They sat close, their knees touching, their hands resting on them. Andi closed his eyes, and George could hear his breathing becoming deeper. He closed his own eyes, concentrated on synchronizing his breath to Andi’s. It took some time, forcing his body into another rhythm, but then it was as if a knot of tension had burst in a kaleidoscope of colors. They were in sync now, going deeper. George could feel Andi, each of his fingers a cold point of contact, slowly warming from George’s body heat, which was good, something he could provide, a way he could help his partner with his burden, holding his hands, his own resting on where their knees joined, Andi’s knees sharp and bony like their owner, George’s covered in muscle, reliable, strong, the fabric on the upper half of the back of his hand rough, with fuzz balls from too much washing, the lower half on a smooth surface, the feeling of newness a sharp contrast to the age of the other. It was a strangely accurate representation of their partnership, something so distinctively clear on the surface, ragged and new, smooth and rough, bought and kept, and yet it was just that, surface, because under that, things changed. The new wasn’t better, just different, lent another texture, added to the picture instead of painting it from scratch.
In and out, their breathing flowed, like waves on the sand licking back and forth. The meditation teacher had told them to use this picture, as it was easy to imagine and to hold on to. George pictured himself on a beach, something nice, not the overcrowded sunny beaches in Florida or California, no, his beach had some rocks in the sand, around which the waves bubbled and foamed. It was more gray than white or orange, not hot, not cold either; it was a soothing beach where he was alone with Andi, no distractions, no cases, no chief, and most importantly, the arthropods were drowned out by the waves, which were their breathing, their breathing was the waves, all one, peaceful, perfect. He was holding Andi’s hand, it had warmed to his touch, like a snake warming its body under the sun, their steps were in sync, no haste, it was all good. He felt a light tremor in Andi’s hand, the beach flickered. George’s mind knew there was a problem and wanted to go back, but he had to stay, had to keep Andi here, even if he was still not sure whatherewas exactly, the place where he could keep Andi grounded, that was his job right now; he didn’t have to take in what Andi was saying because this wasn’t a case, they were at home, this was for Andi, to make him relax. George imagined the cool sand between his toes, the soft kiss of the water when it rolled up to them, in and out, back and forth, waves on the beach, eternal, soothing, consistent, an anchor to keep Andi grounded, a wall to fend off whatever was haunting his partner.
Time became meaningless. George fell into the picture, got caught in the rhythm, the places where his and Andi’s bodies met like beacons in a darkness that was a jumble of sensory images for Andi and like a room without electricity for George. There were times when he envied his partner his broader sight on everything. George imagined how wonderful it had to be to not be confined by the limitations of his own senses, to be able to step out of the cage every human lived in—until he remembered the price Andi paid. It was a good thing most humans were unable to escape the prison. The human mind wasn’t made for the vastness of the world.
Slowly, Andi’s voice filtered into the lulling song of the waves, riding on the splattering noises when water met rock.
“Warm, so warm, you smell so good, of home and safety andchrt, ssst, they’re not as loud when you’re here, holding them at bay, the images, it’s flowing, fleeting, like a dance, the waves, like music, my rhythm, not theirs, our rhythm, peaceful, your electricity is back to normal, love it,thump, thump, bluorp, dance with me, back and forth, in and out, I’m tired and hungry, or is it them, always so hard to tell, no bodies here, your cooking is so good, I want to eat.”
George squeezed Andi’s hands, enveloped them with his, imagined holding them forever, until they were both old and gray. The image brought contentment, a promise of a life well lived, of a purpose served. Their breathing sped up, in and out, back and forth, slowly coming back, the beach sinking into the waves while they broke through the surface, back in the living room of Andi’s house, on their mats, their hands entwined.
Andi looked better, there was some color in his cheeks, and not the unhealthy kind of impending fever or exhaustion. George smiled at him.
“You said you were hungry?”
“Yes. I think I really am.”
George got up to cook, and after he had fed Andi, they sat on the sofa, watching a game of basketball. Andi leaned against George’s side, a quilt over his legs, dozing away. It was perfect.
12. Preppers and Bees
“THE SONof the owner of the bunker lives next to House Cusabo. Coincidence?” Andi took a sip of his peppermint tea.
“There are no coincidences, as you well know,” George replied in his best Gibbs imitation. He was maneuvering the Escalade through the outskirts of Charleston.
Despite the pressure they were under, this morning wasn’t too bad. Andi had slept well after the meditation with George, and Geena had sent them out to question Timothy Cervill alone, saying she wanted to work with Gelman on their killer’s profile. Tobias and Sandra were still digging deeper into House Cusabo, now taking a closer look at the former director, the late Dr. Silvana Grassen. They had also enlisted the help of two beat officers, Susan Jones and Mark Deville, who were hyped about the opportunity to work on such a huge case. Evangeline had sent more information about the victims, and Shireen would surely add her findings soon, now that she had more names to work with. Even without the input from the silverfish, Andi had easily read from Geena’s body language that she wanted to give them some space, which he appreciated. Considering how bad working with other agencies could be, they had drawn the equivalent to a lotto win with Geena. Being alone with George meant he could relax even more without being scrutinized all the time.
