Pug let go. “That’s better,” he crooned. “You enjoy this. It will be fun.”
“Let it happen, Donald,” soothed Dr. Griffin. “It’ll go much easier if you follow the rules. You like the rules. The rules tell us how to behave, what to expect, who to be. Without the rules, we are nothing.”
“I… I…” Ressler’s head slumped forward, and the Beekeeper tilted it back again.
“Can you hear me, Donald?” he asked.
“I hear you,” Ressler said. “I taste your words. I hear the honey slide down my throat. I see my breath rattle in my lungs.”
Synesthesia, Keen thought suddenly. The drug mixed up the senses. It must be a variant of LSD, which explained the hallucinations.
“Very good, Donald.” The Beekeeper’s voice was soft and hypnotic. “What’s your worst memory as an adult? Please tell us.”
Like John, Ressler resisted. He tried to turn in the center chair, away from the Beekeeper, but the Beekeeper turned with him.
“You have to tell us, Donald,” he said. “It’s the rules.”
“The rules,” Ressler echoed. “I can smell them. They come in orderly rows, one after another, like cooked sugar and wine and vinegar.”
“What is your worst memory?”
“Audrey,” Ressler said. “I’m in the car with Audrey and the jeep hits us. She’s hurt, but Mako Tanida is firing on the car. Bullets flick by, scoring black lines behind them. I’m outside the car, firing back with black bullets of my own. My fear sounds like thunder drums and my anger tastes like burned onions.”
The awful sorrow tightened Keen’s chest and she wanted to put her hands over her ears, but the heavy handcuffs kept her still. She didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to see Ressler relive this. She knew what had happened, had seen the aftermath crush him. His injuries had started him on the painkillers, and sorrow and depression kept him on them long after the physical pain had passed. Keen had coaxed him through the addiction that followed, and she prayed he wasn’t going to have to go through it again.
“Audrey is stumbling from the jeep,” Ressler said. “She leaves rainbow trails in the air wherever she moves. I want her to get back inside, but she doesn’t understand. She’s there, and I love her and it tastes like lilacs in May.”
“Stop it,” Keen said. “Please stop.”
The Beekeeper ignored her. “What happens next, Donald?”
“Tanida’s bullets tear through her. Scarlet flowers bloom on her stomach and spill red seeds on the cement. Tanida runs away. I’m trying to help.” His voice rose and his eyes filled with tears. “Her blood is on my hands. On my hands.”
“And then?” Dr. Griffin urged. “What happens then, Donald?”
“She dies.” Ressler slumped into the chair, his cheeks wet, hands defeated in his lap. “She’s dead. Gone. Her blood is on my hands.”
“On our hands, Donald,” said the Beekeeper. “We are here with you, Donald. We share your pain and sorrow. The entire Hive carries it for you, and you feel nothing.”
“Nothing,” Ressler echoed.
“Pain shared is pain lessened,” the Beekeeper murmured. He stroked Ressler’s hair like a loving father and dropped honey into his mouth. Ressler sighed and relaxed. “The Hive is love and love is the Hive. We love you, Donald, like Audrey loved you. No one here will leave you behind. We are order. We are the Hive.”
“We are the Hive,” said everyone else, including Keen.
“We are the Hive,” said Ressler.
“Return to your seat, Donald. You are closer to joining us now.”
Ressler numbly obeyed, his pupils still dilated from the drug. The Beekeeper turned to Keen.
“Now you, Elizabeth.”
Keen froze. She had been so intent on Ressler she had forgotten the Beekeeper would require her to take a turn in the center chair. Her nostrils widened and her breath came in short, fearful gasps. The drones—Mala was one of them—whipped her into the chair, and before she knew it, a thin pain pierced her neck. She met Stuart’s calm eyes for a tiny moment, then turned away.
“It’s okay,” Pug said. Keen suppressed a cold shudder.
“Let it happen, Elizabeth,” said the Beekeeper, and by the end of the sentence, his voice had fallen far away. A wave of dizziness swept her. The room rocked and warped as if the stone walls were made of marshmallow.
“Can you hear me, Elizabeth?” said Dr. Griffin above her, and his voice fell on her ears with the smell of spring rain and cut grass.
