Rebba Dirk sat in a straight chair on one side of the sofa. Bea occupied its twin on the other side. The two women triangulated the ten-year-old boy who sat between them at the center of the sofa.
‘I believe you have some money for us,’ Rebba said.
Bea handed her the check. ‘You said eighty-two dollars for the pellet gun Lyon threw in the river.’
The other woman verified the amount and placed the check on the coffee table in front of her son. ‘You can purchase a new gun tomorrow, Edward.’
‘Under the circumstances, are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Bea asked.
‘I believe I know how to raise my son, Mrs. Wentworth. I wish you would inform your husband that I have made a formal complaint to the Big Buddy organization. I will not have your husband in the proximity of my son. I suspect that they will rule him ineligible for any further assignments.’
Bea clenched her teeth to stifle a nasty reply. ‘Be that as it will, Mrs. Dirk. I have come to ask your son about what he might have seen in the state forest.’ She retrieved a large envelope that leaned against her chair leg. She opened it and pulled out several large photographs: a clown in a dunce cap, an eighteenth-century English grenadier, and the Pope in full vestments. They weren’t exactly what she wanted to convey, but under hurried circumstances they were the best she could assemble. ‘Edward, I am going to show you pictures of three men in pointy hats. I want you to look carefully at them and tell me if the man you saw in the forest wore one like it.’ She handed the pictures to the boy.
Edward studied the photographs intently for a moment before he pointed to one in horror. ‘That’s him! That’s the same man who came to the forest. He killed the woman and laughed when she tried to crawl away. Mama!’ He ran to his mother, who threw her arms protectively around him. ‘Mama, I’m scared. The bad man is going to get me.’
Rebba glared at Bea over her son’s shoulder. ‘Now you see what your husband and his friend have done. Do you see the terror they created?’ She held the boy tightly while she crooned to him. ‘There, there, little boy, Mommy will protect you. The mean people will not get you.’
Bea waited until the sun was over the yardarm and Lyon had completed his day’s writing before she mixed their first drink. In his case, since he drank only Dry Sack sherry, little mixing was required. She didn’t speak until Lyon was settled in his favorite chair and had taken the first sip of sherry.
She raised her manhattan in toast. ‘To Edward Dirk, boy-wonder witness, who has positively identified Pope John Paul II as the killer of Boots Anderson.’
Lyon took another sip. ‘Really? Not often you get a Pope as a serial killer, particularly one with health problems.’
‘Wearing full papal regalia, too,’ Bea added. ‘Where do you go from here?’
‘Are you sure he didn’t name the Dalai Lama as an accessory?’
‘I’m sure he would have done if I’d stuck around, but the witness’s mother made me leave.’
‘That leads us to Skee, master of sex and jail break, as the prime suspect.’
‘How about none of the above?’ Bea added.
‘A possibility,’ Lyon said. ‘I think early tomorrow morning would be a good time for a hot-air balloon think.’
Bea groaned when the small alarm clock on the bedside table went off at six A.M. She pulled a pillow over her head with one hand while the other groped for the timepiece. The rings stopped when she mashed down the proper button.
‘Too late,’ Lyon said. ‘I heard it.’
‘Go back to sleep,’ she mumbled. ‘There’s a forty-mile-an-hour wind that would destroy your balloon.’
‘I’ve already checked with the coastguard weather service and the day is forecast as mild with winds from the east at six miles an hour.’ He dressed quickly, looking forward to the balloon trip.
A half-hour later they drove the ancient pickup loaded with balloon equipment from the barn. In the nearby field they lowered the tailgate and began to unload.
Working as a well-trained team, they unrolled the envelope along the ground. They aligned its bottom aperture with the passenger basket, which now lay on its side. When the balloon was properly spread, Lyon hooked a power fan to the truck battery and directed its cool air flow into the balloon opening. As air filled the envelope the balloon began to bulge but not to rise. He walked inside the envelope to make a preflight check of all seams and emergency lines.
