The Blacklist--The Beekeeper No. 159

by Steven Piziks

  “We are the Hive.”

  “He doesn’t like you, you know,” said the white-haired Dr. Griffin. “He hates you. He hates all of us. He’s one of them. The ones who don’t understand us. The ones who want to kill us. Get rid of him. You have our permission.”

  “Squeeze the trigger.”

  “Pull it.”

  “He hates you.”

  “He hates us.”

  “Be one of us.”

  “We are the Hive.”

  “Mala,” spoke up the older woman, “he’s just like your father.”

  The words speared her with an icy nail. Mala felt her finger tightening on the trigger. It would be so easy. Dr. Griffin smiled and nodded. The barrel pointed straight at the young man’s forehead. His eyes filled with pain and terror. Her finger tightened further.

  “I… can’t,” she whispered, and moved the gun aside. A finger of disappointment slipped through her, and that surprised her.

  The whispering chant faded. Mala swallowed, and the fear knot in her stomach tightened again. Dr. Griffin would be angry now and who knew what he would do to her.

  Dr. Griffin exchanged a look with the older woman. She smiled and shook her head.

  “That’s all right, my dear,” Dr. Griffin said. “It’s your first day. My wife and I can’t expect miracles.”

  He grabbed her hand and whipped the gun around. Mala had time to notice Dr. Griffin’s hands were dry and soft, and wasn’t that an odd thing to think about? His finger folded around hers, and the gun fired. It jerked in her hand and the crack pounded her ears and bones. A red flower opened up on the young man’s forehead and a scarlet spray exited from the back. He went down without another sound. The sharp smell of cordite hung in the air.

  Mala couldn’t react, couldn’t think. She had just killed a man. She had ridden with this man all the way from Washington, felt his sweat against her skin. Some of it was probably still on her. Now his corpse lay at her feet. Blood flowed from his wounds, creating a scarlet flood for the ants on the ground below when a moment ago, he had been alive. His death was her doing. Her ribs turned to iron bands and the ground tilted a little beneath her, and only Dr. Griffin’s grip on her arm and hand kept her steady.

  “Well done,” said Mrs. Griffin, the older woman.

  “Indeed,” Dr. Griffin said as if Mala had just poured him a perfect cup of tea. “And next time you’ll do even better. But no chocolate for you. Do you understand why?”

  His tone was mild, but his hand remained tight around hers, and his eyes bored into her skull.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Wonderful! This way, then.”

  Dr. and Mrs. Griffin went first. The soldiers herded the group down the wide path behind the camouflaged gate. It wound through the shady green trees and would have been a perfectly pleasant summer walk if not for the fact that Mala had become a killer. She couldn’t comprehend it. She didn’t want to comprehend it. It was too big, too awful. She couldn’t have done such a thing.

  “Dr. Griffin wanted me to do it,” she whispered to herself. “He made me do it. The soldiers made me do it. It wasn’t me.”

  And it wasn’t. She glanced around at the Griffins and the soldiers. They had wanted her to do it, too. The young man had tried to run, even though the soldiers and Dr. Griffin had said not to. It wasn’t her fault, no it wasn’t. It was the group’s decision, and she was part of the group.

  The group came around a bend to a clearing that rose upward to a low mountain. Partway up, an outcrop of rock jutted out from the slope. They crossed the clearing in hot sunshine and Mala realized that the outcrop was the mouth of a cave, one large enough to drive a semi into. A soft plinking sound reached her, maddeningly familiar. A wave of hunger swept over her and she swayed dizzily, but the soldiers urged her forward. She wondered what would happen if she just refused. Mala remembered the young man—crack, blood, ants—and kept moving.

  “Inside now,” Dr. Griffin said, and the force of his personality pushed them ahead.

  When they entered, the sunlight cut out as if someone had shut off a faucet. Cool air washed over Mala and she felt marginally better. The cave had a floor of packed earth and the entrance had been carefully smoothed. The plinking sounds were louder now. The group shuffled farther down the tunnel. Mala realized they were going deeper under the hill. The plinking increased in volume with every step.

