The Stonefly Series, Book 1

by Scott J. Holliday

  "You’re home?" she said.

  "Why wouldn't I be?"

  "Have you checked your phone?"

  "No."

  She gestured to indicate he may want to check.

  Jake pulled out his phone to find a dozen text messages from Sergeant Dan, all of them asking, in a variety of ways, for Jake to contact him or come to the station.

  "He called me," Elizabeth said. "Asked me to check on you. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

  "It's complicated."

  Sergeant Dan's unmarked sedan pulled into the alley.

  Elizabeth frowned.

  Jake backed into the shop, allowing his mother to enter. She fixed her hair and put on her jacket. Together they stood in the kitchen, each leaning against the countertop. The skin around Elizabeth's neck and cheeks had grown flush.

  Jake couldn't shake the visions that Kali had given him, his mother glowing and happy and then pregnant and hurt. He'd never seen her that way before. What had gone wrong?

  Sergeant Dan entered the kitchen. He immediately went to the counter, scooped up Keisha Jackson's hat, and dropped it into a large evidence bag. "Hello, Elizabeth."

  Jake's mother didn't respond, just stared at the sergeant like she wanted him lined up and shot.

  Dan turned to Jake and held up the evidence bag. "Ready to talk?"

  Jake nodded and led his mother and Sergeant Dan into the front of the shop. Elizabeth took a seat on Jake's tattoo chair while Jake and Dan sat across from each other on two folding chairs Jake had quickly set up.

  "I know how this looks," Jake said.

  "Probably not as bad as you think."

  Jake breathed relief.

  "I've had time to think about it since I got your message," Dan said. "There has to be a reason you would, A. Be in possession of this evidence, and B. Show it to me. Way I figure it, you've either got a story worth investigating or you really want to go back to Dover. I'm hoping for the former."

  "Yes."

  "Okay then, let's hear it."

  "You remember Darnell Collins?"

  Dan nodded. "I do."

  "He wasn't really a tattoo client."

  "Okay."

  Jake chewed at the corner of his mouth. He hated to lie, and in fact was pure shit at it, but Frankie's life was at stake. He couldn't afford to be detained, at least not for the next thirty hours. "He was a robber."

  Dan didn't respond.

  "He contacted me, just as I said, but when he came for his tattoo appointment he held me at gunpoint and asked for money."

  Dan could have yawned. "That must have been scary."

  "It was," Jake said, again chewing at the corner of his mouth, "but I remained calm and gave him what I had."

  "How much?"

  "I don't know," Jake said. "Whatever was in my wallet."

  "You gave him your wallet?"

  "No," Jake said, recalling his wallet was currently in his back pocket. "I pulled out the money and gave it to him."

  "He didn't want your credit cards or anything else? Your license?"

  "No. Just money."

  "Seems like an elaborate setup just to rob someone at gunpoint."

  "Point is, I followed him."

  "That wasn't smart."

  "Tell me about it."

  Dan waited.

  "I followed him out to Wixom where he turned down a dead-end road. Bayonet. I can show you on a map."

  "Later. Keep going."

  "When I came to the dead end I found he has a hunting blind out there."

  "He was out there?"

  "Um, no. I mean, yeah, but I wasn't able to find him. He went deeper into the woods, I guess."

  "Okay, then what?"

  "I went out to the blind, hoping to confront him. I came across this old shack, a converted outhouse, and that's where I found the hat."

  Dan pulled out his notepad and wrote in it. He looked up and asked, "You found the hat in a shack in the woods off Bayonet Road in Wixom?"

  Jake nodded.

  "West or east off the road?"

  "East. There's a pond back there, a dock and a boat."

  Dan wrote in his notepad. When he was done he folded up the pad, tucked it into his pocket, and looked at Jake. "You're lying."

  The blood left Jake's face.

  "I don't know why you're lying, Jake. I just know you are." He looked over Jake's shoulder at Elizabeth.

  Jake turned to her, as well. She was fuming, her anger focused on Sergeant Dan.

