Deadout (41 page)

Even from where I was, I could smell it. Brecker screamed, jerking about and clawing at his eyes, but his boat didn't stop.

Mine did. The motor shuddered and coughed and died, the boat filling more quickly with water as Brecker and his boat, framed by the bridge, faded into the darkness of the harbor at night.

I had no idea what was left in the UZI, but I lined up the sights with my best guess of where Brecker had been, and I squeezed the trigger until it was empty.

In the darkness, I saw a tiny blue flash, just for a moment. Then the night lit up with orange as a dirty ball of flame rose into the sky. I might have seen Brecker thrashing around, on fire. Then there was an even bigger explosion as the gas tank went up, sending flaming debris twenty yards in every direction.

The current pulled my sinking boat under the bridge and into the harbor. I saw Nola looking down at me, the streetlights illuminating her hair from behind like a halo. As the boat sank underneath me, all I could do was look back up at her, overwhelmed by love and the hope that I hadn't just killed her.

 

76

I was climbing onto the tiny beach on the far side of the bridge when Nola grabbed me by my shirt and pulled me out of the water. Her face was shining bright with a combination of terror and exhilaration.

“Oh, my God, you've been shot,” she said, looking at the blood oozing out of my arm.

“I'm okay,” I told her, brushing the hair away from her face. “Are you okay?”

“I don't know,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time. I put my arms around her and squeezed her tight, wondering if I was contaminating her with chemical-laden water. But she held me even tighter.

The wreckage of Brecker's boat was flickering out, slowly spinning in the harbor.

I looked around us, but we were alone. “Did you reach Jimmy?”

She shook her head. “I left a message, said it was important. I didn't want to say anything more than that.” Her voice was muffled against my chest. “So is that it? The mites are dead, right?”

I didn't know for sure about the mites. The bees were still around, and so was Sumner. So was Pearce. I didn't know what to say. But before I was forced to admit it, I heard a low whistle that turned into a roar as a streak of yellow flashed across the sky—Jordan Sumner's jet, low enough that I could see its winking bee logo skimming the treetops.

“Son of a bitch,” I said.

“What is it?”

“Sumner's jet,” I told her. “Let's go.”

“Where?” she asked, falling in behind me.

“The airport.”

*   *   *

The truck handled better without the load of chemicals, but I more than made up for it by driving even faster. We kept the windows down, trying to rid the cab of the chemical smell coming off us. Nola called Jimmy again as we drove, and left another message and a text saying he should come to the airport as soon as possible. She was almost hyperventilating, but she insisted she was okay, and she began to calm down, taking slow, deep breaths.

Then we were there.

The access gate was open, and I killed the headlights and turned in, taking it slower in the darkness. Once past the fence, I could see Sumner's yellow jet sitting across the end of the runway. Ahead of us, a black pickup truck was speeding toward it, looking like it had come through the same gate we had.

I turned to Nola. “You okay?” I'd been asking her that a lot, putting her in harm's way a lot. I wondered if I would ever stop.

She nodded. “I'm okay.”

We both jumped as her phone buzzed.

It was Jimmy Frank, so I answered. “It's Doyle,” I said.

“We just got done here. I'm on my way to the airport. What's going on?”

“They tried to get the mites off the island, but we stopped them.”

“Was that in the harbor?”

“Yeah.”

“I got reports.”

“Sumner's jet is here. I think he's trying to take the bees.”

“I'm five minutes away.”

“You bringing any friends?”

He paused for an instant. “No.”

“Get here quick. They're at the west end of the runway.”

I put the phone down, and Nola said, “Is he bringing help?”

I shook my head. “Just him.”

I drove out onto the grass, flanking the runaway, giving the jet plenty of distance. When we were positioned so the jet was between us and the black truck, I stopped and turned to Nola.

“I need you to take the truck up another fifty yards or so, then double back onto the runway. You're going to block their exit. You don't have to get right up close, just as close as you feel safe. Then park across the runway. Use the parking brake. Lock the doors. Take the keys. Then run the other way, through the airport building. Find a restroom and wash as much of that stuff off you as possible, okay?”

