by Jon McGoran
Stepping up to the door, I swiped the card through the reader. I was surprised and vaguely disappointed by the green blink and the muted click as the lock released. I took a deep breath. Then I went inside.
It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The place was just as we’d left it: a dull red glow splashed here and there, everywhere else awash in shadows. I could smell a hint of patchouli. I put my gun on top of the server cabinet and slid the server out, released the clips on either side. The server easily lifted up and out, but the cords in the back had very little slack. I reached around and released the power cable, gaining a few more inches but no more.
The rest of the cords were tightly bundled and fastened to the side of the rack with a plastic tie. I reached around with my wire cutters to snip the plastic, squinting hard to see in the darkness.
Then suddenly I could see just fine.
Light was pouring in from the open door, framing a large silhouette. As the door closed, I saw a gun rising in my direction. Then the lab returned to darkness. I jammed the wire cutters against the entire bundle of cables and squeezed as hard as I could. The server came free and I heaved it at the figure stepping through the curtain. He put up his hands, but the server caught him on the bridge of his nose with a wet, meaty thunk. His head snapped back, and the gun went off. A small circle of light appeared in the ceiling. Below it, a larger one appeared on the floor.
That’s when the buzzing started: deep and throaty, sounding far off and close at the same time. In the light from the hole in the roof, I recognized Pug-face, bloody and angry.
He tried to bring up his gun again, but the server somehow snagged onto his sleeve. I didn’t have time to go for my own gun, so I closed on him, grabbing his wrist, trapping the server between our bodies. I caught a whiff of something nasty coming off him, and for a moment I thought he still smelled of the sewage I had lured him through. But that wasn’t it. It was skunk.
I laughed—not taunting or victorious or even maniacal—just a laugh because I thought it was funny. But as I did he got his gun hand loose and chopped it down on my collar bone, causing me to step back and giving him enough space to take another shot. The server came down on his foot, making the shot go wild.
Another hole appeared, this one in the back wall, and I was relieved it wasn’t in me or the panels separating us from all those bees, now sounding louder and angrier.
I tensed to lunge for the gun on the server cabinet, but Pug-face was swinging his gun at me once again. I crashed into him and grabbed his wrist. He tried to throw me but I dragged him with me. Together, we slammed into the opposite wall.
I felt something dig into my back and the drone of the bees grew louder still, accompanied now by a mechanical hum as the wall panels started to slide up into the ceiling. Grappling, we fell sideways against one of the workstations. I heard glass breaking and something splashed my arm, my sleeve. The sound of the bees rose from a buzz to a scream. I spun away, sending Pug-face sprawling across the counter, his shirt soaking up pheromone and whatever else we’d spilled, his face inches from the mesh.
Even in the dim light, I could see the screen bristling with tiny daggers, already wet with venom as the bees frantically tried to inject their poison into something, someone, anything.
The smell of skunk was still strong coming off Pug-face, but over it I could detect the sweet, dangerous smell of the alarm pheromone.
Pug-face seemed mesmerized by the sight of the screen, maybe not realizing what it was. Maybe I was mesmerized, too, because I should have grabbed my gun and shot him. Then he seemed to understand, and his eyes went wide, their whites vivid even in the dim light. He spun, frantically trying to get away, trying to point that damned gun at me again.
I grabbed his wrist with two hands, leaving his other hand free to land three quick punches to my abdomen that altered the arrangement of my internal organs. But it gave me the leverage I needed to push his gun hand up against the mesh screen, against the thousands of bees frantically trying to sting.
He let out a growl, low at first but increasing in pitch as I held his hand in place and hundreds of stingers plunged into his skin. He stopped punching me and pried my hands off his. Then he gave me a savage shove and pulled his hand away from the screen, tugging it, like it was stuck on with Velcro. He got it free, but it was already useless. The gun fell away, hitting the counter and tumbling into the shadows.
