“Here it is. I’m glad Dr. Blackton gave us unrestricted access to the employee files. Bruce Sprenger, forty-three, started working for House Cusabo July 2015. That was the year Izzy Whitewall went missing.”
“They already had the bees back then, didn’t they? Otherwise, Izzy wouldn’t have said the bees brought death.” George started tapping the wheel to the rhythm of the song playing on the radio. Something about calling somebody by their name.
“Yes. We should find out when they started using them for therapy. If it coincides with the first deaths or is close to them, we might have another lead.”
“I’ll text Shireen. We’re going home?”
“We’re going home.”
18. Who needs to talk anyway?
GEORGE WASquiet on the way home. He had his thinking face on, the one that acted like a barrier, at least for Andi. He knew his partner’s boundaries and did everything in his power to respect them. It was far too often he forced George to bend them for him when he was too lost inthemto care about anything. Showing that he cared when he could was all Andi had to offer. The silence also gave him time to ponder the case. It was such a shame the arthropods couldn’t give him a clearer picture of the killer. The thing with the beekeeper suit was a genius move, he had to give the killer that. Even if the man was clueless about Andi’s talent and the whole thing probably had a metaphysical component for him, wearing the suit during the crime was great for avoiding evidence. No traces of skin or hair on the victims, just the pollen that could be from anywhere in Charleston. Andi still wondered if the killer’s choice of victim could be something else besides the mental illnesses Gelman had stipulated as the deciding factor. Perhaps they had it all wrong and the man wasn’t hung up about the bees. Perhaps he was simply a deadly genius who knew how to conceal his identity by wearing protective clothing during his kills and by choosing victims nobody would miss, and who, by chance, enjoyed working with bees. If Tyler hadn’t followed his ghost friends, nobody would know about the bunker and the next victim could already be in the killer’s sights. Perhaps it wasn’t the bees at all. Perhaps they were just a means to an end, a byproduct. It would change the angle of their investigation, but neither the suspect pool—somebody who dealt with bees—nor the fact that all they could be sure of was the killer being male and strong enough to carry drugged people down into a bunker would change.
And until they found out where the killer picked up his victims, Andi wouldn’t even dream of diving into the minds of his informants to find an event as specific as somebody being dragged into a vehicle against their will. Or willingly. They simply didn’t know. The use of drugs before the kill suggested the killer didn’t enjoy violence, he didn’t want his victims to struggle, perhaps he didn’t even want them to suffer. If he was simply giving in to his urge to kill but was a functioning member of society otherwise, not a psychopath, it could be he chose his targets with the thought that nobody would grieve them. Izzy Whitewall didn’t fit that estimation, but she could have been a mistake. Most killers made them, though usually early in their careers. If only the smoke wasn’t so cloying, Andi could find the man; he knew he could. Ending this case wasn’t as important as solving it, but he would take anything at this point just to get it over with.
“Andi?”
“Huh? What? Sorry, I was thinking about the case.” Andi blinked at George, who had parked the car in front of the house.
“I can see that. I wanted to know if you need some more time in here?”
Andi looked around. The car was nice, arthropod-free again, but no matter how soft the seats were, they weren’t as wonderful as his own sofa in the living room. “No, no, I’m coming.”
They both left the car. Andi opened the door while George made sure the Escalade was locked. He then sauntered over to Andi, his entire body a kaleidoscope of emotions, pheromones, chemicals, electrical charges. When Andi looked at George purely through the senses of the arthropods surrounding them, he was still the most attractive blob Andi had ever seen, gorgeously bright and soothing at the same time, a safe haven for him, a place where he could rest, and he needed to rest, his entire body screaming at him to let go, his muscles all too ready to go lax, his mind taut to the point of ripping,themjust waiting for his walls to crumble. And George knew, George saw it because he held out his hand and guided Andi inside to the sofa, where they sat down, Andi as close to George as possible, tugging his legs under his ass, putting his head on George’s shoulder, hearing, sensing, feeling his heartbeat, the familiar views of the resident arthropods taking over, shielding him some from what was going on outside and in his head, and George’s breathing was so soothing, relaxing. Andi was ready to sleep, to slip under the blanket of darkness that promised peace, temporary peace. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, it was to his head resting comfortably on one of the pillows, a blanket thrown over his legs, and the scent of baking potatoes in the oven. There was garlic too, a feast in the making. Andi sat up a little groggily. He was now at an age where naps during the day were welcome but left his system wonky.
“Ah, I was about to wake you up. Dinner is ready.” George was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, radiating calm, the tense lines around his eyes softened. Andi glanced at the clock above the fireplace, an antique from his gran, all gold and glass and gleaming. Six thirty. He had slept for over two hours. No wonder his legs were jelly. He followed George into the kitchen, where his partner prepared two plates with perfectly crisp potato chips—baked in olive oil because that was the healthy option—and generous dollops of lean curd with garlic and fresh herbs. A feast indeed.
After they had eaten and cleaned the kitchen—the mere idea of leaving food for their tiny roommates had George sweating—they went upstairs, George walking behind Andi because apparently, he didn’t trust him on the stairs, which was sweet and a bit patronizing and exactly what Andi needed, even if he wasn’t in any danger of falling down, not today at least. In front of Andi’s room, they stopped, Andi reaching for the handle, looking at his partner.
