The Stonefly Series, Book 1

by Scott J. Holliday

  Sergeant MacDonald walked back toward the alley mouth and stopped at the dumpster. On a hunch he opened the lid. Generally an alley dumpster was a grease trap overrun with rats and rotten food, a stench that practically hurt. This dumpster, however, wasn't greasy or rat infested. It smelled like hair products and medicinal ointment.

  MacDonald pushed aside a trash bag or two, recalling that the bag on Ray Westerhouse's trashcan was white with a red tie. He rummaged past a couple of those to find a black kitchen bag with a yellow tie. He pulled it out and opened the bag. It was filled with paper towels stained with ink. He used the edge of a pen to push some of the towels aside until he came to a translucent latex glove. He pulled the evidence-bagged glove he'd retrieved from the trashcan outside Jared Davies's home and compared them. They were virtually identical.

  It meant nothing, really. Anyone could buy latex gloves at any time. Hell, with an Amazon Prime membership and ten bucks, any citizen could have a box in hand within two days.

  Still, MacDonald bagged the new glove.

  What bothered him was knowing that yesterday Jake had lied. Ever since he was a kid, Jake chewed at the corner of his mouth whenever he was being dishonest. A tell he probably wasn't aware of. He'd said his potential client was Darnell Collins—the man who, as a boy, had his entire back of his body horribly burned in a house fire—and yet he wanted a bald eagle covering his back? MacDonald didn't know much about tattoos, but it didn't seem the most likely scenario.

  So how was Jacob Duke involved with a career criminal like Darnell Collins? And more importantly, why?

  26

  Jake woke up with more pain from the kink in his neck than the knot on his head. He opened his eyes to a familiar sweet scent, blinked at the morning sun, and pulled his face away from the pile of sugar beets.

  At least the rain had stopped.

  He came up to his knees, startling a nearby whitetail deer. It bolted away and scampered through the trees, seeming to favor its left hind leg. After it put some distance between itself and Jake, it looked back with its oily black eyes. Jake noted a healing wound on its left flank and upper leg. Likely some poacher trying to score before hunting season began. There would be a scar. The injured animal must have been hungry and probably aggravated to find a man sleeping on its newfound food source.

  Sorry, fella, Jake thought. Thank me later when you don't catch a broadhead with your heart.

  The deer dashed off.

  Jake rubbed his neck and then touched the knot on his head, sucked his teeth at the shock of pain. His stomach felt like a closed fist. Hungry. He considered biting into one of the sugar beets but then recalled there were two Powerbars in his truck.

  He walked out of the trees and down the two-track until he reached the main road. From there he walked along the shoulder until he reached his truck. As advertised, all four tires were flat. Slashed open. It was a five-mile walk back to anything resembling a town. At a decent pace that'd be an hour and a half. Screw that. Jake got in and started the engine, turned up the heat to knock the chill off his skin. He opened his duffel bag. His Glock was in there, peeking bashfully out like a neglected child. He snatched up one of the Powerbars and zipped the bag closed. The bar was chewy, but a swig of water washed it down and after a moment Jake's hunger abated.

  He put the truck into gear and pulled a U-turn.

  The truck shuddered as it went. Jake thought the windshield might shatter from the rumbling. It didn't take but a minute to see this ride would not only cost him new tires and rims, but new shocks and struts, as well. He rolled down the window and leaned out to see the tires were already shredded to hair and sparks were flying off the rims as they scorched the asphalt.

  He closed his mind to the damage and pushed down the accelerator.

  It was a typical small-town morning in Wixom, meaning the gas stations were overrun with work trucks and lawn maintenance vehicles getting fueled up for their days, sidewalks in front of storefronts were being hosed down, and open signs were being flipped over or clicked on. Jake drove past them all on flat tires and nearly flat rims, making a noise he could only imagine. The heads of store owners and pedestrians turned with him as he passed. The hardware store owner pushed up his glasses and squinted.

  Jake pulled—rather scraped—into the Wixom Auto Garage to find a mechanic sitting on a bench out front with his hands interlocked over his stomach, obligatory greasy hat tilted on his head, shit-eating grin on his face.

