The Death in the Willows

by Forrest, Richard;

“Thanks.”

  “Well, okay, then.” He gave a wave and hurriedly exited.

  “You don’t blame Max?”

  “Where’s Kim?”

  “In the waiting room with Raven. She’s torn between worrying about you and some story about an African tribe that’s all eight feet tall or something. Raven says he’s got a great shot of the accident, but that you didn’t have to go to all that trouble on his behalf.”

  Lyon groaned. “Not on his behalf. I think you had better get Rocco for me.”

  “You don’t think it was an accident?”

  “No.”

  She pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat as near to him as she could. “I had the binoculars up when it happened and I saw you go over the side of the basket. I thought—well, you can guess what I thought. You know, Wentworth, I wouldn’t be at all unhappy if you gave up your hobby for something safe like sky diving or deep sea exploration.”

  “A balloon is one of the safest vehicles known to man under proper conditions.”

  “You’re no proof of that.”

  “An out-of-date map, new power lines, no propane.… I can’t follow the lines of coincidence that far.”

  “That’s pretty subtle and sophisticated sabotage.”

  Lyon considered the calculations required to have his balloon, under exact wind conditions, at that place and that height when the propane ran out. “Very sophisticated, or else done by someone who was completely unfamiliar with the operation of a hot air balloon. Someone who would not realize that the loss of propane under ordinary circumstances would not mean disaster. It could be very unsophisticated.” But sabotage he was certain it was. “I wonder about Popov. He was the one who selected me to be the hare.”

  “I can’t believe that of Max.”

  “He wears a beard.”

  “A good many men do nowadays, and beards can be taken off easily.”

  “He worked on your last campaign, didn’t he?”

  “Two years ago he handled three towns for me and did a pretty good job. We carried them by a wide majority.”

  “I only know him through ballooning. What else do you know about him?”

  “His parents were Russian emigrés who lived in Paris a good many years. That’s where he was born. They went to England during World War Two, and Max came over here when he was eighteen or twenty. Finished his graduate work and now teaches economics at Middleburg College. The blond with him is a permanent house guest. Max balloons, and likes my politics.”

  “I like your politics, too.” They held hands as his eyes closed.

  Bea leaned over to kiss him on the forehead, pulled the blanket over his shoulders, and quietly left the room.

  When he awoke again the day was waning, and the last light cast diffused patterns through the venetian blinds. His body tensed as the door handle turned. It opened slowly to admit a tall, shadowy figure that approached the bed and laid something on the nightstand.

  “Rocco?”

  “No, Mr. Wentworth. I’m Dr. Warren. May I talk to you a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  The overhead light flickered on to reveal a man carrying a clipboard who sat in the chair next to the bed. He wore a gray herringbone tweed sport jacket with strange green slacks that drew attention from an extremely elongated face dominated by large, lined pouches under the eyes. He seemed to Lyon to be a very sad man.

  “The emergency room attending physician asked that I stop in to chat with you.”

  “I can go home?”

  “That’s not exactly my province. They were concerned downstairs over certain things you said, certain incoherent things you mumbled.”

  “I’m afraid that I draw a blank on anything that happened after I hit the ground.”

  Dr. Warren glanced at his clipboard. “‘He’s going to kill me, I know he is going to kill me.’” He looked sadly at Lyon. “I wonder if you could be more explicit than that?”

  “I don’t know who ‘he’ is.”

  “Someone you don’t know is trying to kill you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you ever see this individual?”

  “I thought I saw him on the ground, and of course he was in the tunnel. At least I think that’s the one. The same person who gave me the gun and told me to kill Willie Shep.”

  “He tells you to kill people.” It was a statement, and the doctor wrote a long, meticulous note on his board. “Does he often do that?”

  “Only that once.”

  “Do you hear other voices, Mr. Wentworth?”

  “Well, yes. Now that you mention it.”

  “Do these voices belong to anyone in particular?”