  Jake turned back to the detective.

  "I don't get it," Sergeant Dan said. "Who are you protecting?"

  "I can't... I mean, you wouldn't understand."

  "I've seen a lot, son. More than you can imagine. There's probably not a scenario you can dream up that I haven't dealt with."

  Jake shook his head. "You wouldn't understand."

  Dan sighed. "Against my better judgment. I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt. Harris and I will go investigate this shack. You stay away from Collins, got it? If everything checks out we'll talk some more and you'll tell me how you're involved. If it doesn't check out, I'll need to take you in, understand?"

  "Yes."

  Dan stood. He turned to Elizabeth. "Thank you."

  Elizabeth didn't reply.

  Sergeant Dan left the tattoo shop.

  Elizabeth stepped into Jake's line of sight. "That man is risking his career for you, Jacob."

  "Why don't you love him?" Jake said.

  Her eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

  "He's a good man, and God knows he'd walk through Hell for you, so why don't you love him?"

  "You're about to be investigated for kidnapping or maybe worse, and you want to know why I don't love Sergeant Dan?"

  "Yes."

  "Get your head screwed on, Jacob."

  Jake stared at her.

  "You don't know the first thing about love," she said.

  "And you do?"

  "Watch it."

  "Do you love anyone but yourself?"

  "He doesn't mean anything to me."

  "Yeah, no shit," Jake said. He started past her toward the kitchen, but she grabbed his arm to stop him. Tears burst from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

  Jake fell dumbstruck. He'd never seen her cry.

  "I can't," she said, her lower lip quivering.

  "You can't what?"

  "I can't... " she closed her eyes, " ...love. I can't love." She opened her eyes again. "I don't know what happened to me, but before you, Jacob, I was different. My heart, it was filled, but then—“

  "Then I came along."

  She nodded.

  "Are you fucking kidding me?" Jake said, ripping his arm from her grip. "What kind of mother says such a thing?"

  "The day you were conceived," Elizabeth said, "I wanted you in my life so much. I wanted a child, someone I could love unconditionally, someone who would love me back."

  "Sorry to disappoint."

  "You don't understand," Elizabeth said. "I wished for you and I got what I wanted, but something was... I don't know... something was lost." She placed a hand on her belly, looked down for a moment, and then came back up. "The moment after I knew you were with me everything changed. It was like a switch went off. I don't know why."

  Jake walked away from her. He went through the kitchen toward the back door where he stopped and looked back. "Why don't you go ask my dad?"

  Elizabeth shot him a withering glare. She wiped away her fallen tears. "You're no different than the rest of us, you know that?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You say you have to grant these wishes. Well, guess what, Jacob? We all do. Every one of us trying to survive in this world, every one of us with responsibilities and people we care about, we're all granting wishes, every day. What do you think I'm doing when you ask me a favor? What do you think Sergeant MacDonald was doing when he didn't arrest you just now?" She started past him through the door. "Stop thinking you're so goddamn special."
>
  39

  The camouflage ghillie suit matched the goldenrod perfectly. Darnell Collins leaned back to nearly prone in a zero-gravity outdoor chair in the field near his hunting blind. He stayed still for a moment, staring up at the sky, and then flexed his quadriceps to pull himself into a sitting position. The chair-back came with him as he rose, the legs support folded down. He aimed his bow and drew back, found the target he'd set up in the clearing beneath his tree-stand, and fired.

  The powerful compound bow sent the arrow through the paper target and into the hay bale like a bullet. Darnell dropped back down to prone. He took a steady breath, knocked an arrow, and pulled himself back up again, shot again, killed the target again.

  He repeated the cycle four more times, one for each of his remaining aluminum arrows, each equipped with a field tip for practice.

  When he was done, he rechecked the position of his chair, made sure it was well off the animal trail that led away from the blind toward the shack deeper in the woods. Any deer coming along that trail, or any deer stopping beneath his tree-stand, would be his to harvest. Good.

