The Bee Keeper

by Vincent, Tracy D

  Table of Contents

  The Bee Keeper

  Copyright

  Dedication

  THE THIEF

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  THE BLACKMAILER

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  THE DOUBLE-CROSSER

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE LOVER

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE DEALER

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  THE HEAD

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Jack’s Notes

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The Bee Keeper © 2017 Tracy D. Vincent

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

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  To my husband who has all the faith in me

  I’m so fucked.

  Irrevocably and undeniably fucked, and I don’t even know why.

  Here I sit in Hartford’s wonderful and always pleasant correctional facility awaiting the supposed defense attorney. My ass is numb, my wrists hurt, and I’m bored out of my ever-loving mind. They’ve had me sit alone in this room filled with benches for God only knows how long.

  Once you visit, you’ll never want to leave… Hartford’s propaganda department must get paid big bucks for crap like that. It’s only nice if you have loads of money. If the snooty sleazebags ever showed up on the seedier side of the tracks, they’d see just how “awesome” and “amazing” this shithole really is. Our dictator, Senator Wright, would have everyone believe that we have low crime and a promising economy. This isn’t true, of course. It’s filled with payoffs and mafia and deception. But then, isn’t it the same everywhere?

  I don’t even know why I’m in here. It isn’t like I’ve never been arrested before. I’m not a saint, but it’s never been like this. Sure, I’ve committed several petty crimes. Strike that. Let me be honest, several doesn’t quite cover it. There have been so many I can’t keep up with them all. That’s why I don’t. But I don’t think I’ve done anything heinous. No one’s died because of them. I don’t incite riots, terror, or panic, nor do I instigate people to rebel against authority. I simply relieve them of some worrisome trinkets…mostly. Sometimes, I might even give them a painting or three to help beautify their neighborhood.

  Frankly, waiting is a bitch. I just want to stand and stretch my legs, pull my arms over my head and reach for the ceiling, or at least toward each wall. Staying in this position for so long is starting to hurt. They didn’t believe in putting a back support in, so I either slump or sit ramrod straight. I wish this attorney would hurry up.

  They never really told me the charges they are lobbying against me, even though I asked on multiple occasions. I just get the same old “You know what you did, why don’t you just confess.” Thing is, I don’t know what I did. This is standard for Hartford though. That’s not something they advertise to the yokels they’re trying to bring in, but if you live on my side of town, this is common practice. Arrested–booked–tried–found guilty–a little time in lockup–released. They need us so that we can keep the local Mafioso in business. It’s only when one of us goes too far, reaches our hands into the wrong pockets that…certain measures are taken. And if the crime is deemed bad enough, they bring in the Bee Keeper. I can’t help the involuntary shudder that name evokes in me. I think all us kids on the wrong side have the same response. Hell, who can blame us?

  The stories surrounding the Bee Keeper are the things of legend. Rumors have it that it’s not one person, it’s just what they call the death chamber. Others say that it’s a euphemism for hell. But on the street, there are stories. The kind of tales that parents tell their children to keep them in line. I never pay attention to that sort of bullshit. Most of the ones I’ve heard involve torture of some sort. The most common is that he’s called “the Bee Keeper” because he unleashes a swarm of bees on you and lets them sting you until you suffer anaphylaxis and die. Another says it’s because he’s in control of a group of men who do his work without question. I don’t know, I really doubt it is any of those things.

  I ain’t skeert of no boogeyman, like my friend Charlie would say. But what if that boogeyman is real? Living on the streets, I have run across some pretty despicable people. Some are deserving of the moniker of devil or Satan or something even worse. Those are the people that give me nightmares and keep me from doing worse things than some theft or putting up graffiti.

  The door behind me opens and my heart rate speeds up because I don’t know who’s behind me, or what they’re going to do. Fuck, I hate the not knowing. I’m hoping that whoever it is lets me go, saying, “Sorry, Fawkes, maybe next time.” That isn’t my luck, though.

  The footsteps are quiet and measured, as though the person making them is giving each step careful thought. Each step closer. Closer to what, I don’t know, but anything is better than this not knowing.

  A woman crosses in front of me. She is really short. I’m not tall by any stretch of the imagination, but this woman barely makes it to my shoulders. Her eyes are so dark, they look bottomless. They look that way, at least, in this crappy fluorescent light. Her hair falls in tight curls around her head and just reaches her shoulders. The frown line crossing her forehead is the only thing that mars her prettiness. Prettiness. That’s the right word. She’s not beautiful. She’s not striking. Shit, she’s not even adorable. She’s simply pretty.

  “Angela,” she starts as she takes a seat on the bench in front of me. “You don’t mind if I call you Angela, right? I’m Margie Clementine and I’ve been sent here to give you legal counsel.”

