The Keeper of Bees ARC

by Gregory Ashe

  They did it a few more times before Mitchell was finally breathing normally, and then he took a few longer sips of the water and wiped his face and sat back.

  Hazard nudged the tissues toward him. Then, when Mitchell didn’t move, Hazard gathered a wad of them and held them out. “Am I going to have to blow your nose for you too?”

  Something cracked then, and a weak smile worked its way across Mitchell’s tear-stained face. He took the tissues, blew his nose, and then leaned forward, resting his forehead on the desk. Hazard hesitated; then he set his hand in the center of Mitchell’s back and felt the tremors still working their way through him.

  “So,” Hazard said. “Is that a no about the makeup?”

  Mitchell giggled; it was a weak, watery noise, but it was still the best thing Hazard had heard from him all day.

  “No,” he finally said in a soft voice. “I’m wearing makeup. Isn’t that ridiculous? It’s so fucking femme, and I’m not femme, not really, but, oh my God, I’ve been crying all night and I look like shit, and I don’t know. I thought it’d make me feel better.”

  “What’s going on?” Hazard asked.

  “He tried to get me last night.”

  “The Keeper?”

  Mitchell nodded. “I was asleep. I heard something; I guess that’s what woke me up. I wasn’t thinking too clearly because I’ve been taking these sleeping pills. If I don’t, I just lie there with the lights on, staring at the ceiling, or I have these terrible nightmares. So I got out of bed, and I went out to the front room, and he was working on the deadbolt. Picking the lock, I mean. I could hear this clicking noise.”

  “And?”

  “And I started shouting like crazy. I told him to go the fuck away; I said I had a gun and I’d blow his head off if he came inside.”

  “Did you have a gun?”

  “God, no. I didn’t call the police. I didn’t even grab a knife. I was scared stupid, Emery. I just stood there and shouted until my neighbor started hammering on the wall, and then I—I kind of snapped out of it. When I stopped yelling, I didn’t hear anything else, so I figured maybe he’d gone away. I stayed awake the rest of the night, just sitting there against the door, listening. When I heard some of my neighbors leave for work, I risked a look, and the hallway was empty. It took me a couple more hours to work up the courage to leave.” He dabbed at his face with the tissues. “I look like a clown, huh?”

  “More like a cheap rentboy.”

  With another wet little laugh, Mitchell continued working the tissues against his face. “I want to hire you, Emery. Personal protection. I don’t care what it costs. I called my mom and told her what I was doing, and she said they’ll pay whatever you want.” He dropped the tissues on the desk and got a wrinkled check out of one pocket. “Was it a thousand dollars last time? I can’t remember what you said.”

  “Hold on,” Hazard said. “I want to talk about this a little bit first.”

  “Oh my God, did you hear me? He tried to get me last night. I’m . . . I’m unfinished business, Emery. You said so yourself, remember? At the coffee shop? You told me he’d come back for me, and he did. He’s active again or whatever they say about serial killers. And he’s going to—” A sob choked Mitchell. “Like he did with Phil, blow my brains out, and the bees, and—”

  “Pull it together, Mitchell. Working yourself into hysterics isn’t helping.”

  Ugly red blotches worked their way across Mitchell’s face. “Fuck you, you fucking prick. You weren’t any fucking help last time. You let him get me. This is your fault, all your fucking fault, and if I want to be hysterical, I’m going to be out-of-this-fucking-world hysterical.”

  Hazard stayed where he was a moment longer; then he stood, moved back around the desk, and dropped into his chair. He worried the drawers that Mitchell had opened back into place, and then he lined up the laptop, running his finger across the trackpad in an invisible doodle. Mitchell cried for a while, but he wore himself out faster this time.

  “I’m sorry,” Mitchell said.

  “Nothing to apologize for.”

  “I know it’s not your fault.”

  Hazard nodded; his finger slid to a stop.

  “It’s just,” Mitchell said, “I get so angry sometimes. And I’m angry because it’s easier to be angry than to be scared.”

  Hazard nodded again.

