by Jon McGoran
She nodded. “I’m okay.”
We both jumped as her phone buzzed.
It was Jimmy Frank, so I answered. “It’s Doyle,” I said.
“We just got done here. I’m on my way to the airport. What’s going on?”
“They tried to get the mites off the island, but we stopped them.”
“Was that in the harbor?”
“Yeah.”
“I got reports.”
“Sumner’s jet is here. I think he’s trying to take the bees.”
“I’m five minutes away.”
“You bringing any friends?”
He paused for an instant. “No.”
“Get here quick. They’re at the west end of the runway.”
I put the phone down, and Nola said, “Is he bringing help?”
I shook my head. “Just him.”
I drove out onto the grass, flanking the runaway, giving the jet plenty of distance. When we were positioned so the jet was between us and the black truck, I stopped and turned to Nola.
“I need you to take the truck up another fifty yards or so, then double back onto the runway. You’re going to block their exit. You don’t have to get right up close, just as close as you feel safe. Then park across the runway. Use the parking brake. Lock the doors. Take the keys. Then run the other way, through the airport building. Find a restroom and wash as much of that stuff off you as possible, okay?”
She nodded, her eyes shiny and wide. “What are you going to do?”
I laughed. “I’m going to crash their party. Slow them down until Jimmy gets here.” I didn’t know what I expected to happen after that.
I gave her a kiss, and slipped out the door.
The truck rolled away, its taillights bright in the darkness. I hoped that between the lights from the airport and the lights from the plane, no one would notice.
Creeping up on the jet, I saw Sumner and one other guy loading boxes out of the back of the pickup and stacking them onto a hand truck. They were moving gingerly, and when I looked closely, I saw the same kind of white plastic hive boxes from Sumner’s lab, each bound with bungee cords, and not very securely. I’d be moving gingerly, too.
Sumner and his pal were wearing Tyvek suits, but they looked flimsy and they were open at the throat, with no hoods.
The pilot’s red face poked out the front hatch. “Jesus Christ, Sumner,” I heard him exclaim over the sound of the jet’s idling engine. “Are you fucking kidding me? This is bullshit.”
Sumner shook his head, smiling at his helper, like, “Can you believe this guy?” But the helper was stony-faced. Maybe wondering what happened to the last guy who had his job.
The helper had a sidearm. Sumner didn’t seem to. I couldn’t see anyone else.
“Five minutes,” the pilot said, watching them anxiously. “I swear to God, then I’m leaving.”
Sumner ignored him, lifting another box from the back of the truck.
In the distance, I heard helicopters, and in my mind I pictured Jimmy Frank and the cavalry coming to back me up. But I knew that’s not what it was.
I stepped out from behind the tail of the plane, holding my gun and my badge out in front, hoping nobody had the visual acuity to see the word “Philadelphia.”
“Hold it right there,” I said, using my cop voice.
Sumner looked over, surprised but not alarmed. His helper stacked the box he was holding on top of the others. Then he pulled his sidearm and pointed it at me. Beyond them, on the other side of the plane, I saw the Thompson Farm Supply truck rolling out of the darkness, right up next to the front of the plane. The dome light came on, and I saw a flash of Nola’s shirt. A second later I caught a glimpse of her silhouette as she ran toward the airport buildings.
“You’re under arrest,” I said, ignoring the guy with the gun.
Sumner shook his head, wearily. “Go away, Carrick. This doesn’t concern you.”
The helicopter rotors were getting louder. I could see lights coming in low over the treetops. Sumner didn’t seem to notice them, or at least not to mind.
“Put the box down,” I said. “And put your hands in the air.”
Sumner turned to his new sidekick and said, “If he tries to stop us, shoot him.”
The sidekick smiled like this was the first good news he’d heard all day. Sumner looked back at me, as if he had proven the point he was trying to make.
I looked around, hoping to see some sign of Jimmy, feeling the situation getting out of control.
