“Like walking on Narragansett Bay,” the first man said and they both laughed.
Their voices were familiar. Lyon turned his head and felt tendrils of pain shoot down his neck and across his shoulders. The light was dim and his eyes were still not focusing enough to allow him to completely make out their features. He could tell that the man nearest the outboard was the larger, and that both of them had discarded their stocking masks.
“Would you guys consider merely maiming me?” Lyon said.
The man at the tiller laughed. “Well, we could rip your tongue out.”
“That won’t work,” the other one replied. “He could still write everything down.”
Not with my writer’s block, Lyon thought to himself.
“We could go back to the island and get the ax for a job on his fingers,” the smaller one suggested.
“I heard about a guy who learned to write with his toes.”
“Yeah, I once saw a broad on TV who could type with this thing attached to her head. You see, Wentworth? It gets complicated.”
“It’s like everything in life,” the man at the stern said. “Once you start compromising, there’s no place to stop. He’s got to go over the side.”
“Brumby and Stockton,” Lyon said. “You two came out to my house with the hearse carrying the coffin.”
“Take a lesson from this,” Brumby said philosophically. “No matter how careful you are, you never can tell about people. Always kill all witnesses.”
“I can see that you’re right. I better shoot him in the head a couple of times first.”
“Christ!” Brumby said. “You’ve got a lot to learn. In the first place shot sounds really carry over water, and second, you got to learn not to be so compulsive about things. Dead is dead and this is as good a spot as any to dump him.”
The boat rocked precariously as the men changed position in order to lift Lyon up and begin to lever him over the side. “Wait!” Lyon yelled.
“We can’t fool with you all night, you know,” Brumby said as he dumped Lyon headfirst into the water.
He sank into the Sound for a few moments and felt a movement by his side as a heavy object passed. His body reversed itself with a jerk as the weight of the blocks tied to his feet turned him upright. He continued sinking toward the bottom.
“Anybody home?” Bea yelled from the vestibule as she tossed her purse on the silver tray on the hall table. She walked through the silent house. “Lyon! Pan?” She had often felt that Nutmeg Hill was peopled with ghosts, and that lusty bearded schooner captains still stalked the rooms. The emanations seemed strong tonight, and filled with foreboding. She hurried to a bank of light switches behind the drapes in the living room and threw several in haphazard fashion to light her home.
The patio lights were one of those that flicked on, along with a flood that illuminated the rear yard. The barn door was open and their klunker station wagon was gone along with Pan’s convertible. She wondered how he had managed to start the vehicle since she had both sets of keys in her purse.
In the kitchen she checked the refrigerator for the usual note he attached there when he went off on some errand. The small balloon-shaped magnet was there, but no note. In their bedroom she changed into comfortable shorts and kicked her shoes into a corner. The guestroom door was tightly closed.
Invading another person’s private space had always been anathema to her, and even though it was her guest room, it was occupied by Pan at her invitation. She wasn’t quite sure which shocked her more: her own act of turning the room’s door handle, or the fact that she found the door locked.
They had carefully restored all the large brass locks on the bedroom doors, and each had a key resting in the lock. The keys were large, cumbersome affairs, hardly the kind that one would casually turn and drop in a pocket. She went downstairs to the pegboard in the kitchen and took down the master skeleton key. She hurried back upstairs to unlock the sealed room.
It was a shambles. She backstepped in fear that intruders had ransacked the room. Then she realized that the mess was due to an almost studied slovenliness. The mattress on the bed was partially turned, the bedding bunched near the footboard. Clothing was strewn in small piles throughout the room, drawers were partly open, and damp towels were haphazardly draped over furniture. Bea began her search in the bureau, with the knowledge that she needn’t take care in replacing items as she found them.
She found the large manila hasp envelope between the mattress and box springs. She undid the clasp to find five tightly bundled packages of currency in one-hundred-dollar denominations. There was a ten-thousand-dollar mark band encircling each package of bills. She was staring down at fifty thousand dollars in cash.
“Collecting the room rent, honey?” Pan said from the doorway.
The cement blocks struck the bottom first. Lyon’s bound feet brushed lightly against their top surface and then floated upward the length of the short line. He wondered how deep he was as it hadn’t taken long to reach bottom. He was possibly in water less than thirty feet deep, but it was a moot point, since water only a few inches over his height would be sufficient to drown him.
He strained to separate his wrists, but the knots had been professionally tied. He was able to brush them along the rim of the game pouch in the rear of the vest he still wore. Their body search hadn’t included the pouch, and he could still feel several objects near the small of his back. He was able to feel the outline of the candy bar and flat camera … and then, finally, the small bulk of the Swiss Army knife.
He worked his hands through the vent of the pocket and grasped the knife. He fumbled to open a blade, hoping that he’d lucked out and opened a cutting edge rather than corkscrew or magnifying lens.
The knife was open and he could feel a sharp edge. He tried to raise his feet, which resulted in his body jackknifing until he was able to reach the rope binding his feet. He began to saw at the rope as the pressure to gasp for breath increased. He hadn’t had time to hyperventilate when they threw him overboard, and his only air was the last gasp he took before he went underwater.