  Abruptly the tunnel burst into a great cavern the size of a cathedral. Mala stared about in awe. The pale stone walls rose high up, and a wooden scaffolding created a complicated series of ramps, balconies, and staircases that ran in a hundred directions. Electric bulbs brought in light bright as the sun. But the true masterpiece was the walls.

  The walls were carved in intricate geometric designs—triangles that formed larger triangles that formed yet larger triangles. Ocean waves so lifelike they seemed to bob up and down. Dizzying series of hexagrams. And in the center of the back wall was a great tree, fully twelve feet tall.

  All over the catwalks and staircases were people armed with hammers and chisels, their faces guarded with plastic masks. They chip, chip, chipped at the limestone walls, striking mallet to blade with a thousand little plinking sounds every minute. They worked with the intense concentration of people on a mission, of people with a purpose. Mala swallowed. This was a true group.

  “Welcome,” boomed Dr. Griffin, “to your new home. Welcome to the Hive.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Iris Henning’s place was also on the fourth floor. As they started up the stairs, Keen wondered what the hell it was about these women that required them to take the highest apartment possible.

  “Why can’t these places keep an elevator?” Navabi puffed behind her in accidental agreement.

  They reached the apartment. This time Keen knocked and got no answer. She and Navabi traded looks. Keen knocked again, then on a whim tried the doorknob. Unlocked. Keen nodded, and Navabi shoved the door open. She rushed inside, pistol out.

  At first glance, the small apartment beyond was empty, but the sweet and horrid smell washed over them in a terrible wave. Keen pushed back her gag reflex.

  “You getting that?” she asked.

  “Yep,” Navabi agreed. “Rancid.”

  Grimly they pulled gloves from their pockets and went through the apartment. This time, Keen took the bathroom. She switched on the light. The smell was considerably stronger here, and Keen was forced to choose between personal safety and violating a potential crime scene with vomit. The sanctity of the crime scene won. She holstered her pistol and put a handkerchief over her nose to ease the smell. Her urge to vomit lessened, and thank god. When she pulled aside the shower curtain, she found herself looking down at Iris Henning.

  The body was partially immersed in water, bloated and black. Hair splayed out in an awful cloud. Her skin was soft as rotten fruit. A thin drizzle ran from the faucet. The water in the tub had turned a cloudy gray, and Keen’s entire skin shied away from it. The urge to throw up came roaring back, and she took deep breaths through her mouth to hold off. Even through the handkerchief, Keen’s nose and stomach were turned inside-out by the stench, and she swallowed hard to avoid throwing up. This had been a thinking, living person, and now she was a pile of rotten flesh and split skin in fetid water. Keen staggered away and all but bumped into Navabi.

  “Bedroom’s clear,” Navabi reported. “Bathroom’s not?”

  “In no way,” Keen replied. “We need a forensic team. Don’t go in there.”

  Navabi went in there.

  When she came back out, her expression was undisturbed, but her face was pale. “I hate that kind,” was all she said, and Keen didn’t know if Navabi meant the body or the killer or both. Keen activated her phone and made the call.

  “Normally I’d want to have a look to see if we could tell how she died,” Keen said when she was done, “but I think I’ll leave this one to the professionals.”

  “No argument,” Navabi agreed, sinki
ng onto the couch. “We’ll have to process the whole bathroom once forensics gets here. But in the meantime—why kill Iris? Is it related to Mala’s disappearance?”

  “Could be,” Keen mused. “Reddington didn’t mention that the Bodysnatcher killed, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t. In fact, now that I think about it, killing Iris makes a great deal of sense. Reddington said he—the Bodysnatcher—was meticulous about covering his tracks. Iris knew something, and the Bodysnatcher killed her to ensure her silence.”

  “What would she know?”

  “Maybe Iris saw the Bodysnatcher kidnapping Mala,” Keen mused aloud. “Maybe Iris was even there when it happened.”

  “So why dump her body back here?”

  “To leave Mala’s place pristine,” Keen said.

  Navabi nodded. “Meanwhile, the water in the bathtub will wipe out a lot of clues—fibers, foreign hairs, DNA traces. Forensics will strain the tub, but did you see that the faucet was on? A lot of trace will be washed down the safety drain.”