The helicopter was right above us now, and descending. My heart fell as I saw the Stoma logo. But when Sumner looked up, he didn’t seem any happier about it than I was, squinting into the light, his face twisted in fear.
The helicopter touched down, and I expected a dozen Darkstar tactical troops, but instead it was a single aging billionaire.
77
Archibald Pearce teetered slightly as he crouched under the rotors; but he straightened as he walked up and stood tall a few feet away, ignoring me, my gun, and my out-of-state badge.
“There you are, Jordan,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.” He grinned, and it was scary. “That’s such a fancy jet. Makes me think I’m paying you too much.”
Sumner smiled but no one was buying it. “I’m just preparing for the special exemption.”
“I see,” Pearce said, nodding his head genially. He took out a cigar, bit off the tip of it and spat it onto the ground. “That’s good. I thought perhaps you were absconding with my bees.”
“Our bees, Pearce, not yours.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, lighting the cigar, puffing up a cloud of smoke. “Interesting specimens these bees, aye? So much promise. I’m glad we were able to rescue them from the ruins of your company. Glad we were able to rescue you, as well, old friend. Good thing we’re able to trust each other, aye? So important in a partnership, don’t you think?”
“Certainly is.”
“To show you how much I trust you,” Pearce said, putting the cigar into his mouth and reaching inside his jacket, “I am going to give you this. I think you missed it when you cleared out your lab.” He pulled out a handkerchief and unfolded it to reveal a vial of amber liquid, identical to the one in Sumner’s lab that was filled with alarm pheromone. “I don’t even know what it is,” he said loudly, fiddling with it a bit. “But I am sure if it had any noteworthy properties you would have told me already.”
Sumner paled. “I have every intention of telling you about it,” he said. “I can tell you about it right now, it’s—”
“Sh, sh, sh,” Pearce said gently, barely audible above the sound of the jet engine. He held up his hand. “No worries, mate. All about trust, right? You can tell me about it all in good time, okay?”
Sumner smiled and relaxed, relief flooding his face.
“But here,” Pearce said, smiling back at him. “Since you’re still working on it, you should probably take it with you for now.”
He tossed the vial straight to Sumner, whose eyes went round in terror as they tracked it through the air. He released the case he was holding, just in time to catch the vial. His focus was so intense that when he caught it, he smiled, just for a second, before he noticed the dampness on his hand, the wet spots on his chest. The cap missing from the vial.
I stepped toward Sumner, but I knew he was a dead man.
“Careful,” Pearce called out. “The top might be loose.”
The box split open as it hit the ground. Sumner looked down at it as the swarm gushed out and swirled around him in a tight cone, a cyclone of bees. A thin tendril peeled off to wrap around the henchman with the hand truck.
The pilot pulled in his head and closed the hatch. The sound of the jet engine rose in pitch and volume, but it couldn’t mask Sumner’s screams. The bees covered his head, burrowing under his suit. The sidekick stumbled, knocking over the stack of boxes. As he turned and ran, they all came open, releasing their contents to form an even more massive cloud.
As the bees swirled into the air, already agitated, the vial fell from Sumner’s bee-covered hand, shattering between his feet. The cloud collapsed into a solid mass, coalescing around him, obliterating him from sight.
I stepped back and turned my gun onto Pearce, who continued to ignore me. I looked back at Sumner, telling myself that if the bees came our way, I could outrun Pearce.
As Sumner’s screams became more muffled, the whine of the jet engine continued to ascend. The plane rolled forward, pushing against the truck now, denting the door, slowly nudging it aside. The engine was screaming now, and the bees in the air succumbed to its pull, zipping into the intake.
Sumner had remained standing much longer than Pug-face or Johnny Blue. His back seemed to be resting on the front of the wing. Then I realized the pull of the jet was holding him upright.
As the noise of the engine grew louder still, clumps of bees began to detach from the pile and shoot into the engine, sucked into the jet like it was a giant vacuum.
The passenger’s side window of the truck shattered, and the plane surged forward, pushing the truck almost out of the way.