She nodded, her eyes shiny and wide. “What are you going to do?”

I laughed. “I'm going to crash their party. Slow them down until Jimmy gets here.” I didn't know what I expected to happen after that.

I gave her a kiss, and slipped out the door.

The truck rolled away, its taillights bright in the darkness. I hoped that between the lights from the airport and the lights from the plane, no one would notice.

Creeping up on the jet, I saw Sumner and one other guy loading boxes out of the back of the pickup and stacking them onto a hand truck. They were moving gingerly, and when I looked closely, I saw the same kind of white plastic hive boxes from Sumner's lab, each bound with bungee cords, and not very securely. I'd be moving gingerly, too.

Sumner and his pal were wearing Tyvek suits, but they looked flimsy and they were open at the throat, with no hoods.

The pilot's red face poked out the front hatch. “Jesus Christ, Sumner,” I heard him exclaim over the sound of the jet's idling engine. “Are you fucking kidding me? This is bullshit.”

Sumner shook his head, smiling at his helper, like, “Can you believe this guy?” But the helper was stony-faced. Maybe wondering what happened to the last guy who had his job.

The helper had a sidearm. Sumner didn't seem to. I couldn't see anyone else.

“Five minutes,” the pilot said, watching them anxiously. “I swear to God, then I'm leaving.”

Sumner ignored him, lifting another box from the back of the truck.

In the distance, I heard helicopters, and in my mind I pictured Jimmy Frank and the cavalry coming to back me up. But I knew that's not what it was.

I stepped out from behind the tail of the plane, holding my gun and my badge out in front, hoping nobody had the visual acuity to see the word “Philadelphia.”

“Hold it right there,” I said, using my cop voice.

Sumner looked over, surprised but not alarmed. His helper stacked the box he was holding on top of the others. Then he pulled his sidearm and pointed it at me. Beyond them, on the other side of the plane, I saw the Thompson Farm Supply truck rolling out of the darkness, right up next to the front of the plane. The dome light came on, and I saw a flash of Nola's shirt. A second later I caught a glimpse of her silhouette as she ran toward the airport buildings.

“You're under arrest,” I said, ignoring the guy with the gun.

Sumner shook his head, wearily. “Go away, Carrick. This doesn't concern you.”

The helicopter rotors were getting louder. I could see lights coming in low over the treetops. Sumner didn't seem to notice them, or at least not to mind.

“Put the box down,” I said. “And put your hands in the air.”

Sumner turned to his new sidekick and said, “If he tries to stop us, shoot him.”

The sidekick smiled like this was the first good news he'd heard all day. Sumner looked back at me, as if he had proven the point he was trying to make.

I looked around, hoping to see some sign of Jimmy, feeling the situation getting out of control.

The helicopter was right above us now, and descending. My heart fell as I saw the Stoma logo. But when Sumner looked up, he didn't seem any happier about it than I was, squinting into the light, his face twisted in fear.

The helicopter touched down, and I expected a dozen Darkstar tactical troops, but instead it was a single aging billionaire.

 

77

Archibald Pearce teetered slightly as he crouched under the rotors; but he straightened as he walked up and stood tall a few feet away, ignoring me, my gun, and my out-of-state badge.

“There you are, Jordan,” he said. “I've been looking for you.” He grinned, and it was scary. “That's such a fancy jet. Makes me think I'm paying you too much.”

Sumner smiled but no one was buying it. “I'm just preparing for the special exemption.”

“I see,” Pearce said, nodding his head genially. He took out a cigar, bit off the tip of it and spat it onto the ground. “That's good. I thought perhaps you were absconding with my bees.”

“
Our
bees, Pearce, not yours.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, lighting the cigar, puffing up a cloud of smoke. “Interesting specimens these bees, aye? So much promise. I'm glad we were able to rescue them from the ruins of your company. Glad we were able to rescue you, as well, old friend. Good thing we're able to trust each other, aye? So important in a partnership, don't you think?”

“Certainly is.”

