The Stonefly Series, Book 1

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The Stonefly Series, Book 1 Page 13

by Scott J. Holliday


  "I also read about something called 'wish escalation.' Seems like you can cancel out a wish if the wisher decides they want something else. Only thing is, it has to be something they want more than the first wish. If the replacement is just some obvious attempt to get out from under the first wish, like 'I wish I never made that first wish' or 'I wish I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,' the first wish still stands. That's about as far I got. You ready?"

  "Yep."

  The older boy threw an unlit cigarette on the floor. "Okay now, breathe easy. Relax and clear your mind."

  "How do I do that?"

  "I don't know. Think of a blank sheet of paper or an open field."

  Jake thought of a sheet of white paper hovering over a field of green grass. His mind's eye saw the wind pushing the grass around. He breathed evenly. Hands on his knees. Eyes closed.

  "Ready?"

  Jake nodded.

  "Okay. I wish you would pick up that cigarette and put it back."

  Jake's chest felt as though he'd just pulled a muscle. The pain intensified, like his sternum was trying to break open but the cartilage was holding it together.

  "I can feel it," he said, his eyes still closed.

  "What's it like?"

  Jake told him. He also told him the feeling traveled down through his shoulders and arms to his hands.

  "I can see that their shaking," Motown said. "Just a little, but not so bad, eh?"

  "I think it'll get worse if I wait."

  "What else?"

  "My blood," Jake said. "It's getting warmer." He explained the feeling of hot honey he recalled from years before, and how even though he felt hot, he didn't think others could see it or feel it.

  Motown put a hand to Jake's forehead like a mother checking her child for a fever. "You feel fine to me. Anything else?"

  Jake shook his head.

  "Ready to pick it up?"

  "Yes."

  Jake opened his eyes and lifted his hands from his knees. They were slightly trembling, just as Motown had noted. He got down off the bed, went over to the cigarette, and sat cross-legged before it on the floor. He reached for the cigarette and picked it up.

  There was no release.

  Jake looked at Motown, who was smiling devilishly. "The feeling's still there isn't it?"

  "Yes," Jake said. He held up the cigarette and watched as it trembled in his grip. "The other times the pain in my chest went away and my hands stopped shaking. My body cooled."

  Motown held up two fingers on either hand to make air quotes when he said, "And put it back." He picked up the soft pack of Camel Straights and held it out.

  Jake slid the cigarette into the pack from which it came. When his fingertips released the smoke his hand went still, his body heat plummeted, his chest loosened.

  "It's gone," Jake said.

  "Sounds like the semantics are important," Motown said.

  "Semantics?"

  The overhead speaker crackled into life. "Mr. Jenkins," a voice said. It was Nurse Kerry, she sounded fuzzy and metallic. "You have a visitor."

  A squelch ended the communication.

  Motown pocketed the soft pack and the lighter. He stood and began rubbing his wrists together. "Time to go, little man. Jenna's here. Tomorrow we can talk semantics."

  Jenna. What a name. And she was Motown's girl, so Jake figured she had to be young and pretty. He needed to see her, needed to fill his hormone-enraged mind with something new. He went to the day room and positioned himself on a couch with a view of the visitor's cage.

  Motown crossed by in front of him, winking as he went by. Jake loved him for that. His mess of hair was now combed down in Sunday school fashion. The orderlies opened the visitor's cage door to let him in. It was hardly what you'd call privacy, but at least your loved ones weren't subject to the groping hands of the crazies.

  They sat Motown in the chair and chained him down. His wrists and ankles were bound by manacles, which were then attached to an eyelet on the floor. Jake was familiar with the routine. They did the same to him when his mother came to visit. Originally, he wondered why they would chain patients against their visitors—people they so desperately needed, people who loved them when no one else would—but when his mother showed up for her first visit, just as every visit thereafter, she wore a pageboy cap crammed low on her head, the bill hiding her face so no one would know Elizabeth Duke visited her son in a crazy house.

  After that, Jake understood the need for chains.

