Hornets and Others

'Yes, I suppose so.'

'Good. Anything else?' Morton patted his knees, making as if to rise, daring anyone in the room not to let him end the proceedings.

There was a glum silence. Once again the bee-keeper was staring at his own shoes.

'I want to re-emphasize, Mr. Willims, that you aren't to speak to anyone of what went on in here today. We're all sworn to secrecy. This record will be sealed. Whatever was said in this room remains in this room. I don't want to see anything in the newspapers about humans made out of yellow jackets or...' Here he consulted his notes again, Samhain, the Lord of the Dead. You understand?'

Without lifting his gaze, Willims answered, 'Sure.'

Letting a hard edge climb into his tone, Morton said, 'If any of this finds its way into the press, or anywhere else outside this room, I'll know who to call on, won't I, Mr. Willims?'

The bee-keeper nodded. His gaze shifted momentarily to Grant, but the detective's face was blank; he had obviously decided the best course of action for himself.

'Just so you understand,' Morton continued. 'There are licenses and such in your profession, and I would hate for you to have trouble in that area.'

The bee-keeper nodded.

Morton's tone switched suddenly from hard to hearty. 'All right, then—that's it!' He stood and stretched, glancing at the M.E. 'Jim—lunch?'

'Yep,' the M.E. said.

On the way out of the room, the District Attorney put his arm briefly around the bee-keeper's shoulder and said, 'Just forget about it, Willims. Chalk it up to professional strangeness.'

Willims looked up at the D.A., and for a moment his face was haunted.

'The thing I can't get over' he said, 'is the stuff she was saying about the Lord of the Dead, how she'd been brought back only for Halloween—'

Morton's scowl turned to an angry frown. 'I warned you in there, Willims—'

'I heard you,' the bee-keeper said resignedly. 'Believe me, I heard you.'

Morton removed his arm from the other man's shoulder, giving him a slight shove forward. 'Just don't forget what I said.'

They were in the marbled hallway of the court building, leading toward the revolving doors to the outside world. Morton watched Willims go through them, slouching with unhappiness.

I'll have to watch that one, he thought.

The M.E. came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. 'Meet you at the restaurant,' he said laconically. 'I've got to dip into my office upstairs for a minute.'

The M.E. peeled off into another hallway, his footsteps echoing away on the polished stone floor.

After a moment, the D.A. composed himself into his public face of smiling bluster, and drove through the revolving doors.

Outside it was cold and bright, early November chill making the recent October heat wave a memory.

The D.A. shivered, wishing he had remembered his topcoat. But the restaurant was only a block away.

He began to descend the wide stone steps of the courthouse, which led to the street, when something small and striped orange and black, an insect, brushed by his ear and settled lightly there.

He heard the faintest of whispers before he swatted it away—as if someone were talking to him from a far distance. Later he would wonder if he had heard at all what it said:

'Next Halloween...'