The Keeper of Bees ARC

by Gregory Ashe

  “And if you don’t want a chihuahua,” Lansdown said, bigger than Russell, but still looking like a kid, “maybe you want my bulldog.” He humped the gate.

  “Yeah,” third one called, which wasn’t exactly an original contribution, but the kid was even scrawnier than Russell and obviously trying to fit in.

  Lansdown lunged at the bars again, letting out a single, ferocious bark. And then Russell was barking, throwing himself at the cell, and the little yapper at their heels was barking, all three of them barking and hammering on the bar and thrusting their crotches at the cell.

  Somers picked up a stapler and chucked it. It hit the yapper on the back of the head, and he screamed like he’d been shot. He stumbled, and then he got caught up in Lansdown’s legs, and both men started to fall. Somers pitched an empty mug. He had a good eye and a good arm, and the mug should have caught Lansdown in the shoulder. By that point, though, Lansdown was tangled up with the other and starting to fall, and the mug cracked against his cheekbone. Somers winced when he saw blood.

  Russell danced clear of Lansdown and the other guy, and he spun around, shouting, “What the fuck, what the fuck,” and caught a block of sticky notes right in the balls. Somers was pretty proud of that one; he’d tried for a fastball, and judging by Russell’s squeals, he’d done all right.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Foley stood in the doorway, scrubbing his red hair. The big guy looked a lot better after a few months, but he still looked thin and tired, and he looked even more tired as he stared at the assholes playing Twister on the floor. “What happened?”

  “That’s a good question,” Somers said, leaning against the supervisor’s desk, legs crossed at the ankle. “It’s kind of a matter of perspective.”

  “It looks like you knocked the shit out of three of Wahredua’s finest.”

  “That’s one perspective.”

  “With a sticky pad.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Russell, Lansdown, and the third guy were still trying to untangle themselves. Lansdown was bleeding, but he had a hand over the cut, so Somers couldn’t tell how bad it was.

  “Jesus Christ,” Foley muttered.

  “I’m going to shoot you, you stupid faggot,” Lansdown was screaming. With his hand pressed against his cheek, though, he was having a hard time delivering the words with their full force. His other hand was drawing his gun. “You think just because you’re some hotshot fag detective you can—”

  For a big guy, Foley moved fast. He wasn’t sprinting, by any means; it was more of a controlled charge. Russell and the other guy saw him coming and wriggled away, but Lansdown was too busy shouting and trying to get the safety snap off his pistol. Foley kicked him once, kicked him like the big Irish jackass that he was, and Lansdown’s breath whooshed out of his lungs. He flopped onto his back, gagging and gasping for breath. Foley stepped on Lansdown’s hand, and Lansdown screamed.

  “If I ever see you touch that fucking gun again,” Foley said, “for any reason, anywhere, I will break every bone in your fucking hand. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of a bank robbery. I don’t care if you’re stopping terrorists. I don’t care if Jesse fucking James wants to shoot ’em up. You touch that gun again, night or day, and I find out, you’ll have that hand in a cast for a year, and you can hump the sofa to get off. Understand?”

  Lansdown had started screaming yes before Foley finished the question.

  Instead of lifting his foot, though, Foley rocked forward, transferring more of his weight, and Lansdown’s scream rose in pitch.

  “And if I ever hear you talk like that again, to anybody, I’ll rip you a new asshole so big you’ll need a zipper when you fart. Understand that?”

  Lansdown was doing so much screaming and writhing it was hard to tell if he understood anything, but Foley let a moment pass and then returned to the supervisor’s desk. Somers caught his gaze and held it, and after a moment, Foley blushed.

  “I know you can take care of yourself,” Foley mumbled. “But these new assholes are embarrassing the whole department.”

  Somers just held his gaze; Foley broke first, looking away.

  “They said they just wanted to ask him a few questions,” Foley said in that same small voice.

