Chasing Fireflies

by Charles Martin

  In a half dozen foster and boys’ homes, many men had been my caretakers or guardians. They had come in differing sizes, shapes, and sounds, and those that made promises broke them before they had time to take root. In general, they came and went, gave me as much notice as the gum stuck to their shoe, and never said or did much. Until now.

  “But . . . why?”

  He pulled me across his chest, his face a few inches from mine. He pushed aside my hair and wiped the tears out of my face with a muddy hand. He tried to smile, but his breathing was still difficult and raspy. He coughed, blew out more water, and behind his eyes I saw a broken, shattered man. Finally he said, “’Cause, Chase, nothing . . . not one thing . . . compares to you.”

  There, on that bank, soaked in that water, basking in that sun-shine, lying on that man’s chest, I hoped for the first time that my real dad would never show up and take me home.

  Chapter 16

  From inside my boat I can hear distant automobile traffic, the waves lapping the sides, and the wind rattling the rigging, but other than that, it’s pretty quiet. So the sound of someone climbing aboard my boat at five in the morning got me up quickly.

  I stepped out of bed, pulled my Remington 870 shotgun from the shelf above my head, and hunkered down next to the engine compartment, giving myself a fish-eye view of the hatch. Shadows appeared over the glass, then a hand rattled the latch, lifted it, and laid it down. A long leg slid into the hole and stepped onto the ladder. I clicked the safety off and waited. A second leg. A set of running shoes was coming down the ladder. Finally the person stepped off the ladder, and I looked down the barrel.

  When she whispered, “Chase!” my knees went weak and I nearly peed all over myself.

  I flicked on the light and saw Tommye standing in the middle of my boat. I lowered the shotgun and clicked the safety back on. “Do you know I nearly blew your head off?”

  She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt down and said, “Well . . . that would certainly beat death by Alzheimer’s.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  She was bundled in sweats even though it was June in the Golden Isles. Probably seventy-five degrees outside.

  “And aren’t you hot?”

  She looked around my boat. “I once made a movie in a boat like this. But . . . it was a bit nicer. Belonged to a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. Everything was leather and—”

  I shook my head and put the shotgun back in its cubby. “That’s too much information.”

  She shrugged. “Another life. One I’m glad not to be living.” She pulled a shoestring from around her neck and crumpled it into her hand. Then she pulled me by the arm and sat me down. She placed her hand over mine and dropped the lace. “I want you to keep this for me.”

  Two keys dangled from the shoestring. I eyed them, then her. “What’re you up to?”

  She leaned against me. Her heart was beating real fast, she was pasty with sweat, and yet she didn’t seem bothered by the three layers of clothes. “Not now.” She breathed deep and then placed the shoestring necklace over my head. It looked like something kids wore in high school. The keys came to rest in the center of my chest. She patted them against me and said, “Perfect, right there in your bird’s chest.”

  “Thanks.”

  She hopped up, climbed the ladder, and looked back down through the hole. “Well . . . come on.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me about these keys and whether I’m now an accessory to some crime.”

  She laughed and stood looking out over the bow as the sun broke the horizon. “Not now. But soon.”

  I climbed up next to her. “What am I supposed to do until then?”

  She looked at me, shrugged, and crossed her arms, looking back out across the marsh, which was yellow and light green. “Just keep them for me, Chase . . . just do this for me.” Her eyes glistened, the corners turning wet, and her voice fell to a whisper. “I need you to do this for me.”

  Tommye had her own timing and her own reasons. I knew digging at her wouldn’t unearth them. She’d talk when she was ready. She pulled a MoonPie out of her sweatshirt pocket, tore open the wrapper, and began to eat. She was spilling crumbs across the deck of my boat.

  “Breakfast of champions,” I said with a smirk.

  She motioned toward the shore, where Sally was parked next to Vicky. “It was sitting on the front seat.” She swallowed the last bit, stuffed the empty wrapper into her pocket, and climbed back down to my kayak, which she’d used to paddle from shore. “I’d better get back. I told him I’d only be gone an hour.”