  “Usually the Wobblies.”

  “Members of the old IWW?”

  “Of course not. The Wobbly monsters. They often walk with me, and come to see me in my study. Ig usually sits on the mantle and Scratch always takes the leather chair. He’s a fiend for comfort.”

  “And you actually see these … Wobblies?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “They’re both so alike that it’s difficult to tell them apart until they speak. Then it’s quite obvious. They are six feet tall, furry, with red eyes and long red tongues that usually loll out the sides of their mouths. Their snouts are long, like their tails, and they look quite fierce until you get to know them.”

  “I see. And they tell you to do things?”

  “Constantly.”

  “Bad things?”

  “Never. They are actually quite benign.”

  “Except when they give you guns and tell you to kill people?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “These … these monsters tell you to kill.”

  “I’m a little confused, doctor.”

  “Yes, I can understand that. Do you know what day it is?”

  “Tuesday? No, yesterday was Wednesday. No. The balloon meets are always held on Saturday morning.”

  “You’re not certain?”

  “I do lose track occasionally, but it must be Saturday.”

  “I see.” He wrote another copious note. “These Wobblies talk to you often and for long lengths of time?”

  “When I’m alone and working.”

  “It must be difficult for you to function under those circumstances?”

  “On the contrary. I couldn’t do it without them.”

  “Uh huh. And now someone is trying to kill you?”

  “I believe so.”

  “And of course the Wobblies will tell you to kill him first?”

  “Absolutely not!” Lyon winced as he sat up. “I think you are the confused one, doctor.”

  “Your monsters told you that?”

  “They didn’t have to.” Lyon laughed as he realized the significance of the doctor with the long face. “Oh, my God! You’re a psychiatrist.”

  “Uh huh.” Another long note.

  “An inappropriate response?”

  “That sometimes happens. These things do not overcome us overnight, Mr. Wentworth. It often takes years for such symptoms to manifest themselves. And consequently, it will take time for us to remove them and make you well again.”

  “BEATRICE!”

  Dr. Warren jumped at his yell, and reached for the hypodermic he had placed on a towel on the night table. “I have something here that will relax you.” He held up the syringe and depressed the plunger to force a drop from the tip.

  “No, thank you.”

  “You will feel much better,” the doctor said as he advanced toward the bed.

  “No!” Lyon swiveled painfully off the bed in the opposite direction and retreated into a corner. “It’s not convenient for me right now. BEATRICE!”

  “Please, Mr. Wentworth. We must have your cooperation.”

  The door burst open as Rocco and Bea rushed in. Rocco assessed the situation, saw the man with the hypodermic needle stalking Lyon in the corner, and drew his service revolver.

&nbs
p; “Drop it!”

  Dr. Warren turned to stare into the muzzle of a .38. “What?”

  “You heard me, drop it.” Rocco thumbed the hammer of the revolver back and the click seemed to reverberate throughout the room. The hypodermic clattered to the floor as Dr. Warren backed into the other corner. “Take the position,” Rocco thundered.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Turn toward the wall, feet out, palms against the wall. Fast!”

  Rocco had frisked the psychiatrist, cuffed his hands behind his back, and was preparing for interrogation when the doctor’s bloodcurdling cry for help brought three attendants rushing to the room.

  “Under Connecticut General Statutes any licensed physician can commit for a period of thirty days any individual who is deemed to …”

  “Please, Bea. No more. I hurt.” Lyon, in the front seat of the Murphysville cruiser, held his sides as he fought to retain his laughter.

  “I feel like a damned fool.” Rocco hunched over the wheel. “I might have shot the long drink of water.”

  “Who was he going to certify?”

  “All of us, I think,” Bea answered. “He didn’t have much sense of humor. I still think you should have stayed for a few days of observation.”

  “I was afraid they’d pad my room while I slept.” The codeine they’d given him had driven away most of the headache, but his ribs still ached. He looked down at his torn shirt and blotched pants and decided he looked exactly like what he was—a man who had recently jumped from a hot air balloon.

