Black Bird of the Gallows(49)

“Hey.” My dad points at the TV. He looks confused. “I know that guy.”

I scan the screen. It’s a scene of the crowd outside the college, backed up behind the crime scene tape.

“Who?”

Dad grabs the remote and hits the pause button. “That skinny guy right there, with the wool hat. I know him.” He rubs his chin. “Trying to remember where.”

My heart clutches. I send Reece a look of panic, because we both know that guy, too. His curse may have gifted him one bland set of features for the TV, but that’s Rafette my father’s pointing to.

“Ah!” Dad claps his hands and points to the screen. “Son of a bitch. That’s the same piece of sh— Oh, sorry for the cursing.” He clears his throat, but his eyes are glued to the screen. “That guy used to hang around your mom at the apartment we shared in Pittsburgh, after you came along, Angie, but, well, we were apart for a bit. Something happened and she came home, but when she saw that guy, she really freaked out. I finally confronted him and told him to get lost, which he did, I think. Man, your mom was scared of nothing, but that guy… The guy made an impression on me. I could never forget him.” He squints at the TV and circles a hand over his face. “He had a weird kind of face, too, like it wasn’t quite… Whatever. I can’t explain it.”

“That was a long time ago,” I choke out. “Are you sure it’s the same guy?”

“I know. It can’t be, right?” Dad shakes his head, eats a spoonful of butter pecan. “Nah, you’re right. Couldn’t be. That guy’s a spitting image, though. How bizarre is that?”

All three of us stare at the blurred, paused image of the man at the crime scene. I doubt my dad perceives the pleased, satisfied look on the Beekeeper’s face. No one else would, either. It’s just another face in the crowd.

Reece’s lips are so compressed, they’re almost colorless. His fingers compulsively rub the scars on his palm. “I should get going.” He’s trying for lightness, but he sounds as serious as he looks.

Dad looks over and blinks up at him. “That was a short visit.”

“I know.” Reece gets to his feet. “I just remembered I told my mom I’d be home tonight. To watch the kids. She has a date or something.”

My dad sits up straight. “Oh, sure. Is it…um. Is she seeing someone seriously?”

Reece struggles to keep a straight face. “I don’t think so. I mean, we just moved here, so…”

“Of course.” My dad waves a hand. “None of my business anyway.”

Reece covers his mouth with a hand. “Well, okay. I’m gonna go. Good night, Mr. Dovage, Angie.”

I get up. “I’ll walk you out.”

Out of earshot, I grab his arm. “What the hell was that?”

He looks away. “Yeah, I don’t know. That was weird.”

“That was more than weird.” My chest swells with anger. “I told you there was a connection between my mother and Rafette. I saw her features in Rafette’s face that night in the parking lot behind The Strip Mall, and now we learn he was stalking my mom.” I jab a finger at his chest. “Which means you lied to me when I asked you about it. Why? What do you know?”

“I didn’t lie,” he protests. “Remember when I told you how all the Beekeeper’s faces once belonged to people who died with their venom in them?”

“Yeah?”

“No one survives that. They just don’t. The venom is powerful and shifts reality in a specific way to its victims.” He steps close, speaks quietly in my ear. “If your dad saw Rafette stalking your mother back in Pittsburgh, it means she would have been stung just after you were born. Your mother lived for more than a decade after that. The average life-span after a Beekeeper sting is a few weeks, max.”

“She did take her own life.”

“Not violently. She overdosed. Maybe it was intentional, but it was also many years later,” he counters. “No one lives that long. They just don’t. Look what’s happening with Corey Anderson, and he was stung only two days ago.”

My vision blurs. Officially, no one has heard from Corey Anderson since he was hauled out of PE, but the rumors about him are bad. It’s said that he flipped out on his parents, and he went to Pittsburgh for specialized psychiatric treatment.

I cross my arms. “Explain it, then. Explain the connection.”

“I can’t.” He grips my shoulders and leans close. “Angie, we have only a little time left. My family and I are watching you, Rafette, and trying to keep tabs on the people we know he stung. Forget him. Don’t dig for answers here,” he says quietly, turning the door handle. “Don’t forget that you’re living in a marked town. There are bigger forces at work here than a Beekeeper playing mind games. Soon, you’re going to have to add survival to your list of priorities.”





22-from the past


I spend Sunday morning in my studio, trying to finish a half-written song, with varying degrees of success.

Very little success. The violence outside my school made all this Beekeeper, impending disaster business unbearably real. Working on songs feels like a frivolous activity with all the chaos going on around me.

Reece calls me midday to ask if I’d like to come over to watch a movie with him and his family. My dad says okay and although I’m feeling unsettled about Reece, I say I’ll go. Six o’clock, Reece tells me. Brooke is cooking.