The Stonefly Series, Book 1

by Scott J. Holliday

  50

  Jake slept through the rest of the morning into the afternoon. When he woke up his mother was still beside him. She was working on her laptop, typing furiously. His throat felt well enough to croak out a few words. "Thanks for coming, mom. It's a long drive home. You should go."

  "No. I'll stay."

  "You need to head home. I'll be fine."

  She sighed. "I do have an appointment I'd rather not miss."

  "Please," Jake said. "Go."

  Elizabeth closed her laptop and slid it into a leather carrying case. She stood and leaned over Jake's hospital bed, giving him an awkward hug. "Get home as soon as they let you out. Get some rest. Come see me in a day or two."

  "I will."

  "We'll have dinner."

  "I'd like that."

  That evening a doctor came by, checked Jake's vitals, and said he'd be free to go as soon as they finished his paperwork. They pulled the IV needle from his arm and gave him a plastic bag containing his clothes, watch, keys, phone, and shoes. Still in the hospital gown, Jake fired up his phone and checked his text messages.

  No reply from Lori.

  As much as Jake hated to admit it, he was crestfallen. He'd thrown a Hail Mary to Lori, hoping she'd finally see who he was and what she meant to him, but the ball fell harmlessly to the ground and the game was lost. He'd have to move on now. He'd have to cut ties with her. The pain was too much to bear.

  Jake looked up from the phone to find Frankie standing in the doorway. He wore a different Lacoste shirt than yesterday. This one was army green. He wore brown slacks and the same penny loafers. In his getup he reminded Jake of Teddy Duchamp from Stand by Me—he with the loony father.

  Jenna Rose stood behind him. She'd ditched the muumuu for a summer dress and her old New York Mets hat. With the hat on, Jake would have recognized her anywhere. She had one hand on each of her son's shoulders. Her face was beginning to heal. Her missing tooth had been repaired and replaced. Her smiled looked nice.

  Jenna leaned down and whispered something into Frankie's ear. Afterward she moved out of the doorway and back into the hall.

  Frankie stepped into the room with his hands clasped behind his waist, eyes down as he walked.

  "How are you feeling, bud?" Jake said.

  Frankie looked up, offered a pained smile. "I don't know."

  "I don't know either," Jake said.

  Frankie returned his eyes to his feet.

  "Sergeant MacDonald brought me your stonefly."

  "It's yours now," Frankie said. "It's not for fishing, though. The hook will break."

  "I'll find a good place for it. Thank you."

  "That shore lunch was good," Frankie said. He swallowed. The beginnings of an Adam's Apple climbed up and down his neck.

  "Best lunch I've had in a long time. We should do it again someday."

  The boy brightened. He put both hands out at his sides like he was settling an audience. "I know where the good holes are, and there's plenty of Rock and Rye."

  "How about cheese puffs?"

  "Oh, don't worry, we got plenty of cheese puffs. And she can come, too."

  "Who can come? Your mom?"

  "No," Frankie said. He performed an exaggerated wink and nudged Jake's knee with an elbow. "She's out in the waiting room. You should go talk to her."

  "Who?"

  The boy grabbed Jake's hand and dragged him off the edge of the bed. Jake's feet found a way to stabilize his weak body. He was still in the hospital gown, back exposed, and holding his phone as they walked through the doorway. He looked down the hall toward the family waiting room where the door was open.

  Lori sat cross-legged on a chair, staring down at a cell phone in her hand. She looked up as they approached. Her eyes stopped on Frankie. She dropped the phone into her lap and pressed her hands together over her nose and mouth, her eyes glassy. She nodded at the boy, then looked to Jake.

  Frankie released Jake's hand and ran off toward his mom. Without taking her eyes from Jake, Lori picked up her phone and tapped the screen.

  Jake's phone vibrated in his hand. He looked down to read the text.

  Ready for your next mistake?

  51

  Frankie stoked the embers in the fire pit. He, Lori, and Jake were on the bank of the middle branch of the Tobacco River. It was early afternoon and sunny with a few white clouds in the sky. Lori had set out a blanket and brought some paper plates and napkins. Jake's creel was full and three trout were set up on sticks, seasoned and ready to meet the flame.

  "We're just gonna eat them like that?" Lori said.

  "Heck yeah," Frankie replied. He and Jake exchanged a glance.

  "On sticks?"

  "Trust me," Jake said. "They're good that way."

  Lori rolled her eyes, took a sip of Faygo.

  "First things first," Jake said. He reached into his duffel bag and produced the glass honey jar. It was no longer filled with bees, but with Motown's ashes.

  "You boys go ahead," Lori said. She sat down on the blanket.

  Jake and Frankie walked to the end of the dock with the jar.

  "He called this river Cecilia," Jake said. "Did you know that?"

  "It's pretty much all he ever wrote about in his letters," Frankie said.

  "Had an affinity for water. Something you two seem to share."

