Kiss of the Bees

physical assault on Lani had been staged when she was tied hand and foot, when she could do nothing to defend herself.

Obedience. Lani’s thoughts strayed back to that word and stayed there. And once again, out of the past or out of the basket, Lani heard Rita’s voice, singing to her:

“Listen to what I sing to you,

Little Olhoni. Listen to what I sing.

Be careful not to look at me

But do exactly as I say.”

Do exactly as I say.

Lani hadn’t even been born on the day of the battle with the evil Ohb, but she heard the words to that life-saving war chant as clearly as if she herself had been locked in the long-ago darkness of that root cellar along with Rita and Davy and Father John.

Perhaps the two darknesses—the one in the root cellar and the one here inside Vega’s stifling wooden crate —were exactly the same thing.

“That dollhouse looks just like my dad’s,” Quentin said, taking a confused look around as they pulled up the long curving driveway of the Gates Pass house. “What are we doing here?”

“Dropping off your sister’s bicycle,” Mitch told him.

Lani Walker’s knapsack had yielded a garage-door opener and a door key as well. “Take a look in that paper bag over there,” he said. “The gate-opener-door and house key are both inside. Get ’em out, would you?”

Quentin seemed dazed and stupefied. His fumbling movements were maddeningly slow, but he did as he was told. “How’d you get these?” he asked, holding up both the key and the opener once he had finally succeeded in retrieving them.

“I already told you. Lani gave them to me so we could bring the bike back,” Mitch answered. “What did you think, that I stole them? And don’t just sit there holding the damn thing. Press the button, would you?”

Obligingly, Quentin pressed the button, and the wrought-iron electronic gate swung open. Quentin started to hand the opener over to Mitch. “Keep it,” Mitch told him. “We’ll need it again on the way out. Now drag the bike out of the back. Where does it go, do you know?”

Quentin shrugged. “Right here in the carport, as far as I know.”

By the time Quentin finally managed to unlock the back door, Mitch Johnson was fairly dancing with anticipation—like a little kid who has waited too long to go to the bathroom. After watching the house for weeks, Mitch Johnson was ready to be inside. He had always planned on invading Brandon’s home turf as part of the operation. As the door finally opened, Mitch felt almost giddy. All those years he had been moldering in prison, Brandon Walker had been living here in what he believed to be a safe haven. Well, it wasn’t safe anymore.

Carrying the bag with its few remaining goodies, it didn’t take long to distribute them. Mitch directed Quentin to leave the tongs in the kitchen sink and the cassette tape under his stepmother’s pillow.

Quentin seemed puzzled. He held the tape up to the light and examined it. “What’s this for?” he asked.

“It’s just a little something Lani wants your dad and stepmom to have. It’s their anniversary pretty soon, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” Quentin agreed. “So how do you know Lani?”

“We met at her job,” Mitch said. “At the museum.”

Mitch couldn’t help being a little in awe of Quentin’s capacity. Based on how much booze he had probably drunk, that little bit of scopolamine should have laid the guy low. As it was, Quentin Walker’s mental faculties were noticeably dim, but he was still walking and talking.

“Why are we doing all this?” Quentin asked, leaning up against the doorway to steady himself. “And why’s it so hot?”

“I already told you,” Mitch said. “It’s a favor for your sister.”

“Oh,” said Quentin.

The last room they entered was Brandon Walker’s study. Quentin had told Mitch that was where Brandon Walker kept his guns, and that was what they went looking for—Brandon’s gun cabinet. While Quentin pawed through the top desk drawer, searching for the key to the locked cabinet, Mitch Johnson surveyed the room. He was fine until he saw the framed plaque hanging on the wall along with any number of other awards.

The 1976 Detective of the Year award had been presented to Detective Brandon Walker by Parade Magazine as a result of his having solved a homicide case, one in which two men were murdered and another was severely injured.

The plaque on the wall didn’t say that, didn’t reveal all those details. It didn’t have to. Mitch knew them by heart. This was the award—the recognition—that had come to Brandon Walker for arresting Mitch Johnson himself. For arresting a man who was engaged in the wholly honorable pursuit of protecting God and country from the invading hordes. Those wetbacks had been illegal trespassers on U.S. soil, intent on taking jobs away from real Americans who were out of work. Mitch was the one who should have been given a medal for getting rid of that kind of scum—a medal, not a jail sentence.

The rage that hit Mitch Johnson on seeing that framed award went far beyond anything he had ever imagined. Years of pent-up frustration boiled over when he saw it. That was the worst part of the whole operation, the moment of his greatest temptation.

Years ago, in similar circumstances, Andy had simply fallen victim to Diana’s body, losing his focus and purpose both, in satisfying his biological cravings. By resisting the pull of Lani’s tight little body, by not tearing into her when it would have been so easy, Mitch Johnson had already proved to himself that he was a better man than his mentor. Seeing that plaque sitting smugly on the wall was far worse for Mitch than merely wanting to be inside some stupid woman’s hot little twat.

What Mitch wanted to do in that moment was take a gun—any gun would do, but preferably an automatic— and mow through every picture in the place. It would have been easy. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Quentin Walker was in the process of handing Mitch a Colt .357 that would have blasted the whole room to pieces. And brought cops raining down on them from miles away.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Mitch caught himself just in time. He dropped the weapon into his pocket. “What’s all this shit?” he said, gesturing.

“What?” Quentin asked. “The stuff on the wall?”