  Motown sat quietly once he was locked in. He had enough room to lay his cigarettes and lighter down on the steel tabletop. He would be able to reach halfway across the table, but no more. He licked his palms and dipped his head down into his hands, hopelessly attempting to keep tame the wild mess his hair wanted to be.

  The visitor door opened and Jenna stood there pregnant enough to burst. Jake sat with his jaw unhinged, thinking it wasn't possible for someone to look that way. Toothpick legs, toothpick arms, sunken chest, and yet this huge belly. Jenna, too, wore a hat. A New York Mets baseball cap pulled low on her head, the curved bill shadowing her eyes and most of her face.

  Jenna struggled her girth past the orderlies and through the door. She lowered herself into the chair opposite Motown. He looked up at her and smiled in a way Jake had never before seen. A bemused sort of expression, but there was danger there, too.

  The two began a conversation. After a moment Jake felt he was staring impolitely. He put his eyes on the television hanging down from a pipe on the ceiling. Some soap opera actress had her back turned to an older man wearing a black sport coat. She put her hand to her mouth like he'd just exposed to her some terrifying secret and just couldn't face him.

  While Jake watched the soap, he kept his ears on the conversation in the visitor's room. Between Motown and Jenna there was small talk of the weather, global warming, local crops. She believed global warming was an issue. He said it was a myth. She said someone from the feed store said the soy beans looked good this year, which was good for the town. He said the town could burn.

  After ten or fifteen minutes their tone became hushed. Jake could only hear whispers cut through by the occasional word or two. He heard Jenna say, "I can't." Heard Motown say, "Please." Heard Jenna say, "Your unborn child." Heard Motown say, "Live anymore."

  Jenna's voice grew from a whisper to a stern tone when she said, "No."

  Motown's chains violently scraped against steel.

  Jake looked. Motown had Jenna's right wrist gripped so hard her hand had turned white. Her left hand had come to her mouth just like the woman in the soap opera.

  "Please," Motown said. The word came out through clenched teeth.

  She shook her head.

  The orderlies came in and freed Jenna's wrist.

  23

  Day Three

  Midnight passed. Darnell Collins's 3500 Dually was now parked at Eddie's bar, the only vehicle left in the lot. Jake pulled in next to the Ram, his wipers hurling rain off the windshield. He moved the gearshift toward park, but stopped at reverse and let go. His foot on the brake, he examined his shaking hands. He should leave. This wasn't fit to end well. The quickening had been intense since the moment the kid made his wish. Jake might not be able to stop himself from killing Darnell Collins here and now.

  But knowing something about the man could be the only way to get the kid to change his mind. If Jake could pick up on some of the guy's good qualities he may be able to convince the boy his old man wasn't so bad, after all.

  Jake continued the gearshift into park and got out. He hustled through the downpour and entered the establishment. Collins sat hunched on a stool in the center of the long bar, his jacket dripping from the rain. Eddie Crane was at the opposite end, leaning over the bar as he worked on a crossword.

  Jake nodded to Eddie and took a stool near Collins, leaving one seat between.

  Collins turned to examine to the newcomer. He didn't seem impressed. His eyes went back to his beer, a draft mu
g of something light. He lifted it to his lips and drank.

  Up close now, Jake noticed the extreme damage the house fire had done to Darnell Collins. The back of his head brought to mind the oil paint strokes of Van Gogh's Starry Night, only the palette here was limited to the colors of painful burning. The pattern trailed down his neck and under the collar of his damp Carhartt jacket before reappearing on his hands.

  Eddie Crane made his way over. Jake turned just in time to catch him speaking.

  "Jack Daniel's?"

  Jake nodded. "Neat." He settled into his chair as the quickening surged from within. His heart beat in his ears. Opposite the bar-top and behind the rows of liquor bottles was a mirror that ran the length of the Eddie's bar. Jake made eye contact with Collins in the glass. "Some weather, huh?"

  Collins raised his eyebrows to the question but ultimately said nothing. He returned his eyes to his beer.

  "Supposed to blow over quickly," Jake said. "Weathermen don't know shit."

  Collins looked into the mirror again, meeting Jake's eyes. "There something I can help you with?"

