral service was longer than anyone could have imagined, due in large part to the vice president’s insistence that Declan be given a full honors graveside burial, including a casket team, color guard, bugler, firing ceremony, military band, military chaplain, and an escort platoon—despite the fact that it was freezing cold in the dead of winter.

  Fortunately, a temporary shelter had been provided near the graveside, with gas-powered heaters and rubber mats to keep people warm.

  The most emotional moment for everyone came during the twenty-one-gun salute, which consisted of seven riflemen firing three volleys apiece, followed by the playing of taps by the military bugler, and the formal folding and presentation of the flag by the officer in charge.

  “On behalf of the president of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service,” the OIC said. The flag was then handed to the vice president, who handed it to Bruce.

  Following the funeral, there was a reception at the Watergate Hotel, which was a five-minute drive from the cemetery. Bruce was grateful that between his assistant and the vice president’s office staff, every detail for Declan’s funeral had been covered. Although he continued to maintain a strong front for everyone, after everything that happened at the mansion and Declan’s death, he was in no condition to deal with anything—let alone plan a funeral.

  Bruce, Koda, and the girls arrived at the reception, and the vice president came in right after them.

  “So what exactly did Declan do in the war?” Robyn asked once introductions were made.

  “I have no idea,” Bruce said.

  “Whatever it was, it must have been something big,” Krissy said.

  “You really don’t know what he did during the war?” the vice president asked.

  “We know he was in the army, and that he served in World War II,” Koda said. “That’s about it.”

  “The war was something my father refused to talk about to anyone,” Bruce said. “I remember he was being interviewed by some reporter once who asked if he’d ever killed anyone in battle, and he took off his microphone and walked out of the studio. I think that was the last media interview he ever gave.”

  “Let me see if I can get you a copy of his service file,” the vice president said.

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, DC – 7:34 P.M.

  Koda found his father at the bar in the lounge of the Four Seasons. He had finished his first bourbon rocks and was getting started on the second.

  “I got your message,” Koda said, climbing onto the stool next to Bruce. “I thought the dinner reservation wasn’t until eight.”

  “It isn’t,” Bruce said. “I just thought this would give us a few minutes to talk alone before the girls come down. What are you drinking?”

  “I’ll wait until dinner,” Koda said.

  “Don’t make me drink alone,” Bruce said.

  Koda ordered a Tito’s rocks, and the two of them sat in silence until the drink arrived.

  “How are things with Krissy?” Koda asked. “She seemed a little more talkative this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, she’s opening up a bit,” Bruce said. “But she’s still devastated, which I expected, but she’s angry too.”

  “She has the right to be a little angry. Don’t you think?”

  Bruce nodded. “Yeah, I guess she does. And so do you.”

  “I’m over it,” Koda said, taking a sip of his vodka. “Besides, Krissy’s a good kid, and it’s nice not to be an only child for a change.”

  Bruce nodded and forced a smile, appreciative that Koda was extending an olive branch of sorts. “When did you know?”

  “The moment I saw her,” Koda said.

  “Not before?” Bruce said.

  “I suspected it since my sophomore year at Syracuse. I heard you on the phone around the time you were thinking about running for the senate. Were you being blackmailed or something?”

  Bruce nodded.

  “Who else knew?” Koda asked. “About Krissy, I mean.”

  “Other than Chloe? No one,” Bruce said. “Wait—that’s not true. Newt Drystad knew. The kid was like ten years old at the time, and he figured it out because of an ATM withdrawal. Can you believe that?”

  Bruce and Koda sat and drank in silence for a couple minutes. Koda finally broke the silence. “I saw Mom,” Koda said.

  “What do you mean?” Bruce said. “When?”

  “The night of the party during the ghost thing,” Koda said.

  Bruce set his drink down on the bar and turned in his chair. “Under normal circumstances, I’d assume you were screwing with me, but—”

  “I’m not,” Koda said. “It’s true. I really saw her. More than that, we talked.”

  Bruce stayed silent.

  “She said she forgives you, and that I should forgive you too,” Koda said.

  It was the first time since Declan died that Bruce finally broke down and cried.

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  JANUARY 15, 2011

  ONYX, HOLD STILL,” Tara said. “I’m not done.”

  Onyx was seated on a stool at the top of the lighthouse while Tara carefully applied a layer of mascara on Onyx’s lashes. “I’m tired of sitting,” Onyx said.

  “I know you are not used to a lot of makeup. Jesus, you’re so beautiful that you don’t need it, but it’s your wedding day. Noah is going to freak at how good you look.”

  “What time is it?”

  Tara looked at her phone. “It’s twelve thirty. You are walking out the front of the lighthouse at one sharp, and I will come out a minute before you do. Now stop moving.”

  “I hope it doesn’t rain,” Onyx said, staring out to the sea. As far as she could tell it was nothing but a typical overcast gray Oregon sky, but she feared the weather would turn nasty without a moment’s notice
, as it often did on the coast—and especially in the cove.

  “It’s Oregon, but we’ll cross our fingers. Hopefully the gods will be watching. Now let’s get you in your dress.”

  Noah stood in front of the mirror in the bedroom of the caretaker’s house.

  “I hate ties,” he said, untying his tie for the third time and letting it hang down his chest.

  Clay paced by the front door. “The harpist should be here any minute. I am going to walk out toward the road and make sure she makes the turn okay.”

  “Hang on. Can you please do this?” Noah said, walking out from the bedroom and gesturing to the tie hanging around his neck.

  “A red tie?”

  “It’s for Onyx,” Noah said.

  “Oh, that’s right. I always forget about the color thing,” Clay said, taking the tie and skillfully making a perfect knot. “That’s why you did the rose bushes.”

  “Exactly,” Noah said, looking in the mirror once Clay finished the bowtie. “Nice. Who taught you?”

  “My dad. Who learned from his dad, who learned from my great-grandfather, Hell Daniels. Hell insisted his son, Clay Jr., know ten things that were to be passed down the line. Every year on my birthday I was not only made to recite them but also had to demonstrate proficiency in each.”

  “What were the ten things?” Noah asked.

  “Build a fire. Hang a picture. Shine your shoes. Tell a joke. Treat a snakebite. Read a book. Survive a bear attack. Catch a fish. And, as just demonstrated, tie a bowtie.”

  “Interesting,” Noah said. “But that’s only nine.”

  “Oh yeah, change a flat. Back in Hell’s day it was ride a horse, but my Dad changed it to fix a flat. No horses in the cove anymore,” Clay said.

  “I think I hear a car,” Noah said.

  “It’s probably the harpist,” Clay said. “Hang tight here, and I’ll get her set up. Then meet me out in the clearing five minutes to one.”