by Brad Meltzer
“She’s more than a friend! She saved Maggie’s life!”
“So now you have to save this girl’s life? You’re making a karmic trade?”
“You don’t understand. We knew her. The whole community knew her. She gave me an extra year with my daughter.”
“Which is absolutely commendable. I understand your need to do right by her—but you’re sticking your head in a fire here, Ziggy. And not a little campfire that singes your ear. This’ll burn you alive. Just like her.”
“So I should just ignore that Nola’s out there…that she might need help? Even forgetting that I know her…this body in our morgue—whoever she really is, that’s someone’s kid! Someone raised her, combed her hair, took pictures of her every year on her first day of school. And now we’re supposed to do nothing even though we know she’s misidentified?”
Guns didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. During their first weeks at Dover, Master Guns and Zig found out that one of their supervisors was sending unidentified remains—random bones, fingers, even someone’s leg—to be dumped in a nearby landfill, just to clean house. The remains were old, impossible to ID, and taking up precious storage space. Master Guns and Zig were newbies, expected to go along and stay silent. Why rock the boat and risk your job and your career in the military? Because that’s not how you honor our fallen brothers and sisters. The next day, they filed a report with the colonel. Their supervisor “voluntarily retired” soon after.
“I’m happy to do this alone,” Zig said.
“You are doing this alone,” Master Guns shot back, still pointing with the hockey stick.
“They really put the spook in you, didn’t they?” Zig asked.
“Not they. Him.”
Zig cocked an eyebrow, lost.
“You don’t even know who you’re taking on, do you?” Master Guns asked, reaching for the TV remote.
With the flick of a button, the videogame was gone, replaced by CNN. The grisly image on-screen glowed on the wall, lighting the dark garage.
“It’s all over the news. Nola’s plane…” Master Guns explained as the camera pulled in on footage of a small plane mangled in the snow. Smoke twirled in the air, but the plane looked mostly intact. Behind them, the garage door was still closed, but to Zig, it was suddenly colder than ever. “Didn’t you see who else was on that flight?”
4
Zig was home within the hour. His doormat sat askew on his front porch. Cursing the UPS guy, he kicked the mat back into place, opened the front door, and headed for the kitchen.
From his left pocket, he pulled out a lunch receipt and a loose Post-it, dumping them both in the trash. From his right, he took out his pocketknife, a small six-inch ruler, and his “wallet,” a lean stack of cash, credit cards, and driver’s license, all bound by a thick red rubber band. Zig didn’t carry any photos or memorabilia. Working every day with death, he was keenly aware: You can’t take anything with you.
Last year, he read that highly hyped book that said to find true happiness, you should pare down your life, throw away everything you don’t regularly use, and save only the things that bring you joy. For Zig, that joy came from chisels and carving tools, along with the drill press and battered workbench in the extra bedroom upstairs that he’d converted into a shop. It also came from taking care of his “girls.”
With a beer in his hand, he headed out to his small backyard, where, up on concrete blocks, there was a white wooden box that he’d built himself, with conspicuous dovetail joints that were hand cut with a backsaw and chisel. The box was the size of a two-drawer file cabinet with a small circular hole cut into it. A red-and-yellow sign on the side read, Caution: Dangerous Bees.
The bees weren’t dangerous. Especially this hive, which had a wonderfully calm queen. But the sign kept the kids in the neighborhood away from the one thing that brought Zig more peace than anything else.
“Evening, ladies,” he called out, approaching the wooden box and its forty thousand inhabitants. Zig got his first beehive back in college, for a hippie science class called Animals & Farming. Back then, he rolled his eyes when it was his week to take care of the professor’s hive. His classmates hated it too.
Yet for Zig, from that very first day, there was one thing that fascinated him: Every creature in the hive, every single honeybee, had a purpose—a role it followed its entire life. Guard bees protected the hive, nurse bees took care of the babies, and architect bees built the hive’s hexagon structure, making it mathematically perfect in every way.