  “I’ll be over sometime today. I’ll check in on you.”

  She paddled across, beached the kayak, and disappeared out of my drive.

  I got to my office early—which meant about seven. I rarely get there any earlier, because I seldom have anything to say or write before about ten in the morning. It’s not that I can’t, it’s just that Red rarely prints it, so I’ve learned to let my mind engage first and then start writing—usually somewhere shy of noon. I made some phone calls, sent a few e-mails, and joined an Internet chat room for novice chess players. One of the options allowed new users to view real-time, online chess games. I watched some guy in Portugal beat the pants off somebody in the States, and then someone in Australia barely get by a guy in England. Both matches convinced me that I spent way too much time goofing off in college.

  I learned a few basics, like chess is played on an 8x8 board comprising sixty-four squares. As you face the board, the lower left square is black. There are two teams, white and black, and each has a rook, knight, bishop, king, queen, and eight pawns. It’s not checkers, where every piece only moves one way; each piece has its own prescribed movement. Some move forward, some diagonally, and some can hop around. Lastly, if your opponent ends a move by uttering the word “checkmate,” that’s bad.

  When I shut off my computer I didn’t pretend to understand all the rules, which are many and complicated. Just because he can’t talk doesn’t mean he’s stupid. Sketch is probably brilliant.

  At eight o’clock I met Mandy in the parking lot behind the court-house. Because we had to drive relatively close to the Zuta, I dropped off Vicky, and the two of us drove her state-issued Toyota Camry to the state prison in Bennersville, about ninety miles away. When we got on the highway, she reached into her briefcase and handed me a wrapped package. “For dinner.”

  I hefted the package and felt pretty sure it was a trade paper book. I peeled off the wrapping and found a copy of Fishing for Dummies.

  She flipped her turn signal on and changed lanes. “Thought maybe you could use some help.”

  I flipped open the cover and read the note inside, Chase—don’t quit your day job.

  I set the book on the dash. “Thank you. See if I ever take you fishing again.”

  All around the Bennersville State Penitentiary was a twenty-foot-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire, cornered with four guard towers—each manned with armed guards. Everything about the place screamed You don’t want to be here!

  Mandy flashed her credentials at the gate, and we waited while the guard checked his visitors list. He handed us a sheet of paper to place on the dash and motioned us toward a large brick building on our left. It was five stories, the top of which was surrounded with more chain-link—which led me to think that there might be a basketball court or something atop the building.

  We parked and walked inside, where one guard passed us off to another, who took us to two more guards who frisked us, searched Mandy’s briefcase, and then led us to a room with two chairs, a table, and a thick piece of glass separating us from a rather unhappy-looking fellow on the other side. Mandy sat down, flicked on the microphone button on the wall, and motioned for the prisoner to do the same. He didn’t move.

  She spoke into the microphone. “Is your name Reuben Maynard?”

  The guy looked at Mandy, then at me, then back at Mandy. His cuffed hands rested on his lap, and
the number on the front of his orange jumpsuit read 74835. As he studied her, looking from her face to her chest and back to her face, he rubbed himself. Finally he nodded and said with no explanation, “Bo.”

  If Mandy felt intimidated by him, she didn’t show it. She held up a picture of Sketch and placed it against the glass. “Have you ever seen this kid?”

  Reuben glanced at the picture and shook his head. Mandy raised her eyebrows, reached into her briefcase, and pulled out a digital video recorder. She turned it on, pushed RECORD, aimed it at him, and handed it to me.

  “Now, just so we’re on the same page, I thought I’d ask you again. This kid—” She tapped the picture on the glass, then held it in front of the camera, where the lens automatically focused on it. After about five seconds, she placed it back against the glass. “Have you ever seen the boy in this picture?”

  He spat beneath the desk. “Nope.”

  Mandy sat back. “Wow . . . that’s interesting. Because when I asked the boy the same question, he said he used to live in a trailer with you just down a little dirt road from Jesup Brothers Bottlers.”

