I tried to remember everything I’d ever learned about bees, and I’d learned a lot since almost dying from that sting years ago. They were attracted to sugar, and perfume. They attacked the color black. They attacked when provoked. They hated sudden movements, or loud noises. After a bee stung you, its stinger pulled out and it died, but the stinger continued to pump poison into your body. Bees were attracted to CO2, to your breath. Each year, a hundred people in the United States were killed by bees, mostly because of allergies like mine. Once a bee stung you, it released a pheromone that made other bees sting in the same spot. But all the experts agreed that if you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.
All of these things swirled through my head as the bees buzzed around me. One landed on my bare arm. Another flew into my face, bouncing off my nose. I held my breath, shut my eyes, and tried to stop trembling. I needed to back up, to get out of there, but my feet wouldn’t move. This was so much worse than the cockroaches. This was worse than anything I’d ever encountered. I was too scared to even speak.
Buzzing, so close to my ear that I flinched. Bees on my hands now, on my neck, on my face. Some of them crawling. Some of them content to just stay there and find the best place to sting.
“Afraid of bees, Lieutenant?”
I squinted, saw the Chemist standing next to the hive, about eight feet away from me. He had a jet injector in his hand. I raised my gun.
“If you shoot, they’ll sting you,” he said. “These are very ill-tempered bees. I don’t like keeping them around, but pure honey has quite a lot of botulism spores in it. It’s not the easiest bacteria to culture. Required a lot of trial and error. Years of it, in fact. I’ve been stung dozens of times. Painful. Normally I don’t come in here without my netting on. Why are you so frightened? Are you allergic?”
I was trying to aim at his center mass, but my arms were shaking too badly and I couldn’t steady the gun. I was completely, utterly helpless. A bee landed on my lip and tried to crawl up my nose. I flinched, and almost started to cry.
“Allergic, I bet. You look absolutely terrified. Quite a change from the tough cop on the phone. I tell you what-I’m going to do you a favor.”
He took a slow step toward me, and I felt my knees begin to buckle.
“This is loaded with ricin”-he held up the jet injector-“derived from the castor bean. It will kill you quickly. I can’t promise it will be painless, but it is a much better way to go than anaphylactic shock, gasping for breath.”
Another step closer. Now my knees actually did give out, and I fell onto my butt. The bees didn’t like the sudden movement, and their buzzing became louder.
“What did you do?” the Chemist asked me. He seemed oddly calm. “Did you drive the truck out of the festival, to the plant?”
I nodded, forcing myself to do something. I thought about bravery. I’d been afraid many times before, but never to the point where it had incapacitated me. Even while in the truck, facing certain death, I’d been able to function. Why should a few lousy bees turn me into an invalid?
“Where is the rest of your squad? I only saw the fat guy. Only two of you came for me?”
I said, “More are coming,” and surprised myself by how strong it came out.
“I’d better hurry then. I was thinking this was a final siege, an Alamo. But if it’s only you two, then I can kill you both and get away. Then I can start all over again.”
He raised the jet injector and took another cautious step forward. I brought up the AMT. My hand was no longer shaking. If I died, I died. Once I accepted that, a lot of the fear went away.
Schimmel paused, looking unsure.
“If you shoot me, they’ll sting you.”
“Fair trade,” I said, my teeth clenched.
“Jackie! Duck!”
I looked to my left, and saw McGlade standing a few yards away, holding a semiautomatic in his left hand. He fired six times. Predictably, all six shots missed Schimmel, the bullets burying themselves into the stacked wooden beehive.
The bees weren’t happy. Innately sensing their attacker, they swarmed on Harry.
I rolled backward just as Schimmel sprayed a cloud of ricin at the space I used to occupy. He jumped to the right, then scurried away to the rear of the greenhouse.
I continued to crab-walk backward, to get away from the bees, but they pretty much ignored me, focusing their wrath on McGlade. He ran past me, a cloud of bees around him, and then doubled back and went in the opposite direction, the whole time screaming, “THEY’RE BITING ME! THEY’RE BITING ME!”
A BOOM to my right, and a sharp cry. Beanbag rounds were used to induce what law enforcement officers called “pain compliance.” They weren’t lethal, but they hurt so badly you wished they were. I limped after the sound and saw Schimmel writhing around on the ground, next to a small aquarium. The jet injector lay a few feet away. Herb was standing over him.
“Where’d you hit him?” I asked.
“Stomach. Want me to peg him a few more times?”
“No need. I think he’s been subdued.”
Schimmel moaned, doubling up into the fetal position.
“You got cuffs?” Herb asked.
“No. You?”
“No. There’s probably something back in the chopper. I’ll-”
The Chemist rolled up to his knees and reached for the aquarium beside him, lifting. Before he had a chance to throw it at us, Herb fired another beanbag into his legs.
Schimmel fell, the aquarium crashing down on top of him, dumping water and rocks and brightly colored shells onto his body.
He gasped once.
And then he began to scream.
CHAPTER 46
I FOUND OUT LATER that the brightly colored creatures in that aquarium were called cone snails, and their toxin was among the most poisonous in the animal kingdom.
The snails apparently hadn’t liked their environment being disturbed in such a rough fashion, and moments after landing on Schimmel, they showed their disapproval.
First came screaming. Then convulsions. Then spitting blood.
Carey Schimmel died right before the ambulance arrived, but I think their four-minute response time would have pleased him.
Along with the ambulance, the police arrived in full force. Crime scene units. The SRT. K9 units. I think they came for closure more than anything else, to see the corpse of the man who had caused them so much pain. Though the police dog did sniff out a corpse in Schimmel’s compost heap-one that was quickly ID’ed as retired cop Jason Alger, as evidenced by his missing fingers.
As the paramedics loaded a very puffy-looking Harry McGlade into their truck, I asked them to wait a moment so I could speak to the annoying guy who once again wound up saving the day.
“Nice job, McGlade.”
“Thankth.”
His pronunciation wasn’t too good, because while he was running around screaming, a bee had flown into his mouth and stung his tongue.
“Where’d you get the gun?” I asked him.
“Chopper. Took it from the cockpit when you guys were playing around with the launcher.”
“So your hand wasn’t stuck on the ladder?”
He smiled, looking a lot like a lumpy pumpkin. “I knew you’d need my help.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll speak to the mayor as soon as I get back to the office. I’ll make sure you get your bar.”
He shook his head. “No bar.”
“I thought you wanted a liquor license.”
“I’m not a bar owner,” Harry sputtered. He stared at me, hard. “I’m a private eye.”
I grinned. “What happened to being a poet?”
“I’m that too. Want to hear one?”
“If it’s quick.”
“This one is called ‘Grandma.’ Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“My grandma wears a diaper. I really hate to wipe her.”
He waited for my reaction. “Stick to private investigation,” I told him, then went off to find Herb. He was just getting off the phone with his wife.