There were even undertaker bees, who removed the dead from the hive and flew a hundred yards to dispose of the bodies. It was a job Zig knew well. Certainly, humans have purpose in their lives. But why were the bees so single-minded and committed to that purpose? It wasn’t just for the good of the queen. It was for the good of each other, for their whole community. How could anyone not admire a beautiful world like that?
“Everyone okay?” Zig asked, knowing the answer. This late and this cold, the hive was quiet. But as Zig approached, he pulled out his phone and flicked on the flashlight. Something seemed…off.
He put his ear to the box. No buzzing. He put his face closer to the round hole he’d carved carefully in the wood. The guard bees, who sat right inside, should’ve already flown out.
Still nothing.
Zig stuffed his finger in his beer bottle, tapping the bottle lightly against the side of the wood. Ping-pong-ping. Sure enough, a few bees exited. And then, there it was—a low-pitched hum that surrounded him, that embraced him, that soothed him when he needed it most.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
For the first ten years of his daughter’s life, Zig looked in on her every night, checking the rise and fall of Maggie’s chest, checking to make sure she was breathing. The hum of the bees, in its own way, gave him that same feeling. Everything would be okay, even if, deep down, he knew it wouldn’t.
“Good night, girls,” he said. Every fall, after the queen bee was impregnated, all the male bees were murdered by the female bees. Right now, every bee in the hive was a female.
“Also, thanks for stinging that freckly kid who threw a baseball at the hive. He’s not getting free honey this year,” he added.
In every life, whatever you do, you either destroy or create. As a mortician, Zig saw destruction every day. Beekeeping was his own personal offset.
“You have no messages,” the ancient, robotic answering machine voice announced as Zig returned to the kitchen.
Flipping open his laptop, he slid into the breakfast nook that had taken him nearly half a year to make, also with hand-cut dovetail joints. On-screen, Facebook bloomed into view, to the only page he went to. Her page.
Charmaine Clarke.
Every day, he’d tell himself not to look. But every day, he’d be back. Charmaine’s most recent status update was a photo—a close-up of a T-shirt that read: What If The Hokey-Pokey Really Is What It’s All About?
Forty-two friends liked it, declaring it “So funny!” Someone else added, “You’re hysterical!!!” Like most things online, it was an absurd overstatement. Still, there was one singular nugget even Facebook tended to get right, on the left side of the screen:
Status: Single.
Outside, a lone honeybee bounced off the window, swirling in the moonlight. Guard bee, Zig thought, though could be a forager. Back when he set up his first hive, foragers were Zig’s favorites. They were the only ones to actually leave the hive, the ones on the grand adventure. Lately, though, Zig realized there was a reason why foraging was saved for the eldest bees in the hive. It would be the last job they had. They’d literally work themselves to death, dying alone.
Suddenly, Zig’s cell phone rang. Caller ID told him not to take it.
“What’s wrong?” he answered.
“Nice to hear your voice too,” Waggs pushed back, her work number showing she was still at the FBI. “Can’t I just call to see how you’re doing, and then you ask how I’m doing? That’s how fr
iendships work.”
Zig pretended to laugh. “How are you doing, Waggs? How’s Vincent?” he added, referring to Waggs’s son.
“Too handsome for his own good. Thinks that just because he’s twenty-four years old and starting a new job—selling time-shares, for Godsakes—that he’s too busy to call his frightfully underappreciated mother who he owes everything to. Oh, and my brother asked to borrow money again. So, yeah, same crappiness as usual. How about you? That Nola Brown case…it shook you up, didn’t it?”
“I appreciate you checking in, but I’m fine.”
“You sound mopey.”
“I’m great. Just got home,” Zig said, turning back to his computer screen.
Status: Single.
“You’re on Facebook, aren’t you?” Waggs challenged.
Zig stared at the screen, trying not to see his own reflection. Nearly two decades ago, Waggs started at Dover two days before he did. But all these years later, their bond wasn’t just from a mutual moment in time. She always understood him—and knew where his holes were. “I’m not on Facebook,” he insisted.
