The Wizard of Death

by Forrest, Richard;

  “In what total amount?” Lyon asked.

  “Around a hundred and twenty thousand,” Dawkins responded. “Now, I do admit that the money was given to a political organization. And it is true that you might fault me for backing an extremist group, but it was my money, taxes were paid on it, and the money was given in good faith for the ideals they stand for.”

  “You’re a real patriot,” Rocco said.

  “I like to think so,” Wilkie responded. “If this group involved itself in extremist activities such as political murder, then I had poor judgment. But I assure you I had no direct connection with those radicals.”

  “Only with Rainbow?”

  “Rainbow being Danny Nemo, yes. But it was my impression that Danny was only a courier between me and the group. I had no idea he was actually involved in the things you tell me.”

  “What did you expect this group to do with a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Any organization is an expensive thing to operate. Money for literature, a staff, all sorts of expenses.”

  “And you have an accounting of those things?”

  “Not yet, but I would expect one eventually.”

  “And the ideology?”

  “It’s not a question of ideology; it’s a matter of power. With power all is possible, and ideologies can be formed to meet the need of the moment. It’s really quite immaterial to me whether we go right or left. I’ll take a stance when the time is appropriate.”

  “Where is this group located?” Rocco snapped.

  Wilkie laughed. “Let us say that we are extensively organized throughout New England. And this is only the beginning.”

  “Then the group will be disturbed when they find you under arrest?”

  “I don’t really think it will come to that, Mr. Wentworth. But to answer directly, yes. I expect there will be massive demonstrations, pressure upon the media, the cry of frame.”

  The door opened and Captain Norbert stuck his head in the room. “Mackay’s withdrawn; it’s Mattaloni on the second ballot.”

  Dawkins rose in the wheelchair, his arms supporting his weight. “No! That’s not the strategy, that’s not what I told him.”

  “I think all this has been a little much even for Ted,” Lyon said.

  “I won’t allow it!” Dawkins’s face was flushed as he sank back in the chair.

  Lyon wondered whether the man was mad, naïve, Machiavellian or just evil. Perhaps madness encompassed all of it. “It’s over, Dawkins.”

  “A setback, a temporary setback. It’s happened to all who sweep for power.”

  Lyon leaned forward to look into the opaque eyes of the man in the wheelchair. “There isn’t any group, Wilkie. There is not now, nor has there ever been. You have a conspiracy that is not a conspiracy. Danny Nemo was your general, soldier and nemesis.”

  “Danny was my gofer, my legs, a messenger. The group may have used him as an instrument, but that’s all.”

  “All your contacts with this group were by letter or phone?”

  “Of course. Individual cells, no contact, the secret of political success.”

  “And did anyone ever phone when Danny was present in the room?”

  “Well, no. But that’s coincidental.”

  “Is it going to be coincidental when we obtain a court order and locate his safe-deposit box?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “When we open Danny’s safe-deposit box we’re going to find close to a hundred thousand dollars of your money. Your seed money for a group that doesn’t exist.”

  “Wait a minute,” Rocco said. “You’re telling us that all of this was a scheme to bilk Dawkins?”

  “Yes. The inversion of a relationship. Danny Nemo preyed on the weakness that he knew so well. It was only meant to be two killings, Bea and Llewyn. The rest would be fire bombs, messages, threats … until the other killings became a necessity to cover the identity of Rainbow.”

  “Then there isn’t any group?”

  “There never has been. It was all Danny’s creation exclusively for Wilkie.”

  Wilkie’s eyes met Lyon’s. “I hardly think I was so naïve as to have been duped through all this, Wentworth. It’s not possible that I hired a male companion to act as my legs and he conned me, flim-flammed me, created a whole edifice of which nothing exists.”

  “It’s immaterial to me what you believe, Wilkie. I know there isn’t any group, and that Danny Nemo acted alone.”

  Wilkie swiveled the wheelchair and rolled across the room toward the window. Rocco took a step toward him, but Lyon waved him back.

  “There isn’t any evidence of a political group,” Wilkie said softly.

  “None,” Lyon replied.

  “Which means that we’re terribly clever or that I’ve been a fool.” As he looked out the window, his hands gripped the arms of the chair, and when he spoke again his voice was far away. “After I was hit in Vietnam, I lay in a hospital bed for sixteen months; it gave me a lot of time to think, to plan on how not to be powerless ever again.”

  “Why don’t you book him, Pat?” Rocco asked.

  Sergeant Pasquale pushed off the edge of the desk. “Gladly.”

  The wheelchair spun in a semicircle until Wilkie faced them with a contorted face. “My group is here! They’re all around us. They have to be. You won’t get me from this building. Do you understand? I control the convention, this state; and they won’t desert me!”

  They watched the wheelchair leave the room as Pasquale pushed it into the hall.

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight until we catch Nemo,” Rocco said as they drove back to Murphysville. “Norbert will keep a tight guard around Beatrice.”

