They started across the fields. Halfway to the house were a dozen rows of two-foot-long pine boxes resting six inches off the ground. A low-pitched hum filled the air. Marge and Decker exchanged watchful looks. They walked another ten feet, then froze.

A funnel-shaped black cloud exited one of the boxes. It came upon them so suddenly that they had no chance to go forward or retreat. The humming grew in intensity—a deep moan. Bees blanketed the sky, swirling like a tornado intent on uprooting them.

“What do we do?” Marge said, panicking.

“I’d say draw, but I think our weapons are useless,” Decker said, talking out of the side of his mouth.

“Peter—”

“Just stand still,” Decker said.

“I don’t want to die this way,” Marge said, as bees swarmed past her face.

“Calm,” Decker said soothingly.

The buzzing became a maddening dirge. The space around them was thick with wings and cooler because of it—hundreds of tiny little fans moving the warm air upward. Decker kept his eyes open, saw gray shadows of fuzzy blips dart past him. Bugs in flight careening into him, falling in his coat pocket, touching his face and neck. He forced himself to breathe slowly, remembered reading about a contest in the papers—who could grow the biggest bee beard…contestants allowing thousands of bees to land on their faces and cheeks. Bees tickled the inside of Decker’s nose. Calm, he repeated to himself. He felt as if he were drowning in the suckers.

After what seemed like hours, the funnel abruptly landed on a pine box three feet in front of them, covering the wood like a brown woolen tablecloth. A few strays buzzed around Decker. At last he felt safe shooing them away. Marge followed suit. She was shaking.

“You okay?” Decker said.

Marge nodded.

“I suggest we walk away from the boxes,” Decker said.

“Slowly,” Marge added. “What the hell was that?”

Decker said, “I don’t know. I’ve never been around bees before.”

A few minutes later, the boxes were nothing more than dots. But the acreage was filled with foraging bees—workers seeking pollen from the pink, white, and purple blooms.

“God, why couldn’t MacPherson be assigned to this?” Marge said.

Decker didn’t answer.

“Sometimes, Pete, I hate your stoicism.”

Decker still didn’t respond. Marge gave up. A minute later, a percussive pop broke through the air.

Decker halted his steps, brought his hands over his head. “Shotgun.”

“Sweet Jesus, now what?” Marge said. “Police!” she shouted.

“Stay where you are!” commanded a voice. It came from behind them. Decker straightened up and turned around. A man wearing a wire-veil hat, thick gloves, and a leather apron was approaching them. He was tall with a sizable paunch, and held a long-barreled shotgun. Marge started to step forward.