The Stonefly Series, Book 1

by Scott J. Holliday

  "All we need to do is go outside."

  "You know I can't do that."

  "We have to try. It's Frankie's life that's on the line."

  Motown's look went blank. "He made a wish. That's why you're shaky."

  "Yes."

  "I'm the old man?"

  "He wished I would help you."

  Motown picked up the paper clipping and read it again. "That little punk went through his mom's stuff."

  "She'll take good care of him."

  "And what about this guy she's with? The one who beats them."

  "He's gone."

  "Gone gone?"

  "Gone gone."

  Jake's horizon was now bisecting Motown in half, splitting him through the center of his head.

  "We need to get you outside," Jake said.

  "Can't see how you're going to manage that, Rage."

  Jake went to the visitor's room door. From this angle he could see into the registration desk from the backside. Nurse Kerry was sitting at the desk with her back turned, filling out some paperwork. Jake called out for Clancy. Nurse Kerry's head moved as if she were going to look, but she didn't.

  After a moment Clancy came down the hall, once again spinning his keys. "You guys done already?" He looked at his watch.

  "Not yet," Jake said. "Actually, I was wondering if it was possible for Early and I to go outside? Just into the yard. Get some fresh air."

  Clancy gave Jake a look that said, 'you must be crazy.'

  "I know, I know," Jake said, speaking loudly, knowing Nurse Kerry could hear. "But how about bending the rules a little bit? It's a nice day out there, and my man doesn't get out much."

  Jake looked back at Motown. He was turning the stonefly in his hand, examining the details. Jake's horizon bisected his forearms now. Another few minutes and Jake would be crushed up against the concrete wall on his side of the room.

  He looked back at Clancy, whose head was turned to the right. Jake followed his gaze to Nurse Kerry. She had just finished saying something.

  "What'd she say?"

  "She said it'd be okay if you guys went out for a bit."

  Jake looked at her. Nurse Kerry had one eyebrow raised. "Don't make me regret this decision."

  Jake wanted to tell her he was sorry, for she would surely regret this decision.

  Clancy unlocked the visitor's room door and let Jake out. "I gotta prep him. Give me a few minutes."

  Jake squeezed past his horizon and went back to the registration desk. Nurse Kerry was reaching down below the countertop. She produced the handgun case and brought it to the front desk.

  "Now I know this seems like a silly precaution," she said, "but it's important. You know Early is allergic to bees, right?"

  "Right."

  She put her hand on top of the handgun case and tapped a combination on the fingertip keys. She opened the case to reveal not a handgun, but an EpiPen.

  So much for plan B.

  She picked up the EpiPen and showed it to Jake. "This is pure adrenaline. It's the only thing that'll save him if he gets stung. So you'll need to take it with you." She held it out for Jake to take.

  He reached for the EpiPen with a trembling hand. His breathing felt ragged. He wondered how it sounded. He pocketed the EpiPen and tapped the pocket.

  "Are you okay?" Nurse Kerry said.

  "I'm fine."

  Clancy walked Motown past. His hands and feet were shackled to each other and he walked with a hunch. He held Frankie's gift box. Jake caught up with them as Clancy walked Motown through a door to the left of the metal detector. A door that wouldn't open from the other side.

  Once they were through the first door they found two more. The right-hand door led out into the parking lot through the electrified gates. The left-hand door led into the yard and inside the fences, the razor-wire. Clancy walked Motown through the left-hand door, held it open for Jake. After they were through Clancy went back inside, closing the door behind him.

  Motown looked up at the sun. He looked around at the grass and the trees. "How'd you pull this off, Rage?"

  "I don't know."

  "You always had a thing for her."

  "Who didn't?"

  "Fair enough," Motown said. He walked toward a park bench near the building, the shackles stunting his pace. The bench was central to the yard, allowing one to sit and take it all in.

  They sat down and kicked out their legs. Jake looked out toward his truck in the parking lot. From this distance he could make out Frankie's silhouette in the passenger seat. He checked his watch. 4:49 p.m. The plan was for Frankie to throw the jar over the two fences to Jake at precisely 5:00 p.m.

