Deadout

by Jon McGoran

Then a voice boomed out, “Stop it!” and everybody did. The crowd parted, making way for Jimmy Frank, the cop who had showed up at the Alehouse. “What the hell is going on here?” he asked, scolding and incredulous. “What’s gotten into you people?”

  Teddy stepped forward, the self-appointed leader.

  Jimmy rolled his eyes.

  “This,” Teddy said, pointing at the truck. “They’re bringing those goddamned industrial bees onto the island, with all their death and diseases.”

  Jimmy stepped back. “Bees?”

  The driver of the truck opened the door and stood up on the edge. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’ve got enough problems on the island,” Teddy said. “We’re trying to salvage what we can of this growing season. This is the last thing we need.”

  The driver looked confused. “I ain’t got no bees.”

  People turned to look at him.

  The driver shrugged. “I ain’t got no bees. I’m delivering drywall. You can look if you want.”

  Jimmy shook his head and waved the guy back. “No, that won’t be necessary. Now, you people get out of his way, and let the man go about his business.” The crowd stepped aside, grumbling, and as the truck drove slowly past, Teddy jumped up on the back bumper and tore back the tarp. Drywall.

  The crowd went quiet as the truck drove off, and as the sound of its engine receded, another sound took its place, a rhythmic thumping, whump, whump, whump, soft and low, but powerful enough that it was shaking my sternum. People started looking around, trying to find the source of it, but I knew the sound and I spotted it right away. Out over the water, two specks flying low, getting bigger and growing louder.

  19

  They seemed ominous, like angry insects. Death from above, I thought.

  As they got closer, the others picked them out. Soon everyone had turned to stare at them.

  The helicopters were massive, bright yellow with red markings, each dangling a white box almost as big as the helicopters themselves. The boxes looked like cargo containers, or RV trailers. One looked sleek, with rounded corners and windows, the other more boxy. It wasn’t until they were almost on top of us that the red markings plastered across both helicopters and both trailers resolved into the Stoma Corporation logo.

  A gasp worked its way through the crowd as people recognized the logo, but it was drowned out as the helicopters roared overhead, banking slightly to the south, the trailers swinging out as they did. Flying that low, they disappeared in seconds, nothing left but the receding whump, whump, whump, and the cluster of shocked faces.

  “Jesus Christ,” someone said. “That’s Stoma Corporation. They’re bringing in GMO bees!”

  “She brought them here,” one of the beekeepers said, pointing at Annalisa, and the noise ratcheted up again as the crowd constricted around her, yelling and cursing. “She works for Stoma!”

  “I had nothing to do with it,” she protested, putting up her hands. I stepped in front of her and so did Jimmy Frank, though it looked like he was wondering what the hell was going on.

  I put my head next to his. “These people are losing it,” I said. “You need to get her out of here.”

  His eyes lit up before he could hide it. Then he nodded seriously and spoke into her ear. With one arm around her shoulder, he held up his badge and led her through the crowd.

  Maybe they thought he was arresting her, or maybe he just commanded that much respect, but no one followed for more than a few steps.

  The crowd scattered, people rushing in all directions. I had the impression that some of them were going after the helicopters. I looked around for Nola, and spotted her sitting on a curb comforting an upset Gwen.

  I went over to them. “You okay?” I asked Nola.

  Gwen nodded, wiping her nose.

  Nola got to her feet. “We’re okay. Do you think those are really genetically engineered bees?”

  I nodded.

  “People are going to go nuts.”

  “Well, yeah, especially with your friend Teddy getting them all riled up.”

  “They should be riled up,” she said indignantly. “Doyle, this is important.”

  “I know it is, but so is not inciting a mob to tear apart an innocent drywall delivery man.” From the corner of my eye I saw Teddy speaking furtively on his cell phone, his eyes looking around nervously.

  “Teddy was just trying to stop something terrible from happening,” Nola said. “No one was hurt.”

  “Not yet,” I replied.

  Gwen put away her tissue and stood.

