Kiss of the Bees

“He was talking about his damned award?”

Lani heard the change in the tenor of his voice, the sudden surge of anger. The lesson she should have learned when she had slapped the drug-laden cup away from her lips seemed so distant now, so far in the past, that it no longer applied. What difference did it make? He was going to kill her anyway.

“That’s why they gave it to him,” she said quietly. “For sending you to prison. You killed two people and wounded another. I think you got what you deserved.”

“Shut up,” Mitch Vega-Johnson snarled. “Shut the hell up. You don’t know the first goddamned thing about it.”

Listen to me, Little Olhoni, and do exactly as I say.

Once again Nana Dahd’s song came to mind and she began to sing quietly—jupij ne’e. She whispered the strength-giving words, not loud enough for Mitch to hear, but loud enough that they might fall on the ears of Betraying Woman, that they might reach out to that other trapped spirit who had spent so long shut up in the cave.

When Mitch had taken her prisoner and when he had hurt her, he had caught her unawares. Lani had learned enough about him now to realize that he was simply waiting for Quentin to finish loading the pots. When that task was accomplished, Mitch would come after Lani again—after Lani and Quentin both.

Minute by minute, the danger was coming closer, and singing Nana Dahd’s song was the only way Lani knew to prepare for it, to achieve ih’in. This time, when he came after her, she would be ready. Perhaps she would not escape—escape did not seem possible—but with the help of I’itoi and of Betraying Woman, Lani would meet her fate in a way that would make Nana Dahd proud. In the face of whatever Mitch Vega-Johnson had to offer, Lani would be bamustk—unflinching.

That was the other thing Siakam meant—to be a hero, to endure. Nana Dahd had given her that word as part of her name. Dolores Lanita Walker was determined that, no matter what, she would somehow live up to the legend of that other Mualig Siakam, to the other woman from long ago, the one who had been Kissed by the Bees.

Driving to the department, Brandon and Diana Walker said very little. Brandon had always thought that having a child die a violent death had to be a parent’s worst nightmare. But it turned out that wasn’t true, because having one child murdered by another was worse by far. There was no way for him to come to grips with the enormity of the tragedy, so he took refuge in action and drove.

Pulling into the familiar parking lot, he was struck by the difference between then and now, between when he used to park in the slot marked reserved for sheriff. Back then, he would have walked into the building to issue orders and direct the action. Tonight, instead of calling the shots, he was coming in as a family member—as the father of both victim and perpetrator. Instead of being able to tell people what to do, he was going to have to ask, maybe even beg, for someone to help him.

Shaking his head at his own powerlessness, he parked the car in a slot marked visitor.

“What are we going to tell them?” Diana asked, as they headed for the public entrance.

Brandon was still carrying the paper bag that held the cassette tape and plastic case. “Before I tell anybody anything, I’m going to try to get these to Alvin. That way he can start lifting prints. Once he’s done with the tape, we’ll try to get someone to hold still long enough to listen to it.”

“Will they believe it?”

“That depends,” Brandon told her.

“On what?”

“On the luck of the draw,” he answered. “With any kind of luck, Detective Myers will still be home in bed.”

Walking into the reception area, the young clerk recognized Brandon Walker immediately. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Alvin Miller,” Brandon answered.

The clerk frowned. “I doubt he’s here. I’m not showing him on the ‘in’ list.”

“Do me a favor,” Brandon said. “Try calling the fingerprint lab and see if he answers.”

And he did. Within minutes, Alvin Miller had come out to the reception area to escort Brandon and Diana back to the lab. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Brandon handed over the bag. “Do me a favor,” he said. “We need prints lifted off these.”

“All right,” Alvin returned.

“Then I’ll need something else.”

“What’s that?”

“You can call up prints by name, can’t you?”

“Sure,” Alvin answered. “If the prints went into the system with a name, then we can get them out that way, too. Whose name are we looking for?”

“My son’s,” Brandon Walker said, his voice cracking as he spoke.

“Your son’s?”

Brandon nodded. “His name is Quentin—Quentin Addison Walker. He’s only been out of Florence for a matter of months, so his prints should be on file.”

Without another word, Alvin Miller walked over to a computer keyboard and punched in a series of letters. The whole lab was silent except for the air rushing through the cooling ducts and the hum of fans on various pieces of equipment. For the better part of a minute, that sound didn’t change. Then, finally, with a distinctive thunk, a printer snapped into action.

Eventually, the print job was complete. Only when the lab was once again filled with that odd humming silence did Alvin reach out to retrieve the printed sheet from the printer. Preparing to hand it to Brandon, he glanced at it once. As soon as he did so, he snatched it away again and held it closer to study it more closely.