Bea shook her head as he slipped into the parachute harness. ‘I’m not usually an overly anxious person,’ she said. ‘I’ve flown with you more than a hundred times in the Wobbly I and II, but this damn cloudhopper is scary.’
‘Ho ho ho!’ Lyon said as he adjusted the propane burner. He lit another burn for adjustment until the balloon bobbed at the end of its tether. ‘If I stay away from high-tension lines, and watch where I come down …’
‘Like on church steeples?’
‘I miscalculated.’
‘You know, most sane people who want to ruminate sit on the porch and slowly rock back and forth.’
‘I find ballooning very conducive for abstract thought of a nonlinear nature.’
‘Your nonlinear mind may be vertically challenged when that toy decides to make a rapid descent. I hate it so much that I am tempted to sneak out here some night and slice it to ribbons.’
He stopped his preflight check to smile. ‘The midnight rectifier strikes again. Give her a can of spray paint or scissors and she’ll convince you of anything.’
‘Believe in me,’ she said. ‘The New England genes that made my ancestors spice Boston Harbor with tea are still active.’
‘I want you to take your New England genes inside and stay away from windows and doors,’ Lyon said. ‘Better yet, go to the rec room and bolt the door.’
‘You mean, get out of the line of fire,’ Bea said, ‘while you drift over half the state making a target larger than Humpty Dumpty.’
‘The wind is from the sea. I’ll be safely over the river and won’t be a target.’ He released the mooring line. Another short burst of flame from the burner changed the balloon’s lift. It quickly rose two hundred feet while he dangled from the harness. ‘Go inside!’ he yelled down at Bea.
She shook her head and began to walk toward the tool shed.
The cloudhopper’s ascent to 1,000 feet was rapid due to the excess buoyancy. At that height the balloon leveled off and Lyon gave only occasional propane burns in short quick bursts to maintain equilibrium. He grasped the harness lines overhead to stabilize his body swing before he looked down.
Bea hadn’t returned to the house as he had requested. She had taken a hoe from the tool shed and was working in the small vegetable garden planted on the sunny side of the barn. He should have suspected that she’d react that way. As frightened as she was, and he knew how deeply the exploding car had affected her, she would refuse to withdraw and cower. It was not in her nature to cringe at every creak and shift of their ancient house. She would not allow herself to believe that normal noises were a prelude to some marauder’s attack. She might be frightened, but she would not surrender to a paralysis of fear.
A thousand feet above the surface of the river gave him a commanding view of the surrounding road network. No cars were traveling toward Nutmeg Hill. Except for a single van parked near the crane, the workers had left the construction site for the day. If there was a stalker, he either hadn’t started yet or was working his way toward them through a mile of woods.
A five-mile-an-hour sea breeze carried the balloon northwest and parallel to the meandering course of the Connecticut River. He could see Clay’s condominium development with its new construction on the north side of the artificial lake.
The sniper who killed Bambi had fired from the second house. It had been a long shot across the water into the top of the Boston woman’s head. It was a difficult shot, but not an impossible one if the rifle were supported on the window ledge and the victim motionless.
The murder of the topless dancer was worrisome. Why bother? What threat did she pose to anyone? Her only interest was in the financial protection of her son. That was hardly threatening to anyone, and only a minor inconvenience to Morgan. Lyon doubted that she was involved in any murder conspiracy, and that would be the only valid reason to eliminate her. Then why bother to kill her? Unless she was not the intended victim.
He examined the condominium again and drew an imaginary line from the shooter’s position to the chaise lounge.
There was a possibility that the killer did not know who was occupying the lounge. The ordinary assumption anyone would make was that Clay was the one on the deck. Unless the killer actually saw who came out to the lounge, distance and the angle of the body would make definite identification impossible.
The wind began to shift as eddies from the north changed the balloon’s drift. Lyon gave the burner lever a few tugs to maintain altitude.
The balloon gradually reversed direction and began to drift toward the sea. The new course would carry it back over Nutmeg Hill.
If errors had been made in Bambi’s murder, perhaps there were other inconsistencies that had been overlooked. He thought back over the details of Morgan’s death.
His sherry and Morgan’s Pernod meant that he and the dead man shared a common desire for slightly unusual drinks. It was entirely possible that they had both been given a slow-acting drug. Lyon was convinced that he had suffered from some type of hallucinogen that completely confused him when he was chased through the woods. Morgan might have suffered from another sort of narcotic whose effect kept him from hearing anyone attempting to enter his RV.
Anyone at the house that night could have contaminated the liquor. The bottles on the bar cart were accessible to everyone throughout the evening.
The wind had carried him back over Nutmeg Hill. The balloon’s shadow fell across Bea as she worked in the garden. She looked up and waved.
The most important clue to the puzzle lay on the ground before him.
As the balloon’s huge shadow slowly crept across the lawn, Lyon realized that the answer could only be revealed from this particular angle and height.
He was now able to see the nearly imperceptible tracks that crossed the grounds of Nutmeg Hill. The shallow ruts across the meadow and lawn stopped at a point only a short distance from the drive where Morgan’s van had been parked.
