The Stonefly Series, Book 1

by Scott J. Holliday

  "Mom says you knew him. Said you were with him at Dover."

  "I was."

  Frankie started cooking his fish. He concentrated on it. The fire glowed in his eyes. There was sadness on him. Jake recalled the first time he saw him. When he spoke of his father it had led to a crying jag, a tantrum. Jake was sure there would be no tantrums for this boy anymore.

  "Your dad and I had a lot of fun times," Jake said.

  "Why does he want someone to kill him?"

  Jake turned his trout. The tail fin curled in the flames. "Some people don't feel like they belong in this world. It's like they have a pain in them that won't go away, no matter what they do. Your dad's one of those people."

  "That sounds right," Frankie said, nodding. "My mom says he's crazy but she loves him anyway. Darnell would hit her if she ever talked about him. It only made her talk about him more. Then he'd start hitting me and she'd stop. My dad wrote lots of letters to my mom. I shouldn't have done it, but I read them. I think he loved her once, but mostly he just asks her to have someone kill him."

  Frankie put down his fish and sipped from his Moon Mist like it was whiskey giving him courage. He pulled his knees close to his chest and sat with the bottle hanging from his hand. He stared into the flames. "I've never met him."

  "Your mom never took you to see him?"

  "Once or twice, but he wouldn't come out. We were there, in that cage room they have, but he never showed up." He looked up. "Does that mean he doesn't love me?"

  Jake thought he should tell Frankie his father loved him so much that it would hurt him to see him, to get to know him, but he didn't know if it was true. In the years he spent at Dover, Motown never mentioned his son other than to say Jenna had written about him in her letters. Jake knew Jenna had given birth, and that the child was healthy, but that was all. He figured Motown was in denial about a son he couldn't do right by. Too much pain. He could make up some story to tell the kid, but lying to this boy just wouldn't work.

  "I don't know," Jake said.

  "But you're here to help him, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "And you need me to see it, like with Darnell?"

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "Can you get away from your house for a bit?"

  Frankie turned and looked down the path toward his home. "Yes."

  "Meet me at the end of your road at four o'clock"

  47

  The front door to The Iron Skillet was crowded with reporters. It seemed the news from last night had drawn regional attention.

  Jake slipped through the bodies to get to the register. The hostess said, "Line starts way back there, pal."

  "I just need some honey," Jake said, nodding at the racks of Beiler honey behind her. He put a ten on the counter. His shaky hand could hardly keep the bill still. The hostess snatched up the ten and dropped a honey jar in its place. The register opened and the ten disappeared.

  Jake turned and scanned the restaurant. It seemed everyone was looking at him. Forks and spoons hung in mid-air, holding up chunks of wiggly food. Eyes blinked. Steam rose from plates and bowls.

  He pushed his way back through the crowd of grumpy faces. They were here for the story, but probably weren't getting what they wanted. Not yet, anyway. He got into his truck and started the engine, looked down at the honey jar in his hand. The label was an image of yellow and brown honeycomb.

  Pure - Unfiltered - Raw!

  Beiler's Goldenrod Honey

  77532 Vassar Road

  Wixom, MI 42919

  He found Vassar Road and drove it for a couple miles, passing sign after sign advertising Belier's honey. Three in a row read Pure, then Unfiltered, and finally Raw!

  He pulled up the Beiler driveway. The farm was spread out like a massive estate—a place from a bygone era. The farmhouse seemed Victorian. Dozens of hives dotted the goldenrod landscape. Horses quivered their muscles and chewed near the barn. Six rocking chairs sat on the front porch facing out, three on either side of the open front door.

  Jake got out of his truck and caught the scents of flowers and sweetness on the breeze. A grasshopper popped into the air, away from the dusty driveway and into the green grass. Jake walked up the porch stairs to the front door and knocked on the doorjamb. Through the screen he could see down a long hallway straight to the back of the home. Through the back sliding glass door was again the yellow field and the hives. The wind had picked up and was moving the goldenrod around in waves. Jake knew he was looking southwest because in this direction his horizon was a couple hundred miles out. Somewhere in Ohio.

