The Wizard of Death

by Forrest, Richard;

  Lyon took the gun back and slammed it into the center desk drawer. “Let’s go back to bed.”

  “Yes,” she replied distantly. “I looked at the pictures. Taken from a movie film, huh?”

  “Oh, those, yes. Debbie what’s-her-name had a camera, and you know how Rocco is, he wanted me to see them.”

  “It was meant for me too, wasn’t it?”

  “No. He just thought I might see something in them that—”

  “The bullet. The bullet that missed me. I can look at these things and see that.”

  “A haphazard thing,” he mumbled.

  “Llewyn was killed and I was supposed to be too.”

  “Bea, please.”

  “Oh, my God, Lyon. I’m scared.”

  “There are two policemen outside the house right now.”

  “What about tomorrow, the day after?”

  “We’ll find him, her, whoever it is. I promise you, Bea. We’ll find him.”

  “I demand my rights.”

  Lyon Wentworth sat bolt upright in bed and tried to reach for a weapon before his eyes focused and he saw Kimberly Ward’s angry black face bent over the bed.

  “Damn it all, Kim. We have rights too. We’re in bed.”

  Bea untwined herself from Lyon and sat up groggily.

  “I demand a lawyer,” Kim said. “I will not tolerate any more of this surveillance.”

  “What in hell are you talking about?”

  “Damn it, Kim, do you have to protest in our bedroom at”—Bea looked at the small electric clock on the night table—“at seven in the morning?”

  “Damn right!” Kim yelled. “The fuzz is staked out in the yard. Two pigs. One in the back and one in the front. They even changed shifts a few minutes ago.”

  “That’s not surveillance on you, Kim,” Lyon said.

  “That big buddy of yours is behind this. Old Super Pig is after my butt.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “They said they’d get me after my equalization of unemployment benefits protest.”

  “Why don’t we have breakfast and talk about it?” Lyon suggested as he heaved himself out of bed, then retreated rapidly when he realized he was stark naked.

  “Oh,” Kim said quietly into her coffee after Lyon and Bea outlined the situation for her. “I guess we had all better do something.”

  “It might be a good idea if you took a long visit with your aunt in Hartford,” Bea suggested.

  “No way,” Kim retorted. Her eyes glinted angrily. “I think we had better get shotguns. That’s what they used on the Attica brothers.”

  “How about a machine gun on the parapet?” Lyon suggested.

  “That’s silly,” Bea retorted. “I was thinking of V-2s in the vestibule.”

  “You’re both nuts,” Kim said.

  “WE’RE OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS, KIMBERLY,” Bea shouted, and then adjusted her hearing aid.

  “Take to ground,” Kim said, “I know a couple of safe houses that we’ve used where no one will ever find you.”

  “I’m afraid to ask whom you’ve hidden,” Lyon mumbled.

  “I am not going to sneak away,” Bea said. “I will not cower under the table or take off to Europe. Life will go on as it always has.”

  “You’re not going to the special session of the legislature?” Kim asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Rocco suggested last night that we might make up a list of possible political enemies for him to work on.”

  “Past, present or future?” Bea asked. “That would take a city directory, but it would be bipartisan.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Lyon said.

  Bea finished her coffee and stood up. “All right, everyone, we have lots to do today.”

  “Sandbag the windows?” Kim asked.

  “No, my dear,” Bea replied. “You and I have a lot of work to do on a gun-legislation bill that I’m going to attach as a rider to their silly sales-tax increase. Lyon has to lock himself in the study and make us all a living.”

  “I thought I’d take a flight this morning,” Lyon said.

  “Oh, no.” Bea sank back in her chair. “Not that.”

  “Want to come? It’s very relaxing and a wonderful time to sort things out.”

  “The last flight you took ended up in the Connecticut River.”

  “That wasn’t all my fault. Will you two help me get off the ground?”

  “Do we have a choice?”

  “No.”

