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The Death in the Willows
A Lyon and Bea Wentworth Mystery
Richard Forrest
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
In memory of the folks—
Georgia and Bill
1
The Wobblies didn’t care for the Times Square area. In protective phalanx they flanked Lyon Wentworth as he walked Forty-second Street toward the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Two barbed tails switched in disapproval while long snouts pointed disdainfully from adult book store to X-rated movie.
Lyon blinked into the dying sun as he stopped at the corner of Eighth Avenue to wait for the light to change. He felt the unseen presence of his benign monster creations on either side and knew they would glare at the passing menagerie with fire-red eyes as if screening potential assassins from some archaic potentate.
The Port Authority squats nearly in the geographical center of Manhattan, its refurbished facade a hulking contrast to the immediate surroundings. Looking south he could see the tip of the Minnesota Strip where young Nordic girls, enticed from small farming communities, ambled in slow gait like neophyte sirens along nonexistent rocks with eyes turned dull above smiles that fooled only the most blindly lecherous. Further along Forty-second Street, young men bobbed heads on high steps, another increment of this group that pretended they were alive.
As the light changed and the crowd propelled him across the street, the Wobblies began to fade, to reappear at another time and place. He felt the reassurance of the slender briefcase tucked under his arm that contained the contract from his publisher for his next children’s book, The Wobblies Find A Clue.
It had been a good and satisfying day. The conference with his editor had gone well, his work had been appreciated, plans had been formulated, and he’d even received a passing smile from the editor in chief. The terminal entrance immediately expunged the glare of the sun and the macabre dance of the undead outside.
A scan of the departure board told him that he had time to spare before the bus to Middleburg, Connecticut. He walked to a small bar tucked in a corner of the terminal, slid onto a stool between two other men, and ordered a Dry Sack sherry.
“Sherry?” the bartender replied with a blink of rheumy eyes.
“Please.”
“I got some muscatel that won’t blind you.”
“Harvey’s Bristol Cream will do.”
“A shot with a beer chaser’s been popular today.”
“Chivas Regal with a dash of soda.”
“How about some all-purpose brandy that we can cut with something?”
Lyon nodded. Another loss in life’s battles, but his good feelings were still strong enough to enable him to ignore it. He sipped the drink with a pretense it was something else and thought about Wobblies.
The three men sitting at the bar were of divergent natures and origins, brought to this place by coincidental destination with a departing bus; their only similarity was that two of them carried guns.
Willie Shep, the youngest, occupied the stool near the wall to Lyon’s left. He wore Levi’s, boots with high heels, and a multicolored shirt that fell loosely over his waist and successfully hid the flat .32 Walther PPK automatic tucked in the waistband of his trousers.
Willie sucked on a draft beer served in a large frosted glass. Within moments only a thin line of foam curled along his lip, and he stared angrily at the glass, as if fate had once again conspired to complicate his life. He jammed an impatient hand into his pocket, plunked a handful of change on the bar, and pushed three quarters, four nickels, and seven pennies toward the bartender.
The bartender looked at the assortment of change with a lethargy born of long wisdom in such matters and scooped it from the counter, ostentatiously leaving two pennies. He refilled Willie’s glass, letting foam dribble down the side, and slid it across the bar. Willie wiped it with his index finger, and using the remaining pennies as eyes, drew a face, extended the finger in pistol fashion toward the center of the caricature, and made a poo sound from the corner of his mouth.
He gulped half the beer and glanced down at his wrist toward a watch no longer there. His eyes jerkily scanned the small room until they found a clock above the cash register and noted the time.
He had an intense, pointed face with a chin that jutted forward as if daring life to deal another blow. His medium build appeared slight due to a concave chest that he tried to hide by constantly hunching his shoulders forward. He seemed to writhe on the stool. His fingers played incessant nervous games, constantly becoming more agitated until he slid from the stool in an abrupt motion and took the few steps to the men’s room.
The facility was empty and he threw the bolt on the door, urinated, zippered his pants, and slid the Walther from his waistband. Extracting the clip, he slammed it back in the gun and briefly considered activating the slide to pump a live round into the chamber. He decided otherwise; the gun’s precarious position in his pants needed an extra safety factor. He replaced the gun and patted his rear pocket, which held two extra clips.
The door handle turned and he whirled, instinctively reaching for the gun. He dropped his hand back to his side, forced his body to relax, and nonchalantly slid back the door bolt and stepped out.
He stood next to the bar stool and let his fingers drum a tattoo on the bar. There were only minutes left—and then it would start.
The man on Lyon’s right carried a .44 Smith and Wesson Magnum revolver in a long holster strapped to his left side and hidden from view by a light poplin jacket. He wore a heavy dark beard that covered half his face and a cap pulled low over his forehead, but his eyes were a sharp sky blue that impassively watched the bartender mix his martini. The bartending was contrary to his explicit directions, but he chose not to correct it as he turned his head slightly to observe Willie out of the corner of his eye.