  A smile crinkled the edge of Rocco’s mouth. “Okay, it was kind of funny, but what did you want me down here for anyway? Or was this a set-up joke on Rocco?”

  Lyon explained the accident. Rocco nodded as he drove, occasionally asking questions, until he had all the details. “Why would anyone want to kill you?”

  “Why a whole bus?”

  “The state is still working on the terrorist theory.”

  “Any further word?”

  “Negative, and that bothers them. It’s usual in cases such as this that the group make contact with a newspaper or radio station to take credit for the act.”

  “He, she, or they still wanted a lot of people dead.”

  “Major Collins?”

  “Or the missing man who gave me the gun. We’ve got to find him.”

  “Who?”

  “Both of them.”

  Martha Herbert, in a long housecoat and her hair wound around fat purple curlers, stood at the front door and pursed her lips as she viewed the entourage on her stoop. She stood aside and let Rocco, Kim, Raven, and Bea enter while Lyon followed last.

  “House guests, hon,” Rocco said as he leaned over to kiss his diminutive five-foot wife.

  “All of them?” she asked in a small voice as her husband made introductions and led them all toward the basement recreation room.

  Raven looked at Martha Herbert’s short figure swaddled in the voluminous housecoat, and then at the gargantuan Rocco. He looked again, and then leaned over to whisper in Kim’s ear.

  Kim laughed.

  Lyon had always wondered what men whispered into women’s ears at parties and cocktail lounges. Perfectly normal-appearing men of routine senses of humor must have some secret reserve of particularly funny things that they hoarded for those occasions. He must ask Bea if she’d ever been whispered at.

  The Herberts’ daughter, Remley, was in the rec room on the couch with her feet straight up the wall and a phone stuck in her ear. Rocco sent her upstairs for coffee while he pulled the convertible out to its double-bed length.

  “Lyon and Bea can stay here tonight. There’s no access through the basement except from the upstairs.”

  “I once saw you sleep through an artillery barrage.”

  “Martha hears the cat cross the floor, and her punch in my ribs brings me around fast.”

  “We’d be all right at Nutmeg Hill.”

  “Maybe and maybe not. I’d like a day to get my equipment set up out there.”

  “Equipment?”

  “I got some great electronic surveillance stuff. Infrared sniper-scopes from the army, that sort of stuff. Turns night into day.”

  “Matching grants,” Lyon and Bea said together.

  When Remley served coffee, Raven produced his silver flask and toured the room with a flourishing lace to everyone’s cup. Martha and Rocco Herbert refused, Martha with a near indignant toss of her head, Rocco with a wistful nod. When he was finished, Raven stood by the empty fireplace in a stance of anticipation. “Well, when do we begin the investigation? Did I ever tell you about the time I did a story on New Scotland Yard? Fascinating place, and there was one inspector who gave me …”

  Kim crossed quickly to the writer and grasped him by the elbow. “If he gets started, we’ll be here until dawn listening to his story. Good night, folks.” She steered Raven upstairs, his exuberant chatter still audible as they walked through the house.

  “No windows near the couch,” Lyon mumbled after the others had left.

  “What does that mean?” Bea asked as she helped him remove his shirt and pants.

  “No lines of fire. We’re safe. We can sleep.” He sank onto the sofa bed and seemed to fold back against the pillow. “I’ll start checking tomorrow.”

  Bea lifted his feet and pulled the covers over him. “You’re in no condition to do anything tomorrow.”

  “Got to, got to.” His voice seemed to fade.

  “What will you do first?”

  “Check out the hijacker. Have to know if we’re dealing with terrorists or what.”

  She shucked off her clothes down to panties and bra and slid under the sheets next to him. “Lyon.”

  “Be ready in a minute. Little nap first.”

  She laughed. “I only wanted you to know how glad I am that you’re all right.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Lyon, the balloon. I know it’s totally destroyed, but did we have any insurance on it?”