  They trundled the hot-air balloon from the barn at the rear of the house and spread the balloon evenly along the ground. As Bea held the bottom aperture open, Lyon braced the propane burner against his hip and shot jagged spurts of flame into the bag. As the air began to heat, the large bag filled and slowly rose. They scurried around the perimeter, unfolding the creases so that it filled quickly and evenly.

  As the balloon envelope took shape and began to lift lazily from the ground, the huge dimensions of Lyon’s major book characters began to form. Painted by Stacey Thornburton during his last visit to Connecticut at the cost of three bottles of Jack Daniel’s, the two immense Wobblies curved around the balloon to join hands (or paws) over the legend, WOBBLY II.

  With the bag firmly held to the ground by mooring lines, the small wicker basket danced a few feet off the surface. Lyon walked slowly around the filling balloon and checked the bag for wear and leaks and occasionally tugged on ropes to make sure that all was secure. As he climbed into the gondola, he adjusted the flow of propane on the burner immediately below the bag’s appendix. He made other preflight checks and waved to the waiting women who held the mooring lines.

  The lines were released, and as he reeled them into the basket, the balloon began its slow ascent.

  At 650 feet he again adjusted the propane burner, released a smidgin of hot air from the bag, and leveled his altitude. In the yard below, the women waved and slowly began to walk back to the house. It seemed obvious from their body language that they were animatedly arguing—and then it occurred to him that gun legislation wouldn’t be Kim’s cup of tea, to say the least.

  The bag drifted slowly in the almost windless day, and Lyon leaned over the edge of the basket to watch the moving panorama below. Their house, Nutmeg Hill, sat solidly on its granite base on the promontory overlooking the river, its four chimneys pointing stalwartly toward the sky and bracketing the widow’s walk. Not that the house was that large; in fact it had been a rather rambling, falling-down house when they purchased and began to renovate it.

  On the river below, as it wound its way toward Long Island Sound, a few pleasure boats made white wakes. Over to the left was the Congregational Church and the town green. He made out workmen removing yesterday’s speaker’s platform. In back of the church was the cemetery and the rising meadow that had been the scene of the futile chase.

  Over the hill beyond the meadow were several roads, any one of which could have been the route of the killer’s retreat. Which one?

  Temporarily, he had to put aside the all-consuming fear for his wife’s safety and attempt to come up with something that would aid Rocco Herbert; for in the ultimate scheme of things only the capture of the killer would guarantee Bea’s safety.

  A mild westerly wind had begun to move the balloon back on its original path. His quick calculation indicated that in minutes he’d be back over the house. Suddenly, he wanted to descend. He wanted to descend as quickly as he could.

  Diocletian’s Cycle and Drag Shop on Route 66 was squeezed between an auto junk yard and a stone mason’s shop. Lyon turned the pickup into the narrow dirt drive and parked in front of the rusting Quonset hut.

  Four members of a cycle club, wearing their colors, were revving Harley 1200s in front of the building. Emblazoned with sequins on the back of their leather jackets were the words, “Krauts M.C., Breeland, Ct.”

  Lyon left the truck, ignored the somewhat hostile glances cast his way by the Krauts, and entered the building. Inside, m
otorcycles of all shapes and sizes cluttered the floor, while to the rear of the building two men were working on disassembled machines in a repair area. A bearded man in white coveralls with the name Diocletian labeled in blue over his pocket left a workbench and slouched toward Lyon.

  “Mr. Diocletian?”

  “Everyone calls me D.”

  “I wonder if I might rent a trail bike for the day.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Not really.”

  “Listen, buddy. The last guy I rented a bike to was wanted on six counts of carnal knowledge. Three months later they found the bike in Portland.”

  “Portland’s only the next town over.”

  “Portland, Oregon.”

  “Anybody you know rent them?”

  “You might try Crazy Louis down in Danbury. He’ll do most anything for a buck.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “Not unless somebody’s gone wacko recently.”

  “What’s the cheapest motorcycle you could sell me?”

  “For trails?”

  “That’s what I had in mind.”