  Jake shrugged. "Just making small talk."

  "I would prefer you do that somewhere else."

  Jake looked off as he sipped his drink. He turned on his stool to face the whole of the empty bar. The lonely pool table, the electronic dartboard and it's blinking LED cycles, the bikini girl on a poster from the nineteen-eighties.

  The German shepherd that'd been lounging beneath the dartboard on Jake's first visit emerged from the EMPLOYEES ONLY door near the bathrooms. At the sight of the dog Collins spun on his stool and started speaking to the bartender. From behind, Jake couldn't read what Collins was saying, but the look on Eddie Crane's face seemed to indicate the words were being shouted.

  Once Collins stopped yelling, Eddie Crane looked at the dog. "Buster! Go on now! Get out!"

  The dog turned around and sullenly nosed back through the swinging door. Eddie set down his pencil and grabbed a clean draft mug. He poured a new beer from a Bud Light tap and brought it over, exchanged it with Collins's empty glass.

  Jake downed his whiskey and pointed to his glass.

  Eddie poured Jake a new shot before heading back to his crossword.

  "Fucking mutt," Jake whispered.

  Collins met Jake's eyes in the mirror again. "You still here?"

  "Filthy thing," Jake said. "Shouldn't be in a bar in the first place."

  Collins stared at Jake in the mirror. He took his time deciding, but finally a smirk came to his face. "Like to see that thing pass beneath my tree stand." He did a small motion of flinging an arrow from a bow, making a noise Jake couldn't read.

  A tingle ran down Jake's spine to recall Collins's bow pointed in his direction not so long ago. "You bow hunt?"

  "You DNR?"

  "You kidding me?" Jake said. "Let one of them assholes pass beneath my tree stand." He motioned reaching into a shoulder holster, pulling a handgun, and aiming it down. He moved his thumb like a hammer.

  Collins pursed his lips and nodded approvingly.

  "Jacob Duke," Jake said, extending his hand for Darnell to shake.

  Collins looked down at Jake’s hand, considered it for a moment, and then shook. "Darnell."

  "Pleased to meet you."

  Collins took a long pull from his beer. Jake downed his whiskey and signaled for another round for himself. The alcohol wasn’t helping him control the quickening, but it was worth the sacrifice to keep up appearances and possibly win Collins’s confidence.

  The burned man peeled off his jacket to reveal a janitor's coveralls. 'Darnell' on the front, 'New Center Staff' on the back. He threw the jacket on the next stool. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing more of the burn scars that covered his body.

  "You from around here?" Collins said.

  "From Detroit," Jake said. "Out this way to visit a friend."

  "Where do you hunt?"

  "I know a guy with a couple acres up in Prescott. He lets me use his land come rifle season."

  "Hell of a guy."

  "Not much of an outdoorsman."

  "What's he do with the acreage, then?"

  "Nothing. His family left it to him."

  "Seems like a waste."

  "Not if you're the guy he lets hunt the property."

  Collins nodded.

  "You work at the hospital?" Jake said, gesturing to the man's back.

  "Nah, I just love the fuckin' uniform."

  Jake smiled wanly, still regarding Collins in the mirror.

  "What's your story?" Collins said. "You some kind of faggot?"

  "No," Jake said. "Just-"

  "You like girls, then?"

  "Sure."

  "You better be sure." A grin.

  "I'm sure."

  "I like 'em too much," Collins said. "Got this one at home. She'd fall apart if I ever left. Come straight to pieces, the worthless cunt. Takes everything I got to keep her happy, if you know what I mean."

  "Women," Jake said. "Can't live with them-"

  "-can't let 'em know your secrets," Collins added.

  "No doubt."

  "You got secrets, Jacob Duke?"

  "As many as the next guy, I guess."

  "I got this one bitch on the side," Collins said, leaning toward the mirror and appearing to whisper. "A wildcat in the bed. Sucks the chrome off a bumper. Does other tricks you can't believe."

  "Is that right?"

  "That one at home? All she does is nag. But this other one, she'll curl your toes back."

  "Sounds like a fun girl."

  Collins recoiled. "The fuck you know about her?"