He went for my gun, still on the server cabinet, but when I sprung at him he turned to fend me off. I tried to picture him standing in Annalisa’s kitchen, the blood spurting out of his shoulder, and I drove my fist as hard as I could into that exact same place.
He howled like a coyote. I punched him again in the same place, then once more. When he moved his other hand to protect his shoulder, I punched him in the throat, cutting off his howl with a sharp gurgling sound. I could still see his eyes in the darkness. No longer round and scared, they were angry and hot. Maybe I should have been studying his hands instead, because one of his fists came out of the darkness, connecting with the side of my head and creating a shower of sparks behind my eyes.
He punched me again and I wrapped my arms around him, trying to pin his arms to his sides, trying to find that divot in his arm, but he shook me off with a roar, sending me crashing against the far wall. As I slid to the floor, I heard another mechanical hum and the lab grew brighter as daylight filtered through the bees massed on the mesh screen.
The outer panels were opening.
Pug-face was looking down at me now, pointing my gun at me. It wasn’t his gun hand, but this close I was pretty sure he wouldn’t miss. His smile said he was pretty sure, too.
62
I was expecting a bang and that would be it, but instead he screamed, “Ow,” and slapped the hand with the gun against his neck, rubbing it and then flinging something away from him. “Fuck!” he yelled, frantically brushing at the large wet spot on the front of his shirt. His hands were wet as well.
We both looked up at the bullet hole in the ceiling. A bee crawled in as we watched, joining two more that were already buzzing in the narrow cone of daylight. One of them seemed to find him, darting at him and weaving around his flailing gun hand.
He kept trying to line up his shot, but had to stop to swat at the bee, now two bees, darting and diving at him. I searched the shadows, trying to find his gun, but I gave up, cowering in the corner instead, watching him fight it out with the bees and hoping none of them would notice me. More bees had made their way in, and his swatting had grown more frantic. He yelped again and clamped a hand on the back of his thigh. Another bee landed on his cheek. He plucked it off and squished it, throwing it onto the floor, stomping on it, his face momentarily triumphant. There were more of them, now, half a dozen circling him, darting in and then retreating, feinting and thrusting. One landed on his shoulder, another in his thinning hair.
He backed up against the plastic strips. Then he turned and plunged through them. I saw his blurred figure staggering through the doorway, silhouetted once more against the daylight. There was a moment that felt like silence, but I realized it wasn’t, because as the door closed behind him, the sound of the bees lessened even more and the room lightened considerably as the bees crowding against the mesh quickly dispersed.
I wondered where they had gone. Then from outside I heard a hoarse, horrible, agonized scream.
There were only a couple of bees still with me in the unit, but with Pug-face gone, they turned their attention to me.
I tried to swat them, listening to Pug-face’s screams punctuated by gagging and coughing.
One of the bees got me right where the pheromone had splashed my forearm. It paid the ultimate price, but I paid, too, a searing pain shooting up my arm, making me feel momentarily faint. Suddenly, I was that much more determined to fend off the other one. I connected once with the back of my hand, bouncing it off the plastic curtain, but it came back at me almost instantaneously, recovering before it even hit the f
loor. I whipped off my shirt, waving it in front of me, doused with pheromone. When the bee came at me again, it connected with the shirt.
Maybe I trapped it, or maybe it was content to unload its payload into the pheromone-soaked folds of cloth, but I wrapped it up and crushed it underfoot. For a moment, I was alone, catching my breath and listening to Pug-face’s screams faltering outside. I looked down and saw dampness on my arm and my stomach.
The alarm pheromone. That’s what they were after. That’s what was driving them. Glancing up at the holes in the ceiling, I knew it was only a matter of time before they came after me, too.
I went to the small sink in the corner and soaped and rinsed my arm and stomach, then again, then once more. When I was confident I had removed as much of the pheromone as possible, I dried off with paper towels from the dispenser. As Pug-face’s screams faded into a muffled moan, I jerked open the drawer Annalisa had gone to before and found Julie’s patchouli. I pried off the plastic spout and poured half the bottle onto my arm and smeared it around. Then poured the rest onto my stomach. The air filled with the aroma of it. I’d never liked the smell, and at this dosage it was nauseating.