  She doesn’t give me a chance to respond, so I know how this is going to go. This farce of a judicial system should be put in the books as on
e of the greatest mockeries of all modern time. There are no juries, though they’re reported as being held. Just some asshole who paid his way into the judge’s seat. That one plays judge, jury, and sometimes executioner.

  The corruption, which is obvious to the destitute—the broken—is steeped into every nook and cranny in Hartford, and no one is exempt. We wallow in it, those of us who’re unfortunate enough to be born poor. The rich feel that they’re above it and thus turn their eye away, not realizing that all their dollars are paying for it. Their comforts rely on it. And justice only belongs to those who can afford it. So yeah, I’m fucked.

  So very fucked.

  “Angela, are you listening to me?” She sounds exasperated. “Do you realize that you are in some serious trouble? If you’d just admit guilt and tell them where you’ve placed the briefcase, you’ll be sentenced to some jail time. The Bee Keeper…” She trails off, that frown line burrowing deeper into her forehead. Only now, her lips are pushed so tight together that they’ve almost disappeared. “Angela, the Bee Keeper doesn’t play around. The things that he does to people…” She shudders as if the mere thought of what she didn’t say is too horrible to even imagine.

  Why is she talking about the Bee Keeper? I’ve not done anything to go there.

  “Wait…what briefcase?” I am so confused; no one has mentioned a briefcase before now. I try to think back to my past few jobs. There is the car, and before that was some gold jewelry from that house on Upton Avenue. Then three months before that I stole some tools from the mechanic’s shop on Afton Reid Highway just outside of town. “I haven’t stolen a briefcase.”

  Ms. Clementine gives me this disbelieving look like I told her I didn’t eat her cookie when she sees it in my hand. “Listen, Angela, I know living in the streets is rough, and that makes you feel like you’re invincible…but”—she gives a deep sigh as though she’s seeking help with finding the right words—“but the Bee Keeper is only out for one thing: honesty. He doesn’t care how you feel, how tough you might think you are, or any of that. He only wants the truth and he’ll get it by any means he feels is necessary. And trust me, he will get it. He always gets it.”

  “I don’t know nothing about any briefcase. This is the first time anyone has said anything about a stupid briefcase. No one has even told me why I’m here, let alone what ‘truth’ I’m supposed to tell them. So, why don’t you do us both a favor and tell me why I’m chained to this floor, so I can tell you the ‘truth’ and be on my way.” I’m actually pretty proud at how tough and sure my voice sounded, though, honestly I’m getting pretty nervous. I fucking hate this crap.

  “Fine, we’ll do it your way. You’re officially being charged with murder and mutilation of a corpse; grand theft auto; leaving the scene of a crime; as well as theft of a briefcase belonging to Senator Geoffrey Wright. Apparently, there are sensitive documents in that briefcase and if they’re found to be government-related, you’ll be arraigned on more charges. Is that serious enough for you?” She crosses one leg over the other and does her arms in the same manner over her chest.

  “Murder? Mutilation of a fucking corpse?” The words spew out of my mouth like projectile vomit. “What the hell do you think I am? I’m a thief. That’s all…well, I also sometimes put up a little graffiti, but shit, I’m not a murderer! First of all, Ms. Clementine, I stole a car. It was a fancy sports car. Second, I rode around the city in it and when that got boring, I drove it to the suburbs and dumped it in some quiet, dead-end neighborhood street. Then I hoofed it back to Montrose Boulevard where I caught the 6B line bus to Clairmont then walked the three blocks home. There was no body and there was no briefcase. So someone must have done that in the ҆burbs because that shit wasn’t me. Why would I want a briefcase anyway? I can’t melt it down and sell it. Papers are too easy to trace back to me.” I stare at her. I’m kind of pissed off. I know I am a petty criminal but I’m not a stupid one. Sure, I’m busted right now so I can’t be too smart, but what would I—Angela Fawkes—want with government papers?

  “Do you have proof that you didn’t kill anyone, tear chunks of their skin and remove their face, hands, and teeth, and steal the briefcase? Witnesses? Because if you do, now’s the time to start giving me information and names so I can get them to corroborate your story. If you can’t give me any proof, we have your DNA in the car, placing you inside the vehicle. And your DNA is the only one that can’t be accounted for. So, again, please, tell me where that briefcase is and we can try to stall them from sending you to see the Bee Keeper. Angela, you really do not want to see him. I have heard such horrible stories.” She trails off and purses her lips again.

  “Of course I don’t have any proof. That would make me a bad thief. But I promise you, I’ve never killed anyone, or even seen anyone die. Except for old man Jack, and I still didn’t see him die. I just found him a few minutes after it happened. Can’t they just test the body or something? They’ll not find anything of mine on or around it.”