“I hear you,” she said, the words that spilled from her mouth tasting like sugar and lemon. “I hear the stones and the lawn and smell words like water.”
“Tell us, Elizabeth,” said the Beekeeper, and this time his voice smelled different. It was the voice of a winter cloak, the voice of floral perfume and butterscotch candy wrappers. It tasted like a woman’s voice. “Tell us your worst memory.”
The air rushed around her like black bees, ready to sting. She was no longer in a cavern under an Appalachian mountain. She was a child, barefoot, in a nightgown. Smoke filled the house with choking white cotton. Heat licked her skin with a cat’s tongue. She was screaming. Her lungs were heavy and tasted of stale crackers. The light faded and she was aware of people speaking red words. Fear and pain engulfed her in a cloud that smelled like rotten fruit and pain scorched her hand.
“Tell us,” the Beekeeper repeated.
The black fear was so old, so heavy, so terrible. Keen needed to be free of it, find a way to crawl out from under it. And the only way to do it was to speak, shove it away with words, lay her soul bare to the Beekeeper and the circle and let them absorb her very self. She could see them inhaling, sucking in pink and orange air, ready to take in her pain. They would suck down her spirit, and she was happy to let them. She opened her mouth, eager to release everything.
And then her fingers touched the Y-shaped scar at her wrist. The shiny, raised skin tasted like spring strawberries and sweet vanilla under her fingertips. It was strength and it was power. Keen’s fingers traced the contours of the Y—up the arm, down the valley, back out again, and down the other side. She was tracing her past, her home. Her self.
“Elizabeth?” the Beekeeper said, and a note of impatience entered his voice. “Tell us.”
She traced the Y again, and the words changed on her tongue.
“The day I learned my father died,” she said. “He was in the hospital, alone. Cancer ate him from the inside with rotten worms. I wanted to go and see him, but he told me that I didn’t have to, and I didn’t, and then I got the black phrases spilling out of the phone that my daddy was dead. He’s dead! I don’t know what to do. I’m all alone.”
“But you aren’t alone,” the Beekeeper said. “We are here. The Hive is here. We share your pain.” He droned on in a variation of the litany he had given earlier. His words washed over her, but her fingers traced the scar and wove a shield around her soul. When he dropped honey into her mouth, she was unprepared for the way the world snapped back into focus. It clanged into sharp existence, and the force of it stunned her. She slumped in her chair, concentrating on just her breathing.
“You are closer to being one of us,” the Beekeeper said over her head, and she hated him with a loathing that went deep and black as road tar. “We are the Hive.”
“We are the Hive!” she said firmly.
She smiled at him with fake relief, and made sure the gesture reached her eyes. Dr. Griffin met her gaze and nodded in approval. One psychologist to another. She would bring him down and destroy his little kingdom, and she would do it from the inside, by any means possible.
Mala, in her mask, helped Keen to her chair in the outer circle. She squeezed Keen’s hand in her smaller, cooler one for a tiny moment. Keen resumed her chair. What had that meant? Support? Congratulations? She kept her face stoic.
The Beekeeper turned to Stuart. Keen bit her lip. Would Stuart be able to handle the Beekeeper’s cocktail? Her mind searched for a way to stop this
, but nothing seemed feasible.
In seconds, Stuart was whisked into the chair. But instead of struggling, he cocked his head, baring his neck. “I am ready, Beekeeper.”
The Beekeeper injected him without a word. Stuart inhaled sharply, and Keen wondered what he was tasting, hearing, smelling. Dr. Griffin asked if Stuart could hear him, then commanded him to tell his worst memory.
Stuart needed no coaxing, though his voice quavered and he kept his eyes shut.
“The day my wife Vivian died. It was a Sunday that tasted of sunshine and gold. The buyers, big men with guns of sweet oil and slick metal, transferred the money, and we were ready to hand them the weapons. Chemical weapons made special for our buyers. Slithering green gases and purple poisons and smart launchers with little eyes that peered around corners. But then Reddington—”
“Raymond Reddington?” the Beekeeper interrupted sharply, echoing Keen’s own startled thoughts.
