Ionic Resurgence: Book Two of The Doll Man Duology (Volume 2)

by Howard Hachey

  No suspects were ever questioned or arrested. Only theories remain as to how and why it happened.

  The hyped-up story of violent gang “turf wars” being a rising issue in certain parts of southern Maine and New Hampshire was common news of the time. Local news organizations would report any youth violence as spinoffs of gang activity making its way up from Massachusetts and Connecticut. Because of this flimsy news reporting, a lot of wannabe gang bangers started popping up out of nowhere. One by one, they’d hear about how the Crips or MS13 had some new chapter two towns over and would want to start their own. An inadvertent chain reaction. Hundreds of ignorant white kids set out to prove themselves to other culturally blurred youth on their block. All the actual violent gang-related incidents in Maine that followed this trend were coincidental, usually just some punk trying to play local tough guy in front of friends with Daddy's pistol. Most cases were found to be accidental shootings when fully investigated.

  But this, this was no accident.

  Wayne’s death was reported in every newspaper in New England as a tragedy. A generational crime against humanity. The senseless death of a hard-working husband and father. An honest, gentle soul taken too soon by pure ruthlessness. A true martyr for the common man.

  And so, that’s what he became.

  The Wayne King foundation was started just six months after his death. The nonprofit organization held a charity raffle every year to raise funds to support people affected by random acts of gang violence. Citizens in the community were asked to come bid generously on pieces from Wayne’s prized taxidermy collection. The yellow Buggy went straight to the junkyard. Crushed and cubed. Only twenty-five percent of the proceeds actually went towards helping people in need. The rest was pocketed by the heads of the planning committee. Due to the sheer number of pieces in Wayne’s collection, the fundraisers would go on successfully for years.

  Sharon and Ashley didn’t stick around to attend any of the functions in Wayne’s honor. As soon as the ground thawed in May, they picked a plot at Locust Grove Cemetery and had the funeral. Not two days later, they were gone.

  Kieffer never saw Ashley or Sharon again. And for a long time, he thought about them both every day. Thought about them so much that he began to hate them. Nothing was the same now. Worst, nothing would ever change. Kieffer could never go back to being that weird quiet kid with no friends. Another movable object among many. That simple identity—that mask—was destroyed. He’d felt the lift that only love could give. Ashley meant something to him that no other person would. And, while Kieffer always told himself that blind luck led him to Wayne, he knew now that was wrong. Ashley was the hidden thread pulling everything together. Wayne on one end, Kieffer on the other. The bow of their collective existence hinged on her bright eyes and button nose. Kieffer always wondered how she would feel if she knew what was prevented, and redeemed, by Wayne’s death.

  The last time he saw her was from afar. It was on the day of Wayne’s burial.

  Kieffer hid behind a mausoleum, occasionally peeking around its mossy edge at the huddled crowd across the way. Ten rows down, Ashley and her family stood bowing their heads. Each one dressed in black, some cried as others stared vacantly at the ground around their feet. The polished gleam of a white coffin centered them all in place. The priest at the head of the casket spoke, waved his arms around a bit. Then, the casket disappeared, sinking to the bottom of its hole.

  Kieffer wanted so badly to go over there, get on his knees and beg Ashley to forgive him. Since his mom picked him up from the police station that night, Ashley hadn’t spoken a word to him. He didn’t see her at school the next day or get any replies to his texts the following night. He must’ve sent her a hundred emails and IM’s.

  No answer.

  Completely heartbroken, Kieffer forgot all about Wayne and the instant ticket to fame he had in that little red notebook. At the touch of three numbers, 9-1-1, Kieffer could change history forever. All it took was one call. But, he didn’t want fame. Only forgiveness.

  Three long days went by since the police station. Then one morning, his mom eagerly showed him the front page of the Bangor Daily. A picture of the Everyman smiling in a collared shirt and tie sponged onto the front page.

  Wayne had been murdered.

  Kieffer didn’t believe it at first. He theorized that Wayne had faked his own death to once again escape capture, knowing Kieffer would turn in the red notebook. He’d start a new life, a new name, new face. A new cycle of death. But when Kieffer sat down and read the article, he wasn’t so sure about all that. The state examiner had his body, his car. Finally, it was over. Kieffer was a free man.

  Well, almost.

  As much as it hurt, he accepted that Ashley had moved on. Considering everything that happened, he didn’t see how things could’ve possibly worked out either way. There were too many secrets, too many lies. Too many dark corners.

  Better to let some things sit and rot where no one can see, Kieffer told himself when the heartache got to be too much. And, he was right. So behind the graves overseeing Wayne’s funeral, he sat and rot.

  Around dusk, the sounds of banging car doors and revved engines echoed to him from across the open cemetery. Waiting until the last car rolled past the iron gates, Kieffer poked his head out from around the tombstones. Coast clear, he crossed the field to Wayne’s plot. The pearl white casket sat perfectly still, a hard pill pushed six feet underground. Tiny clumps of dirt rolled onto its lid as Kieffer leaned over the hole to get a better look. It didn’t burst open or shake like he expected it to. Maybe now he could accept that Wayne was really dead and move on.

  Lifting the little red notebook from his back pocket, Kieffer flipped to the last page. Folding it open, he read the words one last time before tossing the book into the hole. He watched it flutter down, landing faceup on top of the casket.

  It’s done. We’re even now.

  As Kieffer left the cemetery and started walking towards town, dark clouds drifted in fast from the south.

  Tapping the lid of Wayne’s casket, fresh raindrops ran the ink of the open page.

  Kieffer’s name, along with the names, dates, and blood of all the others who were chosen, washed away under the pummel of Spring’s forgotten showers. By the end of the storm the notebook would be blank again, all the sin it held running together in tortured lines back to the soil.

  And as Kieffer walked past the cemetery gates, raindrops moistening his shoulders, a slight twinge of pain tapped at the nerve of his right temple. Aside from that steady pulse, Kieffer’s head became unusually quiet. Unexpectedly, the roundtable was empty.

  Except for one seat.

  The figure that sat behind the shadows breathed in cold resonance, its form barely connected to its surroundings.

  Alone at the head of the table, that new voice whispered sweetly between Kieffer’s ears:

  I will give you purpose… just like the others.