  They drove in silence until the radio began to sputter. Rocco answered the Murphysville dispatcher. “This is control, M-One. Captain Norbert says the car has been recovered and they suspect a ten-o-eight.”

  “Ten four.” Rocco said and replaced the transmitter.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that Danny has dumped the police car and has probably stolen another car. I don’t see how he’ll get through, wearing a trooper’s uniform.”

  “We found the dead trooper’s clothes gone, but Danny’s clothes weren’t in the auditorium.”

  “He took them with him. He’ll change.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, we’ll cover the banks Monday morning. When he tries to get to his safe-deposit box we’ll grab him.”

  “Perhaps,” Lyon replied thoughtfully. “Perhaps.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  When they arrived at Nutmeg Hill another cruiser was in the drive, and an officer with a shotgun was stationed near the entrance to the house.

  “Will you please explain …” Rocco tried to say as Lyon strode toward the barn. “Where are you going?”

  “How many men are out here?”

  “Half the Murphysville force—six guys.”

  “Good, we can get the Wobbly II in the air that much faster.”

  “The Wobb … your damn balloon? You’re out of your living mind!”

  Lyon entered the barn and trundled the hot-air balloon bag into the yard, and then returned for the remainder of the equipment. “Get your men over here. I’ll tell them what to do for the launch.”

  “You’d be a sitting duck up there. It’s hardly time for fun and games, and I’ll be damned if my men will be a part of it.”

  Lyon grunted as he pulled the balloon bag from the cart and began to spread it over the ground. “He’s not around here—yet. The faster I can get airborne, the faster I can come down, and the safer I’ll be. If you don’t help, I’ll do it myself.”

  Rocco watched Lyon as he intently aligned the bag in position. He shrugged and signalled to the remainder of the officers around the house. “Next you’ll be selling snake oil,” he said.

  With the puzzled officers following the directions given them by Ly
on, who was using a double blower to help force hot air from the burner into the envelope, the balloon began to rise over Nutmeg Hill.

  Lyon leveled off at six hundred feet and made the proper adjustments to the propane burner. He looked over the edge of the gondola at the terrain surrounding his house.

  The view was excellent and completely unobstructed. He was directly above the widow’s walk, and by turning in either direction he had a panoramic view of the hills, trees and river.

  North of the house the land ran flat toward the edge of the promontory, where it dropped off sharply to the river. A difficult approach requiring a boat to the rocks below, and a very steep cliff to climb up to the plateau on which the house sat. He discounted that possibility.

  Due south was the drive leading down to the road. There would be traffic and a guard on the road—too dangerous. To the west, the stand of pines surrounded by heavy brush was uninterrupted for nearly a mile.

  It would be from the east. Off Route 29 to the old quarry road, park down the hill a quarter of a mile from the house, then through the sparse woods to the barn and then the house beyond.

  Yes, it would be like that.

  He pulled the ripping panel. As hot air was released from the exposed side of the envelope, the balloon began a rapid descent. When he was twenty feet from touchdown, he called down to the waiting Rocco.

  “From the east, Rocco. From the east.”

  “What in hell are you talking about?”

  “Danny Nemo. He’ll come from the east between eight and nine tonight.”

  “Will you get down here and tell me what you’re talking about?”

  Since Lyon didn’t really think he was going to get any work done, he opened a new bottle of Dry Sack and poured a neat vodka for Rocco.

  “It’s going to occur to Danny,” Lyon said after the first sip, “that it will occur to me sometime today or tomorrow that he won’t go far without getting to his safe-deposit box, that there is a safe-deposit box.”

  “You’ve already thought about it,” Rocco replied.

  “That’s something he doesn’t know, and a risk he’ll have to assume. He will come up the quarry road, leave the car, and approach the house from behind the barn. He’ll attempt entrance from the patio area. I’d say a few minutes after sunset.”

  “To kill you?”

  “I would imagine so.”

  Rocco looked deeply into his glass. “Makes sense. I’ll get one of my men with your approximate build to wear some of your clothes and walk around the house with the lights on. We’ll lay for the fink.”

  “I’d suggest some men in the barn with radio communications to the house, and another man near the wall switch that turns on the outside floods. When he passes the barn and is midway to the house, turn on the lights, and you have him from both directions.”

  “I’m with you. You and Bea had better stay in the cellar, where you’ll be safe.”

  “Oh, no. Bea and I are going to be far away.”

  It was near eight when Lyon and Bea pulled into the parking lot of the Sound View Motel. The bright smile of the bellhop faded and his pace noticeably slowed as he approached the dusty pickup truck.

  “Checking in, sir?” he asked.

  “I called ahead for a reservation,” Lyon said. He followed the bellhop to the registration desk with the sinking feeling that they’d request payment in advance, and he hoped Bea had enough with her to cover the room and dinner.

  “Congratulations, Senator Wentworth.” The manager’s hand reached for Bea’s and she smiled. “I saw your nomination on television this afternoon, and it’s an honor to have the next secretary of the state at the Sound View.”