  He laid back down in the seat and stared up at the sky. In a way, he liked this setup more than the tree-stand. It had been a lot of trouble to go through, sure, but the deer had grown smart. A buck had looked right up into his stand this morning, seeming to know he'd be there, waiting. It scampered off, giving him that whitetail middle finger as it went, showing him he'd been made.

  Well—Darnell sat up a final time and drew back his bow—surprise!

  He stood up from his chair. The goldenrod came only up to his belly, exposing the full bulk of his shoulders and head. He went to the clearing beneath his stand, collected his arrows, and piled them next to the sugar beets. He ripped the paper target off the hay bale, folded it neatly, and slipped it into his pocket. He hefted the hay bale onto his shoulder and deposited it at the edge of the clearing behind the thick trunk of a hardwood where it wouldn't be seen.

  He went back to his arrows, picked them up, and set them across the base of an overturned bucket. He brushed away dirt and bits of hay before he removed his outer gloves, exposing the latex gloves he wore beneath the camo.

  Darnell pulled out a black case and lifted the lid to display six broadheads inside. Razor sharp, the triangle shaped blades resembled warheads lying inert in the small case. He reached for the screw stem of the first broadhead but stopped when he noted that his translucent glove had slipped upward on his hand, giving him loose latex fingertips. He pulled the glove tight, only to have it split at the wrist.

  Darnell reared his head in agony and howled in pain. The ruined skin of the latex glove felt like fire against his hand. He peeled it off quickly and tossed it aside, walked away gripping his wrist, holding it down between his knees. Tears came to his eyes as he dropped to the forest floor and fumbled around inside his ghillie suit in search of a replacement glove. He found the cardboard box, pulled out a glove like a piece of tissue paper, and stretched it over his hand.

  The glove didn't tear.

  Relief.

  Darnell stayed in his kneeling position for a moment, allowing the pain to subside. The new skin felt cool and clammy over his scarred hand. He turned his head in search of the vile shedding that had caused his misery. It was lying in the pine needles near the edge of the clearing. The sight of it nearly made him puke. He groped around on the forest floor to find a decent stick.

  Biting back nausea, Darnell managed the stick into the opening at the glove's wrist. The ruined skin hung limp and pale. He walked the glove to the edge of the clearing, eyeing it balefully as he went. He flicked it out into the ferns.

  Only then did the sickness in his guts abate.

  Darnell walked back to the clearing, took a moment to regain his composure, and started again with his broadheads and arrows. Six broadheads replaced six field tips. The six arrows were clipped back into the quiver attached to his bow. He stood with the bow in his left hand, rolled his head on his neck, and shook out the feeling the torn glove left behind.

  He was going to be okay.

  A sound caught Darnell's attention. He turned to see a sedan coming down Bayonet Road, reflections of glass and metal moving through the trees, rolling slowly.

  Darnell put on his ghillie gloves and took his bow and arrows back to the zero-gravity chair.

  40

  "No prints?" Harris said.

  "The glove came back negative," MacDonald replied.

  The two detectives were driving down Bayonet Road, taking it slowly over muddy potholes, crunching fallen twigs beneath the tires.

  "What about this?" Harris said, showing MacDonald Keisha Jackson's Detroit Police hat in an evidence bag.

  MacDonald shook his head.

  "So we're working on a hunch again? A story from a kid?"

  "He had the hat."

  "Which makes him suspect uno."

  "You'll have to trust me."

  "That kid should be in custody. We should be beating a confession out of him."

  "What did I just say?"

  Harris shrugged. "You're the boss."

  A Dodge Ram tailgate came into view. MacDonald applied the brakes and threw the vehicle into park. "High alert, detective."

  "You don't have to tell me," Harris said. He produced his service weapon and checked the chamber. The rim of a brass round peaked out.

  They stepped out of the vehicle and approached the truck. The heavy scent of pine. A breeze. Airborne leaves.

  "Darnell Collins!" MacDonald said, his voice echoing through the trees. "Detroit Homicide. We'd like a word."