When he was satisfied with the state of the interior he lit the pilot light of the propane burner mounted on the top bar of the passenger basket. When he pulled the ignition lanyard the burner whooshed and began to heat the air inside the envelope. The balloon seemed to come alive as it slowly started to rise.
Bea tethered the mooring line to a metal stake encased in a concrete base. The huge black balloon, with WOBBLY II stenciled on its side, majestically filled the yard at Nutmeg Hill.
‘Stay away from the Congregational church steeple,’ Bea said.
‘Got to. The volunteer fire department refuses to get me down anymore.’
Lyon climbed into the wicker basket. He checked the three instruments: a variometer, which indicated up and down movement; a pyrometer, which gave a reading of the envelope’s internal temperature; and an altimeter, which registered changes in air pressure to provide altitude in feet.
‘Ready in the gondola?’ Bea yelled up at him.
‘Gondolas are aluminum; this is a wicker basket,’ Lyon mumbled. They had discussed this proper nomenclature dozens of times. He had the vague feeling that she mixed the terms deliberately to tweak him. He gave another long propane burn and felt the balloon strain on the tether line. ‘Let her go!’ he yelled.
Bea slipped the rope from the mooring post as Lyon wound it into the basket. The balloon bobbed into the air.
The craft’s upward momentum slowed at 1200 feet. He had a panoramic view of the river valley with its high bluffs bracketing the meandering Connecticut River. Nutmeg Hill, on its high perch above the river, was directly below him. The balloon began slowly to drift west over the state forest.
As always, Lyon was amazed at the sense of freedom these flights created. Balloons and gliders were the nearest man could come to the free flight of birds.
It wasn’t a new sport. In 1783 the Montgolfier brothers had provided a hot-air balloon for a Paris exhibit. Major Pilatre de Rozier and the Marquis d’Arlandes had ascended majestically in full view of 400,000 Frenchmen and one American: Benjamin Franklin. Ironically, it was only a few months later that the major became ballooning’s first fatality when he attempted to cross the English Channel.
Lyon reached for the propane burner lanyard and gave it a short jerk. The loud whoosh was startling after a period of such quiet. Silence returned when the burn was complete.
This was his time to think. These trips, so removed from day-to-day cares, provided a mental focus that he often used to solve problems.
The balloon’s gentle drift followed the course of the Connecticut River and the adjoining sliver of state forest that ran for several miles along the river bank.
Lyon reviewed the murder suspects. The deceased canon Mead MacIntire seemed the prime candidate. He was connected with all the dead women. Incoherent as they may have been, he had made several confessions. He admitted a physical relationship with the escort girl. The church secretary had been stealing from his church for years, and he had a counseling relationship with Boots Anderson. He was a repressed man whose sexual desires might have exploded into violence.
Skee Rumford’s jail escape seemed to shout guilt. He had been Boots’ lover, knew Ashley, and had a vague connection with the church secretary. His assault on Lori Wappinger certainly indicated violent tendencies. Skee also had a relationship with Mildred, who had good cause to wish for her husband’s removal.
Spook loomed over the crimes like a malevolent presence. He was addled, and although usually harmless, the veteran’s ghosts or delusions of threat might have returned him to violence.<
br />
Edward Dirk had seen something in the forest. Something lurked under his lies about a man in a pointy hat. What had the boy seen? How could they get a truthful statement from him?
For a moment, what Lyon saw didn’t register. He was leaning over the edge of the basket gazing casually down at the forest when something sped toward him. He recognized an arrow as it swerved toward the balloon and buried itself in the envelope.
He glanced up in alarm. While he watched, a second arrow followed the same trajectory and punctured the balloon a few feet from the first.
Lyon grabbed the suspension ring that supported the basket. He pulled himself up to the rim. His shifting weight caused it to tilt precariously. He climbed higher until he stood on the ring, but he was not able to reach the arrow shafts.
A third arrow punctured his right forearm. The searing pain caused that hand to slip from its grip on the ring. He dangled over the basket 1200 feet above the river.
He groaned in pain. Swinging his body in a pendulum motion until it was directly over the basket, he released his grip and fell to its floor.