  Somers waited. Russell and the new guy were helping Lansdown out of the room; all three of them were shooting hard looks at Somers and Foley. Somers didn’t bother acknowledging them.

  “You know what it’s like when you’re young,” Foley said. “You and I, we did stupid stuff too. I thought they just wanted a little fun.”

  “Never again, Patrick.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I fucked up. I know I did. I won’t do it twice.”

  After another moment, Somers nodded and stood. He took a step toward the door and then stopped. Special Agent Tracy Park stood in the doorway, dressed in a black suit, her shield hanging around her neck and her service weapon holstered at her waist. Her black hair was heavy with gray and cut in a simple bob, but her face was young; if she used cosmetics, she didn’t use much.

  Her gaze went from Foley to Somers to the cell.

  “What’s going on back here?”

  “Nothing, Agent Park. Just having a conversation.”

  “One of your colleagues just got into a car; he’s going to get stitches. Was that just a conversation?”

  “Wesley,” Somers called. “You want to chip in?”

  Shuffling movement came from the cell, and then Wesley stood at the door. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit now, and the color clashed with his ginger hair. He’d obviously been crying.

  “They were just talking,” Wesley said in a rough voice.

  “Just shooting the bull,” Foley said.

  Park’s eyes zagged from Wesley back to Somers. “Do I need to worry about a suspect in police custody?”

  “Patrick?” Somers said.

  “He’s safe as a babe in arms.”

  “There you go,” Somers said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to follow up on a witness statement. One of the second-shift workers at the Tegula plant mentioned an unfamiliar car in the lot.”

  Park’s expression didn’t change, but she said, “If she works second shift, maybe it’s better to wait. Let her get a few hours of sleep.”

  “The wheels of justice, you know,” Somers said. “Excuse me.”

  But when he left the jail and moved toward the exit, he heard Park behind him.

  “Just a moment, Detective Somerset.” When he paused, she added, “Outside, if you don’t mind.”

  So they stepped out into the heat; even this early, the day was already baking, and the sick-sweet stink from the dumpsters hung in the still air. Park let the door swing shut, and then she tapped out a cigarette. She offered one to Somers, and he shook his head.

  With a small smile, Park offered it again, flicking the end, drawing his attention so he’d examine it more closely.

  Somers grinned this time and accepted. He put it between his lips and sucked; the hard sugar of the candy was pebbly against his tongue, and the taste was cloyingly sweet.

  “My parents would only buy these at my Little League games,” Somers said around the cigarette. “And then they put me in Junior Wildcats, and I didn’t have time for baseball, so I don’t think I’ve had one of these since I was, oh, eight.”

  Park was crunching her cigarette; it was gone in thirty seconds, and then she started another one. “I need the first one for that hit of sugar,” she said around the second. “That’s, what, peewee football?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were you any good?”

  Somers laughed. “It’s a small town.”

  “That’s what I hear about you. You’re good at everything you put your hand to. You’ve solved some impossible cases. Everybody loves you.”

  “Maybe you could remind Lansdown that’s the official policy.”

  O
ne of Park’s eyebrows went up.

  “Keep going,” Somers said. “I want to enjoy this part before the hammer drops. I’m very humble, did they tell you that?”

  “That was the first thing they said.”

  Somers grinned and then sucked hard on the candy cigarette. “Nothing’s going to happen to Wesley, Agent Park. I promise.”

  “I’m not worried about Wesley,” Park said, still staring at him.

  A truck rumbled by on the street.

  “Can I—” Somers began.

  “You and your partner found the Keeper’s first victims, isn’t that right?”

  “My fiancé. Well, he was my boyfriend at the time. Yes.”

  “Mr. Hazard.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you found them in a college basement. You managed to find them when no one else could, and you did it by reading a history book that had been accidentally left open on a bed.”

  “Yes,” Somers said slowly. “Although that’s not the most accurate way of—”

  “Impossible cases, Detective Somerset. I read those news articles about him, the ones that came out a few months ago. You and your fiancé have an amazing track record. You know what I thought at the time? I thought, nobody’s that good. Nobody.”