The rope was cut. The knife slipped from his numb fingers as he scissored his legs to aid in the ascent. His slow rise seemed interminable, and he desperately wanted to gasp for air. A slow exhale relieved some of the pressure, but he knew it also reduced the length of time he could remain underwater without involuntarily gasping. His upward movement was impeded by the drag of wet clothing and the awkward rear position of his arms. He bicycled his legs faster and tilted his face upward in an involuntary effort to reach for the life-giving air that he needed.
He was going to drown. He had been unconscious for most of the final boat trip and had no knowledge of how far they had come. His sense of time was skewered, and he must have sunk far deeper than he’d suspected. He could be in the ocean, dumped in a depth that well exceeded the thirty feet he had estimated. He was drowning, and with that knowledge a lassitude began to seep through him.
His body broke the surface. The frantic whirl of his leg movements shot him waist-high out of the water before he fell back. He churned his legs again until the treading motion temporarily stabilized him on the surface and allowed him to gasp cool, spray-laden air.
Waves lapped at his head. A brisk breeze across the long ocean reach roiled the waters in a manner that could be fatal for him. His legs, fatigued from their frantic beat to the surface, were tiring. In a swimsuit, immersed in a warm pool or lake, and with free hands, he could stay afloat for hours. That wouldn’t be possible under these conditions. The water was cool and he could cramp. The vest, which had saved his life a short time ago, was providing a heavy drag that might still drown him.
The moon was quartered and partially obscured by scudding clouds. As he rode on the crest of a swell he searched the blank horizon. No landmarks or shoreline was visible in any direction, nor could he see the running lights of any sailing vessels.
His hands fumbled for the flat life belt around his w
aist. It was still secure, but the inflation cartridge with its activator ring were at his right front and out of reach. He tried to force his hands toward the ring, but his movements only succeeded in dunking his head underwater.
The belt might turn. His fingers reached under the vest and felt for the belt. He touched its top edge and tugged. It moved. Only a slight shift on his waist, but it had moved. He tugged again.
He gradually worked the belt around his body until he was able to slip a finger through the inflation ring. He pulled, and felt the pressure against his abdomen increase as the belt inflated. He would be able to slow his frantic leg scissoring and let the belt keep him afloat.
His head dipped underwater. Without the stabilizing effect of arm motion, the life belt at his waist was unstable. He would be able to keep afloat, but not in an upright position, and he would have to tread water carefully and breathe between waves.
He grimaced at the irony of his situation. He was half-saved, but several combinations of events could quickly drown him. There was also no way for him to make any forward motion, even if he knew the direction of the nearest landfall.
It was a question of time until he drowned.
On the one hand, Bea was acutely embarrassed for violating the basic rules of personal privacy; from another viewpoint, she was disturbed over her discovery of the large amount of hidden cash. “What’s going on, Pan?”
The other woman strode across the room. Her hand lashed out and struck Bea across the face. The blow staggered Bea back against the wall and nearly caused her to lose her balance. “Stay out of my things, bitch!”
“I want you out of my house in half an hour,” Bea said.
“What gave you the right to search my room? Do you want to know what birth control I use? Or is it the designs of my panties that get you off?”
“I think you owe me an explanation about where that money came from,” Bea said.
“I owe you nothing. Get out of my room. Move it, now!”
The audacity of the command dumbfounded Bea. She had spent over a hundred hours of hard work refinishing this room. Her sweat permeated the pores of the wood, and she could easily recall the ache of her knees after hours of scraping the floor molding. She picked up the packages of money and threw them.
One wrapping band burst in midair and showered bills over Pan. The other packages thudded against the far wall. Pan gave a small whimper and fell to her knees in order to gather the money strewn across the floor.
“I want you out of Nutmeg Hill as soon as you can possibly leave,” Bea said with a quaver in her voice as she fought not to scream insults at the other woman.
“I have no place to go,” Pan said in a childlike voice. “Please don’t make me leave until Dalton gets back.”
Bea stared in amazement at the woman before her on her knees frantically gathering up money. It was as if Pan had metamorphosed from the screaming shrew of moments before into a contrite child. “Where did the money come from, Pan?” Bea pressed in a level voice.
“Dalton gave it to me the morning of the day he disappeared. I was supposed to put it on the houseboat with the rest. I never got around to it.”
“You knew there was more money hidden on the boat?”
“Dalton said he was getting it together to pay off the man who called at night.”
“Do you know where Lyon went today?”
“No. I helped him start the car and he drove off in that old station wagon pulling a boat.”
Bea glanced out the window into the dark night and then down at her wristwatch. It was far too late to be cruising on the Sound or river in a small runabout. She knew his thought patterns and musings often allowed him to solve intricate puzzles, and that might mean trouble. She ran for the phone.
“All right, I’ve got it,” Rocco said over the telephone when she finally reached him at home. “It concerns me too. Give me the marker number of that old wagon of yours and I’ll call the appropriate jurisdictions.”