  “Emery, I didn’t mean it.”

  Hazard cleared his throat and said, “Here’s what I don’t understand: this psychopath is methodical. He plans. When he abducted you, Phil, and Rory, it was flawless, and then he managed to erase every trace of himself from the sub-basement at the college where he held you. Everything he’s done, it’s been engineered with incredible attention to detail. So why would he show up at your door last night, bumble around, wake you up with a shoddy lockpick job, and then run away when you shouted at him?”

  Mitchell shook his head. “He’s human. He makes mistakes.”

  “But this? This isn’t a mistake, Mitchell. This is sloppy. It’s . . . it’s amateur. If he wanted to get you, he’d have the whole thing mapped out. Hell, he’s waited this long; why choose last night to try to break into your place without any apparent planning?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know, but I know it was him. I know it. He’s back, and he’s going to get me, and he’s . . . he’s going to do it, I know he is.”

  “Not a fucking chance.”

  “Who am I kidding?” Mitchell flicked the wadded tissues across the desk. “Of course he will. Because he just has to wait. I can’t pay you to guard me forever. And I can’t . . . I can’t live inside a bunker. I mean, I have to go to work, I have to go to the grocery store. And one day he’s going to be there, and you’ll be living your own life, and he’ll get me.” Mitchell rested his face in his hands for a moment. Then he stood. “Christ, what am I doing?”

  “Let’s go take a look at your apartment.”

  “No, this is stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid; we can do a lot to make this asshole’s life difficult, Mitchell. We’re going to make sure you’re safe at home, and I’m going to be with you whenever you’re out of the house. And I’m going to find this psycho. And that’s going to be the end of it.”

  Mitchell hesitated. Then he wiped his eyes and nodded. He flattened the wrinkled check on the desk, looked around for a pen, and said, “How much do you—”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Hazard growled, snatching the check and shredding it. Then he grabbed Mitchell’s arm and steered him toward the door. “And ask Nico to teach you how to put on your fucking foundation next time.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JULY 1

  MONDAY

  9:57 AM

  HAZARD HAD FOLLOWED MITCHELL back to his apartment; it was a unit on the top floor of a shiny new eight-story building, close to campus. As they rode up in the elevator together, Hazard said, “You didn’t move?”

  “It’s hard to find an apartment.”

  “It’s Wahredua. It’s not Manhattan.”

  “I like this place.”

  “I thought I told you to move.”

  “No, you told me not to move.”

  Hazard grunted.

  “Should I buy a gun?” Mitchell said.

  “That’s a definite no.”

  “Can I borrow one of yours?”

  “No more talking.”

  When they got off the elevator, Mitchell led Hazard to his apartment. He checked his phone, tapped something, and whispered, “Ok.”

  Hazard stopped him before he could open the door. Dropping into a squat, Hazard inspected the locks: a deadbolt, and then a lock set into the handle. Both had a few faint scratches, but nothing out of the ordinary; those scratches could easily have come from fumbling the key.

  Hazard stood, held out an open hand, and accepted the keys from Mitchell. Then he pointed down the hall. Mitchell took a few springy steps back, hugging himself as Hazard sli
d the key home. Hazard drew the Ruger Blackhawk from its holster, stood to one side, and threw the door open; he heard it catch on the carpet, slow, and then stop. From inside the apartment came silence.

  “Just a heads up,” Hazard said, keeping his voice conversational, although his heart was hammering in his chest. “If anybody’s hiding in there, now would be a good time to say something. I’m armed.”

  The refrigerator clicked on; Hazard’s pulse roared into his ears, and he could barely hear the motor’s hum. Black spots swam at the edges of his vision. He was aware of his breathing, the shallow gulps for air, and he forced himself to draw in a full breath, and then another. It helped, but not much.

  “Emery?”

  He shook his head. He counted to three. He remembered running to the end of the high dive as a kid, one-two-three, and then he spun into the doorway, the Blackhawk low and ready. The black dots whirled in his vision.

