Jake kicked aside the bucket to find a baseball cap had been trapped against the wall behind it.
He picked up the cap. It had a Detroit Police logo on the front and was fitted for a small head. He turned it over to find a name written in Sharpie marker on the underside of the brim.
Keisha Jackson.
Jake put away his gun and pulled out his cell phone. No bars.
He took the hat with him when he left the shack and went out on to the dock. The water was thick and slimy. The jon boat was old but seemingly seaworthy. No motor. It sported two battered oars attached by rings with the blades folded into the center.
It seemed there was nothing more to find.
Jake walked the path back to the hunting blind and then back to his truck where he finally found one bar of data signal. He typed 'Keisha Jackson' into a web search, hoping to find a link to Facebook or Instagram that would give him an electronic trail to follow. Maybe this Keisha was friends with Frankie? Maybe she could help him access the kid and get that wish changed?
Her name appeared in the News section of his search results. The article had been updated only thirty minutes ago. Jake's throat dried out as he swallowed. The young girl was missing and her father, the hero cop from a recent standoff and shooting, was dead. He'd been on life support with a chance he might recover. That chance was now gone.
The police had no suspects.
Yes they do, Jake thought.
Suddenly he couldn't shut out thoughts of what Darnell Collins might have done to the girl who owned the hat—the girl who'd already suffered several levels of Hell with her father being shot and then murdered while he slept. He couldn't shut out the image of Collins pinning the girl down with this big hands, out in these woods, sniffing at her like an animal. He couldn't shut out the thought of Keisha Jackson at the bottom of that pond, her body in a bag weighed down with stones.
Jake closed his eyes and cleared his mind. He needed to be sharp here, needed to make smart decisions. Notify the police of the hat? Of course, but wouldn't that make him an immediate suspect? Wouldn't he be drawing an investigation right to his own door?
Yes, but there was nothing for it.
He took a picture of the hat with his phone and sent it in a text message to Sergeant Dan.
I found this. I want to help.
He put the hat on the passenger seat, put his gun in the duffel bag, and drove back to the city.
36
"Ointment," Sergeant MacDonald said. He and Harris were sitting in their unmarked at the end of Clichon Avenue inspecting their service weapons. "The nurse said he smelled like hydrating ointment."
"And you say this dude has burns all over him?"
MacDonald nodded. He pulled his service weapon from shoulder holster, set it between his thighs, and put the vehicle in drive. They came to the Collins house at the end of the two-track. No vehicles out front. They parked and approached the front door, which was open, the screen door closed. MacDonald gestured for Harris to go around and cover the back.
Once Harris turned the corner, MacDonald called into the house. "Hello? Anyone home?"
No answer.
MacDonald peered into the house to see the small kitchen table was overturned, the salt and pepper shakers were scattered, a ceramic sugar bowl was cracked on the floor, white crystals everywhere. The faint scent of cigarette smoke. The hallway walls had holes punched in them, streaks of blood on the paneling.
"Detroit Police! I'm entering the home!"
MacDonald pulled open the screen door, which squawked on its hinges. He took shallow breaths as cleared the room to his left, a small den with a computer chair and an old desktop tower that looked like it ran Windows 95. The computer monitor was on the floor, the desk drawers were smashed in.
He cleared the room to his right, a living room with matted couches and wear patterns on the carpet. The flat screen television was broken in half, as though it'd been snapped over someone's knee. Pictures and cheap paintings had been knocked from the walls leaving hanging wires and nails. More punch holes.
The scent of cigarette smoke grew stronger as MacDonald entered the kitchen. The smoke was coming from down the hall.
Harris appeared in the kitchen window, startling MacDonald. He took a calming breath as Harris moved toward the back kitchen door, shaking his head to indicate no one was out back.
MacDonald gestured for his partner to come inside.
The detectives moved down the hallway. The kid's room door at the end of the hall was a quarter open. The other doors were closed.