“You do realize Facebook tells you when your friends are online? I’m on it right now. I can see you there, Ziggy.”
He clicked to a new screen, hating himself for being such a cliché.
“If you want, Ziggy, I can go through Charmaine’s profile and send you all the bad photos of her, or maybe just the good ones, depending on what kinda night you want.”
Usually, he’d laugh at that joke. Not tonight, especially after everything with Nola and the churned-up memories of what she did for Maggie. Zig thought of his own daughter numerous times every day—in fact, he purposely said her name out loud each morning, just to make sure she wouldn’t be forgotten—but today, after seeing that body, now he was picturing the worst of those days, back when he was standing at Magpie’s closet, trying to decide what dress they should bury her in. “Waggs, it’s late. I’ve got to be at work early tomorrow.”
“You sure you’re—”
“I’m fine. You’re a good friend. Thanks for checking in.”
“Truthfully, I just wanted to bitch about my brother. But we can take it up tomorrow. Oh and PS—no one’s life is as good as it looks on Facebook.”
As she hung up, Zig stared at the screen. Was he really that guy who spent his nights trolling online for the supposed love of his life? Zig didn’t want to be that guy. He was done being that guy. Then again…
He clicked back to Charmaine’s profile. Maybe the hokey-pokey really was what it’s all about.
In the Facebook search box, he typed the name Nola Brown. A few faces came up. None of them was the adult version of hers. Same with Google. He was tempted to call Waggs back. But no, not yet.
“Nola, I know you’re out there somewhere,” Zig murmured.
A few clicks of the keyboard took him over to CNN.com.
Rookstool, 6 Others Dead in Alaska Crash
Plane crashes were tragic enough, but it was worse when the press lasered in on the biggest bold name on board and turned the rest of the passengers into asterisks. In this case, the bold name was Nelson Rookstool, the head of the Library of Congress.
According to CNN, Rookstool was on a cross-country trip promoting literacy to rural Eskimo communities. Okay. That was his job. But as Master Guns had pointed out, the Librarian of Congress doesn’t usually fly on military aircraft.
At the end of the CNN story, it said the other victims’ names were being withheld until families could be notified. Not true, Zig thought. The plane crashed two days ago. That was plenty of time to notify, which meant if they were still withholding IDs, it was to cover up whatever was really going on in Alaska.
Clicking to a new screen, Zig logged into the mortuary’s private intranet. The Board, they called it, named after the enormous board in HQ that showed the names of all the incoming fallen soldiers and citizens who were headed Zig’s way.
According to the schedule, the remaining bodies from the Alaska crash would arrive first thing tomorrow. But as Zig scrolled down, he saw who else would be there to salute the flag-covered transfer cases that looked like caskets.
Under Incoming Flights was the one call sign that always meant a bad day:
M-1
He stared at it, listening to the hum of his laptop, the hum of the bees outside.
Marine One.
The big man himself was coming. The President of the United States.
According to CNN, the President had appointed Rookstool to the Librarian job. Apparently, they were old friends. But for the President to be coming for this…
Nola, what the hell’d you get yourself into?
5
Guidry, Texas
Nineteen years ago
This was Nola when she was seven.
She was a girl who noticed things. Even at that young age, she noticed the way her mom, Barb LaPointe, would check herself in the reflection of their shiny Home Depot kitchen faucet whenever she washed the dishes. She noticed how her dad, Walter, would move his lips—concentrating hard—when reading the newspaper.
Today, though, Nola didn’t notice anything. She was too busy eating her favorite meal: Space Jam mac and cheese, chocolate milk, and Oreo cookies—Double Stuf, of course.
“Here you go, sweetie pie,” Walter said. That should’ve been her first clue. She was never sweetie pie. Only his three biological kids were.
Knocking the Oreo plate aside, Walter slid a vanilla-icing sheet cake in front of her. For the rest of Nola’s life, she’d remember the bright green letters.
We Will Miss You!
Confused, Nola glanced around. Neither of her adopted parents would look her in the eye.