  Diocletian’s face seemed to merge through several contortions as he fought valiantly to keep greed from becoming too obvious. “I do have one nice model over in the corner.”

  Lyon followed him toward the rear of the shop where a peeling red and greasy motorcycle was propped among some cobwebs in the corner. “Does it run?” he asked.

  “Like a baby. Four fifty and it’s yours.”

  “Three hundred and you’ve got a deal.”

  “Sold.”

  “How about showing me how to start the thing?”

  “You got a cycle license?”

  “I’ve had a driver’s license for years.”

  “No, in this state you’ve got to take a separate test and driver’s examination for a cycle license.”

  “I didn’t know that. But what if I just run over back trails?”

  “In that case the cops will never catch you.”

  “So I’ve recently noticed,” Lyon replied.

  In front of the Quonset hut, under the bemused glares of the Krauts M.C., Diocletian gave Lyon a quick lesson in the operation of the trail bike. For another five dollars he threw in a board that could be utilized to push the cycle on and off the back of the pickup. When Lyon felt he had a vague idea of its operation, he loaded the cycle on the pickup and drove from the store.

  As he pulled onto the highway, he felt proud of his bargaining powers in lowering the price of the motorcycle. For a brief moment he thought he heard gales of laughter coming from the Quonset hut, but he chose to ignore it.

  He off-loaded the motorcycle from the truck at the rear of the Congregational Church by the green. Before mounting the machine, he paused, had a thought, and walked around the corner of the church back to the green and entered the Murphysville Hardware and Supply Company.

  Dan Lufkin shook his head and smiled as Lyon entered the store. “If you’re after fuses again, Lyon … if I told you once I’ve told you four times that you’ve got circuit breakers up at Nutmeg Hill.”

  “Very funny, Dan. How about selling me some ammunition?”

  “If you want ammo for your books, you need a wooden stake or silver bullets.”

  “If you read my books, Dan, you’d know I don’t write monster stories.”

  “What I heard.”

  “How about some ammo?”

  “Sure, what kind you want?”

  “Thirty-thirty.”

  “Don’t have it.”

  “You didn’t even look.”

  “Don’t need to.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, in the first place, people who have that kind of gun use it to go to Maine or Canada for deer or bear. No call for me to sell it. You want shotgun shells, all kinds, or .22 all kinds, you’re in the right place.”

  “Do you require identification from anyone buying ammunition?”

  “Driver’s license, and they just sign the ammo register.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Couldn’t be simpler, but like I say, don’t get no call for thirty-thirty shells. Now, if you want a wooden stake …” Dan Lufkin began to laugh as Lyon left the store.

  He kicked the motorcycle, which he had aptly termed the Red Devil, into life. Dirty exhaust came from the tail pipe; the machine coughed, sputtered, and finally labored into erratic life. Lyon revved the engine as he’d seen the Krauts do, released the brakes and threw it into gear.

  With the front wheels off the ground, the machine sprang ahead. As he skidded across the church parking lot in a direct trajectory toward the cemetery fence, he eased off on the accelerator handle and slowed the machine until the wheels came down. He barely managed to skid through the fence opening into the cemetery.

  The motorcycle wobbled as he fought for control. At one point, as the cycle barely made a sharp swerve, his leg brushed against the marker of Jeremiah Benton, 1714–1786. With relief he saw the gate at the end of the cemetery directly in front of him. He went through in a flurry of dust and started up the meadow toward a cow.

  As the incline of the meadow increased, he found it necessary to speed up in order to keep his forward momentum. He sped over hillocks and small rocks, all the while attempting to avoid large boulders that were strewn haphazardly in the knee-high grass.

  Without difficulty the cycle went through the dual rock formation that had stopped the police car the day before. Beyond that obstacle the ground seemed to disappear as the bike took off from a small hummock. He hit with a bone-jarring bounce; the motorcycle skidded sideways as he struggled to regain his balance. It stalled out, and he gratefully put both feet on firm ground. His hands were trembling from clenching the handlebars. He wished he had walked the trail rather than attempting to negotiate it on the bike.