As they passed it, MacDonald peeked down the short hallway that led to Darnell Collins's special room. The door was open and the room was trashed. He nodded for Harris to check the room while he continued down the main hall. He cleared the bathroom and master bedroom before he arrived at the kid's room. A bed spring squeaked from inside. The sound sent an itch through MacDonald's neck and shoulder, caused his trigger finger to tense up. He positioned himself against the wall so he could see in through the slightly ajar door. He saw only a child's dresser and the window on the adjacent wall. Beneath it there was a desk set up like a little workshop, little metal tools and colorful feathers. A fly tying kit.
MacDonald elbowed the door fully open and aimed his weapon.
Beauty was sitting cross-legged on a child's bed, smoking a cigarette. She looked like a yoga instructor who'd survived a car accident. On one knee there was a plastic ashtray filled with butts, on the other a can of Coke. There were notes and stamped envelopes spread out on the blanket before her. She looked up at MacDonald through the puffy mask that was her battered face. Her arms were bruised and scratched, as were her legs.
"Where is he?"
She shook her head and indicated her face as the reason she wasn't speaking.
"Is he in the house?"
She shook her head, no.
"Clear?" Harris called from down the hall.
"Clear!" MacDonald said, over his shoulder. "Come on down." He holstered his weapon. "Kid's bedroom."
Harris came down the hall and looked at Beauty over MacDonald's shoulder. "Oh, Jesus Christ."
MacDonald's cell phone chirped. He pulled it out and checked his messages, found one from Jacob Duke. The picture of a Keisha Jackson's hat.
I found this. I want to help.
"Jesus Christ is right."
37
The shop's kitchen needed cleaning.
Lori had seemingly used a dozen pots and bowls, all the measuring cups and spoons, and every sheet pan available to make one pizza pie. Jake filled the commercial grade sink with soapy water and got stuck in. He tried not to think about the little Detroit Police hat on the counter or the implication that Darnell Collins was likely the serial killer Sergeant Dan and his men were seeking.
The scalding water felt good against his hands. The tingling pain moved up his forearms and alerted his nervous system. The suds smelled good, the work felt pure.
Why hadn't Sergeant Dan replied to his text?
He scrubbed the last bowl clean and put it on the drying rack. He pulled the plug at the bottom of the sink and was watching the water spin down the drain when the hair on the back of his neck stood up.
Someone was in the room with him.
This was one of those times when he wished he could hear; it would have been nice to hear the doorknob turning, the door opening, and the approaching footsteps. Instead of nearly jumping out of his skin, it would have been nice to turn around and greet his father calmly.
The Great Vincent Kali stood in Jake's kitchen looking both exactly and nothing like Jake thought he might. The mustache was there, but it was trimmed and respectable, not brushed out in the comical proportions of a cartoon genie. There was no exotic hat and no colorful robes. Jake guessed it was silly to expect that kind of get-up, knowing Chavez and the AA. Kali wore blue jeans and a black vest over a red t-shirt. His skin was dark and his ethnicity seemed European. He was of average height and build, but with the
look of undeniable strength, the kind of guy you couldn't quite categorize as a fighter, so it was best to steer clear. His arms were folded over his chest. His eyes were brown, much like Jake's own. Maybe not so pedestrian, after all. His smile was that of a ladykiller. Jake instantly knew what his mother saw in the man.
"Hello, son," Kali said.
Jake didn't bother explaining that he was deaf. He figured if his father knew how to find him, he knew more about Jake than he dared, at present, to consider. Jake wasn't sure if he could have managed the words to ask, anyway; his heart seemed to have stalled.
His father unfolded his arms and offered a hand to shake.
Jake looked at the man's hand like he'd never seen one before. It was rough-hewn. A workman's hands. He supposed life as a gypsy wasn't all dancing and magic, thumb-cymbals and sandals. Still, after all the years, his absentee father had shown up like a leaf blown in through the door. Why should he shake his hand and treat him with anything but disrespect?