  No movement inside the cab. The forest remained still.

  The detectives aimed their weapons.

  MacDonald approached the truck from the driver's side, Harris from the passenger's side.

  The cab was empty.

  On the center console, between the bucket seats, was an unopened, pocket-sized cardboard box of latex gloves. MacDonald signaled through the cab windows that he'd come around and meet Harris on the passenger side.

  Together they started down the trail that headed east off the two-track.

  They came to an edge of a hunting blind clearing. Through a thin line of saplings there was a waving field of goldenrod, the yellow-topped flowers like green stalks sprinkled with butter. MacDonald scanned the field and surrounding forest while Harris kept his aim on the tree-stand above the pile of chopped sugar beets.

  "Clear?"

  "Clear."

  MacDonald backed up to where Harris stood. He whispered, "The kid said there was a shack somewhere deeper into the woods. Said that's where he found the hat. We need to go out there."

  Harris nodded. He scratched at his jaw.

  A whistling sound. An arrow appeared on the back of Harris's hand, a broadhead on the other side of his face, the shaft streaked with blood.

  MacDonald blinked.

  Harris stood there in shock, his jaw working mutely up and down, revealing and concealing the aluminum arrow at the back of this throat. His hand stayed stuck to his cheek. Blood dribbled from between his fingers.

  MacDonald turned in the direction from which the arrow had come. He aimed his weapon, but found no one, only the field.

  He dropped to a knee and continued to turn, weapon aimed, in search of their attacker.

  "Sarge," Harris gurgled. His froggy eyes were wide, his skin pale, as he staggered toward MacDonald, reaching out with his available hand. He dropped his gun.

  "Get down!" MacDonald said.

  Another arrow appeared at Harris's temple. This time the broadhead didn't appear on the other side. Harris dropped to his knees. His face went blank. He fell flat onto the sugar beets. His body rolled off to one side and on to his back, the arrows rotating out of his head like the hands of a clock.

  MacDonald started toward his partner but felt the splitting air of an arrow as it zipped by his face and thocked a tree trunk just beyond his position. He dashed into the safety of the trees. Aga
in, he checked the field but found no one.

  He moved off the clearing to put both distance and material between himself and the shooter.

  He found himself on a trail.

  Shit. Exposed on all sides.

  Run.

  MacDonald dashed through the trees, eyes checking the field where he was certain the arrows had come from. He hopped a log and landed on the other side.

  Pressure at his upper right chest.

  He looked down. An arrow there. Looked up. A man in a ghillie suit dropped flat-back into the goldenrod. His face had been strange, like he was wearing a leather mask with eye holes cut out.

  MacDonald fell to his knees. His legs felt numb, tingly. The arrow had gone through his chest and out behind his left shoulder blade. Had it clipped his spine? He tried to stay upright but his legs were dead. Hot blood dripped down his chest to his belly, down his back. He took aim at the spot where the man had dropped out of sight.

  He waited.

  MacDonald's blood continued to drain. The breeze cooled it against his skin. Couldn't feel anything below his chest. The scent of copper. His hands began to shake, his vision to blur. He shook if off and refocused. He nearly toppled forward, but he held on, keeping balance with his outstretched arms.

  The man rose up from the goldenrod like a scarecrow, bow drawn. Yes, he was in a mask. A ghoulish thing that looked it was made from human flesh.

  MacDonald fired three times before his legs gave out and he collapsed.

  41

  Jake pulled off the main road onto Clichon Ave. Tall trees lined the two-track like sentinels. Their branches curled over and down, forming a tunnel over the road.

  He drove a half-mile before he found a woman staggering along the roadside. Darnell Collins's wife. She wore the same muumuu as before. The wind pushed the tragic thing against her body, outlining her thin frame. He stopped next to her and rolled down the window. She looked at him from behind a veil of hair the wind had plastered to her face. When she pulled back the hair he saw she'd been beaten again. This time her entire face was mashed. Her upper lip was split and a front tooth was gone. Her nose looked like it'd been crushed and reformed.