“To show you how much I trust you,” Pearce said, putting the cigar into his mouth and reaching inside his jacket, “I am going to give you this. I think you missed it when you cleared out your lab.” He pulled out a handkerchief and unfolded it to reveal a vial of amber liquid, identical to the one in Sumner's lab that was filled with alarm pheromone. “I don't even know what it is,” he said loudly, fiddling with it a bit. “But I am sure if it had any noteworthy properties you would have told me already.”

Sumner paled. “I have every intention of telling you about it,” he said. “I can tell you about it right now, it's—”

“Sh, sh, sh,” Pearce said gently, barely audible above the sound of the jet engine. He held up his hand. “No worries, mate. All about trust, right? You can tell me about it all in good time, okay?”

Sumner smiled and relaxed, relief flooding his face.

“But here,” Pearce said, smiling back at him. “Since you're still working on it, you should probably take it with you for now.”

He tossed the vial straight to Sumner, whose eyes went round in terror as they tracked it through the air. He released the case he was holding, just in time to catch the vial. His focus was so intense that when he caught it, he smiled, just for a second, before he noticed the dampness on his hand, the wet spots on his chest. The cap missing from the vial.

I stepped toward Sumner, but I knew he was a dead man.

“Careful,” Pearce called out. “The top might be loose.”

The box split open as it hit the ground. Sumner looked down at it as the swarm gushed out and swirled around him in a tight cone, a cyclone of bees. A thin tendril peeled off to wrap around the henchman with the hand truck.

The pilot pulled in his head and closed the hatch. The sound of the jet engine rose in pitch and volume, but it couldn't mask Sumner's screams. The bees covered his head, burrowing under his suit. The sidekick stumbled, knocking over the stack of boxes. As he turned and ran, they all came open, releasing their contents to form an even more massive cloud. As the bees swirled into the air, already agitated, the vial fell from Sumner's bee-covered hand, shattering between his feet. The cloud collapsed into a solid mass, coalescing around him, obliterating him from sight.

I stepped back and turned my gun onto Pearce, who continued to ignore me. I looked back at Sumner, telling myself that if the bees came our way, I could outrun Pearce.

As Sumner's screams became more muffled, the whine of the jet engine continued to ascend. The plane rolled forward, pushing against the truck now, denting the door, slowly nudging it aside. The engine was screaming now, and the bees in the air succumbed to its pull, zipping into the intake.

Sumner had remained standing much longer than Pug-face or Johnny Blue. His back seemed to be resting on the front of the wing. Then I realized the pull of the jet was holding him upright.

As the noise of the engine grew louder still, clumps of bees began to detach from the pile and shoot into the engine, sucked into the jet like it was a giant vacuum.

The passenger's side window of the truck shattered, and the plane surged forward, pushing the truck almost out of the way.

By then most of the bees were gone, transformed into a smoky black spray shooting out the back of the engine. Sumner was visible but unrecognizable, his face a horrific mask, swollen shut against itself and twisted in agony. His arms raised, beseechingly, as he swayed back and forth like a nightmare version of those twenty-foot-tall air dancers in front of cell phone stores or used car lots.

He bent backward toward the intake, up on his toes. For a moment, I thought the engine was going to suck him in after the bees, then it sputtered and the sound dropped a few octaves. Flames flickered from the back, then it coughed black smoke and died altogether.

Sumner's arms fell to his sides. He stood motionless for a moment. Then his knees buckled, and he slid to the tarmac.

As the sound of the engine fell away, I could hear more helicopters. A trio of them was coming in low over the trees. Part of me again hoped it was Jimmy Frank, coming with the cavalry. The other parts of me made fun of that part, teasing that part and calling it names.

I turned to Archie Pearce and for the first time he looked at me. “You're under arrest,” I said.

Pearce took the cigar out of his mouth and laughed. “No, I'm not. You have no jurisdiction here, Detective Carrick. And you have no proof of anything. You have no evidence of any wrongdoing on my part.” He paused, his eyes twinkling. “But more important, I'm just not. And you know that.”