  He moved through the apartment, room by room, throwing open doors, yanking back the shower curtain. His breathing sounded like a whistle. When he cleared the last room, which was Mitchell’s bedroom, he slumped against the wall. Sweat soaked his back, and the black dots narrowed his vision to a tunnel. After ten breaths, he managed to holster the Blackhawk. After another ten, he pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could. He pictured a day on the beach. He pictured rolling onto his side and seeing Somers. He pictured that smile. After another ten breaths, he wiped his face and called, “It’s clear, Mitchell.”

  Soft footsteps moved through the apartment. Then a series of beeps. Hazard poked his head out into the hallway and saw Mitchell tapping his phone. Mitchell glanced up.

  “Are you ok? Jesus, you’re green. Are you going to puke?”

  “I’m fine. What are you doing?”

  “Checking the alarm system.”

  “You have an alarm system? Why didn’t it go off?”

  “Well, yeah. I bought it after, you know, everything that happened. I turned it off when we got off the elevator.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Mitchell. That would have been nice to know.” Hazard wiped his face again, and then he grimaced and squirmed, trying to peel the t-shirt away from his sweaty back. “Let’s see it.”

  It was one of the do-it-yourself kinds, a premium brand that Hazard recognized because he had considered buying one himself. It had motion sensors, door and window sensors, interior cameras, and a hub that emitted an alarm and notified an off-site monitoring company.

  “But it didn’t activate last night?” Hazard said.

  “Well, everything is inside the apartment; I guess it would have gone off if he’d actually gotten the door open, but . . .”

  “And you didn’t think of activating it yourself?”

  “I told you,” Mitchell said, blushing. “I just froze.”

  Hazard grunted.

  “You know the problem with these things?” Hazard said. “False alarms.”

  “I know, but I talked to the offsite monitoring company when I bought this one. They have access to the camera feed, so they can check and see if they really need to call the police.”

  “No, I mean, home security systems in general. They generate so many false alarms that police are typically slow to respond. And you have to consider human error; maybe the person at the offsite monitoring company is slow that day. Maybe the dispatcher is in a shitty mood. Maybe the responding cop hates calls like this.”

  “That’s . . . that’s crazy. It’s a 911 call. They have to respond. It’s an emergency.”

  Hazard shrugged. “That’s life. Let me check the strike plate, and then we’ll go to the hardware store. Turn this stuff back on; we’ll be right back, but better safe than sorry.”

  The strike plate didn’t show any signs of an attempt at forced entry, so they locked up, and Mitchell activated the security system on his phone again. They drove to the closest hardware store. Hazard picked up a few things, ignoring Mitchell’s winces at the price tags, and when they got to the register, Hazard ran his own card and ignored Mitchell all over again as the kid objected and tried to pay. When they got back to the apartment, Hazard was almost feeling normal again; Mitchell deactivated the alarm, and they moved through the unit as a team, clearing the rooms once again.

  “This is security film,” Hazard said, passing the roll to Mitchell. “Start putting it in every window. If somebody tried to shatter the glass, the film holds it together. Those window sensors aren’t going to be worth shit if somebody breaks the glass and climbs inside.”

  “I’m on the eighth floor.”

  “You still installed window sensors, didn’t you?”

  Mitchell swallowed and nodded.

  “Go,” Hazard said.

  So Mitchell tottered away, clutching the film to his chest. While Mitchell worked on the windows, Hazard installed a security bar on the apartment’s front door. Then he went into the bedroom and bolted down a floor-mounted door lock. By the time he’d finished, Mitchell was done with the windows.

  “This,” Hazard said, demonstrating how the security bar worked, “you set every time you come into the apartment. Understand? The first thing it does is fix the deadbolt in place; the asshole won’t be able to pick the lock. Even if he somehow cuts through the bolt or knocks the door free from the strike plate, the bar will keep the door shut. There’s no way he can get through this before the police get here.”

  Mitchell nodded.

