“I’m not doing anything,” Lyon said in a low voice. He wondered if his words carried to the front of the bus. His hand was moist as it gripped the revolver, his finger refusing to curl around the trigger. He tried to remember long ago days in the army. The gun he held was large, probably a .44 Magnum. Would its characteristics be different from the standard army .45? He remembered days on the pistol range when he had fired the bucking .45 … and his inability to hit anything.
The humane action would be to shoot the hijacker in a nonfatal part of the body … perhaps the shoulder, the projectile numbing his gun arm and throwing him backward into a position where they could easily overpower him. Realizing his lack of expertise with a handgun, he felt he’d probably miss and possibly even kill one of the other passengers. They must wait. The police would eventually make their move. They’d storm the bus and the passengers could throw themselves to the floor and hope.
“I hate your kind, motherfucker.” The hijacker’s voice dropped to a lower and more menacing tone as he hunched down the aisle toward Lyon. “I know your kind. You fill your goddamn shopping carts with martini olives and cheese, and when you can’t find something you ask me and never even see me. You make me put your crap in bags, and you never know who I am. Things are different now. I’m the man here, and you better look at me good. Hear me?”
“I hear you,” Lyon said and was surprised at the evenness of his voice.
“You’re going to kiss my feet, baby. And if you’re real lucky, I might not blow your head off.” Willie Shep was now one seat away with the gun pointed directly at Lyon’s head. His eyes glinted with odd flaking specks that Lyon had observed once before when a student in one of his classes had inexplicably and without warning thrown a desk chair through a second-story window.
“On the floor.” The automatic wavered two feet from Lyon.
All further internal arguments regarding accuracy with weapons were now academic, but he knew if he left his seat to follow the hijacker’s commands that the gun in his lap would be revealed and he would be shot.
“You got three seconds.”
Instant calculations: if he propelled himself upward directly at the hijacker … the .32 clenched a few feet from him was a small-caliber gun, and unless it hit a vital organ … his alternatives were tantamount to self-destruction. He had two options, one only slightly more acceptable than the other. “All right,” he murmered and half stood.
A small smile curled along the edge of Willie Shep’s face at the instant Lyon fired the Magnum through the newspaper.
The entrance wound of the soft-nosed projectile with an impact of 1,310 foot pounds was upward through the left eye. The bullet exited through the crown of the head and continued through the roof of the bus to ricochet off the tunnel ceiling.
The screams of the passengers began before the massive reverberation of the shot had ceased echoing.
2
The gun fell from Lyon’s limp hand and clattered across the flooring. He stood with stunned shock staring down at the body sprawled obscenely across the aisle. And then, instinctively, he knelt next to the distorted body in a vain attempt to aid, to keep vital forces alive, anything to maintain life’s spark in the man he had just shot.
It was apparent that the hijacker was dead.
He heard a short choking cry and at first thought it came from up the aisle, and then knew it was himself. He retreated from the corpse with a backward splaying motion and looked down at his hands and the front of his jacket where blood of the slain man stained in Rorschach splotches. He ripped the coat from his shoulders and threw it in a wadded ball.
He was alone in the bus and watched with detachment as uniformed men carrying rifles and wearing bulky flack vests rushed from the distant barricades.
The other passengers had scurried from the bus like flushed quail, and now hovered near the door as if hidden in some safe thicket. The emergency door immediately behind him swung slowly to and fro.
Peristaltic waves rippled his stomach until they dredged up bile that he vomited on the flooring. It coated the pointed tips of the dead man’s boots, and he turned away to retch and buried his head on his arms across a seat top.
Wary men, clutching rifles, began silently to enter the bus and move toward him.
“You the one who shot him.”
It seemed more a statement than a question. He brushed beads of perspiration from his forehead and tried to focus his eyes and thoughts. “Yes,” he finally managed to say.
A hand on his shoulder. “Come on, buddy. Outa’ here into some clean air.”
Other hands … helping him out the emergency door. A knot of passengers ahead, fingers pointed in his direction. Another hand grasped his elbow, propelled him along the tunnel to where a police car waited with open door and flashing roof light.
Men in mufti broke through the police cordon and ran toward him. Several dropped into a crouch and strobe lights flickered. They began to surround him with shouted questions until the officer holding his arm waved them away.
A thin black woman passenger, her face still elongated with fear, grasped at him. “You are the One. I saw you in the cards this morning.”
He was pushed into the rear of the cruiser and the door slammed. Faces pressed against the window, a microphone was stuck against the wire mesh separating the front and rear seats.
“You shot him?” an insistent voice asked.
“Blew the fucker’s head off,” a heavy cop said as he pushed the radio interviewer away and sat in the front seat.
“How does it feel?”
“Terrible,” he mumbled.
“Your name … where you from?… what sort of gun?… shot him where?… he fire back?… you a peace officer?” The battery of shouted questions seemed to bounce inside the car’s interior until the whole world became an accusatory thing.
The door next to Lyon opened and a detective, his badge on the outside of his jacket, swung inside and cocked a finger at the driver. The car moved slowly through the crowd, parting waves of reluctant reporters in its path.
