The Firefly Hours (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 8

 

Chapter 8 – The Boy on the Bicycle

Children rarely begin a story where adults expect. Ask a grown-up about the worst day of their life and they'll usually start with the event. Ask a child the same question and they'll begin with breakfast. The important parts are different.

I found Tommy Martinez sitting on the curb outside the neighborhood park tightening the chain on a bicycle that looked as though it had survived three owners and at least one regrettable encounter with a pickup truck. Tommy couldn't have been older than ten. The story give to me in my research sounded like the tagline for an artsy horror flick that people debate about online:

"Kid says he rides bikes with someone who's been dead for thirty years."

Tommy looked up as I approached.

"You the detective?"

"That’s what my business cards say.”

"Lily said you'd probably come,” he said, returning to his bike chain.

"I hope that's a good thing."

He shrugged. "Depends."

"On?"

"If you're gonna tell me I'm making it up."

"I'm not in the habit of deciding that before I've heard the story."

Tommy seemed okay with that answer.

"He beats me almost every time,” he said, spinning the front wheel of the bike.

"Who does?"

"Ben."

"Ben who?"

"I dunno,” he shrugged. “Just Ben.”

"You don't know his last name?"

Tommy frowned. "I never asked."

We sat beneath one of the young maples while the evening slowly arranged itself around us.

"You ride together every night?" I asked.

"No."

"When?"

"When he comes."

Helpful, I thought to myself.

"And when does he come?" I asked.

Tommy looked at me with genuine confusion. "After the fireflies."

Of course.

"What does Ben look like?"

"Like a kid."

"Anything unusual about him?”

"He doesn't talk much,” Tommy replied. This conversation was dragging a bit so I decided I needed to get to it.

"Does he know he's dead?"

Tommy blinked. "What?"

"I said—"

"I heard you." He looked almost offended. "Why would he be dead?"

"A friend told me,” I said.

"Oh." Tommy looked down. "He drowned."

He said it the way one might mention someone moving to another state. Sad, but not despondent.

The first fireflies appeared just after eight. Tommy stood.

"He'll be here,” he said.

"How do you know?"

"He always is."

He walked his bike toward the end of the block. I followed. Children were already drifting toward the park. Adults continued watering lawns. Somewhere, a garage band struggled heroically through the opening chords of "Smoke on the Water,” probably because they’re learning how to play chords.

The neighborhood softened. Colors dimmed. Sounds stretched. I had begun recognizing the transition because it had developed a rhythm.

A boy rolled quietly out from between two houses without fanfare like he was waiting for Tommy to show. He looked twelve, maybe thirteen. Sun-bleached hair. Red T-shirt that he had probably been wearing for three days straight. Scuffed sneakers. He coasted to a stop beside Tommy. This was Ben, I assumed.

"You ready?" he asked.

Tommy grinned. "Race to the creek?"

Ben shrugged. "You're gonna lose."

"Am not."

They looked at me.

"This is Mr. Sharp," Tommy said. 

"Hi." Ben nodded politely. His voice was perfectly ordinary, not the echoing, spectral affectations you might associate with something that may be a ghost. Just a kid on bike. I nodded back.

"Hello."

Ben smiled. Then looked at Tommy.

"C'mon,” he said and the two boys pedaled away.

I followed close enough to observe. They rode through the winding streets with the reckless confidence only children possess. Cutting across sidewalks. Jumping curbs. Laughing. Arguing over who was cheating. It struck me that I'd stopped thinking of Ben as dead. There was nothing dead about him. He was simply... Present.

The trail ended at a small drainage creek behind the subdivision. Shallow water stood nearly motionless between concrete banks. Wild grass growing through the cracks. The boys stopped. Ben skipped a flat stone across the surface. Four skips. Tommy managed two.

"You still stink," Ben said.

"I got two this time,” Tommy said.

Ben laughed. The sound carried strangely across the water. Like it belonged to a much larger place.

Then, just as naturally as he'd appeared, Ben looked toward the fireflies.

"They're blinking slower,” he said.

Tommy nodded. "I know."

"I gotta go,” Ben said, shoulders slumping; the universal kid gesture for not wanting the day to end.

"Tomorrow?" Tommy asked.

Ben smiled. "If it happens."

Then he rode toward the trees. Three seconds later he wasn't there. It was as though the neighborhood had quietly reclaimed him.

Tommy stared after him for a moment. Then looked at me.

"Told you,” he said.

I walked to the edge of the creek. The damp soil along the bank was soft from last week's rain.

Tommy's bicycle tires had left a clear set of tracks. Beside them was another set. Same size, same tread. Running perfectly parallel. I crouched and touched one with my fingertips. The impression was fresh, deep, and undeniably real. I looked at the empty trail toward the place where Ben had disappeared. Then back at the ground. Because whatever Tommy had been riding beside...

Its bicycle left tracks.

*****

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