  Bo chuckled. “You’re lying. Kid can’t even talk.”

  Mandy crossed her arms. “I’m wondering how you’d know that if you’ve never met him.”

  Bo’s brow wrinkled, and his eyes darted from her to me. Mandy didn’t give him time to speak before she reached in her purse and pulled out a pair of pliers that you could buy at any hardware store. She held them up to the glass. “You ever seen these?”

  Bo began to fidget and then looked over his shoulder at the door behind him. Mandy didn’t back down. She held the picture to the glass with one hand and tapped the glass with the pliers in the other. “Reuben . . . have you ever used these pliers to pull the skin off this kid’s back?”

  Reuben broke out in a sweat, looked over his shoulder again, and then said, “I want my lawyer.”

  Mandy dropped the pliers and picture in her briefcase and stood up. “Reuben . . . you’d better get one.” She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a file. The label read BENNERSVILLE STATE PENITENTIARY, REUBEN MAYNARD, NO. 74835. She opened the file and spread it across the desk in front of her.

  Reuben started backpedaling. “Hey, I get out of here in seven months, and all I want to do is serve my time and—”

  She shut the file and sat back, crossing her arms. “Oh, you’ll do your time . . . and a lot more.” She picked up her briefcase, pushed her chair beneath the desk, and headed toward the door.

  I sat there, still filming, wondering when to cut it off.

  Reuben sat up straight and said, “Wait!” His handcuffs rattled on the desktop.

  Mandy turned, raised her eyebrows, and waited.

  Reuben opened both hands, like he was making a petition. “Yeah . . . maybe I got a little rough with him.” He looked at me and realized he’d just said that on tape. He swallowed. “But . . . I didn’t take him from that place. And I don’t know where that old woman’s neck-lace is. Honest.”

  I didn’t know anything about any jewelry, but the pale expression on Bo’s face told me he was telling the truth. Mandy played it perfectly.

  Note to self: Never play poker with Mandy. She can bluff with the best of them.

  Mandy sat down, folded her hands across the desk in front of her, and tilted her head, waiting. Reuben nodded, swallowed again, and tried to talk, but his tongue had grown cottony, and he looked like he could use a drink. Mandy phoned the security guard and asked him to bring Reuben some water.

  The guard sloshed the water on the table. Reuben drank like a man three days in the desert and started over. “I was working the graveyard shift at the motor pool for the Fulton County Police Department. Working on cop cars. Now tell me that ain’t ironic.”

  Mandy spoke slowly into the microphone. “Reuben . . . you’re stalling.”

  “And I met this girl. Sonya. She weren’t no good, but she were a girl and—” He looked at me, then back at Mandy. “Anyway . . . we had this thing going, and I learned she worked at this old folks home. You know, one of them places that smells like urine. Well, she was always talking about how these old people tell her stuff. Like about the diamonds and emeralds they used to wear when they was younger.” He shrugged. “We’d been seeing each other a few months when she showed me some of the stuff. Said it was easy ’cause most didn’t remember having it, so they never missed it. I liked the action, so we got us a rental off the Perimeter and started living the life. Easy money, free sex. You know, Bonnie and Clyde.

  “That’s when we really started working the old people. Her on the inside, working their rooms and what was left of their memories, and me on the outside, working the homes they’d moved out of. Then one day, she meets this kid, and ’cause she’d drunk her insides rotten and couldn’t never have no kids, her motherly instincts kick in and she starts talking about us being a family and blah, blah, blah. Whatever. She was a girl, and I needed one. So I let her talk. Anyway, Sonya kicks the bottle and starts acting all respectable, and next thing I know she’s gone and filed papers to adopt this stupid kid. Couldn’t even talk. What kind of dang kid is that? I just called him Snoot. Anyway . . . I didn’t care as long as . . . well, she knew this old lady had taken to the kid, and she had a rock about the size of a gumdrop. So she used him like bait, lifted the candy, and next thing I know, I’m driving Sonya and her kid in the getaway car, and she’s draped in some old lady’s family heirloom.” He sat back and paused. “We drove to the coast and lasted about a year ’fore she drank half our money and shopped away the rest. It ain’t ever enough. So I took up at the bottling plant.”