Letting some of his iron control loosen just enough to be able to breathe a little easier felt like heaven to Andi. He was just glad most insects were still either hibernating or kind of sluggish due to the weather. But the sun was already getting more potent with each day, and the arthropods felt it as well. Soon they would bury Andi under an avalanche of impressions. He only hoped the case would be solved by then.
“No. Especially not in a case like this.” He fumbled for his phone to scroll through the information Shireen had sent them. “Timothy Cervill is a prime example of a true American prepper. There are no medical files of him after his tenth birthday, which is also the year when his mother died. Apparently, she was the one to keep the family at least halfway inside society. After she died of cancer, Thomas Cervill started homeschooling his son. The land where he built the bunker was only partly his. The rest belongs to the city. Back in the eighties when he started building it, nobody gave a damn because who needed swamp land?”
“I can’t imagine what it must have cost to get the ground dry enough to dig the hole for the bunker, even if there’s more rocks in that area.”
“According to Shireen, Thomas inherited money from his grandfather, a healthy trust he dissolved when he started his alternative housing project, also one of the last fiscal traces Shireen could find of him. There is a short blip after his wife’s death, when he collected her life insurance, but then he went completely off the grid, taking his son with him.”
Andi scrolled on. “Shireen can’t say for sure, but she thinks Thomas started building the bunker in 1983, the year Timothy was born. He finished in 1992, a year before his wife died. She bases this estimate on the turnover of the hardware store Thomas used to frequent. For somebody who was adamant about paying all his bills in cash, he was damn neglectful when it came to evading shopping patterns. Anyway, father and son never got to enjoy the bunker, because in 1994 the city realized there was an illegal construction on part of their land and they forced Cervill to give the bunker up. Nothing much happened after that, it being swamp land and all, and by now it’s considered part of the recreational area around the city, though practically nobody goes out there because there’s more inviting spaces available.”
“You mean technically, the bunker belongs to the city?” George was now on the road leading to House Cusabo.
“The legalities are unclear. I guess lawyers would have a field day with it—or more precisely a field year. Or decade. I assume, due to Thomas Cervill’s aversion to the government, he gave the bunker up without much fuss. After all, fighting for it would have meant going to court. You can’t expose yourself to the authorities more than that. He bought a patch of land next to House Cusabo, which his son, Timothy, inherited after his father’s death in 2012.”
“Do they have a bunker there as well?”
“I don’t know. Their purchases from the hardware shop they used to frequent suggest not, but they could have simply started switching more often.”
“Fine. Here we are.” George stopped the Escalade in front of a metal gate similar to the one guarding House Cusabo, though this one was definitely less inviting. Several signs warned trespassers from entering, threatening them with the use of firearms. George looked at Andi. “Anybody home?”
Andi concentrated on the information he needed to filter from the mass of sensations swamping him.
The queen laying eggs, going from comb to comb, the larvae so hungry, always, some of them transforming right at the moment, the feeling of being liquefied always terrible, the faint memory of what he’d been mixed with what he would become, these were strong bees, killing the varroa tics, the dismembered bodies of these parasites strewn on the ground of the hives, wings growing out of jelly, he had no real sense in this state, just a frame of mind he couldn’t hope to ever comprehend, if he got sucked in, his own body became purely blood, no form except of the shell keeping it inside, though what was inside remained to be seen, pumping and pulsing, he could feel his sisters in the hive, waiting for him to join them, one blob lived here, the smoke, the beekeeper suit, it was all there, but not the same or was it, so hard to tell, the bees knew only this blob, no way to distinguish him from the killer, not yet anyway, he was in the little cabin, there was room underground, not as big as the other bunker with the death chamber, not filled with death, only food and water, paper, the blob knew they were here, hidden cameras, the blob had a weapon, coming toward the gate—
“Mr. Timothy Cervill, we are Detectives George Donovan and Andrew Hayes from the Charleston PD. We have some questions for you!” George was shouting at the man marching toward the gate with his shotgun at the ready. He had opened the driver’s door but stayed behind the relative safety of the steel. Andi did the same.
“What do you want?” Timothy Cervill didn’t sound very inviting.
“We want to talk to you about the bunker your father built in Bloody Dick Swamp.” George showed his badge over the window of the car door. Timothy was now close enough to take a look at it through the gate. He was also close enough for Andi to get a good look at him. The man was roughly George’s size, a bit over six feet, with brown hair and a brown beard, both of which could have used a trim. His eyes were rather large in his hard face, a grayish blue that gleamed in anger.
“The fucking city took that from us. What would I know about it?”