The man’s obvious nervousness ticked a warning bell. His eyes switched from Willie’s pointed face down the sport shirt to the slight bulge at the waist. He knew what was under the shirt, and he rapidly considered the possibilities: undercover cop, hotgun, or denizen of the area carrying a piece for protection. The man’s agitation ruled out cop, but increased the possibility that he intended to hold up the bar. It would be an insane action that even the most inexperienced hood would discard. There were half a dozen cops in the terminal corridor, some of them within yards of the bar. No, it was something else … but what?
He considered the possibility of immediately leaving the bar and putting distance between himself and the nervous man with the gun, and then decided that leaving a full drink on the counter would be more conspicuous. He paid for the drink, looked fixedly ahead, and sipped the martini without comment.
He was a careful man who kept his actions quietly unobtrusive, and although he had discarded the impulse to reject the lousy martini and leave, he shelved the feeling in a far compartment of his mind where it crouched unforgotten, but was held in check by the close control he always maintained. His body, which had momentarily tensed, began to relax. At the same time he automatically appraised the third man at the bar who clutched a thin briefcase as if it held something valuable. He reached across the counter for a pretzel with a glance that assimilated Lyon: tall, with sandy hair turning brown, and the eye lines of a smiling man. He wore a casual but expensive sport coat and slacks with scuffed shoes and mismatched socks. The man’s invisible sensors retreated with a harmless verdict.
A rasping voice over the loudspeaker forced a long enunciation of vowels as it announced, “New England Express for Middleburg, Hartford
, Springfield, and Bennington now loading at Gate Twenty-nine.”
Willie Shep walked rapidly toward the corridor as the man with the beard picked up a small flight bag at his feet and followed. Lyon was last, and the three men were quickly lost from each other’s view.
Willie Shep hurried and damned himself for that last beer. It was important that he board the bus first, and he nearly ran until his pace was broken by a uniformed policeman leaning against the wall directly in his path twirling his club by its leather thong. He crossed to the far side of the passageway and brushed against a diminutive man who cursed him in Spanish. Willie stopped and let his hand caress the hidden gun. The Puerto Rican’s sneer faded as if he sensed some quality that stilled further aggression. He turned abruptly and hurried in the opposite direction.
Hate filled Willie Shep. Its tendrils radiated from him with a harshness that left a bitter residue. He wished that the weapon at his belt were a fully automatic rifle that he could level before him, turn to full fire, and cut a swath of death. He had considered that alternative for several days and nights as he lay on his narrow bed on East Tenth Street, but had finally settled on the plan he would now carry out.
It had started three weeks ago when they’d fired him from Miller’s Supermarket. The manager had tried to con him into believing it was a “last on, first off” general layoff, but he knew better. The assistant manager, that bastard O’Halloran, was out to get him. That mick had hated his guts from the first day he’d reported for work—that was the real reason.
For the first week he hadn’t been too pissed, in fact he was almost relieved to be released from the tedium of work; but then the unemployment compensation people started giving him a hard time. When he told them to take a flying fuck they told him that his claim would be indefinitely delayed. People loved screwing you, they got their jollies that way; just like Loyce had when he’d called and said his support money would be late.
“So, what else is new, Willie?” she had said. “Forget it. I’ve got an old man with balls who brings in bread regular.” She’d laughed and hung up.
If he’d had the gun then he’d have given her a full clip right in the face. But he’d only had a few bucks, just enough to get tanked in a bar where some big bastard shot off his mouth. There had been a fight, and he’d been thrown out while the other patrons crowded in the doorway laughing.
He had waited until the plan was ready. A few more minutes and they wouldn’t laugh again.
The man with the beard moved rapidly, but not in such a manner as to attract attention. His eyes darted from side to side scanning passing faces, checking, always checking. There was always the remote possibility that someone, some chance acquaintance might recognize him, wonder about his presence, and tuck the fact away for some future damaging use. It was that faint probability that could always spell disaster … and he was careful, as always.
Out of habit, Lyon bought a newspaper. He doubted that he’d read it during the two-and-a-half-hour trip, but held it as a possible security blanket against boredom. He took no note of others in the terminal, his mind still filled with benign monsters.
The short line before Gate 29 began to move through the door as Willie Shep pushed his way toward the front. The bus driver stood before the vehicle’s open door and took the first ticket from a stout black woman. She boarded the bus and took the first seat by the window.
Willie shoved his ticket forward and received a disdainful glance as the driver reached past him and took the ticket from the next in line. Willie mashed his ticket into the driver’s hand and stepped on the bus. He saw with relief that the seat immediately behind the driver’s was empty. He slipped into it and sat on the outside to discourage occupancy by anyone else.
The man with the beard was ninth in line. His eyes swiveled across the bus and stopped for the briefest moment on Willie Shep before he walked briskly to the rear and took the last seat in front of the lavatory. The fact that the nervous man from the bar was on this bus nicked at him. It might require a change of plans, precautionary measures—care, always care, that was the secret. He leaned back in the seat with a low sigh.