  “This floor-mounted lock,” Hazard said, leading him into the bedroom, “reinforces the bedroom door at the base, which is where it’s weakest. This is the second line of defense. If you hear anything—anything, Mitchell—that sounds like somebody’s trying to get inside, you get your ass back here, you close the door, and you step down here. Watch what I’m doing. That’s it. Nobody can kick down this door, not with this thing in the way. As soon as you’re in the bedroom, you call the police. When you’re sleeping, you make sure this is engaged. No exceptions. No variations. And no hookups, Mitchell. If you and Nico are fucking, that’s one thing.”

  “We’re not—we aren’t even—”

  “But no randoms, no strangers, no guys you pick up at the Pretty Pretty. Not until this is over.”

  Mitchell nodded again; he looked a little pasty.

  “Questions?”

  He shook his head.

  “Let’s get you to work,” Hazard said. “You’re on a strict routine until this is settled: either you’re at work or you’re with me.”

  “That’s going to make cuddle time with Nico awkward.” Mitchell grinned and held up both hands. “I’m totally kidding. Don’t kill me.”

  Rolling his eyes, Hazard headed toward the door.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JULY 1

  MONDAY

  6:13 PM

  SOMERS TOSSED A SALAD: romaine, cucumbers, grape tomatoes, feta, and big, fat kalamata olives. Then he seared chicken breasts. His eyes went to the clock. At first, every five minutes or so. And then, after the chicken breasts were cooled and sliced on a cutting board, every two minutes. After that, he started checking his phone. The digital clock on the lock screen stared back at him.

  When the garage door rattled up, Somers blew out a breath, gave himself a mental shake, and took plates out of the cabinet. He gave the salad another toss as the door between the house and the garage opened. Look at me, happy and domestic. Could he paint a sign on his back?

  “Hey,” he said, turning to grab the first plate, “did you get held up? I thought you were going to be home early.”

  His fingers closed over the plate; his hand lifted. And then he saw Hazard’s face: washed out, dark spots under his eyes, like he was sick or exhausted. Somers tried to set the plate back down, but his fingers released too early.

  “Ree, are you—”

  The plate wobbled on the edge of the counter. Somers saw it out of the corner of his eye and reached for it, but he was too slow. The
plate tilted, slid, and crashed onto the tile.

  Hazard went rigid. His body tightened, while his face seemed to slacken, as though the fine muscles there had stopped responding. Then he surged into motion, charging into the kitchen.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, John. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  One of Hazard’s big hands came out, caught a stack of envelopes on the counter, and smacked them into the air. “Is that what we’re doing now? Just throwing shit whenever we want? For the fucking love of God, John, you’re a fucking adult. Pick up those fucking pieces, will you? Do you want Evie to cut herself?”

  Somers took a step across the ceramic shards. He wasn’t even sure if Hazard realized it, but the big man veered away, yanking at the collar of his t-shirt.

  “Evie’s at Cora’s tonight,” Somers said. “Will you take a breath please?”

  “I am taking a breath, I’m taking a really deep breath, ok? I just want to know why you don’t seem to care that those fucking plates cost fucking money, John. We’re fucking strapped as it is, and I have to come home to you breaking the little shit that we do have.”

  “All right. That’s enough.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Hazard shouted, and then he kicked one of the kitchen chairs. It toppled, sliding across the tile until it came up against the wall, and then Hazard had to kick it out of his way so he could leave the kitchen.

  Somers took two steps after him before he stopped. Then he ran shaking hands down his thighs, turned, and leaned into the refrigerator. In his mind’s eye, he saw the extra-cold drawer, where—months before—they had kept bottle after bottle of Bud Lite. And now, Pepsi and sparkling water and fruit juice. But he could walk to St. Taffy’s and get a beer. He could even get a shot, maybe two. Maybe a line of them, like dominoes—knock the first one down, and it took the rest with it. And Somers at the end, the final domino, when the last shot kicked so hard it knocked him right out of his fucking head. He ran his hands across his shirt. He didn’t even need to go to St. Taffy’s. Spud’s Liquor was within walking distance too; he could pour his own line of shots.