  He could smell something cooking. Beef stew?

  A woman appeared. She was older, maybe mid-sixties. Strong. Her face was wrinkled and her skin tanned. Experience and wisdom there. She was dressed in all black and wore the traditional white bonnet of the Amish. She also wore an apron and was wiping her hands on it as she came to the door.

  Jake kept his eyes on her face, watching her lips.

  She smiled. "Hello."

  "Hello," Jake said. "My name's Jacob Duke."

  "Hello, Mr. Duke." She opened the screen door and gestured for Jake to step inside. The stew scent made Jake's cheeks tingle with saliva. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm deaf," Jake said, "but I can read your lips."

  She smiled and nodded. "How can I help you?"

  "Well, I imagine it seems a strange request, but I was wondering if I could buy some of your bees?"

  Her eyes thinned down. "Commercial use?"

  "No. Personal."

  "For honey or therapy?"

  "Therapy," Jake said.

  "Our bees aren't for sale for therapy, Mr. Duke," she said, and then she held up a hand for Jake to view. He saw that her fingers were gnarled and ravaged from severe arthritis. "They're free. Come with me."

  She led him down the hallway and through the kitchen. He looked toward the stove and saw a massive pressure cooker working its magic. The regulator bounced around on its post, releasing silent gasps of steam. There were six chairs around the kitchen table, matching in wood grain and color with the six rocking chairs on the porch. Everything was handmade and appeared sturdy.

  They went through the open sliding glass door into the backyard. On the patio there was a small hive next to a glass-topped table overrun with randomly shaped honey jars. The lids were a variety of colors, and all of them had holes in the top.

  Mrs. Beiler stopped in front of the hive and faced Jake. "Forty years ago our farm was for livestock. Sam and I were young and healthy, and we had a good herd of cattle, but I woke up one morning and knew something was wrong. My hands wouldn't move. They diagnosed me with rheumatoid arthritis. That same day Sam built this first hive." She pointed at the small white box.

  The hive was old and its paint was flaking, but like everything else at the Beiler home it seemed indestructible.

  Mrs. Beiler looked out over the field and squinted from the sun. "I'd be dead if it wasn't for our bees. You might know how I feel," she gestured toward Jake's hands. "Whatever ails you, I'm sure the bees can help. They'll give you their lives."

  Jake thought of the bee that'd landed on his arm the other day. Had it been an ordinary bee instead of his father, and had it stung him, it would have lost its stinger and died. The sting would have meant nothing to Jake. A small mark on his arm. The spot would be sore for a day, maybe two, but the bee would have flown off to die.

  Mrs. Beiler opened one of the jars and set down the cap. She lifted the lid on the hive and reached inside. She snapped off a section of honeycomb and showed Jake it was crawling with honeybees. She put the honeycomb in the jar and started the lid toward the top. Just before she closed the lid, a lone bee flew into the jar.

  "Don't shake them," Mrs. Beiler said as she spun the cap into place. "They'll just be agitated when you open it."

  "Makes sense."

  She offered Jake the jar and he took it. The bees inside were moving around on the honeycomb. The glass felt a
live and hot.

  Mrs. Belier touched Jake's shoulder.

  "Do you have a kit?" she said.

  He knew what she meant. An apitherapy kit contained the tools required to extract the bees from the jar and hold them in place while the stinger is applied to the skin. Most important of the tools are the metal tongs used to hold a bee still without crushing it.

  "I have one."

  She nodded and gestured toward the glass door.

  Once inside, Mrs. Beiler walked Jake to the front. At the door he turned and thanked her.

  She regarded him curiously. "You're the one who killed Collins?"

  "How could you know that?"

  She shrugged and pointed at the honey jar full of bees. "Come back when you need more."

  48

  The jar of bees sat on the dashboard of Jake's truck. He was parked on the side of the road near the mouth of Clichon Avenue. He leaned toward the jar and watched them. One bee appeared to be leading the rest. Where it moved, the others followed.

