Bea Wentworth, whose curiosity was not piqued since she knew who was driving the Murphysville police cruiser, was the only one to witness the assault. She dashed forward and knelt beside the fallen woman.
The remaining guards took the new event as an opportunity to regroup and form a new if shorter battle line across the face of the gate. The cruiser moved slowly through the crowd and stopped when its nose touched the sawhorse barricade.
Police Chief Rocco Herbert slowly unwound from the driver’s seat. Rocco was an extremely large man with a craggy face. He was too big to be a professional football linebacker, although guard or tackle might have been a suitable position. The chief’s large six-foot-six frame carried closer to 300 than 200 pounds. His massive bulk did not slow his reflexes, and he could move with a surprising alacrity if the situation warranted.
Rocco walked quietly toward the mansion’s gate. He slowly turned his head, viewing one side of the lane then the other. Occasionally he nodded at those he recognized. He stopped a few feet from the line of guards and turned to face the crowd.
“Okay. Break it up! Everyone go home!” He did not raise his voice, but its timbre seemed to carry easily above the subdued crowd.
As the large police chief moved past him, Lyon shook his head. “We’ve got a medium-size riot here and you’re the only cop the town can spare?”
Rocco turned to look at his friend impassively, with only the slight suggestion of a smile crinkling the edges of his eyes. “One riot needs one cop.”
“Oh, God, that’s an old Texas Ranger saw,” Lyon said.
“Are you implying that small-town Connecticut cops aren’t as macho as Texas Rangers? You’ll never park unticketed in downtown Murphysville again, Mister.” He turned toward the remaining crowd. “You heard me! Everyone go home.”
The protesters stood stubbornly immobile for a moment until a slight ripple of movement seemed to infect them. They began to disperse in small clumps that ambled back down the lane toward their cars. Rocco turned toward Bea, who was helping the injured woman to her feet. “Is she all right or do you want me to call for an ambulance?”
“I’m okay,” the woman answered. Her eyes flashed. “I don’t blame the worker who did this. Peyton Piper is the one who God will make pay the penalty—with his life if necessary.”
“Try the courts first, Mrs. Hinton,” Rocco said.
“I’ll be your witness,” Bea said as she handed the woman a business card. “I saw everything that happened.”
The injured woman nodded and hobbled slowly after the dispersing group.
Harry, the supervisor, brushed rotting vegetable garbage off his uniform as he approached Rocco. His men intuitively formed a protective shield on either side. “She’s the ringleader,” he said as he pointed a finger at Bea Wentworth. “I demand that she be arrested. I want an example made here, Chief. I have security camera shots of this loudmouth standing on the hood of her car exhorting the group to attack. She incited them to riot. She’s the leader and the worst of the lot and I’m personally going to prefer charges.”
The two guards on either side of Harry stepped forward to grab Bea’s arms. Lyon started toward them but was restrained by Rocco.
“Do I get shoved in a lineup?” Bea asked Rocco.
“I happen to know for a fact that you’re a born troublemaker,” the police chief replied.
“I’m in hot water up to my ass, Chief,” the guard lieutenant said to Rocco. “Mr. Piper is expecting some bigwig state senator for a meeting with the congressman. This would be the night those idiots picked for their fun and games. They have screwed me to the wall, and she’s responsible. I want to see this broad strung up so high she twists in the wind.”
“I can pony up a dozen charges if you want, Harry,” Rocco said. “We’ll start off with trespassing and then move on to inciting to riot, indecent exposure …”
Bea tore her arm away from a guard to shake a finger at Rocco. “I resent the indecent exposure bit.”
“That’s a generic charge for all politicians,” Rocco said.
“Thanks, Chief, I really appreciate it,” Harry said. “We need to set an example for the rest of these feminazi pinkos.”
“Just tell Mr. Piper that his important meeting will be indefinitely delayed,” Rocco said over his shoulder as he snapped handcuffs on Bea and marched her toward the cruiser.
“Huh?”
