Buzz Off - By Hannah Reed Page 0,7
that were carnivores. They would eat dead, decaying carrion just like a vulture would.
I shut my eyes, but the image of my fallen friend remained vivid. I snapped them back open and looked away.
A police dog leashed to a fire truck bumper studied the situation as gravely as the humans, outwardly calm but alert. Hunter’s dog. The one that had locked eyes with me in the SUV.
Hunter and several other C.I.T.s I recognized from the neighboring communities also studied the situation. To them, this must be worse than a barricaded gunman—much worse. They could negotiate a hostage situation or bring in a sharpshooter to pick off a gunman, but they didn’t have a clue how to handle hundreds of bees.
I squatted next to the beekeeper’s body. If I didn’t have a rudimentary knowledge of bees and their nature, I would have suspected the same thing that the others did—that Manny’s honeybees had killed him. He certainly looked like he’d been stung one too many times. However, these weren’t honeybee stings.
I put a shaky hand out, steadied it the best I could, and poked a finger into the gathered bees as they lapped up honey. They didn’t react to my intrusion, which was exactly how nonaggressive bees would behave.
“Are they still stinging him?” I heard behind me.
“They aren’t stinging him at all,” I said. “They’re eating the honey. If you’d come closer than ten yards you’d be able to see for yourself. Come on over here, but move slowly. You don’t want to scare them.”
Hunter was the only one willing to take me up on my offer. I checked out his attire, especially the button-down shirt he wore.
“Bees are curious,” I said to him. “They’ll crawl in through your shirt collar or up your pant legs. I’d suggest you button up around your neck.”
Hunter adjusted his clothing, then squatted down next to me while bees buzzed overhead, checking us out and planning their landings onto Manny. Not a single one of them tried to sting us. Once Hunter acclimated himself to the unfamiliar environment and discovered that he wasn’t a bull’s-eye on a bee’s target, he leaned over Manny and looked more closely. “There are welts all over his exposed skin.”
I’d been afraid he’d notice that. “Let me get the bees off him,” I said, standing up, grateful that I had been born with a strong stomach.
But I had a dilemma. I had no idea what to do next.
“What can I do to help?” Hunter asked.
“I’m not sure. Stand back while I get rid of the bucket.”
I slowly moved the bucket away from Manny’s body, careful not to put my fingers down on top of any bees. Then I pondered my next move. Some of the honeybees had followed the pail, but a significant number of them remained with the honey on Manny’s chest.
What to do? I glanced at the honey house.
Manny’s honey house was the size of a two-car garage and the shape of a very large garden shed, with window-less double doors. It contained all the standard beekeeper’s equipment and gear and was set up to harvest, process, and store wildflower honey. Since Manny had been working around the beeyard, the honey house wasn’t padlocked. A good thing, since I didn’t have my key with me.
But I didn’t want to use a bee suit and smoker with Hunter and his group looking on. Encasing myself in armor and toting a weapon would only cement their belief that honeybees were dangerous, and that in turn would feed the rumor mill. In a small town like Moraine, the panic button is always within easy reach.
Instead, I set my sights on the bee blower. Bees don’t mind a strong wind. To them, it’s part of nature and they don’t consider it an aggressive act from an enemy. So when Manny and I wanted to get honeycombs from the hives without a bunch of bees tagging along, we blew them away with the bee blower.
Only I couldn’t find it. In the end, I sent one of the officers into the Chapmans’ home. He came out with an extension cord and a large fan.
Jackson Davis, the county medical examiner, had been hiding inside a circle of firefighters, probably wishing he’d chosen a different career. “I’m not going in there,” he said, indicating the flying insects. “I’d have to be nuts.”
“You’re the M.E. for Christ’s sake,” Police Chief Johnny Jay said. “Get your butt in there. Or do you need a shove?”
“We’ll put you in