  Jake hopped out of the cab. The mechanic stood to greet him, offering his rough hand. Jake shook it. His chest patch read 'Doc.'

  "Got any loaners?" Jake said.

  "No sir."

  "Okay. New rims and tires. How soon?"

  "You all right?" Doc said. "Got a pretty good bonk on your head there."

  "I'm fine," Jake said. "Sorry, but I'm in a bit of a rush. How soon?"

  Doc looked at Jake's truck, rubbed a hand on his stubbly chin. "Replace all four rims and tires?"

  Jake nodded.

  "An hour at best."

  "I'll wait."

  "That's with no alignment or anything," Doc said. "No shocks or struts. Just the rims and tires."

  "Deal."

  Doc gestured for Jake to have a seat on the bench.

  Jake took a seat and checked his cell phone for messages, found one from an unknown number. A voice mail had been left. The message was transcribed into text. Jake read the transcription to find Sergeant Dan had been at his shop this morning. For what? Maybe he'd taken Jake's mother something for dinner last night, as Jake had suggested? It didn't seem likely that Jake would hear from Dan before her. She would've given him hell for telling Dan to stop by.

  Jake started to reply via text, but his hands shook too much for typing. He balled them into fists and closed his eyes. Motown's voice repeated in his head, "Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth."

  After two minutes, his hands became still enough to operate the phone.

  Got your voice mail. Can meet you around noon. What's up?

  The next conversation chain in the messaging app was with Lori. Jake opened it and read their last exchange.

  I'm on the evening shift. Coming by?

  With a client. There in two hours. Will bring DD.

  He scrolled up into the conversation history, spot-reading a message here and there—the benign chatter of friends. Up the chain he flicked, back through the years. As he neared the beginning, the tone of exchange was notably different, the flirtatious back-and-forth of potential lovers. At one point she'd written.

  I need to see you, pls come over.

  He'd immediately replied with.

  On my way.

  He recalled the moment of that reply, recalled running out to his truck, starting the engine, and peeling out of the alley. He stopped at a red light and checked his phone again. She'd sent another text.

  Don't come. I'm sorry, JD. It's better if you don't.

  He sat at that red light, staring at that text message while the light turned green. Cars honked and swerved around him, the people inside shaking their fists and yelling obscenities. He never saw them, never heard them. The light turned yellow and then red again. He typed 'I love you,' and almost tapped Send.

  Almost.

  If there was one thing young Jacob Duke learned while at Dover, it was the importance of control. It doesn't matter if you're homeless or the head of a corporation, you must have control over something or you won't feel like you matter. Even if it's just a simple object. Your coffee cup, your tools, your stapler. Maybe your spot on the couch or your window. Something. In a place like Dover control was everything, the only thing. Trivial matters became topics of great importance and debate, all in the name of control.

  Every afternoon they did group therapy sessions. Circle jerks, Motown called them. Seven of them sat in a half circle in front of one of the nurses, taking turns talking about what landed them at Dover in the first place. Seve
n patients, seven cheap plastic chairs, and all the chairs were orange, save for one that was green.

  Six orange chairs, one green chair. Trivial shit, but not to the nuts at Dover. Given the number of debates, arguments, and physical altercations surrounding who got to sit in the green chair during circle jerk you'd think the thing was a golden throne, and that the person who sat upon it should be held as a god. If you won the chair you were important for the day, or at least for the therapy session. And if you were important, you were considered good, and presumably you were happy.

  While in Dover Jake had wondered, what if you never won the chair? Or what if, for the entire scope of your life, you never won any chairs?

  Bozo never won the green chair. Not once. He never even fought for it. He wasn't adding much to the circle jerk in any case, but still, a person has to control something, right? Has to own something.

  It occurred to young Jake that Bozo owned the word 'wow.' It belonged to him as much as his own skin or his teeth. As far as Jake knew, the man had no material possessions, no thoughts, no opinions, no expression, and no name other than the nickname with which Motown had saddled him. He had nothing that came to any consequence in this world, except that he had that word. It belonged to him, and him alone.