  Jesus. The lead bee had a bum left leg.

  Jake leaned in and tried to hear the buzzing of their wings, tried to regain the hearing he'd had during his father's visit, but there was only silence. The bee with the bad leg flew to the glass nearest Jake. The others were behind it like an army devoted to their king.

  "You'll help me?" Jake said.

  The bee flew a lap around the jar. The others followed the pattern.

  The passenger side door opened and Frankie Jenkins hopped into the cab. He was dressed in a bright, striped Lacoste shirt and black slacks, wearing shoes for the first time since Jake met him. Penny loafers. His hair was slicked in an attempt to keep it tame, but just like his dad's wild mess it had its own agenda. In his hand he held a cardboard box similar to the one he'd left on Jake's truck hood.

  "I would have been here earlier," Frankie said, "but there were reporters and stuff. They showed up this morning and won't leave. I'm not dressed for them, though. I'm dressed for my dad."

  "You look good," Jake said.

  Frankie's cheeks went red.

  Jake wanted to ask what he had in the box, but he thought better of it. He looked down at his sad get-up—a wrinkled t-shirt and blue jeans. He should have changed. But then again, maybe it wasn't right for him to shine today.

  Today. The day he would try to kill his best friend and this boy's father.

  Frankie looked at the bees. "My dad's allergic to those, isn't he?"

  Jake nodded.

  "Smart," Frankie said. He pointed at the tattoo on Jake's forearm. "Those are the rules, huh?"

  Six days to grant a wish,

  Or hopeful life expires.

  Six days to make amends,

  Only through true desires.

  No friend nor foe nor kin,

  Nor man who lives in sin,

  Shall know that for the djinn,

  Horizon closes in.

  "Yeah," Jake said. Once Frankie finished reading the poem, he added, "That's pretty much how it works." He put his hand on the gearshift. "You ready?"

  That's when Frankie, so strong and well-dressed, came apart. His face contorted in pain. "No," the boy cried. "I'm not ready at all."

  The quickening revolted inside Jake. It sensed Frankie was about to change his wish and it didn't want to see it. The force fought to close Jake's eyes, but he railed against it. No matter what he knew about right and wrong, if this kid was going to say he no longer wished his father would be killed, Jake was going to see it.

  Tears streamed down Frankie's cheeks. "This shouldn't have to happen. My dad's a good person. Why does he want to leave me behind?"

  Jake looked at the lead bee in the jar. Vincent Kali. The man had entered his life for one moment and Jake had become enraged. Kali had offered just enough of his presence to remind Jake he didn't have him. Still, in that one instance, and now here again, Jake had been given more of his father than Frankie had ever been given, despite the fact that Motown lived just down the road.

  Why would he torture his own son like this?

  Because he was broken. It was that simple. His internal wiring worked, his synapses fired, his body moved, and his brain produced thought, but there was something inside him that could not function. Or maybe there was something more in him? Something that forced him to see the demons in the woodwork. Something that showed him an evil world where the rest of us saw birds and trees. Whatever it was, he was cracked and unfixable. You can't repair a fractured soul, you can only give it what it cries out so desperately to have. You can only give it peace.

  Frankie's eyes searched Jake's face for an answer.

  "Your father loves you," Jake said, answering Frankie but looking at the lead bee. "He doesn't want to leave you behind, he wants to free you from his burden. With him around, you're Frankie Jenkins, the kid with the screwed-up dad. Without him you can just be Frankie Jenkins. Just that. He wants that for you. It's the only gift he can give."

  Frankie looked down at the cardboard box in his lap. The twine handle stuck straight up from the box top and Jake could see one loose strand of fiber curling away.

  "I could stop this, couldn't I?" Frankie said. "I could just change my mind and today wouldn't have to happen."

  "Yes."

  He wiped tears from his cheeks, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Let's go."

  They pulled into the Dover parking lot at 4:17 p.m. Jake's horizon was just on the other side of the building, inside the back fence but not yet inside the walls. Frankie handed Jake the gift box. "Give this to him, will you?"