  "I met my dad," Jake said.

  "No shit?"

  "No shit."

  "How is he?"

  "He's the cause of all this," Jake said, displaying his shaky hands. "Just like we thought."

  "What did you say to him?"

  "Kinda told him to fuck off."

  "Good for you."

  Motown breathed deep, taking in the outside air. "I can smell her."

  "Cecilia?"

  Motown nodded.

  "Can you hear her?" Jake said.

  But Motown was no longer paying attention. He was looking out over the yard. Jake followed his stare to see Frankie standing outside the near fence. Nurse Kerry must have seen him on the security camera and opened the first gate for him. One little hand gripped the metal, his fingers curled through the diamond shapes. His other hand held the honey jar.

  Motown stood up. "He's got bees."

  Jake put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

  Motown looked back.

  Jake showed him the EpiPen. "This goes into me when you're ready. It's the only way to guarantee I won't save you. I'll say you wrestled it away from me."

  Motown took the pen. "Okay."

  "I'm sorry about that last year," Jake said. "I wasn't ready."

  "It's okay, Rage. You came back."

  A moment of silence passed.

  Jake said, "I guess this is goodbye."

  "Give me to Cecilia," Motown said.

  "I will."

  Early Jenkins shuffled toward the fence to meet his son for the first time. When he got to the fence he knelt down to his son's eye level. He reached up as far as the shackles would let his arm stretch. It was just enough to touch his son's hand. They started talking.

  Jake felt something pushing against his back. His horizon. He stepped out ahead of it and found a place along the side fence to sit down. He checked his phone for a message from Lori.

  Nothing.

  She was still a cornered cat, claws out, ready to scratch him to death.

  He steeled his resolve, calmed his hands, and typed.

  I love you. If the other night was a mistake, I'd spend my whole life making mistakes with you.

  He sat and stared at the message for several minutes, his thumb hovering over the send button. A couple times he had to move down the fence as his horizon pushed him along. He kept his head down to the conversation Motown was having with Frankie, giving them privacy.

  He also kept his eyes on the clock.

  At 5:00 p.m. he finally pressed send.

  Once the message was sent Jake looked up, expecting Frankie to be ready to throw the jar. Instead Motown was walking toward him, a swarm of bees around his head and shoulders. Jake looked past him to find Frankie at the fence, the empty jar in his hands.

  Motown knelt beside Jake. His face was beginning to puff up. Jake could see pulsating stingers stuck in his cheeks, his neck, his arms. His eyes were fluttering. He put one hand on Jake's chest. "Thank you."

  He stabbed Jake's thigh with the EpiPen.

  The surge of adrenaline brought the quickening to an unparalleled height. Jake fell to his side. His body began to convulse.

  Motown fell with him.

  Jake watched his friend's eyes. They'd stopped fluttering and were now slowly opening and closing. He was getting puffy.

  Jake's h
orizon touched his feet. It pushed him along the fence line as his body spasmed. He crumpled with it and eventually flattened out against the wall his horizon made, unable to stand. He looked back to find Motown's eyes were closed now. He grew smaller in Jake's vision as the horizon pushed Jake toward the parking lot.

  Early Jenkins was dead and gone.

  But Jake wasn't released.

  He turned over to see Frankie at the fence. The boy had his hands over his eyes. His perfect stonefly was hanging from a chain link.

  Jake tried to press himself up, but his hands jumped all over the grass. His body was in full seizure now. He lay there, shaking and being shoveled along the ground, watching Frankie through worsening vision. The boy wasn't crying. His little shoulders were not heaving. He was just unwilling to look.

  Jake began losing consciousness. His vision turned black at the edges. His body was on fire, his system breaking down. He was pressed up against the fence now. His horizon would crush him on it. He closed his eyes and let go. It was okay to end this way. His mother would be fine. She would always be fine. Lori would be fine. She would read his message and know he loved her. And that was good enough.

  But Frankie would die.

  Come on kid. Open your eyes.