  But in a way he belonged to it, and so Motown and Jake made up their minds to crack his habit.

  They'd given up on testing Jake's rules by then, having teased out every angle and every truth they could find, save for one. Jake had just turned seventeen, marking five years at Dover, and had managed to keep the stakes from Motown the entire time.

  At least until they turned their attention on Bozo.

  They could have worked on Teapot, but she was no challenge. She had changed her words when Forrest Gump taught her something new, and on occasion some other movie would change her up for a bit, as well. For a while there was 'Here's looking at you, kid,' then 'There's no place like home,' and even 'You're gonna need a bigger boat,' but she always came back to being a teapot, short and stout.

  Bozo, on the other hand, was pure. His word ownership was like the second hand of a clock, clicking mercilessly on, reminding you he was unstoppable, unbreakable.

  They were dumb kids. All they wanted was to get the man to say something else, something other than 'wow.' They weren't thinking of repercussions. In fact, they'd convinced themselves it might be good therapy for the poor guy. The nurses couldn't break him and had given up long ago. Clearly his family, if he had any, had also given up.

  So it was up to Motown and Jake.

  They tried everything. They talked to him, they jumped out and scared him, they showed him dirty pictures (some of the latter books Jenna sent Motown were Playboys, for which Jake could have kissed her), they pinched him, they gave him wet willies, they did the Lindy Hop.

  Nothing.

  Nothing, that is, until they took control of his word.

  It had been Motown's idea. It struck him one day while he and Jake were in the older boy's room, playing two-handed poker for pilfered tater tots. Jake was doing his best Bozo impression, cracking wise, pretending to be overly impressed with his hand and saying, "Wow, wow, wow."

  Motown looked at him with a light bulb over his head. He stood, stuffed his cards into his breast pocket, and said, "Come with me."

  Jake was hot on his heels into the day room.

  Bozo was sitting at the edge of a maroon leather couch. Motown plopped down on the footstool before him and looked into his eyes. He picked up Bozo's cadence and started mimicking him, "Wow, wow, wow. Wow, wow, wow."

  Jake saw the trick and joined in, "Wow, wow, wow."

  After thirty seconds a cataract of fear peeled across Bozo's eyes. For the first time Jake saw the man's vacant stare sharpen in on another human being. Motown. He looked at Jake's friend with an expression of terror.

  "Wow, wow, wow," all three chanted, but Bozo's voice was weakening.

  "Wow, wow, wow," they continued like loony monks ready to walk off a cliff together. "Wow, wow, wow-"

  Bozo stopped. He looked back and forth between Jake and Motown. His lips quivered. His hands gripped at his dirty orange pants. He drew in a breath, held it for a moment, and then said, "I wish someone would help me."

  The toll hit Jake's chest like a brick. He had been perched on the edge of the footstool but was now on his knees. His hands went erratic, his blood fried. He looked up at Motown to find his friend's smile broad. It was funny to him. And why wouldn't it be? He didn't know the stakes.

  Jake and Motown were able to throw Bozo off track, but only for a moment. His ship was already steadied and back on course. He took back his vacant stare, took back his word, and returned to his chant.

  "Wow, wow, wow," he repeated from that maroon leather couch.

  Six days later he died in that same spot.

  It was early afternoon. The boys were in the day room. Motown was perched on his sill, flipping through the five available channels on the television, one arm hanging out the window. Jake was tattooing a sugar skull on a grapefruit and, from the corner of his eye, watching Bozo.

  He'd tried to help the man. Six days' worth of effort. He had combed his hair, washed his feet, made his bed, talked with him, told jokes. Nothing helped. He even tried taking his word again, but Bozo was stronger now. Jake couldn't get through to him, couldn't break him, couldn't help him.

  "Wow, wow, wow."

  Jake watched his grapefruit and watched Bozo and watched the clock. He breathed with control, counting in his head. The quickening had been insistent throughout the week, and in the final moments the intensity was fierce.