As the cruiser slowly passed a knot of officers, both in uniform and out, it paused briefly to allow a barricading vehicle to be moved. Lyon looked out the window and found himself staring at a bearded man in a sport coat with a gold badge hanging from his breast pocket. The face was familiar, and then the man turned away and the car continued on.
Light engulfed them as they moved from the tunnel into midtown Manhattan. The driver flipped on the siren and its wail opened a passage through traffic.
“You okay?” the detective by his side asked.
“I was sick back there, but I think I’m all right now. Can we open a window?”
“Don’t open back here. You’re not hurt or anything?”
“He didn’t touch me.”
The detective chuckled. “A few more like you and there won’t be more of that shit. What’d you shoot him with? A cannon?”
“I don’t know. It was a big gun.”
The cop looked at him quizzically and then turned away with a shrug. “We’ll talk about it when we get to the office.”
“I think I’d like to stop for a drink.”
“Sure, buddy. Just a few formalities and we’ll get you tanked.”
“Uh huh.”
“Say, what’s your name?”
“Wentworth. Lyon Wentworth.”
“Okay, Lyon. You’re the man of the hour. Hell, yes.” He glanced out the rear window at the Daily News radio car to their rear. “We’ll try and keep the reporters away from you until you feel like facing them.”
They parked in a reserved space in front of an official-looking building where Lyon was bustled up a short set of steps. More photographers snapped pictures and another microphone was thrust in his face. The guiding detective pushed it away and then they were inside.
More bedlam. Officers crowded around and two reporters had managed to reach the inner recess of the building.
“Hey, Harry. I h
eard the mayor’s coming down to thank this guy.”
“After we check things out,” the detective replied as a girdling group of cops took Lyon into the elevator. They left the elevator on the fourth floor and exited into a large squad room where shirt-sleeved detectives looked at Lyon and his escort with open curiosity. A second elevator opened behind them to disgorge more bus passengers and police.
The thin black woman pressed through the crowd and plucked at Lyon’s sleeve. “You are a hungan. A hungan filled with lao.”
They tried to propel Lyon forward, but he jerked away and turned to her. “You’re Haitian?”
“Not for many years, but I do not forget.”
“What’s she talking about?” the detective called Harry asked.
“She follows the god of Vodun,” Lyon said and took the woman’s hand in his. “We’re sorry it happened,” he said softly.
“It had to be.”
“What in Christ’s name is she talking about?”
Lyon left the black woman and followed the detectives. “Voodoo.”
“Jesus H. Christ! That’s all we need in Manhattan West.”
They went down a short hallway that entered into a large private office with an imitation Persian rug on the floor and functional furnishings. Harry opened an inner door to a small bathroom and gestured. “Case you want to wash off or something.”
“Thanks.” Lyon shut and latched the door before placing both hands on the sink and bending over the bowl. He remained immobile for several moments trying to assimilate the rush of events that had cracked the veneer of his life. When he looked up, he saw his reflection in the narrow mirror. A small muscle in his lower jaw quivered under his red eyes and drawn facial lines.
He shook his head and splashed water on his face as the mirror image dissolved to be replaced by one of the hijacker standing in the bus aisle. The gun extended, the cracked smile grimaced, and again Lyon clutched the large gun under the newspaper and watched the hole erupt in the man’s face.
He turned from the mirror with the after-image still scorching his mind.
He washed his hands for a long time without looking up, and then went back into the office.
The dramatis personae had changed. A different group turned to face him in silent tableau. In the far corner, as unobtrusive as possible, a prim policewoman sat with fingers poised over a stenographic machine. On the small leather divan a large man with a heavily jowled face, tailored business suit, and short hair looked at Lyon with a lopsided grin.
A man of Lyon’s age behind the desk seemed to have grown from the furniture. His arms extended forward along its empty surface while his head, large and out of proportion to the remainder of his body, was dominated by heavy bushy eyebrows.
“Wentworth,” the man behind the desk snapped at Lyon in more of a command than a salutation. “I’m Nesbitt. Captain.” He moved one arm in an almost imperceptible wave toward the policewoman in the corner. “Officer Hayes.” His arm resumed its former position. “And as if you couldn’t tell, the other gentleman is Special Agent McAllister from the local field office.”
McAllister gave a nonchalant wave. “Feel up to a few questions?”
“I guess so.” He took a seat in a side chair placed directly in the center between the two men.
“Anything I can get you?”
“No, thank you. Unless you have some Dry Sack.”
“No sherry, but we keep the snakebite medicine handy.” He took a bottle of bourbon from the bottom desk drawer, cracked the seal, and poured two stiff fingers in a water tumbler.
Lyon sank back in the chair after accepting the whiskey. He held the glass with both hands, took a long sip, and felt the liquor traverse his body in a warm snaking motion. He took another sip and found that both men were staring at him, without hostility, but perhaps as individuals observing an interesting specimen. “Why the FBI?”
“Our mad friend took the bus over a state line and made bomb threats.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Lyon replied. “If that stripe they have in the tunnel is correct, we were still in New York.”
“A technicality. We think the kid he sent with the ransom demand crossed the line.”