I took a deep breath anyway. Then I picked up the server and went outside.
Pug-face was on the ground twenty feet away, covered in a thick layer of bees. Thousands more were zipping through the air above him, as if waiting for a spot to open up so they could stab him as well. The sky had grown dark, and the air felt heavy with the threat of rain.
Pug-face’s car was forty feet past his body, the driver’s side door ajar, the engine running.
My Glock was at the bottom of the steps to the lab.
I paused, ready to dive back inside and come up with another plan.
But the bees seemed content to concentrate on Pug-face. I stooped to pick up the gun, paused again, then started walking a slow, wide arc around his body, no sudden movements, toward the car. When I was halfway there, I looked back at the hive boxes mounted on the outside of the lab unit, encased in some sort of white plastic. Bees were still coming out of them. Pug-face stirred, moaning and twitching his hand, eliciting an angry rise in pitch and volume from the bees that covered him. The pile seemed to constrict around him, and even through the bees I could see him shudder.
I stopped for a moment, thinking I should do something. But I knew I’d be lucky to save myself.
He had tried to kill me several times, I told myself. I kept walking, slowly and deliberately, through air thick with patchouli and angry bees, resisting the urge to swat or run or scream in horror.
When I reached the car, I slid in behind the wheel and pulled the door closed. Letting out a long breath, I noticed a bee crawling on my arm. I lowered the window and flicked it out. Then I closed the window and drove through the open gate.
63
The smell of patchouli was smothering, but it took a strong and deliberate act of will to open the door knowing I was just across the road from that mass of bees. I had parked so the driver’s side door of Pug-face’s car was two feet away from the Jeep’s, just enough space to slide from one to the other. I craned my head to look up through the windshield, searching for any sign of bees. When I was satisfied there were none, I threw open the door and jumped into my car.
Safely inside, I took two slow breaths. A smattering of fat raindrops landed on the windshield with a suddenness that made me jump.
As I drove out. I looked through the gate across the road at Pug-face’s lifeless body, still black with bees. My arm had a welt the size of a plum, and I thought about how he’d gone down. I fought off a shiver and gave the car a little more gas.
* * *
Things were still uncertain with Nola, and being around her and Annalisa together was bound to be awkward. But pulling up in front of the A-frame, I looked forward to being comforted by two women who cared about me, who would praise me for having returned victorious with the spoils of war against overwhelming odds, and who would soothe the pain of experiences too awful to mention.
Unfortunately, no one was there.
I put the server on the floor next to the dining room table and went into the living room. No one. For some reason, I didn’t want to yell. I checked each room, letting my gun lead the way.
The place was empty.
I took out my phone, but before I could call, the phone vibrated in my hand with a text from Nola.
DOYLE, IT’S NOLA. WE ARE AT GAY HEAD CLIFFS. WE NEED YOU. COME QUICK.
I called her, but the line went straight to voice mail. I texted, “What’s going on?” but got nothing back. I called Annalisa, and her phone vibrated on the table. I called Jimmy Frank, but his line went straight to voice mail, too. Same thing with Moose. I left them both messages and thought about calling 911, but I didn’t know if it was an emergency, and I didn’t know who would be on the other end of that call.
The shotgun was gone, and I didn’t know if that was good news or bad.
* * *
The cliffs were in Aquinnah, at the western tip of the island, five miles away. The clouds seemed to be scraping the treetops and as I got back in the car, the rain started up again.
It bothered me that I didn’t know what I was driving into. It bothered me that I couldn’t contact Nola, and that she’d sent that text, then not replied, with everything that was going on. That didn’t seem like Nola. It made me suspect even more strongly that she was under some sort of duress.
The rain was getting heavier and the sky darker. I could barely see the lighthouse as it finally rose over the treetops on my right. Then the light pulsed and swept around. I pushed the car a little faster. Then I was there.