“Raymond Reddington, so young and proud and sharp as a box of tacks. He checked the computer and found the transfer was fake. No money for us. Red and I became angry. Vivian tried to calm us down, but I was scarlet and acid and bile. And then the shooting started. At first, our guards did well, but the buyers slid around us and they had men we didn’t know about, and it didn’t go so well then. Our men ran and scattered. We three ran, and it was only then that I realized Viv, my dear Viv, wasn’t with us. She was still inside the awful warehouse with the snakes and purple poison.”
Small tears slipped out from under Stuart’s closed eyes. Keen’s heart twisted for him.
“Red wanted to go back for her, but I… I told him not to.” Stuart swallowed, and the tears began in earnest. “Oh, god—I told him not to. Because of the iron rule.”
“What rule, Stuart?” asked Dr. Griffin in his gentle voice.
“Never let your feelings for someone else jeopardize your own safety,” Stuart whispered. “Never.”
Dr. Griffin said, “Not even for your wife?”
“Not even for her.” Stuart was shaking now. “I told Red to run and that I would go back for Vivian. But I lied. I didn’t save her. Reddington ran off and I heard Vivian, my summertime love, my orange sweetness, scream and babble and then stop. And then I ran away.”
Stuart swiped at his closed eyes with the sleeves of his jumpsuit, and the handcuffs gleamed on his wrists.
“Red always looked at me with the smell of cold ice behind his eyes ever after that, and one day he was just gone. I lost both of them. I have no one. I’m alone.”
Dr. Griffin started to speak, and Keen knew what he was going to say, but Stuart continued before Griffin could say anything.
“Except here I’m not alone. Here I’m part of a group, a smooth, silky community, and my pain eases.”
“That’s right,” Dr. Griffin said. “We are here. The Hive is with you, sharing your pain.”
“I can feel it,” Stuart said. “I can feel the humming. I can taste the song. I can hear the honey.”
Dr. Griffin took advantage of this moment to drop honey into Stuart’s mouth. His eyes came open, and he staggered to his chair in the outer circle. Keen tried not to stare.
“We are the Hive,” he said, and everyone repeated it.
“Stuart,” the Beekeeper said, “you are excused.”
Stuart blinked. “I am?”
“You have demonstrated over and over your commitment to the Hive. I—we—have seen it in your daily work and your dedication. Already your fellow drones have emptied your beginner’s cell and you are reassigned to the men’s barrack. Eat a full meal in the kitchen and go to work in the main room.”
“Oh!” Genuine gratitude beamed on Stuart’s face and his brown eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Beekeeper! Thank you so very much.”
“You have earned it.” At the Beekeeper’s gesture, one of the drones unlocked Stuart’s handcuffs. They clanked to the floor. “You are one of us. We are the Hive!”
“We are the Hive!” said everyone.
Stuart stood on unsteady legs and toddled toward the tunnel entrance. He was met by Mrs. Griffin, who wordlessly took his arm and led him away. How long had she been standing there in the shadows?
“The rest of you may return to your cells,” the Beekeeper said. “You’ve done well. Your thoughts are becoming more orderly. Soon you’ll join us, just like Stuart.”
On the way back to the cell room, Keen tried without success to catch Mala’s eye. The same happened when she brought the tray with the usual bland, carb-heavy food. She was avoiding Keen. Hmm.
“There’s meth in the honey,” said John the Bodysnatcher from his cell. “The bastard used to pay me with it sometimes. He has his little drones cook it for him. It’s how they raise cash, and the Beekeeper calls it honey because he thinks it’s cute. It acts as his antidote to whatever he was giving us in those syringes.”
“I don’t care anymore.” Ressler slumped in his cell. “I want to know why the hell no one’s come for us.”
“They don’t know where we are.” Keen licked crumbs from her fingers. “No GPS, no cell phone—”
“That makes no sense,” Ressler said. “We passed a crapload of cell towers on our way into this hellhole, and GPS is satellite-based. Why is there—”
“Jammer,” the Bodysnatcher said flatly. “Army-grade signal jammer. The Beekeeper bought it years ago. Stops cell phones, GPS, anything you want. Only way to communicate is if you know the frequency of the signal they let through. They use it on their own walkie-talkies. So we’re screwed. No one can find us in here. The park is the size of a small country. It’s why the Beekeeper hides here.”