  Mandy sat up. “How long ago was this?”

  “Two, maybe three years.”

  Mandy reached into Reuben’s file and pulled out a mug shot of a woman who looked to be forty with enough miles to make her look fifty. She held the picture to the glass. “This the woman?”

  Bo nodded. “Sonya.” He laughed. “And when you see the ol’ biddy, tell her she better bring back my dang Impala.”

  Mandy pulled a second picture out of her briefcase and looked at it briefly before she showed it to him. It was the picture of the charred and burnt body of someone driving a car—a car that had gotten so hot the rubber had burned off the rims. The driver’s fingers were still wrapped around the steering wheel, but most of the skin, hair, and clothing had been burnt off.

  Mandy held the picture to the glass and said, “I’ll tell her, but I don’t think she’s going to be able to hear me . . . and you’re not going to get your car back.”

  Bo’s head turned sideways, the picture registered in his brain, and he swore. “I knew I never should’ve picked up with that woman.” He spat again. “And that was a good car. Paid for, too.”

  Mandy stood, threw everything into her briefcase one final time, and walked to the door. She turned and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  Reuben stood up and screamed, “But I still don’t know what she did with all them dang jewels! And tell that crappy kid I want my baseball card back.” He banged on the glass. “Don’t let that kid fool you . . . he’s a better thief than all us put together.”

  We walked out into the sunshine, into freedom, and I took a deep breath—one I’d been needing for about twenty minutes. We drove out of the security gate, onto the highway, and I looked at Mandy. “Remind me never to do anything to make you mad.”

  She looked in the rearview mirror and licked some lipstick off the front of her tooth. “What?”

  “You’re vicious.”

  She smiled and adjusted the air conditioner. “In my experience dealing with the Bos of the world, if you can ask the right question and get under their skin, then get them to backpedal a bit, they’ll start talking. Reuben was just like all the rest. They all live by the philosophy ‘If I go down, I’m taking somebody else with me.’”

  “You think he was telling the truth?”

  She tossed her head. “Mostly. But we’ll find out. You
think your paper will let you do some research in Atlanta?”

  “The question is not will they let me research, but are the Braves playing, and if so, can I submit the tickets on my expense report?”

  She laughed and then stuck a finger in the air, her tone growing serious. “One thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The kid ought to go with us.”

  I smiled. “Few things are better than a ten-dollar Turner Field hot dog. Every kid ought to eat one.”

  “Is baseball all you think about?”

  “When the Braves are leading the pennant race, yes.”

  She set the cruise and began tapping the steering wheel with eight fingers, telling me her mind was working. “I need to petition the judge to take John Doe outside county lines, but I think she’ll go for it.”

  “Who’s the judge?”

  “Thaxton.”

  I shook my head. “Better not tell her I’m going.”

  She laughed. “Yeah . . . I read your file too.” She shook her head and looked at me suspiciously. “Seems like you’ve been spending a good bit of time downtown in run-down and condemned buildings.”

  “I’m studying the architecture.”

  “And why is that?”

  “That would be the question.”

  “You play your cards pretty close to your chest, don’t you?”

  “When I need to.”

  “Listen, I didn’t grow up here, but I’ve got two ears. You’d have to be an idiot to live here for any period of time and not know the story.”

  “It’s pretty well woven into the fabric of this place.”

  “Don’t tell me you actually believe the rumors?”

  I nodded.

  She frowned. “Come on. Really? After all this time, and all the construction, if it was ever there to begin with . . . you don’t really think it survived?”

  “It was, and I do.”

  “Even with the water level just a few feet below the surface?”

  “Even with.”

  She shook her head. “Well, you’d be alone on this one.”