  Jake saw mostly black now. He thought of Vincent Kali, his absentee father. Jake didn't hate him. He couldn't. The man hadn't meant to hurt him. He'd simply loved his mother, if even just for one moment. And he'd helped, hadn't he? He'd helped Motown and saved Frankie's life, provided the boy would open his eyes.

  Now through nothing more than pinholes in his darkening vision Jake watched Frankie.

  Just look, bud. Just look.

  The boy pulled his hands away from his face but kept his eyes closed. He gripped the fence with his little hands. Never before had he looked so much like his father.

  He opened his eyes.

  49

  Day Seven

  Jake awakened to the green lights of a vital stats monitor. There were numbers on the screen and the moving line mimicked the dub-dubbing of his heart, so he guessed he wasn't dead.

  A touch on his hand.

  He turned to find his mother in the room. She was sitting in a chair next to his hospital bed, now holding his left hand in both of hers. "We almost lost you."

  "How long have I been here?"

  "Overnight."

  Jake checked the wall clock above her head. 9:14 a.m. To the right and below the clock was a window. Morning light poured through, exposing dust particles swirling in the air. He could barely make out the thin line of his horizon in the distance. It was probably two thousand miles out, maybe three.

  His mouth was dry. He swallowed and felt like he was choking down a fistful of thumbtacks. His right hand involuntarily came to his throat, but only made it halfway there.

  This would be due to the handcuffs.

  Jake pointed at his throat. His mother produced a white Styrofoam cup filled with chipped ice. Jake swallowed a few chips to soothe the burn.

  Elizabeth tapped her son's hand. He looked at her.

  "You were intubated," she said. "Your throat will be sore for a while."

  Looking at her face, Jake couldn't help but recall the vision Vincent Kali had given him. Knowing her that young and vulnerable way, he couldn't see her as cold anymore. At least not by choice. She was missing the ability to love, had been since his conception. A cruel trick.

  He noted her clothes. A t-shirt and sweat pants. It was jarring not to see her in a business suit with a skirt and high heels. She hadn't come here straight from work. She'd taken the day off.

  Jake's throat felt soothed enough to talk. "How do I sound?"

  She chuckled and shook her head, squeezed his hand.

  He laughed, too. It hurt like hell.

  She squeezed his hand again. Her eyes began to well up. She flicked a look over to the hospital room door and then back to Jake. "No matter what happens, I'm here for you."

  Jake turned toward the door. Standing at the threshold was Sergeant Dan MacDonald. He was in a light blue hospital gown with a bulk of gauze peeking out of the neckline at his upper right chest. He gripped an IV stand with his left hand, and his badge hung from the dog chain around his neck. His hair was mussed. He approached Jake's bedside, nodding to Elizabeth as he came forward.

  "Hello, Jacob."

  "You can walk?" Jake said.

  He smiled. "A miracle, they say. I was supposed to be in a wheelchair for life, but look at me. It's incredible."

  Jake felt a drain on his system, like his body suddenly lost energy. He wondered what ability he'd just lost. He supposed he could ask Chavez when he saw him next.

  Sergeant Dan pulled a small notebook from what appeared to be his back pocket, but he wasn't wearing pants, so it must have been hanging from the band on his underpants. He flipped the notebook open and ran through some pages until he found what he was looking for. He looked up at Jake. "Early Jenkins. He was your friend?"

  "Yes."

  Jake's voice must have sounded rough. Sergeant Dan looked at Elizabeth. Jake looked at her too, caught her in the middle of reminding MacDonald he'd been intubated and that it would be hard for him to speak.

  MacDonald nodded. "Okay, I'll do the talking for now. Does that sound okay?"

  Jake nodded.

  Sergeant Dan flipped through his notebook again, flipped a couple pages back and forth, and then closed the book and slipped it back into his waistband. "You've been a busy boy, Jacob. First this whole thing with Darnell Collins and then the incident at Dover. Seems like you're a magnet for trouble at the moment, eh? Your mother tells me you like to come up here for fly-fishing. That right?"

  Jake nodded.

  "Catch anything?"

  "A few," Jake said. His throat burned with the words. He took a few ice chips to soothe it.