  “Okay,” Nola said, putting her arm around Gwen. “I have to get Gwen home. We can talk about this later.”

  As she said it, Teddy started fast-walking toward the low wall that separated the staging area from the sliver of beach that ran from the ferry terminal past the Black Dog. He looked like he was up to no good, but he always looked that way to me. Then I saw the two suits jogging after him and Blue’s bodyguards following after them. It was like he was the Pied Piper of assholes, except he wasn’t leading them off the island.

  Teddy hopped over the railing and onto the sand. A couple of seconds later the two suits climbed after him and then Tyrique and Dawson did, too, with a little more difficulty.

  When I caught up with them, Teddy was scurrying down the beach. The two suits had turned to face Dawson and Tyrique, looking like they were ready for action, but by the time I jumped down from the wall, they were pushing themselves up onto their hands and knees, their faces covered with a mixture of sand and blood. I stuck the landing, planting myself in the sand next to the two suits, between Blue’s bodyguards and the rapidly receding Teddy Renfrew. I immediately asked myself why.

  Tyrique snorted and Dawson shook his head, putting his hands together and cracking the knuckles in his fist. It was a cheesy move, but he did it well, producing a lot of sound.

  “Listen up, Shorty,” he said, looking down at me. “I ain’t got a problem with you and I don’t want to mess with no cop, but Richie Rich over there has been poking my man Blue for months, so why don’t you let us teach him some manners and we’ll be on our way.”

  I shook my head. “Can’t do it. You know that.”

  I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me why, because I didn’t have a good answer. Instead he took a swing, surprisingly fast for a big guy. I mostly got out of the way, but let his fist graze the tip of my nose, so I could go down on my hands and knees and come back up with a fist full of sand.

  Apparently, they didn’t watch a lot of bad movies, because they totally didn’t see it coming. I whipped my hand hard, right to left, and sprayed both their faces with sand. I think their eyes actually widened, getting as much of it in there as possible. Maybe they were surprised I’d pull such a dick move.

  The two of them were rubbing their eyes, stomping in little circles and dropping a lot of F-bombs. I felt bad.

  “Don’t rub it,” I told them. “You’ll make it worse.”

  “Fuck you, motherfucker,” Dawson said. “I’m going to make you worse in a second, little piece of shit motherfucker.”

  “Aw, what now?” said a voice from on high.

  We all looked up to see Jimmy Frank standing up on the wall. Actually, just me and the suits looked up; Tyrique and Dawson were just tracking the sound of his voice.

  “What are you doing now?” he asked me with a tone of disapproval.

  I pointed at the suits. “I didn’t do those two,” I said. Then I pointed at Tyrique and Dawson. “These two did those two.” They were staggering toward the sound of my voice, so I took a few steps to the side. “Then they came at me, so I threw sand in their faces.” I stepped to the side again.

  Jimmy shook his head. “Kind of a dick move,” he said. “You boys fell for that?”

  They were both still rubbing their eyes, despite what I told them.

  “Who even does shit like that?” Tyrique said.

  “You tried to hit me,” I reminded him.

  �
�Pussy!”

  “All right, stop,” Jimmy said. “You guys want to file charges?”

  “Them?” I asked.

  “No, I want to file my foot up his ass,” Dawson replied.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ How about you two?” he asked the two suits, now climbing to their feet, wiping the bloody sand off their faces and flinging it into the water.

  The one with the buzz cut looked at the older one, who shook his head. “No.”

  “All right,” Jimmy said with a snort. “I’m going to get these knuckleheads some water for their eyes.” He turned to me. “You should probably clear out.”

  I climbed up onto the wall. “Annalisa is okay?”

  He nodded, lowering his voice. “Dr. Paar is waiting for you at the station. Right across the street.”

  As I cut across the parking areas, everything seemed back to normal. A few latecomers were hurrying onto the ferry, probably with no idea what had just been going on.

