Deadout
Authors: Jon McGoran
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For the bees
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CKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I first had the idea for
Deadout,
I knew I had a lot to learn about bees. Fortunately, I didn't know how much, otherwise I might have chosen to write about something else. More fortunate is the fact that so many of the people who are tireless in their efforts to understand honeybees and threats like colony collapse disorder are also generous with their knowledge, expertise, and time. I'd like to thank Dave Roubik, Mark Winston, Paul Goldstein, Deborah A. Delaney, and Amro Zayed for their eloquence and their patience in answering my many questionsâmy often slightly rephrased and occasionally repeated questions. I'd also like to thank Jerry Bromenshenk for his help in understanding LIDAR systems, and beekeepers like Don Schump and Susan Matlock, who were invaluable in helping me understand the life of honeybees. Very special thanks go to Annalise Paaby, who not only shared so much of her time and expertise, but who also shared my excitement about many of the ideas in this book. Thanks also to everyone else out there who is working to understand what is happening to the planet's bees, and to save them.
The issue of genetically engineered food is of great concern to me and of great relevance to this book, and I'd like to thank Katey Parker of Just Label It, Sam Bernahardt of Food and Water Watch, Zofia Hausman of Citizens for GMO Labeling, Karen Schumann-Stark of GMO Free PA, and Barbara Thomas of GMO Free NJ for all their support, and for the great work they do. And again, thanks to all the individuals and organizations who are fighting for our right to know what we are eating, and groups like the Center for Science in the Public Interest, the Center for Food Safety, and the Union of Concerned Scientists who are fighting to preserve the essence of the scientific method from those who seek to profit from its subversion.
My fondness and familiarity with the island of Martha's Vineyard goes back decades, but I would never have been able to write this book without the help of many of its residents. Special thanks go to Tisbury Police Chief Dan Hanavan and fellow author Cynthia Riggs, as well as Chrissy Kinsmen and Sue Murphy. (And my apologies to staff at various island businesses for the strange phone calls and bizarre questions.) Major thanks go to Terry and Tim Lowe and Josie Iadicicco, for more reasons than I can mention here, but most of all for their friendship, which I treasure.
Thanks to my editor, Kristin Sevick, and everyone else at Tor/Forge, for their enthusiasm and support and for being so good at what they do. As with everything I write, I owe a debt of gratitude to the amazing community of writers of which I am proud to be a part, especially the Philadelphia Liars Club and my friends in Team Decker. And as with everything I
publish,
I am eternally grateful for my amazing agent, Stacia Decker, and everyone at Donald Maass Literary Agency.
And as with everything else, more than anything else, I am grateful for the love and support of my wife, Elizabeth, and my son, Will, without which I would never have been able to write this book. Or do much of anything else.
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C
ONTENTS
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1
Danny and I paused at the bottom of the steps, holding our breath and listening as we looked up and down the dank, dark corridor. The only sound was the squeak of a not-too-distant rat. Danny shrugged and took off, running to the left. I watched him for half a second, listening to his shoes scraping against the gritty wet floor. Then I took off in the opposite direction, breathing through my mouth against the mildew that tickled my nose.
Simeon Jarrett had come down the same steps we had, no more than half a minute earlier. I wasn't entirely sure about coming down here after him, or about the idea of splitting up, but Danny was the cautious one, not me.
As I rounded a ninety-degree turn to the left, the sound of Danny's footsteps disappeared behind my own. The basement got darker the farther I ran, the spaces growing longer between the dim pools of light from grimy block windows set near the ceiling. The walls seemed to close in on me, and I wondered for a moment if I was having some sort of anxiety attack. Then I realized it wasn't the walls closing in on me, it was two very large men, and while neither of them was Simeon Jarrett, I was pretty sure they were on the same side of the good guy/bad guy divide.
A situation like that can make you want to start shooting, but that makes a lot of assumptions about your fellow man. And while it might make life simpler in the short run, it can make it a lot more complicated in the long run.
