My new moustache seems to have a mind of its own. I used to smoke regularly, but it will not abide by any kind of flame close to my face. It also has a taste for jerky.

My girlfriend, thinking it was one of those fake ‘staches you wear for Halloween, tried to pull it off my face. Let’s just say I’m single now.

With all the internal affairs investigations, it was becoming impossible to write a simple traffic citation without getting hauled before the citizen’s review board.

Hanson prided himself on being a by the book cop. Sure, he might kidnap the occasional tourist and murder them in cold blood, but that was on his own time.

Now, after weeks of interviews with scientists and bee farmers, he found himself on this lonely road, in the middle of nowhere Arkansas.

As he pulled up a long gravel drive, he noticed the air was pregnant with bees.

He knocked on the farmhouse door. A grizzled, bearded bear of a man answered.

“I wanted to ask you about the bees on your farm.”

Why not give up this tedious digging? What rewards could he expect at the bottom?

But he continued. The men stared down at Carter from above, perched like gargoyles, or maybe angels gazing down into hell.

Carter resented their leisure. “That’s it. I’m not digging anymore.” He threw down his shovel.

Professor Tobin had warned her the information in her possession was dangerous. He offered to take it off her hands, but her dying lover had entrusted the package to Grace alone.

She raced into the belfry, hiding in the shadows.

As a child, I dreamed of life as a hobo. On Halloween, I would dress up in a tattered jacket, cut the fingers from my wool gloves, and go begging for candy. We once rode the Amtrak to Chicago, and I tried to board the freight car.