  Sergeant MacDonald produced Frankie Jenkins's stonefly from the breast pocket on his gown. He held it up and showed it to Jake and his mother. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

  Elizabeth squeezed Jake's hand hard.

  "The boy, Frankie," Sergeant MacDonald said. "How'd you meet him?"

  Jake tried to tell him he'd met Frankie on the river, but apparently nothing was coming out. The sergeant stopped him with a gesture.

  "That's my fault," he said. "I told you I'd do all the talking, and here I am going back on my word. Old habits, eh? The boy, Frankie Jenkins, says you two met while you were out fishing?"

  Jake nodded.

  "He says he made you some flies," MacDonald said, "said you were using something called..." he quickly pulled out his notebook and referenced a page, and then put it back, "...forgive me, I'm not much of a fisherman. He said you were using caddisflies, but they weren't going to work. So it was these little guys instead?" He held up the stonefly again.

  Jake nodded.

  MacDonald put the stonefly back in his breast pocket. "He's a good kid. I might even call him an old soul. He seemed awful calm in the aftermath of his father's death. Seemed awful protective of you, too, Jake. Said you were a hero for saving him and Keisha Jackson."

  Sergeant MacDonald turned to Jake's mother. Apparently she'd begun speaking. She pumped his hand in her grip, but Jake kept his eyes on Sergeant MacDonald. He shook his head to something Elizabeth said and then looked back at Jake.

  "Your mother just asked if you were a suspect. The answer is yes and no. You've been cleared of the situation with Mr. Collins. I've let them know, too, that there's no need for your formal statement. It cost me a favor, but nevertheless it was the right thing to do. The investigation surrounding Mr. Jenkins death, however, is still underway. It's yet to be ruled a homicide, which means you're not yet a suspect, but that might change. Do you understand?"

  Jake understood. While he wasn't about to confess, he also wouldn't duck the issue. If he was charged with Early Jenkins murder, convicted, and sentenced, he'd accept his fate. He acted willfully and did the right thing by his friend and his conscience. Any conseque
nce from that was acceptable. He couldn't deny that involving Frankie looked bad, but it saved the boy's life. Jake could only hope Frankie would escape otherwise unscathed.

  "We understand Mr. Jenkins was allergic to bee venom," Sergeant MacDonald said, "and that he was attacked by a swarm of bees while you two were in the yard at Dover. We also understand that you were equipped with an EpiPen, but it appears Mr. Jenkins, a patient who was manacled, attacked you with it so you couldn't use it to save him, which is why you're here at the hospital, lucky to have survived."

  Jake tried to say he didn't feel so lucky, but his throat just burned.

  "You were his friend?" MacDonald said.

  It was the second time the sergeant asked that question. "Yes," Jake said, ignoring the pain. His hand moved toward his throat but was restricted by the cuff.

  "Before you ask," MacDonald said, "the cuffs were just a precautionary measure. I wanted to be able to speak with you before you left the hospital. I'm sure we could find reasons to further detain you, but I think it's safe to assume you're not a flight threat." He produced a small key from his chest pocket and unlocked the cuffs.

  Jake rubbed his wrists.

  "I'll be in touch," Sergeant MacDonald said. He turned to leave, showing the open back of his gown, his pale skin beneath gray boxer briefs, his black notebook tucked in. He made it to the open door and stopped, then turned around with Frankie's stonefly in his hand. "The boy asked me to give you this once we were done with it."

  He put the fly on the counter near the door and started to leave, but then stopped again.

  "I apologize, Jake," he said, "but there's just one more thing. This morning I asked Showalter to stop by the Beiler farm and talk with the beekeepers there. Sam Beiler and his wife, Mary."

  Jake's stomach dropped out. Needles and pins on his skin.

  "We figured they'd be an authority on bees, of course. Showalter asked them if it was possible that a man could be attacked by a swarm of honey bees so far from any apparent hives. Sam Beiler said it would be highly unlikely unless someone transported the bees to the location."

  Jake thought of the honey jar, wondered what Frankie had done with it.

  "On a hunch," MacDonald said, "Showalter asked them if they'd ever met you." He held Jake's gaze for a moment. "They said they hadn't."