I didn't have the time or distance to slow down, so instead I slid feet-first between them.
The guy on my left apparently didn't share my reluctance to make assumptions because he opened fire on the area where I had just been running. It's possible he was gunning down a giant rat that had been poised to attack, but more likely he was shooting at me.
The sound of the gun was deafening, bouncing around in the corridor. In the muzzle flash, I recognized the two faces above me as Blink Taylor and Derrell Sims, two of Jarrett's close associates.
Sliding on the floor between them, I brought the butt of my Glock down as hard as I could, mashing the shooter's foot with a reassuring crunch. He howled and twisted as he fell, squeezing off another shot. This one passed over my head and apparently struck his partner in the hip, because suddenly the howling was in stereo. By the time I was back on my feet and turned around, they were both on the floor behind me. Twenty feet beyond them a cascade of sparks fell from the remnants of an old fluorescent light fixture, apparently struck by an errant bullet. I was shocked the dump had electricity, but grateful for the illumination, just enough to see the two of them grabbing their injuries and rolling around in the same muck that now soaked the left side of my body.
They had both dropped their weapons to grab their wounds, and I kicked the guns out of the way. I cuffed them both, hands and feet, advised them of their rights, and wished them luck with the rats. Then I took off after Simeon Jarrett.
The light from the sparks helped me see where I was going, but the strobe effect was unsettling. Ahead of me, the corridor ended in a perpendicular hallway.
As I approached it, I could see my silhouette against the far wall. The sight of it stopped me cold.
The last time I'd seen that image, it had been in the middle of an afternoon of carnage that left five people deadânearly six, including meâand was followed a millisecond later by an explosion that threw me against the wall like overcooked pasta. I knew that wasn't happening now, but I felt trapped in that moment, waiting for that impact. Standing there, frozen, I heard footsteps approaching down the hallway to my left, but still I couldn't move. Then there he was, Simeon Jarrett, right in front of me.
It happened in an instant: him running up from the side, skidding to a stop, alarm and surprise on his face, followed by an evil smile as he raised his gun.
I think I was snapping out of it, but before I could move, I heard a thunderous, “Freeze!” coming from down the hallway to my left.
Jarrett pivoted and squeezed off two shots in the direction of the voice, and received several shots back in response.
Then he was gone, pounding down the hallway to my right. Danny Tennison ran up, staring at me with a mixture of confusion and concern. “You okay?” he said.
“Yeah, I'm good.”
He stared at me for a moment longer. Then he turned and resumed his chase. I fell in behind him, then passed him. The hallway ended at a metal door outlined in silver light, and I burst through it, out into blinding sunshine and onto a deserted street.
Simeon Jarrett was gone.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Lieutenant Suarez stared blankly at me from across his desk. I could tell he wasn't buying it. Neither was Danny, sitting in the chair next to me, his eyes boring into the side of my head.
“Nothing,” I'd said repeatedly when they'd repeatedly asked what had happened out there.
“Nothing?” Suarez said dubiously, almost mimicking me.
I knew Danny was concerned about me, but I was annoyed with him for diming me out. I loved him like a brother, and like a brother, sometimes I wanted to kick his ass. Yes, he deserved an explanation, and as soon as I had one, he'd be welcome to it.
Until then, fuck him.
“Whatever,” Suarez said, closing the file in front of him and rubbing his eyes. “Look, you sure you don't want to take some time off?”
“I am taking some time off.”
His eyes narrowed, as if he didn't believe me.
“Weekend with Nola. Visiting a friend on Martha's Vineyard.”
“Martha's Vineyard? What's that?”
“Little island off Cape Cod.”
“Sounds nice. Good for you. But that's not what I meant, and you know it. You've declined counseling, and apparently I can't force you to go. Okay. We're all grateful for what you did in Dunston,” he said, waving his hand as though he was quoting a line he didn't believe. “Until I'm comfortable that you're one hundred percentâand frankly, the way I see it, you're not even closeâyou're on low-impact duty.”