  “What are you suggesting, Special Agent Park?”

  “I’m tempted to say an unbelievable track record.”

  Down the street, the same truck that had just passed was now backing up, a steady beep-beep-beep accompanying it.

  “I think you’d better say what you’re trying to say,” Somers said.

  The agent didn’t answer.

  Somers bit through the candy cigarette, grinding it to powder and then sucking it down. When he finished, he said, “We’re on the same side, aren’t we?”

  Park’s dark eyes were like mirrors. “Detective Somerset, I want you to oversee an expanded search of Sexten.”

  Frowning, Somers tried to adjust to the sudden change in the conversation. He settled for: “That’s a big job.”

  Park smiled. “You think it’s a pointless job.”

  “I think I have a lot of skills that could make me useful to this investigation in other ways.”

  “This is what I was afraid of.” Park extended the pack of candy cigarettes, but Somers shook his head; the grit and the taste of pure sugar lingered in his mouth, and he thought he had a headache coming on. Pocketing the pack, Park added, “When you’re on the ground, you’ve got a different point of view. Some jobs look pointless. You want to know why. I’m telling you, from up here, from a tactical point of view, that’s what I need you to do.”

  Somers was suddenly glad that Hazard wasn’t here. He could imagine what the big man would say.

  “Something funny, Detective?”

  Shaking his head, Somers said, “Thinking about somebody I used to work with.”

  “I’ll have a couple of uniformed officers meet you at the industrial park; I’ll be redeploying some of my resources over the next few days.”

  On the ground. Tactical. Redeploying.

  “Do I have sugar on my lips?” Park asked, brushing the back of her hand across her mouth.

  “You’re clean.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to your report, Detective.”

  “Agent Park, I don’t think we should be holding Wesley. We don’t have anything, frankly, that’s strong enough for an arrest.”

  Park eyed him, her dark eyes unreadable. She held her hand flat at her waist. “Ground level, Detective Somerset.” Then her hand came up to her eyes. “Tactical.”

  She didn’t stick around for a response.

  Working his tongue around the inside of his mouth, trying to clear out the last of the grit, Somers headed for the Mustang. Hazard’s suspicions about Darnell. Bad cops. Make-work from the FBI. A long day was getting longer every minute.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JULY 3

  WEDNESDAY

  10:58 AM

  HAZARD SCANNED DARNELL’S LOT as the Mustang rolled to a stop. The doublewide trailer sat at the end of a gravel road, surrounded by tall trees: mostly pine, with some oak and hickory. The trailer’s front door was propped open with a BUSH’S BAKED BEANS box, and at the bottom of the steps, a U-Haul waited. The back of the truck was mostly full. A mattress stuck out past the gate, and a lamp had fallen on its side. A grocery sack full of paperbacks was slowly avalanching toward the ground. One of them lay with its cover facing up; it featured two very skinny twinks wrapped around each other. Under a scrim of pine needles, Hazard could read the title: My Secret Bestie.

  “That,” Hazard said. “That’s more proof right there.”

  “I need you to bring it down a level,” Somers said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s been a shit day already, and I’m really trying here.”

  “That book,” Hazard said, pointing again.

  “Ok, the novel thing again. They’re just stories, Ree. People aren’t intrinsically bad for liking stories, even if they’re made up.”

  “I don’t think people are bad for liking fiction.”

  “Here it comes.”

  “I think people who read novels are fantasists in desperate need of emotional dope to anesthetize them against the reality of their meaningless existence.”

  “I read novels.”

  “I know, but we’re working on that.”

  “No, we’re not. I like novels. I will always read novels. You cannot make me stop reading novels.”

  “That’s very cute.”

  “Before I smash my head through the window, will you please explain why My Secret Bestie is proof of anything except maybe the fact that I should start borrowing more books from Darnell.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  Somers shrugged.