  "You think he's watching us right now?"

  Jake looked down into the water, saw a trout swimming past the dock posts. "No doubt about it."

  "Think he can hear me?"

  "Better than I can," Jake said, smiling. "You want to say something?"

  "Yeah."

  "Go ahead," Jake said. He closed his eyes. "I won't listen."

  Just then a wave of energy moved through Jake, something not unlike the quickening, only milder. He found he could hear the river's rush, the wind through the trees, the droning insects. He dare not open his eyes.

  "Hey dad," Jake heard Frankie say. "I miss you. Maybe that seems weird because we only met once, but with the letters and all that I felt like we were together a lot, you know? I know you didn't really want your life, and maybe you're glad to be gone, but I'm proud to be your son, okay? I'm glad you stuck around long enough to say goodbye, and I hope maybe you can live through me now... if you want. Anyway, we're gonna put you in the river now, me and Jake. He's proud to be your friend, I think, and he loves you, too."

  A rush of emotion touched Jake. His nose felt hollow as he swallowed. There was a tickling in his tear ducts, but the tears never came. He wondered which of Frankie's abilities he'd gained when the boy's wish was granted. He hoped to God it wasn't the kid's creative skill.

  Jake waited through a moment of silence before he felt a hand on his forearm. He opened his eyes to find Frankie smiling, indicating that he'd said his peace. The boy gestured with his head toward the other side of the river.

  There was a deer standing at the opposite bank. It watched them for a moment, black eyes focused. It stomped a hoof and silence returned to Jake's world. The deer bolted away, exposing the scar on its left hind leg as it went.

  Jake uncapped the jar and knelt on the dock. Frankie joined him. They each put a hand on the glass as they poured Motown's ashes into the water.

  Epilogue

  Jake sat on his stool, leaning over a pad of paper on his workbench. He was finishing the lines on a pencil drawing of the stonefly lure Frankie had given him. There were flecks of white paint on his hands and fingers. In the aftermath of Motown's death and water burial, Jake finally took the time to paint over Heritus Sweets on the back wall of Hear No Evil Tattoos. The wall was clean now, a blank canvas on which he could one day paint his own logo.

  It was late afternoon, turning into evening. The sun rays squeezed between the skyscrapers and entered the shop through the plate glass of the facade. Jake's horizon was a thin, red line in the distance.

  Closing. Always closing.

  A final bit of shading and the drawing was done. He picked up the paper
and lure and walked them to the service counter. He put the lure inside the honey jar he now kept near the register, and was about to slip the drawing into the display case when the front door opened. In walked a woman in her mid-fifties. She appeared to be of Mexican descent and carried a wood-handled purse, looped over her forearm. She was the first walk-in client since Jake's shop opened.

  The quickening awakened at her presence.

  "Can I help you?" Jake said. He found himself squinting as he watched her lips, unsure he wanted to read what she would say. He hadn't granted any wishes since Frankie Jenkins, and had planned on letting his horizon close in while he rested and recovered. His throat was still sore from the intubation.

  The woman approached the counter. She had sad eyes. Eyes that seemed once beautiful and wide and innocent. Now they were pained. "I'd like a tattoo."

  "You're in the right place," Jake said. "What do you have in mind?"

  The woman pointed at the drawing of the stonefly. "That."

  Jake tilted his head curiously. "I don't mean to offend, but most people don't even know what that is."

  "It's a stonefly."

  Jake nodded, impressed. "Are you sure it's what you want?"

  "I am."

  "How big?"

  She made a circle with one hand, indicating a small tattoo.

  "Where?"

  "On my left ankle."

  Jake pursed his lips. He was about to tell her it would cost a couple hundred bucks, but something told him the tattoo's price wouldn't be an issue here. "Let me get set up."

  Jake readied his workstation with paper towels and ink. He made a stencil of the stonefly drawing and cut it to size. Once he was all set, he asked the woman to come over. He shaved the thin body hair from her lower leg, applied the stencil, and had her take a look in the mirror.

  "Like it?"

  "It's perfect."

  She came back and sat down in the chair.

  "I'm deaf," Jake said.

  She nodded.

  "You already knew that?"

  "I was told."

  Jake wanted to ask, by whom? But he let it be. This woman's presence was already proving to be a strange trip, so maybe it was best to just move forward with things. "If you need me to stop, just wave your hand or touch my shoulder."

  "Okay."

  It took an hour to complete the tattoo. The woman didn't stop him once, and hardly moved a muscle as the varying needles penetrated her skin. Once it was done, she got up and viewed the tattoo in the mirror, turning her ankle back and forth, her pained eyes now on the verge of tears.

  Jake wrapped her tattoo and told her how to care for it. As they walked toward the service counter, he considered telling her there would be no charge for the work. Somehow, it felt wrong to profit from Frankie's art. Furthermore, this woman, and this situation, it just seemed... well, he couldn't put a finger on it.