  On the leading edge of the hill the cowpath forked to the right and left. Which way would he have gone? The left fork was closer, but after the jump at the top of the hill it seemed unlikely that he could have negotiated the sharp turn to the left so quickly—it had to be to the right. He kicked the motorcycle alive and started slowly toward the right fork.

  After a quarter of a mile the path widened and turned steeply toward a road several hundred yards farther on. He slowed and stopped at the edge of the pavement. It was a narrow, winding country road. Yesterday’s rider could have turned either way. From the map examination he and Rocco had made, and also from the balloon observation, he knew that to the right the road wound through the country past a few working farms and ended at the Shady Heights subdivision. To the left, it continued through the hills for three miles until it connected with Route 90, which ran along the river. Route 90 interconnected with the Interstate and would be an obvious escape route.

  He kicked the motorcycle starter and moved slowly to the left. After the murder and the abortive chase, Rocco had radioed instructions to his small force and to the state police. They would have established road blocks, or at least check points, near the Interstate connection. Any cyclist would have been stopped. Unless the killer had done exactly what he had done—used a truck to transport the trail bike.

  He slowed the motorcycle to a near stall and began to examine the dirt shoulder at the edge of the road. Within fifty yards he found what he was looking for. A vehicle had been pulled off onto the shoulder. He stopped the bike and got off to kneel by the side of the road next to a small oil spot. The single track of the bike was clearly visible as it approached the dual tracks of the other vehicle. He recalled that the day before yesterday it had rained: the tracks must have been made in the last forty-eight hours. The cycle tracks ended a few feet before the other vehicle tracks. The killer had obviously loaded the trail bike onto a small truck or van parked on the shoulder.

  The supposition would be verified when Rocco’s men made molds of the tire marks and compared them to the ones found in back of the church. It also gave them one more fact to work with—an addition
al fact that might allow them to make another conjecture toward another fact.

  He was in a hurry to get back to town. He started the motorcycle and decided to avoid the difficult trail through the meadow by going down the road to Route 90 and back that way to Rocco’s office. The escape route was verified, and there was also an additional lead among the things he had heard today.

  With its operator lost in thought, the motorcycle failed to negotiate the sharp right turn, crashed through a thin wooden retaining fence and shot off into space. Lyon found himself separating from the mottled red cycle as they both dropped into the waters of an abandoned quarry.

  “Those wet clothes are going to mark the bench,” Rocco Herbert said as Lyon scowled.

  It had been a two-mile walk to Sarge’s Bar and Grill, off Route 90. He had ordered a double sherry and called Rocco from the pay phone. Now, as the chief sat across from him in the scarred wooden booth and nursed a beer, Lyon heard himself squish loudly as he shifted position.

  “That quarry’s dangerous,” he said. “Kids could get killed out there.”

  “To my recollection you’re the only one who ever ran a motorcycle into it. Who in hell do you think you are—Evel Knievel?”

  “I was thinking.”

  “Oh, Jesus, typical. You know, of course, that we’ll never get your plaything out of there.”

  “Well, it wasn’t much of a machine anyway.”

  “I’ve sent two men out to make a cast of those tracks you found, although I don’t see how it’s going to help us.”

  “One more thing to work with.”

  “All right, you took a ride over the meadow, probably duplicated the killer’s route. You found cycle tracks stopping next to the tracks of another vehicle … fine, he probably loaded the trail bike onto a covered van. That would get him past any check points we managed to set up. I still don’t see where that puts us.”

  “What about the rifle?” Lyon asked.

  “Stolen three days ago from a home in Hartford.”

  “Was ammunition taken at the same time?”

  “Ammo? I don’t know.” Rocco pulled a Xerox copy of a report from his pocket and quickly scanned it. “This is a copy of the investigating officer’s report concerning the theft. Nothing at all was taken except the rifle and scope.”