  “John, that looks like a romance novel.”

  “The guys on the cover are hot. I bet they do all sorts of dirty things to each other.”

  After a moment, Hazard pointed again and said, “That book shows a prurient interest in the lives of gay men.”

  “Technically, I have a prurient interest in the lives of gay men. Also, Darnell is gay.”

  “I—”

  “Ree, I’m going to stop you. I want you to hear how you sound. I understand the points you made when you called me: Darnell is new to the area, he’s an active part of our social lives, he has some degree of tech savvy, and he may have insider information about the Keeper case through Dulac.”

  “And he’s a big, fucking liar.”

  “And he lied.”

  “About some important stuff, John.”

  “Ok. I’m not trying to argue with you here. But those are all circumstantial.” Somers ran fingers through his hair and dropped his head against the seat. When he sat up straight again, he said, “I think you should wait in the car.”

  “No fucking way.”

  “We drive up, and you’re already hysterical about a goddamn book, Ree. I can’t figure out what’s really going on with Darnell if you’re going to think everything we see is proof that he’s a psychopath and a serial killer.”

  The engine ticked as it cooled. A few yards ahead of them, a sparrow swooped to peck at something in the gravel. Then it took off again. Hazard focused on it; in his mind, he could trace the vee of its landing and departure.

  “I’m sorry,” Somers said. “It really has been a bad day.”

  “No, you’re right. I . . . I guess I needed to hear that. It’s just, I saw the book, and my brain started racing.” Hazard wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to trace the vee, like two broad strokes in red paint, that the sparrow had followed. “I’m just keyed up.”

  “Do you think you should wait in the car?”

  “No. I can do this.”

  Somers sighed, but he didn’t argue the point. Together, they got out of the car, and as they approached the trailer, Darnell emerged with a cardboard box in his arms.

  “
Hey,” he said. “Thank you so much for coming. I thought you’d be too busy with, well, Susan. I still can’t believe—” He stopped on the stairs, suddenly pale, and had to rest the box on the handrail. “Jesus, it’s not something else, is it? Where’s Gray? Is he ok?”

  “He’s fine,” Somers said. “I thought he was here, helping you.”

  Darnell adjusted the box, wiped his forehead, and said, “Oh, yeah.”

  “Darnell, is he here?”

  Or, Hazard thought, Dulac might be somewhere else: bleeding out in a back room of the trailer, face down in a shallow grave, or tied up in a storage unit, where Darnell could take his time with him. Dulac could be just about anywhere.

  “Well, no,” Darnell said, “he was going to pack up his apartment with Nico.” Darnell continued down the stairs, and then he settled the box inside the U-Haul. With his back still to Hazard and Somers, he began to rearrange boxes and bags at the back of the truck. He jostled the grocery sack, and more books spilled out, their spines hitting the ground with a thump-thump-thump. Lots of twinks on the covers. Twinks with Christmas garlands. Twinks with puppies. Twinks with baked goods. “Grab those,” Darnell said. “Would you?”

  Hazard watched the big man reach deeper into the truck. There was a lot of junk in that truck. A lot of clutter. And maybe all Darnell had to do was fold back the flap of a cardboard box or reach his hand inside a rolled-up rug. He could have hidden a gun just about anywhere inside that truck. Hazard pushed back the lightweight jacket that he wore, in spite of the heat, to conceal his shoulder holster. He rested his hand on the Blackhawk. He breathed in and then out; white flecks burned across his vision.

  “Darnell,” Somers said, “please turn around very slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Darnell stopped moving.

  “I’m serious, Darnell,” Somers said. “Slowly. Hands where I can see them.”

  “This is a joke, right?”

  “No,” Hazard said. “This is not a fucking joke. Right now. Turn around right fucking now.”

  Sliding his hands clear of the truck, Darnell displayed them, and then he turned to face Hazard and Somers.