  “Cost too much. Remember when the agent came by the house last year?”

  “And the balloon cost six thousand.”

  “Plus accessories.”

  She heard him begin to snore, and she lay next to her husband and was a little ashamed that she thought about the six thousand dollars.

  The Datsun accelerated as she pulled off the entrance ramp and into the fast lane of the interstate highway. It was 140 miles to New York City, and she’d be in midtown in three hours. She’d left a note for Lyon that said she’d gone to the city to shop—and that was only half a lie.

  She’d awakened that morning early, instantly alert, and had begun to plan her day, outlining the speech she was to give in Marston that night. Then all political thoughts had vanished, and all she could think of was yesterday at the balloon meet.

  Again she saw herself looking through binoculars at the Wobbly III as it inexorably moved toward the high tension lines … and then watching him dive from the gondola and fall to the ground. She had sunk to her knees on the grass with her head bent forward, her body forming an S curve of profound grief. She had stumbled toward the field where he lay sprawled across the grass, and then he had moved and groaned.

  She wondered if he really knew the extent that she loved him. She tried to express it physically, and yet when she spoke it aloud, it often seemed to come out as a humorous aside rather than an endearment.

  Bea knew she was a competitive and often abrasive person. Her battles with life and those things she considered unjust often seemed to consume her, and Lyon so often supplied the relief and tenderness she so desperately needed. She was not whole without him.

  8

  Bea Wentworth sat on an orange crate holding a Styrofoam cup of tepid coffee between both hands in the back room of Miller’s Supermarket on West Fourteenth Street. She wore a rose linen pantsuit with a simple white blouse and very practical shoes. Although she cocked her head attentively, and the small hearing device in her right ear was turned up, she st
ill found it difficult to follow the quixotic train of thought of the assistant manager, Jimmy O’Halloran, as he stood by a wide sink lopping lettuce with a long knife.

  “Like I told the cops. He was a real fuc … goof-off. I got my break early today. How about a shot at the White Rose?”

  “How long did Mr. Shep work here?”

  “Mister … Jesus … nobody called that creep ‘mister.’ You’re not bad, baby. I mean, you’re like well preserved, know what I mean? Willie was a loser, you know.”

  She wondered if being well preserved were a compliment. All things considered, she thought it probably was. She tried again. “He worked here how long?”

  “The cops were all over my ass. Dragged me out of bed. Christ, youda’ thought … scared the old lady shitless.” He stopped his annihilation of a head of iceberg and turned, knife pointed, to look her over. “I’m an ass man myself, know what I mean?” His leer bordered on the grotesque.

  “Me, too,” Bea said sweetly. “How long did you know Willie Shep?”

  “A hijacker yet. Who the hell would believe it? I was jumping the old lady when the heat knocked. Christ, if I don’t perform a couple of times a week she thinks I’m playing around. Course, she’s right, I like a little variety. You ever fool around? About three months is all.”

  “You knew him three months?”

  “Which is two months and five weeks too long. God, you shoulda’ heard the scream Marilyn let out when he grabbed a handful.”

  “Willie made a pass at someone here?” Bea fought for coherence and wished for an interpreter. But then, who would interpret the interpreters?

  “Pass, smash. Mar was back here on a break, and Willie walks up behind her, one hand gives a goose and the other grabs a knocker. Jesus, did she yell. Everyone in the store stopped and pissed.”

  “That’s when they fired him?”

  “Boss here don’t give a fuck, you know. Hell, no union, and they can give you the finger anytime. Mar knocked him cold with a blue.”

  “A blue what?”

  “A frozen bluefish. Thought she nearly killed the little bastard.”

  “Did you ever see him with any of his friends?”

  “Dudes like Willie don’t got no friends. They’re professional enemies. I mean, you can’t go to the local for a beer and a shot with Willie. He’d be hitting you up for five and you never could make out.”