In front of me, the road curved into a wide loop with a large grassy area in the middle. At the far end of it were the gift shops and snack bar, and the path to the observation area. During the summer season it would be packed, the loop necessary to keep the tourists’ cars moving in an orderly line. In the off-season it was desolate, especially in the rain. Everything was closed and no one was around. I was driving through the last intersection before the loop when the rain started coming down harder. Something about the lighthouse caught my eye, but I couldn’t tell what.
In my rearview, lightning flashed in the black clouds, and beneath them, a flatbed tow truck was driving up slowly behind me. On the side street to the right was a black SUV with tinted windows, a wisp of exhaust drifting away from it. To the left was another one.
I tapped the brakes hard, and I heard a strange popping sound. A subtle vibration ran through the car. At first I thought it was a mechanical problem. Then I saw a small pothole in the rain-soaked road ten feet in front of me, a curl of smoke rising from it. My eyes returned to the lighthouse, this time finding what had drawn them earlier. A sniper. But this was no precision tool; from the hole in the asphalt, it looked more like a fifty-cal. I stomped on the gas, rocketing forward as the back windshield exploded. In the rearview, I could see one of the SUVs from the side streets speeding up behind me. The other one was coming up the other side of the loop, on a course that would meet me head on.
I was approaching the far end of the loop—wondering if I should try to cut across the grass, thread the needle and get past both cars—when the car shook violently and seemed to rise up off the road. The hood buckled, and for an instant I thought I’d hit something. Then I saw the hole in the hood and realized something had hit me.
Luckily, the airbag hadn’t deployed, but the car was dead, drifting forward at a couple of miles per hour. The car behind me was closing fast, and the other one was screaming around the curve toward me. I threw open the car door and spilled out onto the road just as another round punched through the car, shattering the rear passenger window and the front driver’s side window, shredding the headrest in between. Tiny cubes of glass showered down on me, mixing with the heavy rain that soaked me almost instantly.
I rolled to my feet, the glass cutting into my hands and knees, and I started running. The angle away from
the two cars took me toward the steps leading past the gift shops and snack stand, toward the observation area. It also left me totally exposed to the sniper. I tried to vary my stride, resisting the urge to run flat out. The rain was coming down even heavier now, the wind picking up, but I still felt the breeze when a sniper round zipped past my face. To my left, a patch of grass turned into a jet of mud, squirting up into the air. I took two more strides, then dove for the steps as another round slammed into the metal trash can. At the top of the steps was a wide path that led through the little shops to a restaurant before curving up to the observation area.
Looking back as I ran, I saw the car behind me bouncing up the grass next to the steps. The sky had continued to darken, gloomy day turning to dark night. As I ran up the path, lightning flashed all around me. Headlights captured me from the left, casting my shadow across the wall to my right. I skidded to a halt, torn by indecision, maybe by something else. As I blinked and shook my head, I was skewered by a second pair of headlights as the second car bounced up the steps behind me.
An arm came out the passenger’s side window, a hand holding a gun. As I jumped out of the way, a pair of bullets slammed into my shadow on the wall in front of me. I stumbled sideways, my feet slipping in the rain but staying under me as I scrambled along the path, toward the lookout area on top of the cliff. I was running out of path, running out of options, the prospects of panic and death solidifying in the back of my mind.
Away from the shelter of the building, the wind took on a new magnitude. The rain was blowing sideways, pelting my skin where it hit. The observation area was completely exposed, a twenty- by sixty-foot rectangle of broken macadam and gravel surrounded by a simple rail fence. In the center was a stone pylon, five feet tall, with coin-operated binoculars on top.
The second car was still barreling toward me, two men following on foot, presumably from the car that had come up the steps. On one side I was hemmed in by the cliff, and on the other by an expanse of thick, low brush. I had decided to take my chances with the brush and was turning in that direction when I felt a hot breath on my neck and one of the fence rails snapped in two and fell out of its mounting.