Against better judgment Jake reached out to shake hands. He half-expected something wild. Anything from a joy buzzer to a secret handshake he innately knew.
Vincent Kali took his son's hand like any man would, but there was a transfer of energy there. Jake felt it moving through him, not unlike the quickening. His mind's eye saw an image of his mother standing in the rain. Her hair was damp. She was young and glowing in a way Jake had never seen. In the backdrop there were the sights and sounds of a carnival. Giant machines of spinning electric light. He recognized some of them from the carnival the AA traveled with. He could smell cotton candy and spiced almonds. His mother's smile was unbridled, expectation in her eyes, softness and love.
When he let go of his father's hand Jake felt vitalized.
Kali refolded his arms over his chest and smiled with delight.
Jake tried to breathe evenly. He leaned back against the kitchen counter and regarded his father. He was unable to stop himself from folding his arms over his chest the same way.
The floorboards creaked under his shifting weight.
Jake turned an ear to the sound.
The sink, still draining behind him, made a gurgling noise.
Jake turned around. He slapped the faucet handle. Water spilled out. He heard its rush.
"How?" he said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, at once familiar and foreign.
"Come now, son," Kali said from behind. "I think you know how." His voice was like dark wood. Deep and commanding. A showman's tone. His accent was ethnic, just as Jake thought it would be, but difficult to place. Aged like fine whiskey. "I'm sure Chavez and the others have given you clues. Now then, how are you doing?"
Jake couldn't get over being able to hear. He was being greeted by his father after a lifetime of neglect, and all he wanted to do was open the fridge to hear the sucking sound it makes, rap his knuckles on the counter, run outside and howl at the moon. The quickening shook his body, overheated him. He tugged at his collar, felt like he might fall forward. He leaned against the countertop to stabilize.
"Relax, son," Kali said.
It was then that rage came to Jake like fuel to fire—that word, son.
"You have no right," Jake screamed. He meant the man calling him 'son', meant the man giving him back his hearing, meant his mother, his curse, his entire life.
Kali's smile faded. "It is not your wish to hear?"
"I made no such wish," Jake said. He didn't know why he was saying it. He just knew he needed to defy this man. He felt like a cliché, a corny public service announcement. The kid whose father found the pot stash and asked who taught him about drugs—'You, all right? I learned it by watching you.'
"It's okay, son," Kali said, reaching out to Jake.
"Stop calling me that," Jake said. He slapped the man's hand away. "You've been no father to me."
Kali took his hand back, falsely wounded. "This is true," he said, nodding slightly. "But I did make you. And what's more, I-"
"Shut up," Jake said. The quickening was a mere tremor compared to the fury that coursed through him now. The man standing before him may be his father, but he was a bad one. He was supposed to have taken his son to ball games and snapped pictures of him and his prom date. He was supposed to have cheered at his graduation and secretly hugged him when no one was looking. He was supposed to tell him boys don't cry but sometimes cry, himself, when thinking of his boy. Instead he brought Jake into the world and left him to fend for himself with a loveless mother. He gave him a curse that caused him to commit murder and suffer in a nuthouse. Whatever this man had to say, Jake was prepared to knock it back into his mouth with prejudice.
"You're not allowed to just come in here," Jake continued, gesturing toward the kitchen, the tattoo shop. His voice sounded authoritative and fierce. "I own this establishment. You have no rights here. My life may be your curse, but it's still mine."
"I've been with you for some time now," Kali said, calmly. He waved his hand and a series of visions flashed through Jake's mind.
In the first vision Jake was looking at Darnell Collins while the man was aiming a drawn compound bow. The vision was almost identical to the view Jake had already seen while hiding in the ferns, only now he was slightly to the right and a little higher. Collins loosed the arrow and Jake jumped out of the way, felt a sting on his leg as the arrow nicked him. He scampered up a tree and across a branch like a squirrel.