  Inside the police station, Annalisa was sitting in a plastic chair in the waiting area. She jumped to her feet and threw her arms around my neck, burying her face against my chest. Her hair smelled like flowers.

  I knew she just needed to be held, so I put my arms around her. I could feel the warmth from her, feel her breasts pressing against me. Before my body could respond, I pulled away from her.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She looked up at me, her eyes pooling with tears. “Those people wanted to tear me apart.”

  “No, they didn’t. They were just upset.”

  “No, if you and Jimmy hadn’t been there, they would have hurt me.”

  She took a step back and smoothed out her clothes. “Is it okay out there?”

  “Totally okay.”

  She nodded. “Moose and Benjy want us to meet them back at the BeeWatch lab.”

  20

  The lab was more like a hut attached to a shed. The shed was actually pretty nice, temperature controlled, watertight, made of reinforced steel. That’s where the monitoring equipment was kept. The lab consisted of a ten-by-ten wooden structure with a window and a door and the BeeWatch logo on the side.

  The tops of the trees were still bathed in a rosy glow, but the afternoon warmth was gone and sitting on plastic patio chairs, drinking beers, Benjy and Moose looked cold and grim.

  They stood up when they saw us, and led us inside. It was warmer inside, but tight. There was a workstation along one wall, with two chairs, a couple of servers on the floor, and two large screens.

  Benjy moved the mouse and the screen came to life. As we waited for the progress bar to make its way across the screen, Annalisa asked quietly, “So was that the GMO bees? Is that what that was?”

  “You tell us,” Moose replied.

  Benjy gave him a disapproving look, then nodded. “Apparently the USDA gave Stoma a provisional approval for the bee usage on the Island of Martha’s Vineyard. They got an application from Johnny Blue.”

  Annalisa put her hand over her mouth.

  “Farmers in some other states have applied for a special exemption,” Moose added, deliberately speaking to me and not to Annalisa. “They want to accelerate what little approval process there is so they can use the bees on the mainland. Stoma is using this as a pilot program. They’re hoping if they can make it here, they can take it anywhere.”

  Benjy sighed. “Farmers are scared they’re going to lose their crops.”

  Moose rolled his eyes. “Well, sure. But GMO bees for God’s sake? Untested mutants that can fly around and mix with other bees? That can displace other bees? Hybridize with them? Christ, that can sting people and inject genetically modified venom into them?”

  Benjy put up his hands. “Hey, I hear you buddy. I’m on your side. I’m just saying, it’s not easy being a farmer.”

  The screen blinked and displayed a series of graphs, most of them incomprehensible. But it was easy enough to read the trends: from left to right a bunch of wavy lines, one bold and a half dozen other ones, all showing a brief gentle incline, then a jagged and erratic decline ending in a precipitous drop off, down to nearly nothing.

  Benjy turned to Annalisa. “See?”

  She nodded grimly.

  “You come up with the same thing?” he asked her.

  She nodded slightly. “Preliminary results are pretty clear, yeah. But the program was still crunching the numbers when I left.”

  “So what does that mean?” I asked, pointing at the screen.

  “It means we’re fucked,” Moose whispered.

  “That’s the honeybee activity we’ve been tracking,” Benjy replied, pointing to the most prominent line. “You can see it’s been suffering for a while. But just this week, it’s been plummeting. That’s scary enough, but these”—he moved his hand over the lesser lines—“these are the other native pollinators, mostly bumblebees. The honeybee line is devastating and tragic, but not altogether unexpected. But these mean that whatever is happening to the honeybees is also happening to the other pollinators. That’s new. And it’s scary as hell.”

  “But there’s still a chance it could be equipment failure, right?” Moose said. “I mean, all this cutting-edge equipment is still in the experimental stage, right?”

  Benjy shrugged. “It’s possible. We’ll know more when we check the analysis Annalisa’s been running. And when we get the next round of data after the resets.”

  He looked at Annalisa. “You think your data is ready?”

  She looked at her watch. “I think so, yeah. We can go right now, if you’d like.”