  The woman reached into her purse, pulled out a wad of cash, and stuffed it into Jake's hands. It was well over a thousand dollars, judging by a glance at several one-hundred dollar bills and folded fifties.

  "No," Jake said. "This is too much."

  "It's all the savings I have."

  "I don't want all you have, I-"

  "He said you would help me."

  "I don't understand. Who said?"

  She started sobbing. "The police turned me away. No private investigators will take my case. It's my husband. He's dying."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, but-"

  "He just wants to be with Layla again. Our daughter. He wants us to be a family."

  "Who told you to come to me?"

  "It was a man. He was standing outside my apartment building last night. I thought he was going to rob me, but no. He was there to help me."

  "What did he look like?"

  "He had dark skin and a mustache. Average height, I guess. He knew everything. Knew about Hector, my husband. Knew about Layla and how long she's been missing. He said you would help."

  "Did he give you his name?"

  "Vincent."

  Kali. Dammit.

  "He gave me directions to this shop. He said to come see The Stonefly and make a wish."

  "The Stonefly?"

  "You are The Stonefly, yes?"

  The woman awaited his answer, tears now streaming, lips quivering, her life savings in Jake's hand. The quickening was like an animal trapped inside him, pacing back and forth behind the walls of its cage. His goddamn father, sending him the helpless and the hopeless, as promised. What was this, some kind of test?

  "You are The Stonefly, yes?" the woman repeated. "You will help me?"

  Jake sighed. "What is your wish?"

  "Vincent said the semantics are important."

  "They most certainly are."

  The woman chose her words carefully. "I wish Hector, Layla, and I were together again."

  Jake breathed slowly, trying to still his suddenly racing heart. As with every wish to which he was bound, he was put in mind of the old grandfather clock in his mother's foyer. His broken ears recalled the clock's turning gears, the shifting and clicking of hidden instruments, and the seemingly interminable silence before, finally, the toll.

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  The story continues in Ungranted: The Stonefly #2. Be sure to check out the following excerpt.

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  Ungranted: The Stonefly #2

  To save a mother, he must find her missing daughter.

  Jacob Duke is bound by a mysterious curse.

  * * *

  He has six days to find a girl named Layla...and if he fails, her mother will die.

  * * *

  But Layla doesn’t want to be found. She’s the lone witness to a high-profile murder—and being hunted by a hitman known only as The Sparrow.

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  As Jacob follows her trail through the seedy Detroit underground, he finds himself up against police, organized crime, and a deadly assassin...and in a race against time, he must find Layla before anyone is killed.

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  Click here to purchase UNGRANTED now

  Turn the page to read a sample —>

  UNGRANTED: Prologue

  The music hurt, and maybe that was the worst thing of all.

  Bobby Dallas always had music in his life. A song in every moment, a melody in every memory. The days of his youth, when his mother jammed to classic rock while washing dishes or sweeping the linoleum. She'd sing along to the tunes she knew, and every now and then catch a note just right, surprising even herself. Bobby's high school days, when he first discovered rap. He and Nicky would thump the bass while cruising Detroit in the T-top Camaro they'd salvaged and fixed up. So badass. And now, of course, the non-stop music of his DJ gig at the Kitty Katt Club. He loved it, even if most of the songs were ’80s hair-band staples.

  Truth be told, Bobby could never hear “Girls, Girls, Girls” by Motley Crue again and it would be just fine, fine, fine.

  But now the music hurt.

  The headphones over his ears were of the highest quality. Every instrument came through clearly. The deep bass didn't muddy the mids or high end, the sound stage was open and yet still warm. He'd love to wear a set of cans like this wh
ile he was working. Trouble was, the volume on these headphones was set to a terrifying level. A level that would have any sane person throwing them off their head.

  If only.

  The headphones were duct-taped in place, and more tape was wrapped around Bobby's mouth, which had been stuffed with what tasted like a sock.

  He was bound to a chair.

  There were no lights. Only darkness and the painful music. Bobby screamed mutely into the sock and shook his head against the ear-splitting agony. When the first song came on—“Ice Ice Baby”—he'd only just awakened and was still trying to figure out where he was. The pain was incredible. Instant headache, no escape. He thrashed in the chair. By the smell, he was in a basement, or at least underground. There was a smoky vanilla tobacco scent as well, same as the Black & Milds Bobby himself burned through at what Layla decried was an alarming rate.

  The next song ratcheted up the torture. It was one thing to experience loud bass close to the ear—the pain was intense and there would certainly be damage—but that was nothing compared to the pain and damage of a high-decibel song overloaded with distorted notes. A shredding electric guitar would do nicely for that. Apparently Bobby's captor knew this, because next up was Slayer’s “Raining Blood.”

  The guitars screeched in Bobby's ears. He doubled over against the restraints at his chest. His eyes, riveted shut, squeezed out tears. He screamed until his lungs were empty, unable to hear the sound of his own cries.