Check that, in the vision he was a squirrel.
In the second vision Jake was standing over his own body, looking down. The other him was sleeping on a pile of sugar beets. When the other him woke up, Jake scampered a way like a deer.
In the third vision all Jake could see was flesh, microscopically close. Arm hair tickled his belly as he moved along the skin, a honeybee.
The visions ended. Jake refocused on Kali, who had drawn up his pant leg to reveal a healing wound. "You see?"
"Get out," Jake said.
"Come again?"
"I said get out."
Jake never saw the man move. In one moment he was telling Vincent Kali off, in the next his feet were off the ground and he was up against the commercial refrigerator. He was held in the air by one of Kali's arms, the man's fist wrapped in Jake's shirt front. Kali's smile was gone. His brilliant white teeth were clenched. He breathed like a boar. His eyes had turned black.
Jake thought of the blogger who said Kali made his own eyes disappear.
The two of them stayed that way for a moment, both men furious. At this range Jake could smell him. Fresh paper and old leather.
Kali's eyes slowly cleared from black to brown like receding smoke. He let Jake down gently. He worked his jaw around and Jake heard it click.
"We need to talk," Kali said, "but you are clearly not ready."
Jake didn't hear those words. He had read Kali's lips to find them. That quickly his hearing was gone again, lost between his father's clicking jaw and 'We need to talk.'
"You need to talk... " Jake said. He was saddened not to hear his voice. Back in silence. The floorboards may creak, the sink may drain, and the water may flow, but he'd never know unless he watched. He smiled, knowing he'd also not hear the godforsaken wishes. " ...but I don't need anything from you."
"You don't understand," Kali said. "Eschaton is coming. Your help is required."
"Get out," Jake repeated.
Kali backed away but remained at arm's length. "You prefer this way?" He gestured toward Jake's ears, indicating his deafness.
"Get out."
Kali shook his head in disappointment. He laid a hand upon Jake's shoulder. Jake felt an energy exchange similar to the handshake. His mind's eye saw another vision of his mother, only this time she was walking away in the rain, looking back over her shoulder. The distant carnival was now dormant, the night sky full of clouds blocking the stars. She was pregnant. It wasn't showing on her, of course, as Jake had just been conceived, but the knowledge was there, just the same. She looked terrified and confused.
"Did you love her?" Jake asked.
"They will whisper of you now. They will come to you and ask for help."
"Who will come?" Jake said.
"The helpless and the hopeless."
"I don't understand."
Kali smiled. "Save the boy and expand your horizon. Then we can talk."
"Did you love my mother?"
Kali's face and eyes changed in a way that told Jake yes, Kali had once loved her very much, and maybe he still did. He moved his hand from Jake's shoulder to his forehead. Jake felt a third pulse of energy. This one knocked him unconscious. As he fell to his knees, he heard his father say, "You have no idea."
38
Day Five
Jake awakened on the kitchen floor. He was on his side, his left cheek flat against the floor. He turned to his back and stared up at the industrial ceiling while blinking away sleep. Memories of his encounter with Vincent Kali flashed through his mind, memories of being able to hear again—the floorboards creaking, the drain, his father's voice.
He sat up and looked around.
Kali was gone.
Jake checked the time. 11:00 a.m.
He stood and ran upstairs, looked through the window out over the city. His horizon was a hundred miles out now, maybe a little less.
Thirty hours to change Frankie's wish or murder Darnell Collins and show his dead body to his ten-year-old son. Considering the murder of Leroy Jackson and the disappearance of his daughter, the second option now seemed a more realistic, if not extremely dangerous, choice.
The room lit up with red light. Someone was at the back door, leaning on the bell. Jake went downstairs to find his mother standing in the alley. She wore a blouse, skirt, and heels. Her hair was tied up neatly behind her head, though a few locks had fallen loose and her jacket was off. In her world she may as well have been naked.
The Stonefly Series, Book 1 Page 20