  “Meticulous,” Keen said, opening a window to help clear out the smell. It helped only a little. “So who hired the Bodysnatcher to take Mala and why?”

  “Her father?” Navabi hazarded. “They’re estranged. Stingster guy is wealthy and powerful. Maybe he wanted her back. It’s like a man to want to control his daughter.”

  “Not all men—” Keen objected.

  “A great many,” Navabi countered. “Men always want control. The men in my family tried to control me. Reddington tries to control you.”

  Keen found herself starting to protest that he didn’t, then stopped herself. Reddington was continually meddling in her life, trying to control her. He rarely did it directly, opting instead to convince her that what he wanted her to do was right, and more often than not, she found herself agreeing with him. And why the hell was that? Reddington had been in her life for so long now, it felt like he had been there forever. Ever since Sam Scott, her adopted father, had died, Reddington had slipped gently into the role he had once occupied; the world’s strangest adviser and protector, and for reasons he had still not fully explained.

  “Anyway,” Keen said, “we should explore the possibility that Mala’s own father hired the Bodysnatcher. But that opens the question—”

  Keen’s phone buzzed. Annoyed, she checked it. Dembe, on a burner phone, though she knew who was really calling. Reddington himself used cell and satellite phones sparingly, preferring instead to make other people call for him. She answered.

  “He’s downstairs,” Dembe said without preamble. “He wants to see you.”

  “When we’re done here,” she said, thinking about the control again.

  There was a moment’s hushed conversation over the line.

  “He says it can’t wait. He has more information about the Bodysnatcher and Mala Rudenko.”

  “What? Why didn’t he mention this earlier?”

  Another consultation, and Dembe came back on the line.

  “Timing.”

  Navabi gave Keen a sideways look as she clicked off.

  “Don’t say it,” Keen sighed.

  “But we’re going downstairs, aren’t we?”

  “I am,” Keen said. “Someone has to stay up here to keep the crime scene secure and brief the forensics team.”

  “So it’s not just men who want control,” Navabi said.

  Keen ignored this and trotted down the stairs to the street, where Dembe opened the back door to Reddington’s town car. To her surprise, Donald Ressler was in the front seat. Every fold of his suit was perfectly pressed and the knot in his tie was first-date straight.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded as she climbed in.

  “Cooper sent me,” Ressler said. “You and I are joining the advance team.”

  “I’ve had Dembe pack you an overnight bag,” Reddington said, gesturing to the floor. “South Carolina awaits.”

  “You need to come clean with what you know,” Keen said sharply. “I can’t go in here blind and—”

  “Of course, of course.” Reddington twirled the fedora in his lap, then set it on one knee. “I’ve discovered the Bodysnatcher will be leaving with Miss Rudenko from the splendid hamlet of Roebuck, South Carolina in…” he checked his watch “…three hours and twenty minutes. He will travel south on Highway 215, which is locally known by the far more picturesque Stone Station Road. We have just enough time to set a trap for him and rescue the wealthy technology heiress.”

  “That’s convenient,” Keen said.

  “Isn’t it?” Reddington agreed mildly.

  “Why don’t we just grab the Bodysnatcher from wherever he is in Roebuck?”

  “Because although I can tell you when he will be taking the hapless Miss Rudenko away from Roebuck, I’m afraid I can’t tell you exactly where in Roebuck he’s holding her. Hence the reason timing is so crucial. Director Cooper was kind enough to send a small task force to meet us at Roebuck, though we’ll be able to travel in something more comfortable. Think of it as a perk.”

  “Of what?” Ressler said.

  “Of knowing me. By the way, I love that tie, Donald. Isaia is you.”

  The “something more comfortable” was Reddington’s private jet. Keen had ridden in it a number of times, but still couldn’t quite get used to the luxury. In her experience, flying was cattle lines at the airport and fighting over arm rests with small children. It definitely was not leather captain chairs, plush carpet, mahogany-paneled walls, and a wet bar. Reddington offered her and Ressler drinks from the latter, and both of them declined. Keen tried to pump Reddington for more information and utterly failed.