Lyon Wentworth was the last to board. He found a vacant window seat near the rear of the bus, wedged his briefcase into the narrow space between seat and window, tilted his chair as far back as it would go, stretched out, and opened the newspaper. He felt a pleasant lassitude, as if he were on some remote beach with a warm sun on his face and soft wind brushing against his body. His eyes closed.
The driver stood facing the loaded bus with bobbing head and moving lips as he took a head count. He was a large black man dressed in well-creased navy-blue trousers and a white shirt with a narrow dark tie clasped between the second and third buttons. Finished counting, he waved to the dispatcher, sat behind the wheel, and hissed the door shut.
The engine started with a small vibration that shuddered through the bus. It backed slowly from the loading area, turned, and began to head down the exit ramp.
Willie Shep leaned toward the driver. “How long it take you to the tunnel?”
“About three months,” the driver responded without turning.
“Don’t smart ass me. The tunnel. The one down the street. What’s it called?”
“The Lincoln Tunnel, and like I said, about three months. That’s when I get transferred to another run.”
“All the buses go through the tunnel. I watched for an hour yesterday. They all go through.”
“Most do, but not this one.”
“Over to Jersey.”
“You got the right ticket on the wrong bus, mister.” The bus reached the exterior of the building and paused for a light. “This is the New England Express: Hartford, Springfield, and up into Vermont. We go straight up Manhattan and catch the New England Thruway in the Bronx.”
Willie Shep slipped the automatic from his waistband and placed the muzzle against the driver’s ear. “I got a vote here that says we go through the tunnel.”
“You drunk, mister?” The driver turned until he stared directly into the barrel of the gun. “You’ll get in big trouble. Now put that thing away.” The light changed and cars in the rear began to honk.
“The tunnel. Now!”
“You’re the boss.” The bus turned toward the access ramp of the Lincoln Tunnel as several passengers, familiar with the route, began to mumble.
“Keep going until I tell you to stop.” Willie Shep stood in the front of the bus facing the passengers with the pistol, weaving slowly back and forth. He reached toward the driver with his free hand. “Give me the speaker.”
The driver shook his head in resignation and handed the microphone from the side of the dashboard to Shep.
“Turn it on, damn it!” Willie again turned the gun toward the driver. “I said on, boy.” His voice carried throughout the bus as the driver thumbed a switch. “I got a gun,” Willie yelled, “and I can use it.” The anxiety in his voice pushed its register to within a few decibels of a screech. “Everyone stay put, shut up, and don’t give me no trouble!”
The bearded man in the rear slouched deeper into his seat and tilted his cap further over his eyes. “Oh, shit,” he mumbled softly.
Lyon Wentworth jerked awake. He had unconsciously pulled the newspaper across his chest as if it were a bed sheet warding off an intruder. For a moment the rapid change of milieu disoriented him, and it took a few seconds for his eyes to focus on the slender man at the front of the bus waving the gun. The obvious danger in the situation tensed his body and dispelled the aura of well-being.
Were they always the same, these unspectacular men? Twisted, warped, with radiating bitterness that moved in pulsating rings, withering all in their paths?
The heavy black woman in the seat adjacent to the driver began to scream.
“Shut up!”
She continued screaming.
Willie turned toward the driver as the bus began the final approach to the tunnel. “Stop this thing and open the door.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver responded with an alacrity that obviously indicated he was under the impression that his unwelcome passenger was departing. The bus stopped with a jerk that threw the passengers forward in their seats. The door hissed open.
“I told you to be quiet.”
She screamed again.
He raised the automatic and shot her twice in the face. Her head lurched backward against the window. Grabbing her arm, he jockeyed her forward and let her fall through the door to tumble onto the pavement in a pool of rushing blood.
“Get going.”
Willie Shep stood by the driver, holding on to a vertical pole with one hand, while the other arched the automatic back and forth as the bus moved into the tunnel. The passengers sat in numb shock, the only sound that of the engine and whish of tires on pavement.
An old woman in the fifth row clutched a knitting bag to her body with talonlike fingers. The noise she made was nearly inaudible at first, but as the litany continued, its increased intensity made it clear to everyone. “Put it down … put it down.…” The old woman’s chant was rhythmic as it increased in volume.
“Stop it, grandma.”
“Put it down … put it down.…” She seemed oblivious to him as he moved down the aisle. He stopped by the fifth seat and placed the gun against her forehead. She continued staring ahead and making the low moaning sounds. The driver glanced apprehensively in the rear-view mirror as the other passengers, as if a single organism, took a simultaneous intake of breath.
“You’re next, grandma.”
She slowly turned toward him. “I am going to see my grandchildren in Vermont.”
“Rush the bastard!” A young man, wearing an Adidas T-shirt, sprang from his seat and lunged toward Shep. A shot tore into his arm and knocked him to the floor.
Willie Shep retreated to the front of the bus. “Anyone else moves gets it. Understand!” He glanced to the front. “We’re halfway through the tunnel. Stop the bus.”
The Death in the Willows Page 1