“Hell of a thing about Stuart and Reddington,” Ressler said. “If he was telling the truth. Jesus.”
“I think he was.” Keen ran a hand through her hair. She wanted a shower in the worst way. And she wanted real food. And she wanted to see the sun. And damn it, she wanted to see Reddington. Why hadn’t he done anything? Was he dead? The cell felt intolerably tiny. She needed to run and find out if he was all right. Carefully, she forced herself to take a breath. Reddington hadn’t been captured or killed. The Beekeeper was a narcissist, and if he had captured Reddington, he would have flaunted it. Griffin was the last person to keep silent about something like that. Therefore, Reddington was safe.
She hoped.
“That thing Stuart said, though,” Ressler continued, “about the iron rule. Never let your feelings for someone else jeopardize your own safety. He said he taught that to Reddington.”
“That’s not like Reddington at all, though,” Keen said. “He always takes care of his people, even when he’d be better off not. He’s risked himself for…” me, she thought “…other people lots of times.”
“And that’s not something you usually see in people who… do what he does,” Ressler said with a sideways glance at John, who still didn’t know Keen and Ressler—and therefore Reddington—worked for the FBI. John still thought Keen and Ressler worked for Reddington. “Most people like Reddington drop you in half a heartbeat.”
“And maybe Vivian is why Reddington doesn’t,” Keen observed.
“I can’t wait to ask him,” John drawled.
“So what do we do now?” Ressler said.
“I think,” Keen said thoughtfully, “we wait for Mala.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mr. Brimley poked his head into the living room, the plastic cannula trailing behind him. “He’s talking. You might want to come in for this.”
Reddington set down the drone’s weapon belt. Say what you might about the Beekeeper—he knew how to arm his people. Two gas grenades, three flash-bang grenades, pepper spray, a full complement of reload clips for the Glock, a water bottle, and a few rations, all tucked into a cunningly designed utility belt that would make any comic book hero fall into orgiastic envy. He rose somberly, buttoned his jacket, and strode into the bedroom where Mr. Brimley had been working. The room smelled of coffee and urine, a strange combination. Th
ere were no signs anywhere of whatever it was Mr. Brimley had been up to with his subject. There never were. Mr. Brimley was always meticulous about tidying up.
Shackles clinked. The drone stared blearily up at Reddington with large blue eyes. He was a young man, barely out of his teens, head shaved into a military crew cut. With his stained green jumpsuit and empty weapons belt, he looked like a kid playing army in the woods. Dembe had chained him to the chair for Mr. Brimley’s ministrations, which had gone on for quite some time, and the boy looked exhausted. One of his eyes was puffy but not blackened. Hmm.
“He’ll talk. Isn’t that right, buddy?” Mr. Brimley picked up a coffee mug and waved it in the drone’s direction. The boy flinched. Interesting.
“Just… don’t do it again,” he said.
Reddington spun a ladderback chair around and faced the boy over the back. “How long have you been a drone for the Hive?”
“Four years. Look, I love the Beekeeper. I love the Hive. They’re my family. See?” He stretched his neck out of his collar, revealing the tattoo of a honeybee.
“Where did you live before this, friend?”
“The streets. Miami.”
This surprised Reddington. “And before that?”
“Bunch of foster homes. I took off when my last foster dad got a little too free with his fists—and the zipper on his pants. Streets were better.”
“How did you come to join the Hive, then?”
“Some dude grabbed me while I was sleeping in a church basement with a bunch of other guys. He brought me here.” The boy’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Changed my life.”
“How?’
“I have a family now,” the boy said earnestly. “The Hive is love. I don’t have to worry or wonder or be scared. They changed me. Helped me. Protected me against them.”
“And them would be?”
The boy seemed to realize he had gone too far. He folded his lips and looked away. Mr. Brimley held up the coffee cup and tapped it with one fingernail. The boy paled.
“I… you can’t get mad.”
Reddington nodded. “Ah. Them would be me. Or anyone else who isn’t in the Hive.”
The Blacklist--The Beekeeper No. 159 Page 13