The Mastiff Who Faced the Swarm

Clara moved nearer. Her costly perfume, all roses and sugar, couldn’t cover the sharp, sour odor of sweat. “Wayne has no business holding on to that land. He’s a freak, shut away in that moldy wreck of a trailer, making the whole neighborhood look worse because he won’t sell.” Her eyes flashed. “A commercial developer offered two million for all the property together last month. Two million. Wayne turned it down because he’s fond of the trees.”

“You set this up even though Lily could have been hurt, all to force a land sale?” I asked. My fingers found the hard edge of the zip ties in my pocket, tracing the sponges through the fabric.

Clara gave a clipped, ugly laugh. “You’re clueless about how things really happen. Lily wasn’t meant to be outside at four. She should have been indoors watching cartoons until five.”

“So who were you trying to catch?”

She left the question hanging. A narrow smile pulled across her face, empty of warmth. “Get rid of that recording, John. Cameras are a nuisance. Someone can break into them. They can show things that weren’t meant for you to see.” Her voice softened. “And sometimes the house with the cameras catches fire in the night.”

Cold spread through me at the plain meaning of her words. I had no chance to answer. The iron gate shrieked on its hinges nearby, cutting through the silence.

The Animal Control officer came back toward her truck, shaking her head as she walked. “Wayne wouldn’t let us take the dog. He says he’s treating him himself. Goliath is still breathing, but the swelling around his muzzle is severe.”

Clara gave me a final look full of spite. “Stay out of my affairs, John. Otherwise you might be the next one stung.” She spun around and strode across the road, her heels snapping against the pavement.

I remained where I was, listening to her warning replay in my head. I had to find out whether Goliath was holding on. I also had to tell Wayne what his sister had just let slip.

I crossed the gravel and came to the sagging chain-link gate. It stood partly open. When I pushed through, the metal gave a protesting squeal. I followed the dirt track, overgrown with weeds, to the door of Wayne’s battered trailer.

I rapped my knuckles against the aluminum three times.

“Leave me alone,” a rough voice called from somewhere inside.

“It’s John, Wayne. I’m by myself. Clara and the officers have gone.”

For a while nothing happened. Then a deadbolt clacked back. The door dragged open with a groan, and Wayne filled the opening, his tall, broad frame blotting out what little daylight reached inside. Thick smears of dark green paste covered his hands.

“He’s in the living room,” he said, the words heavy with fatigue. He moved aside, and I stepped in.

Heat pressed against my skin as soon as I entered. The trailer smelled of damp fur, crushed mint, and fresh aloe. Goliath lay on a thick foam bed in the middle of the narrow, wood-paneled room. His chest lifted in shallow, uneven pulls. Green ointment coated his huge head, covering the furious red marks left by the bees.

I lowered myself beside him. “Is he going to survive?”

One bloodshot eye opened in a swollen face. Goliath managed a single, faint thud of his tail against the mattress.

“I gave him a heavy dose of liquid Benadryl,” Wayne said. He sank into a worn chair, looking suddenly older than his forty years. “The swelling in his throat is easing, but his heart’s racing too hard.” He glanced at me. “I appreciate what you told the police. Clara would’ve wanted them to shoot him in the ditch.”

“Wayne, we have to talk about Clara.” I took the damp yellow sponges from my pocket and placed them on the scratched coffee table. “Do you recognize these?”

He bent forward to study them in the dimness. “Apiary bait sponges, I think. Beekeepers use them to draw out wild hives before moving them.”

“They were fastened to a railroad spike under the pine limb where the hive was,” I said. I kept my eyes on his face. “My security footage caught someone putting them there two hours before the attack. The person wore a winter coat, and Clara’s floral summer dress was visible beneath it.”

Wayne stared down at the sponges. No anger crossed his face; there was no surprise, either. He looked hollowed out. His callused hands covered his face, and a long, shaky breath left him as his shoulders sagged.

“She wasn’t trying to hurt Lily,” I said, struggling to make the pieces fit. “Clara told me Lily wasn’t meant to be outside at four. So who was the trap really meant for? Were you supposed to be checking the mail? Are you allergic to bee stings?”