  “It’ll be easier to tell everyone all at once,” was all he’d say.

  So instead Keen spent the rest of her time on the phone with Cooper and consulting with Ressler. Cooper had already sent a small tactical team ahead to meet them in Roebuck.

  “Our best bet is a mock stop,” Navabi said over the speaker. “You and Ressler fake a breakdown that covers two lanes. We’ve done it before.”

  “The team waits inside the stalled out vehicle, and when the Bodysnatcher pulls over, we grab him,” Keen finished. “Works.”

  “Simple, straightforward, little to go wrong.” Cooper said from the phone. “Do it.”

  “No FBI identification on the agents, please,” Reddington said. “It needs to appear that everyone works for me.”

  “If you must,” Cooper agreed. “I’ll tell the field office.”

  “Anything at Iris Henning’s murder scene we should know about?” Keen asked.

  “Nothing,” Navabi said. “Whoever killed Iris covered his tracks well. Forensics is trying to get something from the bath water, but we aren’t hopeful.”

  “Why wasn’t the door locked?” Keen asked.

  “Forensics didn’t find scratches on the lock to show it was picked, and you saw yourself the door wasn’t damaged,” Navabi said.

  “So Iris let the killer in,” Ressler said.

  “Or he had a key,” Keen added. “Who would have a key?”

  “Landlord, super, a neighbor.” Keen could almost see Navabi ticking off on her fingers. “Family members.”

  “I hate to intrude on FBI business,” Reddington said.

  “That has to be the biggest lie I’ve heard you tell,” Keen said in a mock scold, “and that’s saying something.”

  Reddington ignored this. “The murder you’re investigating is unimportant. A distraction from the real case.”

  “It’s important to Iris and her family,” Cooper said.

  “The local gendarmes can tidy up these matters. We already know who the killer is and why he did it.”

  “We know the Bodysnatcher probably killed Iris to keep her quiet about Mala’s kidnapping,” Keen said.

  A small look of surprise crossed Reddington’s face, giving Keen no small amount of satisfaction.

  “I’m glad you settled that. There’s no reason to continue the investigation, then.”
/>   “If the Bodysnatcher is as careful as you claim,” Cooper said from the phone, “this may be one of the few times he left an actual clue to his identity or his motives. We don’t want to miss it.”

  “Crossing t’s and dotting i’s,” Reddington said. “If you must, Mr. Cooper. Just remember that this is not an investigation. It’s a fishing expedition, and we’re out to catch a whale.”

  * * *

  They arrived at a small airport in South Carolina and Dembe drove them in a sleek black sedan to the little town of Roebuck. Keen got an impression of 1940s cracker box houses interspersed with trailer parks and pre-fab houses trying to look upscale before they got to what passed for a town center near a grain elevator and a gas station.

  “Nothing says home like a bedroom community,” Reddington said sagely. “Do you see that house over there?” He pointed at a white home with red trim. Thin pillars held up the roof over an antebellum-style verandah. The front yard was immaculately mowed and planted with a rainbow riot of flowers. A green metal sign announced something in gold print, but the print was too small for Keen to read as they drove past.

  “That,” Reddington continued, “is a bit of Roebuck history they’re desperately trying to forget. The Gorey family has owned that house since the 1700s, and did they keep slaves! When the bit of nastiness we now call the Civil War developed, a member of the Gorey family shot and killed a young soldier. Before the war, the Goreys claimed the soldier was a Yankee. After the war, the Goreys claimed he was a Rebel.”

  “So the story depends on which side is winning,” Keen said as the house vanished into the distance.

  “Doesn’t it always? You know, legend also says Mamie Gorey was afraid the family silverware would be stolen and melted down during the war by those dreadful Yankees—with some justification, I might add—so she gathered up all the silver, a pile of gold coins they’d earned from selling a coffle of slaves, and her collection of emerald jewelry and gave it all to her husband Jacob and son Robert. She told them to take it to the woods far away and bury it where no one would find it, until the war ended and they could get it all back.”

  “Uh oh,” Keen said. “Which one of them didn’t come back?”