“Tell him that Senator Wentworth can’t join him tonight, but she might be released late Monday afternoon after the judge sets bail.”
TWO
The security lieutenant made a series of strange gurgling noises in his throat before he lurched after Rocco and Bea. Lyon leaned nonchalantly against one of the massive gate pillars guarding the entrance to the estate. He felt something digging into his shoulder and turned to read the brass plaque fixed to the stone and displaying a raised word in gold letters: BRIDGEWAY. That name recalled a distant memory. He vaguely remembered a Piper family anecdote Peyton had told years ago at a college keg party. If he remembered correctly, some sort of Civil War doings in Piper family lore concerned a bridge incident. It was a tale filled with dashing officers mounted on gigantic white steeds performing heroic deeds. Peyton had made the tale palatable for cynical undergraduates by telling it against a background of fanciful incidents and self-effacing humor.
Rocco released his hold on Bea’s arm. For the guard’s benefit he fumbled reluctantly for the key before he released her. In feigned disgust he unlocked the cuffs from her wrists and snapped them back on his belt.
Bea strode resolutely toward Lyon, followed by a very contrite guard supervisor.
“I didn’t realize who you were, Senator.”
“Forget it, Harry,” she said without turning.
“I can see now how you was trying to calm the crowd.”
“Next time I’m going to man the battering ram,” Bea said.
“Of course it’s your constitutional right to be against land mines,” Harry agreed. “I’ll radio the house for transportation and have all that gunk cleaned off your car’s windshield.”
Bea stopped abruptly. The confused security guard took three more steps and nearly ran into her. “Listen, Harry. Why don’t you get your act together and do something about your storm troopers?”
“They’re good at what they do, Senator. At the factory we have security access problems. The boys got to be firm to handle those situations.”
“Decking middle-aged ladies is not handling a tough situation. You’ve got at least one sadistic sociopath in your crew.”
“Yes, ma’am. You’re probably right.”
Bea shook her head in mute resignation, but a quick glance at the supervisor made her realize that she had unconsciously used her office to humiliate him. She flashed her brightest political smile at the subdued guard and extended her hand. “Friends, Harry? You take care of that lady basher and Mr. Piper hears zilch about our disagreement.”
“Thanks.” He took her firm hand. “Barry Nevins is the guy who dinged the woman. Rest assured that he hits the pavement tonight. He’s history.”
Bea closed her eyes for a brief moment. The ripples of life always seemed to expand toward infinity. Sadistic Barry probably had a wife and a bunch of dependent kids. She immediately rationalized her actions with the thought that those who took shots at defenseless women were probably less subtle in their abuse of family members. She could only hope that a financial lesson might have some benefit. It was done. She would have to live with it. She beamed another smile at Harry.
“Gretchen is turning into a real fine woman,” Bea said.
“You know my daughter?”
“She was a volunteer on my campaign last year. If I remember correctly, she’s now a student at Middleburg.”
“Sending her to college was the worst day’s work I ever did. You saw what those leftist feminazis had her doing tonight.”
“Harry, Harry?” Bea closed her eyes for another brief moment. She was exhaust
ed over the night’s battles and the evening had hardly begun.
An electric golf cart with a rainbow canopy covering its rear seats swerved to a stop at the gate. The device was driven by a dark-haired man with a large head, who was dressed in a tuxedo. “Mr. Piper is expecting the Wentworths,” he announced in an extremely deep voice. He reached back to unlatch the low door in the rear. The instant they were seated the vehicle whirred noiselessly up the steep drive.
Bea looked up at the large house perched on the cusp of the cliff above the Connecticut River. Dark scudding clouds had moved across the sky obscuring the last of the day’s dim light. The steep approach, the bleak sky, and the harsh outlines of the stone outcroppings that composed the building’s walls caused the mansion to cast a looming, sinister-looking shadow.
“Very foreboding digs,” she said.
“A dwelling fit for a munitions manufacturer,” Lyon added.