  Motown flipped a channel and landed on a baseball game.

  "Wow, wow, wow."

  Adrenaline surged through Jake's veins. His nervous system went haywire. Motown had already gone through all the channels seven times. It was Braves versus Cardinals on the set. Why they were getting that game in Michigan, Jake didn't know. The score was two to nothing, Braves.

  Motown flipped another channel. Wheel of Fortune. Jake's muscles twitched. His eyes blinked in rapid fire. He set down his tattoo machine and clutched his arms at the triceps.

  "Wow, wow, wow."

  Motown flipped another channel. Some old woman wearing judge's robes was yelling at a man in a Hawaiian shirt. The caption read 'Plaintiff Kenny Bilcher claims former girlfriend stole his bug collection.' The camera switched to the former girlfriend. Definitely guilty. Jake was losing his vision, darkening at the edges. His entire body began to shake.

  "Wow, wow, wo-"

  Bozo stopped.

  Jake felt the release. His vision returned. Calmness washed over him.

  Everyone in the room looked at Bozo. His word had become such a part of the background it was foreign to hear it silence. Even Teapot stopped her chanting and looked.

  Bozo's head had fallen forward. He was dead and gone.

  Motown looked at Jake.

  Jake knew his friend was now aware of the stakes. He knew Motown would make a wish to end his own life, knew he would simply wish the impossible and six days later he'd be dead and gone, too.

  Jake stood up, went over to the nurse's station, reached in under the glass, and picked up a Ticonderoga #2 pencil. He found a corner and slid down against the wall. The pencil was plenty sharp. He pushed it into his right ear until he felt a pop.

  As he moved the pencil to his left ear, Motown stood and reached out his hand. "Jake, don't!"

  Jake pushed the pencil in.

  A tap on his shoulder. Jake looked up into the mechanic's face.

  "I said your truck's done," Doc said, looking perplexed. "You freakin' deaf or something?"

  27

  Jake pulled into the alley behind Hear No Evil Tattoos at 12:02 p.m. He passed behind Ray's and stopped in his parking spot. Sergeant Dan was sitting near the back door on an overturned milk crate with his back against the bricks. He smiled and waved. Resting on the ground between his feet was a brown paper bag with a receipt staple
d to the folded top.

  Jake got out of the truck. Sergeant Dan stood to greet him. They shook hands and Dan showed Jake the bag. "Got some Chinese. Hungry?"

  "Sure."

  They went inside.

  Jake grabbed some forks from a drawer in the bakery kitchen. He handed one to Dan and received a box of lo mein in return. Jake led the sergeant into the front of the shop, offering Dan a seat in the tattoo chair while Jake sat on his work stool. He opened the takeout box and smelled the food inside. His cheeks tingled with salivation.

  Dan set aside the fork Jake had given him and dug in with the disposable wooden chopsticks that'd come with the meal. They ate in silence for a moment. Initially Jake felt comfortable with the fact that Sergeant Dan wasn't speaking, but as the moment grew longer Jake grew more vexed. He twirled some noodles on his fork with a shaky hand, took a bite, swallowed it down, and said, "So, what's up?"

  Sergeant Dan stabbed his sticks into his noodles and held the box at his knee. He indicated the food and said, "Good stuff, eh?"

  "Szechuan Empire, right?"

  Dan nodded.

  "The best."

  Dan nodded again. He took a deep breath, adjusted his glasses, and said, "I'm wondering if you can help me with a case."

  "Me?"

  "Yep."

  "Okay, sure... but how?"

  Dan set his noodles on the chair and pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his coat pocket. Inside the bag was a translucent latex glove.

  Jake stopped in mid chew, his spine stiffened. It was precisely the kind of glove he used every time he tattooed.

  "This here glove was found near a recent crime scene," Sergeant Dan said. "Not such a rare thing, really, as criminals don't like to leave prints, but usually they're not this technical about it."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Well," Dan said, "a jersey glove is just as good, right? Hell, even a mitten would do in most cases. In fact, those kinds of gloves would be better because they don't pick up prints, themselves."