By then most of the bees were gone, transformed into a smoky black spray shooting out the back of the engine. Sumner was visible but unrecognizable, his face a horrific mask, swollen shut against itself and twisted in agony. His arms raised, beseechingly, as he swayed back and forth like a nightmare version of those twenty-foot-tall air dancers in front of cell phone stores or used car lots.
He bent backward toward the intake, up on his toes. For a moment, I thought the engine was going to suck him in after the bees, then it sputtered and the sound dropped a few octaves. Flames flickered from the back, then it coughed black smoke and died altogether.
Sumner’s arms fell to his sides. He stood motionless for a moment. Then his knees buckled, and he slid to the tarmac.
As the sound of the engine fell away, I could hear more helicopters. A trio of them was coming in low over the trees. Part of me again hoped it was Jimmy Frank, coming with the cavalry. The other parts of me made fun of that part, teasing that part and calling it names.
I turned to Archie Pearce and for the first time he looked at me. “You’re under arrest,” I said.
Pearce took the cigar out of his mouth and laughed. “No, I’m not. You have no jurisdiction here, Detective Carrick. And you have no proof of anything. You have no evidence of any wrongdoing on my part.” He paused, his eyes twinkling. “But more important, I’m just not. And you know that.”
The helicopters were hovering over us now. The pilot of the jet slipped out of the the cockpit door and ran off into the darkness.
Flashing police lights appeared next to the airport buildings, a single cruiser swinging around in our direction. Jimmy Frank.
I heard a strange zipping noise, and simultaneously eight black-clad tactical agents descended on cables from two of the helicopters. They hit the ground with a slight flex of the knees, and suddenly eight assault weapons were pointed at my midsection.
They didn’t tell me to drop my weapon, so I didn’t, but holding it while they ignored it made me feel even more stupid. Pearce walked over to the jumbled pile of bee boxes and turned to the nearest agent. “Give me your knife,” he said. It was a big knife.
“You guys Darkstar?” I asked the guy closest to me.
His voice was muffled by his helmet and visor, but I’m pretty sure he said, “Darkstar’s for pussies.”
The third helicopter landed twenty yards away. In the light from the jet I could see that this one wasn’t black. It was green.
Pearce puffed the cigar furiously, blowing the smoke over the hive. Then he poked the knife into the side of the beehive and twisted, prying it open. He slid out one of the frames, then another, puffing smoke at it all the while. The third frame he pulled out had a single bee. “The queen,” he said triumphantly, to no one in particular. Then he slid the frame back into the box and repeated the process with the next box.
Jimmy screeched to a halt. As he got out of his cruiser, three of the assault weapons swiveled in his direction.
I called over to Pearce. “Now you’re in trouble.”
Jimmy looked at me, and I shrugged.
“What’d I miss?” he asked.
I gestured at Pearce, standing and brushing off his pant legs, his head in a cloud of cigar smoke. “I told him he was under arrest.”
“How’d he take it?”
“First stage is denial.”
The door to the green helicopter slid open, and a chest full of medals with gray hair and impeccable posture stepped out and walked toward us. “I’m Major General Vincent Van Cleef, U.S. Army,” he said. “What’s going on here?”
“He’s under arrest,” I said, pointing at Pearce. “And I’m pretty sure he is not going to come quietly.”
“Hello, Vincent,” Pearce said as he returned the knife to the agent who had loaned it to him.
Vincent nodded to him, and then turned to me. “On what grounds?”
I looked at Jimmy and raised an eyebrow.
“Fraud, theft, conspiracy to murder, racketeering. Violating the harbor’s anchorage rules. For starters.”
Pearce laughed and handed the cigar to the agent, as well. “Get those,” he said, pointing at the bee boxes. Then he walked back toward his helicopter, patting Van Cleef on the shoulder as he did.
Vincent nodded and cleared his throat. “Well, I’m afraid I am going to have to assume jurisdiction here.”