Bridgeway was more than a dark, massive structure. During his first visit years ago, Lyon had decided that only a very strange man could have created a building that seemed to transform a bad dream suffered by a returning Crusader knight into reality. The insomniac Templar must have somehow confused Baroque, Byzantium, and Gothic architecture. Although this mixture was historically improbable, it probably reflected the yearnings and miseducation that a Piper forebear had imported from an obscure Germanic village. Whatever its intended design, the building had been constructed in massive proportions out of brownstone rock quarried nearby. The resulting creation was a surrealistic square gargoyle perched on a rock high above the river.
Lyon knew that the building had been begun by the original emigrating Piper and finished by his son just prior to the Civil War. Caleb evidently became a lonely and embittered old man who survived two wives and the death of his oldest son. Perhaps it was this sour personality that had imbued the house with its sinister characteristics.
They swerved into the final switchback in their approach to the house. The golf cart slowed and came to a silent stop. The house loomed high on the promontory above them; spasmodic windows cast irregular light across the hill, while faint nostalgic notes of a string ensemble drifted faintly toward them.
Their driver, his face barely visible in the dim light, carefully stepped down from the golf cart and stood stiffly before them in a posture that indicated anxiety.
For a brief moment Lyon wondered if it were possible to be mugged by a tuxedo-wearing highwayman who drove a golf cart. The possibility of robbery seemed even more remote when it became obvious that their quixotic chauffeur was considerably less than four feet tall. The small man extended a stiff hand toward him.
“R. Welch, Mr. Wentworth,” he said formally. “When I heard them call up to the house to pick you up, I took it because I wanted to speak with you.” He nodded toward Bea. “Senator, I have always voted for you.”
Bea automatically switched on her political smile, oblivious to the fact that it was not visible in the dim light. “Thank you, Mr. Welch.” Her firm grip was extended toward the small man who stood stiffly before them.
“You’re here to see Swan,” he said.
“Yes,” Lyon answered, more puzzled than ever.
“I have lived at Bridgeway all my life. I know that something is bad wrong here. Real bad.” He looked up at Lyon and even in the gloom it was apparent that he expected some pronouncement. “Well?” he asked after a pause.
“Swan asked to meet with me.”
“I know your history, Wentworth,” the surprisingly deep voice stated with a hint of menace. “You better not blow this one. Too much is at stake. It has to be stopped. Now!”
He turned and bolted from them. Within several steps he was lost in the shadows.
“I think we have just met Igor,” Bea said. “If the townspeople storm the hill with lit torches, I’m leaving.”
“I think our small friend has been drinking,” Lyon said.
“You smelled something?”
“Yep. We may have just been accosted by a drunken dwarf.”
“I’m not quite sure if that’s politically correct,” Bea said. “But what in the world was it all about?”
Lyon shrugged as another employee, dressed in the Piper Corporation’s ubiquitous coveralls, appeared in the drive before them. “The Rabbit said for me to take you the rest of the way,” he said as he climbed behind the wheel.
“Thanks,” Lyon answered. They were deposited on a spacious stoop under a porte cochere in front of a wide oaken door that was slightly ajar. Dual security cameras mounted on the walls on either side of the door swiveled toward them.
“Welcome to Bridgeway,” Bea said.
Lyon gave a short bow and extended a hand toward the open door. Arm in arm they entered.
A chamber ensemble was playing somewhere in the interior of the house. They followed the sound of muted music through a high stone vestibule and down a wide hall that emptied into an immense living room.
The three-story-high room had wide, curving stairs at each end that led to a balcony that ran along three of its sides. A number of doors entered off the balcony, and Lyon assumed that these led to bedrooms and other suites. The chamber music group played in an alcove located to one side of a massive fireplace that occupied nearly a whole wall on the room’s outer side. Uniformed waiters, including their diminutive chauffeur from the golf cart, circulated unobtrusively with canapes and flutes of champagne.
