The Blacklist--The Beekeeper No. 159
Page 28
A small cough came from behind him. Stuart jumped, dropped the spoon, and spun. Raymond Reddington was sitting on a fallen log a short distance away, his brown suit and fedora looking out of place in the wilderness. Elizabeth Keen stood near him.
“Good evening, Stuart,” said Reddington. “Always a pleasure to run into an old friend.”
Stuart snatched up the spoon, dropped it in with the others, and slammed the box shut. “Red. Honestly! What are you doing out here?”
“You’re holding the answer in your hand, Stuart. Though at your age, holding much of anything in your hand is quite an accomplishment.”
“I didn’t see you offering to help with the digging.” Stuart picked the box up and clutched it to his chest. Gritty dirt lined his fingernails. “Leave it, Red. We’ve resolved our differences. This one is mine.”
“Walk with me back to my new car,” Reddington said. “I’ll give you a ride.”
A few minutes later, the two men were sitting in silence on either side of the back seat of the new sedan while Dembe guided the car out of the park. Keen sat up front, but turned to look in the back.
“Now I know how dear Elizabeth feels,” Reddington said. “The way I see it, that box of silver—”
“—and gold,” Keen interrupted.
“—is the real reason you brought me the information about the Bodysnatcher taking people to the Hive in the first place,” Reddington finished.
“You wanted to insinuate yourself so you could look for it,” Keen said.
“It’s the Gorey family treasure,” Stuart said. “Vivian is descended from them. Part of the family story was that Robert and Jacob Gorey left a carving in a cave somewhere to remind themselves of where the treasure was buried.”
“The Great Tree,” Reddington said. “We were standing underneath it.”
“You even worked on it,” Keen added. “A stone-age carving from Native Americans that the Goreys expanded to use as a map.”
“Griffin must have known most of that tree wasn’t much more than three hundred years old,” Stuart said. “I think he decided to make it a centerpiece, a sacred spot to inspire awe in his followers, and they elaborated on it. They even found the chisel Robert and Jacob used to carve it. What a find that was! I could scarcely hide my excitement.”
“Why now?” Reddington said. “Why not ten years ago? Or twenty?”
“I didn’t know where to look. Only some time after the Internet was invented did it occur to me to research caves close to the Gorey family farm, and by the time I had narrowed things down, the Beekeeper had already taken them over. So I turned to you.” He looked down at the box with a faraway stare. “Vivian loved that story, of Robert and Jacob slipping into the woods and hiding the family treasure and leaving a secret carving. How she laughed! I would give anything to hear that laugh again, Red. Memories are all I have left of her, and I won’t apologize for taking this.”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to apologize for anything, my friend,” Reddington said with genuine affection. “And I do mean friend.”
Stuart relaxed a little. “Her ghost can rest now that I’ve found this last piece of her family history.”
“Of course,” Reddington continued, “you aren’t really a descendant of the Goreys. You only married into the family, as it were.”
“What are you talking about?” Stuart’s guard was up again.
Dembe pulled the car into a driveway. The house was tall and white, with spindly pillars holding up the front porch. A generous flower garden made up a large part of the front lawn. The place had clearly been added to over the years, but needed work, including paint and new windows. A green historical marker out front proclaimed that it was the Gorey House.
“I believe a Mrs. Rowena Kelvin, born Rowena Gorey, lives here now with her husband and four children,” Reddington said. “Your second or third cousins, are they not?”
“Oh, no.” Stuart clutched the box tighter. “No. Red. You can’t mean this.”
“It’s only fair,” Keen said.
Moments later, a startled Rowena Kelvin, née Gorey, was accepting a box of clattering silverware and gold coins from a young woman and two odd men, the second of whom thanked her for her time, and tipped his fedora.
“At least drop me off at my own car,” Stuart complained as they drove off.
“I wouldn’t dream of leaving you stranded.” Reddington took a case from his jacket pocket. “Cigar?”
“No, thank you,” Keen said.
“May as well.” Stuart clipped the proffered Cuban and accepted Reddington’s light. “I’m broke, you know.”
“You’ll survive, Stuart,” Reddington said. “You’re one of the smartest men I know.”
They arrived at Stuart’s car, which he had left near the ranger station at the edge of the national park. Dembe opened the door for Reddington, and he and Stuart shared a final embrace.
“Keep in touch,” Reddington said.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Stuart said.
“Another aphorism?” Keen asked archly.
“More of a white lie,” Stuart said, and both men grinned.
Keen got into the car with Reddington and Dembe drove off. She watched Stuart through the back window until he faded from sight.
“I feel bad for him,” Keen said. “Even after everything he put us through, I feel bad for him.”
“I wouldn’t.” Reddington puffed on his cigar and blew smoke out the open window. “Stuart will land on his feet. He always does. By the way, have I ever mentioned a Blacklister to you, one by the name of the Gamester?”
And Keen closed her eyes.
* * *
Once Reddington’s sedan had disappeared into the night, Stuart got into his own car, leaned back against the headrest, and sighed.
“Thank you, Viv,” he murmured.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a rotting leather bag. From it spilled a family fortune in emeralds.
“Thank you, indeed,” said Stuart Ivy.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steven Harper Piziks was born with a name that no one can reliably spell or pronounce, so he often writes under the pen name Steven Harper. He lives in Michigan with his family. When not at the keyboard, he plays the folk harp, fiddles with video games, and pretends he doesn’t talk to the household cats. In the past, he’s held jobs as a reporter, theater producer, secretary, and substitute teacher. He maintains that the most interesting thing about him is that he writes books.
Steven is the creator of The Silent Empire series, the Clockwork Empire steampunk series, and the Books of Blood and Iron series for Roc Books. He’s also written novels for Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica, and the Ghost Whisperer.
COMING SOON FROM TITAN BOOKS
The Blacklist: The Dead Ring No.166
Jon McGoran
A massive fire on a bridge in West Texas: a tanker truck released its load and incinerated twenty-three cars and seventy-two people. A tragic accident, or something more sinister? Raymond Reddington reveals to Elizabeth Keen that this and many other horrific incidents in past years—seventy people killed in a warehouse fire in Turkey, a mine collapse in South Africa, 120 dead in a capsized ferry in Indonesia—were not the terrible accidents they seemed to be but were in fact collateral damage in a highly lucrative and deadly game known as The Dead Ring…
An all-new original The Blacklist novel.
March 2017
TITANBOOKS.COM