  Everyone turned to leave except Moose. “Even if the data’s wrong, if the honeybees are limping along like they have been, we’re still fucked. If those helicopters were bringing in Stoma’s GMO bees, we’re fucked. The battle’s over. Once they get out, they’re out.” He shook his head slowly. “No offense, Annalisa, but Stoma is bad news. They don’t fuck around. And if they’ve spent millions of dollars on a genetically modified superbee, it’s going to make its way onto the market. Right now, looks like we’re the market.”

  * * *

  Moose rode with Annalisa and me, a sort of chaperone, I think. Benjy followed behind us. We passed Johnny Blue’s big gate, already pelted with eggs, and we shared a snicker over that. As the road turned to the left, I tapped the brakes.

  The road up ahead was almost blocked by a milling crowd. Hard to tell in the waning light, but it looked like a lot of the same people from the incident at the ferry.

  “Oh no,” Annalisa said, her voice quavery as she put her hand over her mouth.

  “Is that your lab?”

  She nodded. “On the right.”

  “They might not be here for you,” I told her.

  “That’s part of Johnny Blue’s property,” she said.

  The crowd was on the left-hand side of the street, and as we got nearer, I could see they were facing away from her lab.

  A couple of faces in the crowd turned to watch as we approached, but most ignored us completely. Benjy was a couple of car lengths back. When we reached the crowd, Annalisa pointed to a driveway on the right and said, “It’s here.”

  As we turned in, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw what all the commotion was about. Across the road, forty yards back, were the two white lab units the helicopters had been carrying, a big red Stoma logo on each of them. Moose and Annalisa turned in their seats to look out the back window, gasping when they saw it.

  “Holy shit,” Moose said.

  “Oh, no,” Annalisa whispered, a new edge to her voice.

  Before I could ask what about it was bothering her, the driveway turned to the right, and there, in front of us, was a similar lab unit, but smaller than the other two and more like a regular trailer. Above the Stoma logo was BEE FUTURES—A DIVISION OF in much smaller letters. Luckily, it wasn’t visible from the road.

  “This is where you work?” Moose snorted. “No, they don’t own you.”

  She gave him a dirty look a
s we got out of the car, the closest thing to a rise I’d seen him get out of her. Benjy pulled in behind us.

  “Look, I know this looks bad,” Annalisa said as we walked up to the lab. “But this is the deal I have with them: they supply the equipment, so they put their name all over it.” She took out her key card. “They leave me alone and let me do my work. And it’s really nice equipment.”

  She opened the door and we followed her inside. By the way Benjy and Moose were eyeing the equipment, I could tell it was as nice as it looked. The chairs and the carpet were nice, too.

  Annalisa flipped on a couple of switches and the screens came to life. Then she opened the door to the next room and screamed.

  21

  Almost before the scream died in her throat, she was apologizing. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You startled me.”

  “My apologies to you, Dr. Paar,” said a thin voice. As he emerged from the shadows of the office, I recognized Jordan Sumner, her boss. “I certainly had no intention of frightening you. It seems as though we are going to be neighbors for a while, so I thought the neighborly thing would be to come and say hello.”

  As he looked from her to us, his smile drooped.

  Annalisa cleared her throat. “Dr. Sumner, these are some of my colleagues from BeeWatch, the nonprofit entity I told you about. We are working together on a census of the local bee populations.”

  “I see,” he said as he looked at Benjy and Moose. His smile faded further when he got to me, and his eyes lingered. I didn’t think he was buying it.

  “It’s an honor, Dr. Sumner,” I said.

  His smile returned. “The honor is mine, Detective Carrick.”

  He looked away without watching my reaction, instead enjoying Annalisa’s. Before she could try to explain, he clapped his hands together. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer from your work. I just wanted to stop by and say hello. I’ll let myself out.”

  As soon as he was gone, Annalisa slumped into one of the plush swivel chairs that lined the work space and the rest of us exhaled simultaneously.

  “No,” Moose said. “You don’t work for the bad guys.”