He groaned again as he yanked the arrow bolt from his flesh.
Another arrow easily found its oversize target. Lyon gripped the rim of the basket with his uninjured hand to pull himself erect. The balloon, without a recent propane burn, was beginning to cool. As the temperature dropped it began to sink at an alarming rate. The lower the balloon descended, the easier the target.
He risked an additional wound by exposing himself to yank on the propane lanyard. A satisfying burner whoosh heated the envelope interior and gradually slowed the descent.
Lyon examined the punctures in the balloon made by the arrow bolts. The holes were too small to cause a critical loss of buoyancy. There was little actual damage.
It was entirely possible that the archer had a confused conception of balloons. Many people lumped dirigible, fixed, and hot-air balloons in the same category. The films of the flaming Hindenburg dirigible burning to cinders at its mooring post was etched on many people’s memory, regardless of age. The fact was that the Hindenburg carried pockets of hydrogen gas, which were highly flammable when punctured or sparked. Modern fixed balloons or dirigibles carried the nonflammable helium. Hot-air balloons stayed aloft simply because warm air was lighter than ordinary air. All the punctures in the world would not cause a fire.
There was no forward progress. The balloon hovered as motionless as a wind-becalmed sailboat. There was nothing he could do about forward momentum. The only control he could exert on the craft was vertical. He could ascend or descend, but lateral movement was completely dependent on the wind.
And his assassin waited below.
There was an audible hiss from the exterior of the basket. It took only moments to determine that an arrow had separated the rubber propane tube that led to the burner from the nipple of its storage tank. His supply of propane was hissing away into the atmosphere.
The gauge on the tank indicated that it was nearly empty. He quickly reattached the burner line to the tank and stopped the escaping gas. The wind would eventually push him away from this area, possibly to the safety of the other side of the river. However, the huge loss of propane might not allow the necessary time for the wind to return.
He was sinking. A glance at the rapidly shifting numbers on the pyrometer and altimeter indicated that the air within the envelope had cooled and the balloon was going down.
His attacker would notice the huge balloon’s descent. He would have the perfect opportunity to shoot again. Lyon would be an easy target when the balloon landed or, as was more likely over a forest, when it crashed into the trees.
He was afraid to present another choice target by leaning over the edge of the basket to check his position. He attempted to estimate his exact position by sightings across the river. His intimate knowledge of the area verified the fact that he was descending directly into the heart of the state forest.
With the small amount of remaining propane, he attempted to give short burns in order to descend in an orderly step-like manner. A few feet above treetop level the propane burner sputtered out. He was out of fuel.
Lyon braced as the basket crashed into the top of a tree. He immediately pulled the ripping panel to spill the remaining air from the envelope so he would not be pulled along the treetops. The balloon bag settled over the wicker basket, which was now firmly wedged in the top of a tree.
An angry eagle circled overhead.
Fifteen
Lyon lay on his back with his feet braced against the side of the balloon basket. His right hand clutched a four-foot length of branch he had broken from a limb that pierced the wicker. He had sharpened one end to a point with his Swiss Army knife. The knife was still in his left hand with its longest blade open. Because he would be vulnerable as he climbed down from the tree, his assailant would wait below for him to descend. As time passed and nothing happened, his curiosity would be overwhelming. The attacker would be forced to inspect the wreckage to see if Lyon were dead or injured.
He was neither. The balloon’s tree crash had been jarring, but did not cause injury. He was now forced to play a waiting game, since any attempt to reach the ground would be catastrophic. Eventually a curious face would peer over the edge of the basket. His only chance was a spear lunge toward that face followed by a slashing knife attack.
‘Anyone up there? Hello in the balloon! Anyone there?’ a voice shouted from below. After a few moments without a response there was the sound of exertion, rustling leaves, and the occasional crack of a small limb. Someone was climbing the tree.
Lyon gripped his weapons. He would not cower in the basket and allow his attacker to casually pump arrow bolts into him. He would probably not win, but would make a fighting attempt to save his life.
A pale face appeared over the rim of the basket. Lyon thrust the spear directly toward the man’s throat.