There were two dozen other guests in the room. Several political figures acknowledged Bea, while Lyon recognized department heads and nationally known scholars from Middleburg University and two other prestigious schools. He assumed that most of the other well-dressed men and women who carried themselves with such assurance were members of the state business community, which consisted primarily of insurance companies and defense contractors. The aggregate influence present in the room added up to a large percentage of the state power structure.
A portion of the party spilled through several French doors leading onto a patio much like the one at their home, Nutmeg Hill. Although their house was far smaller and more modest than Bridgeway, its similar location on a high promontory across the river sustained the remote kinship Lyon felt for Peyton Piper. In their youth they had been college classmates. Their interests and philosophies were now so divergent that no vestige of a relationship would have remained except for this vague alumni connection threaded together by their mutual homes facing each other high above the river.
The Wentworths had taken their first sip of champagne when Peyton Piper waved from across the room. He immediately began to make his way toward them. He slipped through the crowd, leaving a practiced wake of arm squeezes, busses, and hand clasps. It was an orchestrated movement of social tacking that Lyon had to admire.
Bea watched Peyton Piper’s progress with a politician’s eye. “He moves through crowds better than a lot of presidential candidates I’ve met,” she whispered to Lyon.
“He could do that when we were in college, but like good wine he improves with age. I’ve always had the feeling that Peyton started to hone those social moves in kindergarten.”
“No,” Bea answered. “Men like Peyton go directly from nursery school to prep. They don’t do all that other stuff like the rest of us mortals. You know, he’d be a damn attractive man if he weren’t politically right of Genghis Khan, in addition to manufacturing explosives and being so beautifully unctuous. I bet he plays great tennis and bridge?”
“Of course.”
Peyton had finally reached their side. He kissed Bea while simultaneously grasping Lyon’s arm at the elbow. “God, it’s good to see some real people here tonight,” he said for their benefit.
“As if the rest are all clones,” Bea thought to herself as she caught the faintest aroma of his after-shave lotion. She didn’t ordinarily care for scents of that nature, but whatever he was wearing smelled terrific. She wondered where he got the stuff.
Peyton was Lyon’s age and height although slight
ly heavier. With his even tan and compact body kept trim by social sport exercise and exquisite tailoring, he exuded an aura of fitness and well-being. His physical appearance was only a backdrop to his complete social assurance. Lyon had always felt that smug confidence was best represented by royalty or by those who came from old New England money. They were educated at certain prep schools that fed them directly into certain Ivy League colleges. They were not only accepted by but automatically assimilated into old-boy networks. It could be an intimidating facade, as shown by the nervousness that overcame Richard Nixon in his confrontations with Jack Kennedy.
While a caterer spoke confidentially with Peyton Piper for a moment, Lyon leaned over to whisper in Bea’s ear. “Musk of Tahitian virgins.”
She looked puzzled. “What?”
“The after-shave lotion.”
“How did you know I wondered?”
“I saw your little nostrils quiver.”
Bea sighed. “How can a man who can’t change a faucet washer notice subtle things like that?”
“Because I don’t sleep with kitchen faucets.”
Peyton turned his full attention back to them. “As I said, so glad you two could come. It’s always good to see you, Lyon, and later on I want to have a little tête-à-tête with Bea and Congressman Candlin.”
“We were met by a crowd outside the estate who were definitely not happy campers,” Bea said.
Peyton Piper laughed. “They’re wimps compared to the protesters Bridgeway attracted during the Vietnam war, when we manufactured napalm. That’s when we really had a parade of loonies climbing the walls. Now they’re criticizing the Tommy land mine. You know, I think if I manufactured rosary beads and crucifixes they’d call me anti-Semitic.”
“Why are they protesting since we aren’t at war with anyone this week?”
Peyton Piper smiled. “We don’t really know the shelf life of a Terrible Tommy land mine once it’s buried. Of course, it’s a passive weapon, but it might be lethal for as long as a century.”
Lyon wondered if the industrialist’s smile was due to irony or pride.
The Pied Piper of Death Page 2