“Were any bombs found?”
“None.”
“Be that as it will,” Nesbitt said, “it seems to us, Wentworth, that the city of New York and sixteen bus passengers owe you a vote of thanks.”
“It was an accident. What I mean is, I had no choice. Did you say sixteen people?”
The two law enforcement officers glanced at each other. “You watch the details, don’t you? Sixteen if we don’t count you and do count the driver. We’re grateful. In fact, the mayor and commissioner very well might come down to offer you their personal thanks on behalf of the city. As soon as we sweep up a few minor details.”
“Wait a minute.” Lyon put the liquor glass down on the desk. “I believe there were eighteen left alive on the bus, including me.”
“You shot one.”
“Besides that. Doesn’t one of the passengers wear a beard? He also had on a cap, a jacket of some light material. Medium build, thirtyish?”
Captain Nesbitt made rapid notes on a small pad. “I’ll check on it.”
“It could be significant.”
“By the way—and I’m praying for luck on this one—do you have a permit for your gun?”
“It wasn’t mine.”
“It wasn’t yours,” McAllister repeated in a drone. “Whose was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” Nesbitt repeated in a sad sort of way. He looked down at his pad for a few moments. “Okay, from there. What did you do with the gun?”
“I dropped it on the floor.”
Nesbitt immediately pressed a button on his phone, picked up the receiver, and talked quietly for a few moments. “Call me back at once.” He hung up. “Okay, let’s start it from the top. Sorry to bother you with all this, considering what you’ve been through, but all the passengers will go through it. We’ll make it as painless as possible.”
“I can understand.”
“Your name is Lyon Wentworth. Address?”
“R.D. Two, Murphysville, Connecticut.” He watched the policewoman’s fingers nimbly flick across the steno machine. He’d have to look into the mechanism of those things sometime.
“You’re employed, Mr. Wentworth?”
“I am self-employed.”
“As what?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh, really.” McAllister and Nesbitt exchanged looks as if this information had some significance that was lost to Lyon. “Have you written anything I might know?”
“Not unless you have children.”
“Matter of fact, I do.”
“Well, my book The Cat in the Capitol did quite well. Then there was Nancy Goes to Mount Vernon, and the Wobbly series has had a rather modest success.”
McAllister leaned forward with both hands on his knees. “Nancy Goes to Mount Vernon?”
“Not my usual thing, but they wanted something like that for the Bicentennial.”
Nesbitt glanced at the stenographer again before looking back to Lyon. “Wife’s name?”
“Secretary Beatrice Wentworth.”
Nesbitt shrugged. “We don’t need her occupation.” He paused and then asked Lyon quietly, “Secretary of what?”
“The state of Connecticut.”
“Oh, my God!” McAllister slouched back in the couch.
“Am I to understand that your wife is Secretary of State?”
“Secretary of the State … for Connecticut.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry.” Nesbitt thought a moment and then looked at McAllister. “Why didn’t we call in sick this morning?”
“I was just thinking that Wentworth might be right,” McAllister said as he stood. “That bus was on the New York side of the line and …”
“Sit down,” Nesbitt ordered. “The kid carried the demands
across the line.”
“Technical point.”
“Start from the top, Wentworth. The whole day.”
“I left Murphysville at six this morning and caught the seven A.M. bus from Middleburg. I arrived in the city at nine-thirty, had breakfast, and went to my publisher’s office.”
“Where’s that?”
“On Madison Avenue. We had a conference, lunch, and then I walked to the bus terminal. I was a little early, so I stopped in a small bar to have a drink.”
“How many of what?”
“One of what I’m not sure.”
“You remember the exact number of people on the bus, but not what you had to drink? Then?”
“They announced the bus at Gate Twenty-nine. I boarded last, I believe.”
“Where did you sit?”
“In the rear.” Lyon continued recounting the events that even in this short time span had taken on an aura of unreality. They let him proceed without further interruption. “… and I was there, by the body, when the police came in. And that’s it.”
They looked at him skeptically. The stenographer stopped the dance of her fingers and kept her head down over the small machine.
“This man gave you—the man in the seat behind you—gave you the gun?”
“That’s correct.”
“Why did he do that? Why didn’t he use it himself?”
“How would I know?” A note of peevishness crept into his voice, and he realized he was tired, very tired. The emotionalism of the last hour had drained him, and he wanted nothing more than sleep.
“Do people often give you guns to hold, sir?” the FBI agent asked in a low voice.
“I’m not sure I care for that remark.” Lyon faced the agent who had folded his arms across his chest.
“About the gun,” Nesbitt said. “After you fired, you dropped it on the floor.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know what kind it was?”
“Big. A forty-four Magnum, I’d say.”
“You could hardly put a gun of that size in an ordinary pocket. I’ll be right back.” Nesbitt left the room and McAllister leaned toward Lyon.
“You know, Wentworth, you can level with us. We’ll see that you’re protected. What I’m trying to say is, after what you did, no one is going to prosecute you on a gun-carrying charge. You’re from out of state, probably unaware of New York law. Or how about your wife fixing it so you have a back-dated permit?”
Death Through the Looking Glass Page 18