At the last moment he recognized the lopsided grin, now merging into a grimace of terror, as belonging to patrolman Jamie Martin. Lyon was able to deflect his thrust slightly so that the spear imbedded itself in the basket’s wicker, inches from the officer’s body.
‘Jeez! Watch it, will you, Mr. Wentworth?’ The face disappeared as Jamie clambered down the side of the tree.
‘What in the hell’s going on up there?’ Rocco boomed from below.
‘He tried to stick me like a pig!’ Jamie yelled.
Lyon peered over the edge of the basket with relief. ‘Is anyone else down there?’
‘Nope. But we did find this,’ Rocco said as he held a crossbow over his head. ‘Someone taking shots at you?’
‘Something like that,’ Lyon said as he began the tricky climb from the tree.
‘Bea saw you go down from Nutmeg Hill and called us,’ Rocco said.
‘How in the hell am I going to get my stuff down now that the volunteer fire department won’t help?’
‘Why don’t you just leave it? The basket would make a fine eagle’s nest,’ Rocco said. ‘Hey, what happened to your arm?’
‘The archer took more than just potshots at the balloon. Some of those bolts were meant for me.’
Rocco looked contemplatively at the crossbow. ‘The last time I saw one of these was in …’
‘Spook’s tree house,’ Lyon said.
‘They called him the bowman in Nam. The silent killer, the noiseless special ops assassin.’
‘Is he alive?’ Bea’s voice came from behind a thicket a few feet away.
‘Mostly,’ Lyon answered. ‘Thanks for calling Rocco.’
Bea circled around the underbrush. ‘You know, Wentworth, if we ever divorce it will be over stuff like this. I am not a happy camper when I watch my husband drop out of the sky over a forest near a cliff above a river.’
‘This didn’t help any,’ Rocco said as he showed her the crossbow. ‘Our guy, Spook or whoever, took a few shots at Lyon with this thing.’
‘The “guy” part is sexist,’ Bea said.
‘With a device like that, a hundred-pound woman could have loaded, cocked, and fired those arrows. No upper-body strength is needed when you can arm it by winding the ratchet. Now, let’s do something about that wound.’
In Lyon’s study at Nutmeg Hill, Rocco attached a VCR to a small television and loaded it with the bank robbery surveillance film. Lyon wheeled in a blackboard and began to diagram First Federal’s lobby.
Bea was on the phone at the desk. ‘I’m telling you, Gus, there is no way we can get that thing out of the trees without the help of the volunteer fire department … No, of course he’s not still in it … What do you mean, too bad? If a cat was up there you’d rescue it … Oh, you don’t do cats anymore either … OK, Gus, a donation to the volunteer fire department retirement fund. How much?’
Lyon paused in his diagraming to hold up a single finger. Bea retaliated by holding up five. Lyon groaned while Rocco laughed.
‘Thank you, Gus,’ Bea said. ‘The check will be in the mail.’
Lyon finished his diagram. He had drawn in the counter and room dividers with circles to represent the tellers, other bank personnel, and customers. ‘Run the tape, Rocco.’
‘I would like to remind you two that this film brings back bad memories. I sat on an inner tube for a long time after this little episode.’ The TV flickered until the tape began.
‘Three tellers behind the counter,’ Rocco announced in a monotone.
On the far right were the four bank officials at their desks. The teller to the right had a line of customers that consisted of Skee Rumford, Mead MacIntire, followed by Eddy and Mildred Rashish. Spook, clutching his disability check, was first in line at the left-hand teller. Judge Styles was behind Spook, while an unidentified man and woman were in front of the center teller.
‘That’s Rebba Dirk at the deposit slip counter,’ Bea said.
‘Enter bank robber Wiff Stamen holding a pistol and wearing a ski mask,’ Rocco said.
They watched in thoughtful silence as the drama repeated itself. Wiff threatened the teller and then whipped off his mask in an act of bravado. He ordered everyone to the floor and they obeyed as if poleaxed.
Death in the Secret Garden Page 15