The agent with the cigar spoke into his wrist. A moment later a massive black canvas cargo bag descended on another black cable. The agent started gingerly loading the boxes into the sack.
“You know, these guys risked a catastrophe,” I said, loud enough for Pearce to hear. “Put millions of lives and a third of our food supply at risk, submitted falsified reporting documents.”
Van Cleef stared at me impassively. Pearce put one foot on the step to the helicopter; then he turned and gave me a little salute. I still had a gun in my hand, and I thought about using it, figuring I might be able to get off one shot before they cut me down. Then Pearce disappeared inside the helicopter.
The agents must have read my mind, or at least my face, because when I looked away I saw that three of them had my head in their sights.
“There’s at least five dead bodies, Van Cleef,” I called out as the rotors started up on Pearce’s helicopter. “Those bees are how most of them died.” The agent packing the bee boxes stopped and looked over at me. “You can’t just let him go,” I said.
He smiled at me, sadly and almost fondly, like I was a child who had observed for the first time that life is unfair. He gave his shoulders a slight hitch, probably the closest thing to a helpless shrug a man like him could muster.
“National Security,” he said, as if that explained it all. Then he turned on his heel and walked back to his helicopter.
Pearce’s copter rose into the air, and a moment later, so did Van Cleef’s. Once the bee boxes were all in the cargo bag, it disappeared into the air. The tactical agents each grabbed their lines and tugged, almost in unison, rising into the air as a group.
Jimmy and I watched as they rose and the helicopters holding them banked away into the night sky.
“What just happened?” he asked as the sound of the helicopters faded away to nothing and the lights disappeared over the treetops.
“Same thing that always happens.”
78
In the flashing red light of the approaching fire truck, I saw Nola running toward me across the tarmac, and in that moment I knew she was all that really mattered. She almost stumbled when she saw Sumner’s body from the corner of her eye, but she didn’t slow down, not a step. She kept coming until she wrapped her arms around my neck, holding me like she was never going to let me go. I hoped she never would.
“Is that Sumner?” she asked, her eyes darting toward his disfigured body, then away as she buried her face against my shoulder. She was wearing an
extra large Martha’s Vineyard T-shirt with the tags still on it. Her hair was damp and she smelled of cheap soap.
“It was,” I said, stroking her hair.
She pulled away from me, suddenly panicked. “What about the bees? Where are they?”
“They’re dead,” I said. “Sucked into the jet engine.” She looked over at the burned-out engine, at the front of the jet pressed up against the truck. “Or most of them are.”
She looked up at me. “What do you mean?”
“Archibald Pearce was here,” Jimmy said. “He showed up with some ninja SEAL Delta Force Texas Ranger types and the blessing of the U.S. government.”
She looked up at me, and I nodded.
“He did that to Sumner,” I said. “Then he left with the queens.”
“Are you serious?”
Jimmy nodded. Then so did I.
She thought about it for a second, then said, “I’m glad you’re okay,” burying her face against my shoulder, holding me almost as tight as I was holding her.
Eventually, she pulled away. “What about Sumner?” She gestured at the crumpled body without looking at it. “We should tell the authorities what happened.”
I looked around at the jet, flames licking out of the engine, then at the smashed truck and the approaching fire units. “I’m pretty sure they already know.”
79
A bee hovered in front of my face and I froze, resisting the urge to swat it away. It meandered over to the tomatoes and then settled on some cucumbers. It was late July, and the garden was exploding. I knew Nola had a knack, but I hadn’t fully appreciated it until the salads started appearing every night, all produced in our own little garden.
The bees still made me jumpy, but I was getting over it. Seeing how hard they worked, I had to admire them.
The events on Martha’s Vineyard caused enough of an uproar that the special exemption was rescinded, and the pilot program on the island cancelled. All the Bee-Plus bees were removed from the island and returned to isolation at Stoma’s facility on Samana Cay. More than a dozen feral hives were found on the island and destroyed.