  “Angela, you know that the media is going to turn this into a circus. It’s the senator’s car, for crying out loud. They want this open and shut before word hits the papers and TV. So, sorry, unless you can tell us where the briefcase is, they’re going to send you to the Bee Keeper, if for no other reason than as a warning to anyone else who might want to cross the government.” Clementine really does seem sad that I’ll be used this way. “For what it’s worth Angela, I believe you. I can’t change anything, but I do believe you. Let’s just hope that he does too and gives you leniency.”

  At that, she stands up and smooths down her wrinkle-free pencil skirt. “Bye, Angela, I’ll say a prayer at Benedict’s for mercy on you.” She turns without waiting for a response and walks out the door.

  “Fuck me.”

  They move me into a cell with bars on one side and cinderblock on the other three. In one back corner, there is a stainless steel toilet, and along one of the walls, a slab with a thin mattress on it. This is what they like to call a bed. Some might complain, but I’ve slept in doorways, so the fact that I can stretch out and not get rained on, kicked, or pissed on is an improvement from my past experiences. What I don’t appreciate is their methods of bathing. I get a hose that feels like it’s sanding my skin off. The worst part is they cut my brown hair to above the shoulders. They might as well have shaved me bald as far as I’m concerned. My hair is the only thing I am vain about.

  The farce called “the court” still hasn’t “officially” charged me with anything, regardless of what the attorney says. They haven’t said shit to me, actually. Other than the visit from Ms. Clementine, it’s like I don’t even exist to these people.

  I fucking hate this waiting. I’m half-tempted to shank my guard if it will hurry this up. If I’m going to see the Bee Keeper, then I might as well do something worthy of seeing him, right? I can’t do that to Ernie, though. He’s a cool man, even if he is a guard at the jail. I’ve run into him a time or two from my visits to some friends. He’s always been cool with me. My buddies say that if you’re nice to him, he’s sweet as pie back. Don’t be nice to him…well, you might be missing your dessert from your meal tray. Or your letters from home, or you might get dirty underwear or something.

  Word is that only those who commit the worst crimes are handed over to the Bee Keeper. The worst thing I ever did is steal some rich boy’s car and have a joy ride. Afterward, I simply dumped the car off twenty miles away in some safe neighborhood.

  I lay low after that car job. I always do after a bigger job. The car is the biggest lift that I have attempted, and my intention was to stay radio silent for a longer period of time. Well, that got fucked in the ass, because I am sitting here only days afterward. But surely, a simple car theft—no matter how expensive the car—isn’t worthy of the Bee Keeper.

  Maybe this is the Bee Keeper, the anticipation. Because, the truth of the matter is, I’m anticipating like a motherfucker.

  They make me wait—in solitary, no less—in this ga
ted palace for almost two weeks before I get escorted out. It’s really early morning; the sun hasn’t fully risen by the time they take me to a car with blacked out windows. This doesn’t look like any prison van to me. To say I’m confused is a gross understatement. Who the hell gets pulled out of jail and put into a chauffeured car? Apparently, thieves of senator’s expensive cars, that’s who. Of course, I’m still handcuffed and guarded. This isn’t like the movies where the person is taken out and there are protestors in the street and people spitting and yelling. Actually, there’s no fanfare at all. This is a private door behind a private fence and the only people around are guards and me.

  Deputy Dude, as I call him, puts me into the seat, grabbing my head to make sure I don’t crack it on the car frame, and then slides in right next to me. To my left side is Deputy Dipshit. It’s like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. These two are always together. Dude is kind, quiet, and generally okay. Dipshit, on the other hand, is crude, lewd, and an asshole.

  Dipshit leans over and whispers in my ear, “You know what they say about the Bee Keeper, princess? They say that he leaves no one alive. So, what do you say to a little fun before we hand you over? It’ll be the last time you get to feel a cock.” His hand snakes up and starts squeezing my left breast.

  “Well, Deputy Dipshit, if I’m to get any cock, it sure as hell can’t come from you. Now get your fucking hand off my tit!” I struggle to get away from him, but I can’t do much since my hands and feet are handcuffed together. Luckily for me, Deputy Dude isn’t like his buddy.

  “Dammit, Mike! Get your hands off of her.” Dude honestly looks disgusted by this whole display.

  Dipshit just grabs for my breast again, even though I’m trying to twist in the seat to put my feet between us. Dude just leans forward and pounds on the glass separating us from the front. The car comes to a stop and Dude gets out of the car and pulls me out behind him. The deputies in front get out as well.

  “Mike, ride in the fucking front with Suarez. And Mitchell, can you ride in back with me and the prisoner? Mike over there”—he motioned with his head toward Mike “The Dipshit”—“thought it would be cute to get handsy with her.” Dude is actually pretty pissed off. I read his nam tag. Dylan is his name…last name at least. Deputy Mitchell moves around the car to change places with Dipshit. Mitchell’s an old, pot-bellied man who looks like he laughs a lot.