“How about a bath?” He could have added that filling the ginormous tub was a waste for just one person or that they could take turns or whatever, but it wasn’t necessary. They both wanted closeness, to not be apart just yet, perhaps never again. The electricity surrounding George sparked; his pheromones conveyed his happiness.
Andi led the way to the tub, started the water, while George rummaged through the drawer under the sink until he found the lavender bathing salt. He had bought it recently—until then, Andi had put in the water whatever he could find, usually very old bubble baths and salts from his gran, who had loved a good soak. George had spent one Sunday afternoon to sort through it all and then had, very politely, very worried, asked, as if Andi were made of glass, if those bathing substances held any meaning to him because they needed to go, immediately. While saying this, he had held a two-pound bag of hardened rosemary and sage bathing salt in front of him as if it were about to explode any minute. All of Gran’s bathing salts had hardened, but Andi had a hammer, so it wasn’t a problem. Luckily for George’s mental well-being, Andi held no special connection to his gran’s toiletries. That was reserved for other things, like her room, which still remained the same, unchanged, like his love for her, even though her scents and her impressions on the arthropods were starting to fade, too much time gone since she’d last been there. The bathing salts, old soap bars, bottles with foaming gels and milky liquids were disposed of and replaced by George’s things. He had taken Andi with him to the small shop where he bought his vegan, ecological, plastic-free toiletries, but the wall of scents had taken Andi out within seconds, and so he had waited in the car while George took care of yet another thing for him. In hindsight, the good thing about Gran’s stuff had been that it had lost most of its scent.
Now the very politically and ecologically correct bathing salt went into the water, the soft, unobtrusive aroma reminding Andi why high-quality stuff was worth the money most of the time. He started undressing because he wasn’t shy about his body. Unlike with most teenagers, Andi’s build had never been a problem for him. He didn’t compare himself to the jocks running around bare-chested to impress the girls with their muscle mass. At that age, Andi had had completely different worries, and his reputation as the resident freak you better not mess with had spared him any and all comments that might have impacted him. Then again, probably not. He already knew that blob bodies were imperfect, kind of useless, the hard bits inside instead of outside protecting the squishy parts, no wings, only two legs, how could anybody get anywhere with only two legs, it was a mystery, lungs instead of spiracles, what a stupid concept, two sacks of bloody tissue instead of elegant tubes steering oxygen into the body, only one measly brain, consisting of 2 percent of the entire body’s weight but using up 20 percent of the oxygen, and not even reaching into the legs, instead of making up 80 percent of the body, as it was with some spiders, no connection to a bigger mind, all alone, it was a miracle blobs were functioning at all.
Andi knew his body could be described as wiry, leaning dangerously into underweight, his sinewy muscles from all the running around adding some mass to what would otherwise just be a sack filled with bones. Compared to him, George’s body was a study in what blobs deemed perfection, his muscles trained, not to the point where it was too much, but well enough to do the job, to make women and men drool, his movements sleek, graceful from running, no sharp angles on him; everything about him screamed healthy, hale, fit. Andi’s opposite in everything, dark where Andi was pale, round where Andi was bony, full of energy where Andi felt he was drained to the core. All these were mere observations for Andi, nothing that worried him or made him insecure. Bodies were the way they were. George had no problem getting naked in front of his partner either, his happiness saturating the air far more than the bathing salt did.
They stepped into the tub, the water warm and soothing, the lavender salt making it feel as if they were in southern France. Or how Andi imagined southern France to be when the lavender was in full bloom. George got into the water at the other side of the tub, writhing a bit until he found a position he liked. Andi could feel sudden tension mixing with his calmness, knew it wasn’t just the case resurfacing as it did in Andi’s mind when he least expected or wanted it, but something else, something about them. He might be emotionally challenged, but he wasn’t an idiot.
“You want to talk about something.” He also didn’t beat around the bush.
George lifted his right hand from the water, tiny droplets splashing back in, thepitsch,pitschso sweet, not like the atmosphere, heavy withsomething.
“I’m not sure if this is the right time, Andi. Hell, I’m not even sure what I want to talk about exactly because so much of it is nonverbal.” George was frustrated. It was a scraping greenish yellow front and center in Andi’s senses.
“We’re in a bathtub, the water is hot, neither of us can go anywhere in a hurry. Seems perfect to me.”
George grinned, genuinely amused. “I sometimes forget you’re not like other people. You’re right. Okay, here it comes. I know we are close. I know me moving in with you is more than just two friends saving money. I know what we have goes beyond friendship. The point is…. The point is there’s so much to talk about, and not everything can and should be talked about, and Daniel said I should be open, but sometimes it’s hard to read you, which makes being open difficult.”
“Because you’re afraid of saying something that’ll hurt me?”
“That too, among other things.”
Andi leaned forward to put his hand on George’s knee. The tub was so big, he couldn’t reach farther without bending over. His partner’s skin was wet and warm, and the touch sparked in the minds of the silverfish, comfort and warmth for Andi, protectiveness and adoration mixed with lust for George.
“George, you see me. You know my secret, and you haven’t run screaming for the hills. No, you try to make my life better, to help me, you’re enraged on my behalf for the unfairness of it all. There is nothing, I repeat,nothing, you could say to me that would make me abandon you.”