“This will be your last night with the family,” her dad, Walter LaPointe, said matter-of-factly.
“Wh-What’s going on? Why’re you doing this?”
But really, Nola knew why they were doing this.
A year and a half ago, Nola and her twin brother, Roddy, were rescued from a miserable group home in Arkansas. Barb LaPointe saw their photos on a fax and came to the house herself, expecting adorable twin three-year-olds. But Nola and her brother—with matching bowl haircuts so that predators wouldn’t know Nola was a girl—were three years older than the group home had disclosed, with difficult behaviors carefully omitted.
On her first night in Texas, Nola crouched in her bedroom closet, clutching the only belonging she’d brought from the group home, a stuffed pink elephant named Ellie.
Her twin, Roddy, had matching black eyes with flecks of gold and the same honey-colored skin. But unlike somber Nola, he also came with a disarming grin, which made him more charming and likable. But also more dangerous.
Within their first week with the LaPointes, the back window of the house was broken. Neighborhood kids, the parents assumed. Then toys started disappearing. When the toys were found, they smelled like urine. Soon, the LaPointes started worrying about the safety of their own young children, a worry amplified when someone lit the living room carpet on fire.
Therapists were called, and things calmed down for a bit. But then Nola came home from school with a black eye (and a hospital bill) from a taunting boy in fifth grade, whose front teeth she’d knocked out with a steel thermos.
“Miss Nola,” Walter said, lowering his voice, which only made her more uncomfortable, “it’s time to go.”
“N-No,” she replied, tears pooling in her eyes. “No…please don’t do this.”
Walter grabbed her arm.
“Please don’t do this!” she yelled, trying to pry herself from his grasp.
At the top of the stairs, the other kids huddled together, staring down guiltily, like they were trying to spy on Santa. At the back of the pack, no one could see her brother, Roddy, keeping his head down to hide the grin in his dark eyes.
Nola wanted to scream, It was him! It was Roddy!—who broke the window and peed on the toys. He was the one who picked the fight with Thermos Teeth. Ro
ddy was about to get his ass kicked for telling the loudmouthed boy that he’d masturbated in the boy’s backpack, and Nola was just coming to his aid.
True, Nola did set the carpet on fire—a hasty and poorly conceived plan to clear out the house to protect the family dog, whom Roddy was chasing with a candle—but at this point, would anyone even believe her?
They would. In truth, the LaPointes knew all of this. Both twins had problems, but it was Roddy who needed the real help. Resources were tight. With three other kids to take care of, they could help one of the twins, but not both. Barb LaPointe prayed on it for a week. A decision was made. They would find Nola a new home. She was the stronger one. Naturally, it’d be tough on her, but she was resilient. She’d be okay.
“I’ll be good! We’ll both be good!” Nola begged, bits of Oreo blacking out her teeth, crumbs spraying from her mouth. “We’ll be good!”
Duh-duh-ding-ding-ding-ding-DING-DING. The doorbell rang. Back when Nola first came to live here, she loved that doorbell. It played “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” though she never knew the name of the song.
“No, please…” Nola begged as Walter picked her up and carried her from the kitchen to the living room. Nola grabbed at the chairs, the phone cord, anything to get a handhold. Barb was sobbing as she followed behind them, prying Nola’s grip from the threshold. “Please, Mom—don’t give me to them! Don’t give me to them!”
That’s what Nola kept screaming over and over. Don’t give me to them.
But it wasn’t them.
It was him.
* * *
Three weeks later, Nola stood silently in a cold, tiny Oklahoma kitchen. Her chin was down—it was always down—like it was stapled to her chest. Sometimes a posture of shyness, sometimes a posture of fear. Today it was a bit of both.
Pretending to wash dishes, she was staring sideways, waiting to see his reaction to the steak.
She knew her new dad, Royall Barker—a Catholic man with a pitted face, greedy eyes, and the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen—wouldn’t say anything. He rarely said anything. But Royall was particular about his steaks, and even more particular about his favorite breakfast, steak and eggs.