“BY three-forty-two,” Bea said and after he repeated the plate number hung up. She walked numbly through the house and stopped in front of the bar cart where she began mixing a strong martini. She abruptly stopped. She would need every particle of concentration during the coming hours and liquor wouldn’t help.
She wandered through the house until she came to the recreation room. She stood before the Ping-Pong table and looked down at the aerial map he had prepared. She had complained about the money for the map, the time he’d spent on the case; and this morning she had taken the car keys as if punishing a small child. Old-fashioned New England guilt made her shiver.
He had circled Red Deer Island on the map. She instantly knew that the small island was his destination. She rushed for the phone to call Rocco again. “He’s gone out to an island,” she blurted without preamble. “Can you arrange for a rescue boat to take us out there?”
“Boats are in short supply right now,” Rocco said. “Word just came over my scanner that there’s been an explosion followed by a fire on Red Deer Island. They’re sending everything they’ve got out there to try and control it.”
Lieutenant Commander Gregory Allcott, Coast Guard Academy ’74, was very unhappy. Not only was this unexpected helicopter flight rumpling his new dress whites, but having to leave the dinner for the new Academy commandant in mid-course was not politically expedient. He tried not to glare at the diminutive woman huddled in a pea jacket by the open door, or her very large companion who was also staring out into the darkness. His eyes caught those of one of the airmen wearing a wetsuit. The diver shook his head and rolled his eyes at Bea.
Allcott knew the sailor’s frustration. This was a patently ridiculous mission, instigated only because of political pressure. He tried talking to the woman, but his words were lost in the noise of the rotors. He motioned to her and then to the helmet by her side, which contained earphones and a microphone. She nodded and slipped the helmet on as he jacked in his own set.
“We can’t see a damn thing down there, Senator Wentworth. We can fly much more effective search patterns at dawn.”
“Keep flying.”
Allcott realized that it wasn’t a request. It was a command. Who the hell did this broad think she was? “You know, Senator, it wasn’t necessary to call Senator Dodd to call the commander of the Coast Guard who called me. We always provide an adequate search for mariners in distress. At this time of night, this flight just isn’t doing any good. We couldn’t spot him if we were right over him.”
Bea ignored his reasoning. “If you would please continue searching your side, Commander.” She managed a small smile that quickly faded.
Allcott raised his night binoculars and swept the blackness below. What the hell, he thought. The guy probably burned to death on the island anyway.
Lyon heard the beat of the helicopter off to his right and turned his body in that direction. He instantly knew that without a flare, signal light of some sort, or radio signal, that they would never see or find him in time.
The only piece of equipment he had left was a waterlogged camera in the rear pouch. It had been immersed in the water from the moment he had been dumped overboard. It was all he had, and he fumbled clumsily in the rear pouch until he was able to extract the flat device. He awkwardly turned the unlocking lever and raised the flash unit. In order to fire it toward the sky, he would have to double over with his hands holding the camera raised behind his back while his head and upper body were submerged.
He ducked forward into the water while simultaneously jerking his bound hands to hold the camera upward. He pressed the shutter release and then raised his head to gulp air.
There was no way for him to determine if the flash was operative, but he would try again and again until the helicopter was out of sight and sound.
He ducked again and once more tripped the flash. It might work—after all, the camera was of Japanese manufacture.
“What’s that?” Rocco said. “I think I saw something.”
Bea was immediately at his side with her hand on his shoulder. “Where?”
“Off to the right.” He pointed. “Something flashed. There it is again.”
“I see it!” Bea said with excitement.
“Turn the searchlight to the right at nine o’clock!” Rocco yelled.
The searchlight beam danced across white caps below as it swiveled sides below the craft. “What do you have?” the Coast Guard officer asked over the engine sounds.
The flash blinked again. “A few feet to the stern!” Rocco thundered. The light hovered over the spot. “That’s it!
“He’s facedown in the water,” Allcott said.
“Goddamn!” Rocco said as he stepped out the door of the helicopter.
10
Although he had learned to swim so young that he could hardly remember, Lyon’s respect for the water verged on the pathological. He had an inordinate fear of drowning, and any choking sensation truly startled him. The warm lassitude he now felt was not fearful. He had once read that dying was not stressful, that the body released narcotic hormones that eased the passage. He felt himself drifting down a long, warm stream toward a distant light.
They had killed him! Two men, acting without remorse or thought, had nonchalantly tumbled him over the side of a boat. He would not make it easy for them. Somehow, somewhere, sometime, he would find them. He exerted every ounce of his remaining will to move.
“He’s coming around,” a faraway voice said.
Something warm and moist brushed his cheek. He opened his eyes to find Bea’s face inches from his. “Oh, Lyon,” she said.
“His vitals are steady,” a nearby feminine voice said.
“I think I’ve been rescued,” Lyon said. Bea kissed him on the forehead and rapidly turned away. He saw small tremors convulse her shoulders. The other bed in the room contained Rocco Herbert. “What’s he doing here?”
“Sleeping on duty. What the hell do you think?” Rocco replied gruffly.
“Tweedledum and Tweedledee,” Bea said. “You two ought to be incarcerated for your own protection.”
Death on the Mississippi Page 10