  Jake nodded. He handed Frankie the honey jar.

  "I know what to do," Frankie said.

  Jake got out and went through the electrified gates up to front doors of Dover. Once there he turned back and looked at Frankie through the windshield. The boy gave a thumbs up.

  Jake went inside.

  "What's crackin', Clancy?"

  "Only all my old bones."

  Jake dropped his keys and watch on the conveyor belt outside the metal detector, keeping Frankie's gift in his hands. No flashing lights as he passed through.

  Clancy gestured to the cardboard box. "Should I examine that?"

  "Just a little gift," Jake said.

  Clancy eyed him suspiciously, but ultimately handed Jake his keys and watch without inspecting the box.

  Nurse Kerry sat behind the receiving counter. "Back so soon, Jake?"

  "Looks that way."

  "You know the drill." She tapped the registration form.

  Jake signed the registration form absently, eyes on the handgun safe under the counter. Plan B. He'd hop over the counter and hold a sharp object against Nurse Kerry's throat, make her open the safe. He'd then shoot down his friend in cold blood to save the boy's life. He'd live out his days in Dover or a place just like it, probably worse. Once incarcerated, he'd close his eyes and accept no wishes until his horizon closed in and snuffed him out.

  Clancy Ferguson came around the corner twirling a set of keys around his finger. He bowed slightly and gestured toward the visitor's room. "He's ready for you."

  Jake followed Clancy toward the visitor's room, eyes away from the security guard's recitation of the rules. When he came to the doorway he saw Motown sitting precisely the way he always sat—chained, a smoldering cigarette in hand, one pinkie extended. It was as if he'd been sitting that way ever since Jake had been released.

  There was three feet of space behind Motown, and there, in that final foot before the wall, was the edge of Jake's horizon. The quickening was all but in control. Jake tugged at his collar with a shaky hand as he sat down across from Motown, leaving his friend's pinkie unsworn.

  Motown eventually lifted his head. "You all right?"

  "No."

  "What's that you got?"

  Jake showed him the cardboard box. "A gift from Frankie."

  "From Frankie? But... how?"

  "It's a long story, Early," Jake said. "And believe me when I say there's very
little time." He slid the box across the table.

  Motown snubbed out his cigarette. He picked up the box. "How did you find him? I mean... I never told you about him. I... " He lost the thought in a sense of wonder as he turned the box over in his manacled hands. "That kid. He's some kind of craftsman."

  "He sure is."

  Motown set the box on the steel table. He carefully opened the lid, using the twine handle. He blinked twice, reached inside, and pulled out a stonefly lure. He held it up and they both examined it. It seemed to be the one Jake saw in Frankie's vice the night before. This fly put the rest to shame. It was an absolute work of art, an example of true love for the craft. Every detail was right. Every fiber manicured. The thing was alive.

  Jake wondered how the hook had made it through the metal detector, and then he noted that the hook itself was carved wood painted to look like steel. Had it not been for the metal detector cluing him in, he never would have guessed.

  Motown touched the hook tip and raised an eyebrow. "Smart kid." His eyes glassed over. He held out the stonefly toward Jake. "This kind of beauty, this kind of love... it doesn’t exist in people."

  Yes it does, Jake thought, though he remained silent.

  Motown set the stonefly down and reached back inside the gift box, pulled out a small clipping of paper. He held it up to read it.

  Jake watched more pain come to his friend's face. His glassy eyes swelled. He set the paper down on the table and turned it so it was facing Jake. It was a section of Motown's letter to Jenna, carefully sliced away, the section where Motown had written 'he's a good kid' now underlined in blue crayon.

  When Jake looked up, Motown was holding the stonefly again, examining it. Without taking his eyes from it, he said, "Please tell me you're here to help me."

  "I am."

  "Do I just make a wish?"

  "It's more complicated than that."

  Motown closed his eyes. One tear rolled down his cheek. He didn't want complications. He didn't want problems. He just wanted something simple. For once in his life, something simple.

  Jake touched his friend's hand.

  He opened his eyes.