Backtracking, the faint indentations led across the meadow to a cut in the tree line that entered the construction site. The tracked crane that had created the ruts was parked at the corner of the partially completed building.
The killers knew that Morgan and Lyon were drugged. They had driven the crane to the edge of Nutmeg Hill’s drive. The cable had been lowered and attached to the air-conditioning unit in the center of the RV’s roof. The crane had lifted the unit straight up a distance of less than two feet, not far enough to rip the wiring loose. The unit’s temporary extraction opened a hole large enough for someone to slip into the vehicle, murder the drugged Morgan, and leave without a trace. The crane had then carefully replaced the air conditioner in its slot without leaving a mark on the roof of the RV. With everything in order the crane had retreated across the yard back into the construction site.
Lyon knew who had killed Morgan and the others.
The slow drift of the balloon had carried it past Nutmeg Hill toward the apartment-building construction.
He looked down and saw the killer framed in the window of the crane. The cab window had been lowered so she could lean out with support as she carefully aimed the rifle.
It was immediately apparent that Bea was the intended target. She was innocently working in the garden and would be an extremely easy target for anyone with the slightest ability with a rifle. Lyon knew full well that Rina’s marksmanship was far from rudimentary.
‘Rina!’ He yelled as loud as he could. ‘Dead Head, look up here!’
For the briefest of moments they were suspended in a wide tableau. Bea looked toward the crane in astonishment as she saw Lyon hovering above the construction site in the cloudhopper’s harness. Rina, five stories high in the crane cab, swivelled the rifle away from Bea to aim at the large overhead target.
Rina fired and immediately fired again.
Lyon saw that her shots were on target, but they were passing harmlessly through the balloon’s envelope. Rina would quickly realize that the hits created holes too small
for the loss of hot air to have any appreciable effect. He would be in trouble when she directed her fire toward him as he hung helplessly suspended in the harness.
Lyon pressed his legs together and began to pump back and forth as if swinging at a playground. His body began to swoop forward. He complicated the maneuver by violently lunging from side to side. His movements which had begun as a pendulum swing shifted into a skewered parabolic curve.
Rina fired a third time, but the bullet passed harmlessly to the side.
As the balloon began to drift past the crane, Lyon opened the full ripping panel for partial deflation. The balloon immediately dipped to an angle of descent that would carry it back to the yard at Nutmeg Hill.
This abrupt shift placed him in Rina’s blind spot directly over the roof of the crane cab. Until he passed beyond the crane it would be impossible for her to get another shot at him. In the two heartbeats it took to pass over the crane, Lyon saw Bea still standing in the garden looking toward them. He knew Rina was probably stuffing more cartridges into the rifle’s magazine.
The killer could shoot Bea at a time of her choosing. In another instant he would pass over the crane cab’s roof on his downward trajectory. He would be only a few feet away and descending in a direct line away from Rina. Her aim would not have to lead him, and his wild body gyrations would not appreciably increase the complexity of the shot. She would probably be able to pump three bullets into him before he reached the ground.
With him dead or dying in the harness, Rina could leisurely target Bea as she stood in the center of the garden far removed from any ground cover. His wife would never survive a dash to the protection of the house.
Lyon’s right foot scraped along the top edge of the crane cab. He brought his left foot back as the balloon drifted past the crane. As soon as he was clear he kicked out with all his strength. His instep caught under the forward stock of Rina’s rifle and flipped it out of her hands. The weapon spun end over end as it looped over the rim of the promontory and fell toward the river.
The balloon’s final descent was swift. Lyon hit the ground hard. He was able to stay on his feet by running with the partially deflated balloon as it bounced unevenly across the yard.
Bea grabbed him around the waist as he passed through the garden. She was pulled along with him as they plowed down a row of staked beefeater tomato plants. Lyon grabbed the mooring stanchion as they passed by the barn and they were able to tether the balloon.
Lyon simultaneously hit the harness quick release and pivoted to run at full speed back toward the construction site.
He glanced up at the tower crane. From his location directly underneath the jib, he could see that Rina was not on the superstructure, but she could be inside the cab. He began to climb the struts of the crane’s climbing frame. He knew that as long as he was on the crane he was in a very vulnerable position. Although her rifle was gone, it was possible that Rina had a handgun.
He stopped to rest at the third story. There was still no sign of Rina, but she might be waiting until he reached the tower and approached the cab before she shot him in the face at point-blank range.
Stopping was a mistake. It allowed time for mental pictures to focus on frightening possibilities. He might reach the top only to stare into the barrel of her pistol. He would see the flash of the exploding shell for a microsecond, but would never hear its retort as the projectile pierced his brain and he fell from the crane. The image of his own death was vivid and real.
The others did not deserve to die. The last victim’s sin was a badgering request for a memorial to valiant men.
Lyon closed his eyes tightly for a moment and then forced them open. He looked up and continued his climb.
He assumed that Bea would see what was happening and call 911 for help. He somehow felt that it was imperative to reach Rina before anything else happened.