  Jake cocked his head curiously.

  Collins stared at him in the mirror, his eyes thinned down to slits.

  "Are you asking if I know her?"

  "You heard the question."

  "I don't know anything about her."

  Collins continued to stare.

  Jake's skin felt hot. He glanced at the whiskey tumbler, considered how it would play as a weapon.

  "I'm just fucking with you, man," Collins said.

  Jake didn't hear; he was still looking down at his glass. He looked up to find Collins hard-staring at him in the mirror.

  "I said I didn't know her," Jake said. "If there's a problem, I can-"

  "Didn't you hear me?"

  Jake shook his head.

  "There's something wrong with you, isn't there?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "You don't look me in the eyes when I'm talking. You kinda look down." He gestured toward his mouth. "At first I thought maybe you were a pussy, can't look a man in the eye, but... hold on a second. Can't you hear that dog barking back there?"

  "No."

  "Thing's been barking this whole time. Hell of a noise. Hasn't bothered you one bit though, has it?"

  "I'm deaf."

  "Lip reader?"

  "Yeah."

  Collins contemplated for a moment, and then said, "Do me a favor, lip reader. Go back there and shut that dog up."

  Jake gripped his tumbler as he looked over Collins's shoulder at the EMPLOYEES ONLY doorway. He glanced at Eddie Crane who was intent on his crossword. The logical play would be to talk with Eddie, see about getting him to keep the dog quiet.

  The quickening wasn't big on logic.

  "Why don't you go shut it up?" Jake said.

  "Look at that," Collins said. "Won't even do a favor for a friend."

  "I never said that."

  "You saying we ain't friends?"

  "Not at all."

  "But you won't do me this favor."

  Jake took a beat, found some clear thought. He gestured toward the bartender. "I don't think Eddie would like it if I went into that room."

  "You're so thoughtful."

  "I try to be."

  "And humble, too. A good man, I bet. Out here to see an old friend, you said? Probably someone over at that loony bin down the road. Ain't gave up on him yet 'cause you're such a saint. Or
is it a her you ain't gave up on yet?"

  "What's your point?"

  Collins turned his head to regard Jake without using the mirror. "Let me tell you my point, lip reader. That cunt I got at home? She would love a good man like you. Someone to treat her nice, take her out, buy her a steak. But a woman like that don't know what's good for her, see? Too damn stupid to know right from wrong. Then again, no one does. Not you, not me. The only one who knows what's good for us is up there." He turned his eyes up to the ceiling and then back down. "And all He wants is for us to shed this mortal coil." He slapped Jake's chest. "So we can be by His side."

  "That's it?" Jake said. "God just wants us to be with him?"

  Collins nodded while drinking his beer.

  "You think He throws parties up there? Barbecues and all that?"

  Collins set down the beer, his face a stone.

  "Just having you on," Jake said. He looked past Collins's shoulder to get Eddie's attention for another round, but Collins moved into Jake's line of vision.

  "You think that shit is cute?"

  "Just a joke."

  "Answer the question."

  "No, I don't think it's cute."

  "Then watch your fuckin' mouth." Collins got up and walked toward the bathrooms.

  Jake's mind's eye saw him getting off his stool, following Collins to the bathroom, and clubbing him to death with the whiskey tumbler. He imagined the big man's body falling, the blood spurting. He imagined flipping him over and driving a shard of broken glass into his jugular. The whites of his eyes, his heels and hands banging the floor as he convulsed.

  Eddie Crane waved from the corner of Jake's eye. The way he spoke, Jake knew he was silently mouthing his words.

  "Time for you to leave."

  Jake dropped some money on the counter and left.

  24

  2:30 a.m. and still raining. Jake was parked on the side of the road a few hundred yards down from Eddie's Bar. Through gaps in the trees he could see the colorful lights in the building's small front windows, the parking lot illuminated by overhead lamps. He tick-counted with his fingers—moving his thumb from index finger to middle, to ring, to pinkie and then back again while mentally counting one-two-three-four, four-three-two-one. Over and over. Motown's voice repeated in his mind, "Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth."

 

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