He called to her as he neared the end of the climb. ‘Rina! It’s Lyon. I’m coming up.’ No answer. So much for a dialogue.
He stopped again. Rina’s ominous silence meant precautions were in order. He looked up and thought he might be able to work his way along the underside of the jib beneath the cab. If he reached a point behind the cab, he could swing up on the rear part of the jib at the counterweight. That position would place him out of sight and to the rear of the cab door. A strategic position might grant him at least a small element of surprise.
A climb of three more feet and he was able to reach up to a cross-strut underneath the jib. He let go of the climbing frame and hung from the jib. He swung his body forward and shifted one hand then the other to the next strut. He repeated the movement until he was behind the cab. He pulled up on the outside of the jib and swung his feet up over the edge to the side of the counterweight. Once secure, he was able to lever up the rest of his body.
If she came out of the cab to face him, she could still fire at close range. He moved quickly forward.
‘Rina, you there?’ he called as he yanked open the cab door and lunged for her.
It was empty.
Lyon stumbled into the cab and plunked down in its operator’s seat. He began to tremble from exertion as the rush of adrenalin quickly receded with the removal of immediate danger. His breath came in short gasps as he fought to regain physical and mental control.
The crane was moving!
The lumbering metal behemoth slowly inched across the ground toward the edge of the promontory.
It would reach the rim of the cliff above the river in two dozen yards. Once the huge weight of the crane neared the promontory’s lip it would tilt forward until the whole machine toppled into the river.
It was now apparent to Lyon that while he fought to land the balloon, Rina had left the top cab and gone down the ladder on the opposite side of the climbing frame. When she reached ground level she had hidden inside the crane’s truck cab. Once she knew he had climbed too high for retreat, she had started the short drive to the cliff.
Lyon stood on the jib at the cab’s door. It was too high to jump. Once the crane went over the cliff he doubted that anyone could survive the fall. He stepped further out on the narrow platform and clutched one of the cantilever cables. The crane was now only a few yards from the edge of the cliff. Far beneath him he saw Rina’s head protrude from the lower cab door. She looked up at him with what he knew was a grimace of hate.
Rina used both hands to grasp the top edge of the cab in preparation for swinging the rest of her body out. The machine’s forward momentum was slow enough to give her ample time to leave the driver’s cab and make the easy jump to the ground. She had probably wedged the accelerator open to keep the monster machine on its path to destruction.
When the crane’s leading edge reached the cliff, Rina still hadn’t emerged any further from the cab. She looked up at him again. Her look of hate had turned to one of utter terror.
She screamed. It was a primeval cry of anguish and death.
As he watched her writhe, Lyon realized that she was unable to leave the cab. For some unknown reason her lower body was trapped in the slowly moving vehicle. They would make the fatal plunge together.
The forward tracks of the crane’s heavy body topped the cliff edge. The large vehicle seemed to hesitate a moment before it slowly tilted. When its center of gravity shifted, it began to fall.
Sixteen
‘Wentworth!’
Bea hung in the cloudhopper harness a few feet to the side of the falling crane.
Lyon flung himself at her as the crane plunged toward the river. His hands closed over her right ankle like the awkward catch of a mediocre trapeze artist.
Bea was sufficiently aware of the cloudhopper’s aerodynamics to know that the sudden addition of Lyon’s weight would upset their equilibrium. A pronounced dip could entangle them in the crane’s superstructure and force them to follow the falling machine down the cliff to destruction in the river. She immediately compensated for this by starting a long propane burn the instant he jum
ped.
Lyon’s weight had caused the cloudhopper to sink a few feet before the added buoyancy of the burn took effect. They hovered motionless for a moment before the balloon began to slowly rise.
The fading Doppler sound of Rina’s final scream followed their rise as the balloon’s flight path made a parabolic sweep over the cliff above the river.
Lyon wrapped both arms around Bea’s feet.
‘This is not my idea of fun,’ she said.
‘Next week wicker gondolas only,’ Lyon said as he shifted his grip. They faced in opposite directions. Bea’s ability to see forward and control of the propane burner left her in command of the craft. ‘Put us down as soon as we’re over land,’ he said.
‘I think we have another problem. I’m seeing big round things.’
‘Black specks before your eyes? You’re going to lose consciousness?’
‘I mean red and yellow beach balls,’ she replied. ‘I see a string of them in front of us.’
Lyon knew instantly that his wife was not having vision problems. The beach-ball objects were wire warnings that signaled high-tension lines to low-flying aircraft. The wire that crossed at this point originated at the atomic power plant near Haddam Neck and carried thousands of volts to the massive pylons that supplied power to the Hartford grid.
‘A burn!’ Lyon yelled. ‘Give the propane a shot to get over the power line!’ High-tension wires were the most feared obstacle for a hot-air balloonist. The huge craft’s vertical-only control made them vulnerable to wire entanglements. Such collisions caused most of the sport’s fatalities. ‘For God’s sake, give it a long burn!’ he yelled.
Death at King Arthur's Court Page 18