  “Thank you, Mr.—” She peered at the small red name tab on the manager’s lapel. “—Mattaloni. Are you any relation to—”

  “My cousin.”

  Lyon wasn’t quite sure whether the suite with private terrace overlooking the ocean was the bridal or the presidential suite, but the complimentary bottle of sherry was excellent. As Bea showered, he sat on the terrace and flipped idly through the large menu, debating about calling down for room service.

  “YOU KNOW, WENTWORTH,” Bea shouted from the shower, “I really should be caucusing.”

  “I had something else in mind.”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe after.”

  “First, a magnificent steak with good wine in celebration.”

  Bea came out of the shower wearing a terry-cloth robe and toweling her hair as she moved behind him and kissed his neck. “You know, I still can’t believe it.”

  “I’m very proud of you, Bea. You’ve been given a great honor.”

  She took the glass from his hand and sipped. “I meant your solving the murders.”

  “I’m sorry I brought the pickup to the convention hall. I couldn’t find the keys to your car.”

  She laughed. “I didn’t mind that, and the TV people thought it was funny. But what took you so long?”

  “I went for a balloon ride.”

  “YOU WHAT? Never mind. I’m not going to ask why.” She sat next to him as they watched the sun settle over the water. “No one in the world knows where we are. No reporters, no politicians, no Rainbows.” She rolled the towel into a turban around her head. “What about the police captain in Breeland—what’s his name?”

  “Murdock. For a while I thought he was mixed up with Rainbow, but actually he’s just overzealous. Rocco and Norbert are going to set up something next week.”

  “That sounds like entrapment.”

  “Bea, if you’d heard what Rocco told me, how the man hits people with complete disregard for their rights …”

  “It’s still entrapment, and I think … I think I’ll change the subject for the time being. All that’s happened was Danny Nemo’s plan to con Dawkins for the money?”

  “It was almost as if Dawkins had asked to be conned. He saw in what Danny was offering a method of control that could be used again and again.”

  “That’s rather horrifying. But you knew it was Danny before the convention.”

  “I suspected, but we had to have the definite proof and the tie-in with Dawkins and the bank records. His reaction to seeing you was the final requirement.”

  “And the final clue. Les jeux sont fait, the play is made. Danny was the only suspect who was an inveterate gambler. ‘The play is made,’ the last thing said before the wheel is spun at Monte Carlo.”

  “Where Danny was last year.”

  “Exactly.”

  They ate on the terrace as the last vestige of summer light streaked the sky.

  “For some reason motels make me feel wanton,” Bea said softly.

  “Things from your dark past that you haven’t told me about?”

  “Nope. Just being so alone together and—”

  They both jumped as the phone rang.

  “WENTWORTH, YOU TOLD ME NO ONE KNEW WE WERE HERE!”

  “Well, just one,” Lyon said as he picked up the phone. “Wentworth here.”

  “We got him, old buddy. Just like you said,” Rocco roared exultantly over the phone. “A few minutes ago when it turned dark, between the house and the barn, gun in hand and a safe-deposit box key on a chain around his neck.”

  “Trouble?”

  “We had him in a crossfire. He froze and dropped his gun without a whimper.”

  “Thanks, Rocco. Thanks for everything.” Lyon clicked off the connection.

  “It’s over.”

  “Yes.” The phone rang again, and he lifted the receiver with a movement of resignation. “Hello.”

  “It’s your illustrious illustrator,” Stacey’s jubilant voice said on the other end of the line.

  “One question, one small question. How in the hell did you find out where we were?”

  “Somebody named Hocco or Locco answered your phone at home. I told him it was a matter of life and death, and that I had to talk to you.”

  “I think we’ve had enough of the life-and-death business for a while
,” Lyon said almost in-audibly. “What is it, Stacey?”

  “Knew you’d want to know that Robin and I have been collaborating on the new book drawings. We’ve really got it, and we’re catching a plane and will be up there in four hours with the preliminary sketches.”

  “Not tonight, Stacey.”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “Day after tomorrow,” Lyon said hopefully.

  “We’ve got the motif for the whole book. I’ve got a hell of a talented kid here, Lyon. We’re putting both our names down as artists.”

  “What about the Point?”

  “Plenty of others for that. I’ve got a girl here who’s an artist. How many do you find like that? Besides, I never was that happy in the military myself.”

  “In Korea, I sometimes felt that way.”

  “See you the day after tomorrow with the drawings. I’ll pick up the manuscript then.”

  “It’s not quite finished,” Lyon replied. “But I’ll get on it.”

  “Do that, Wentworth. You do that.”

  Lyon hung up, rang the switchboard to cut off further calls, and then turned to face Bea. “That was—”

  “Stacey, and he’s very excited.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Maybe you should work on the book tonight.”

  “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  As he watched her stand in the doorway with a penumbra of waning light surrounding her, a montage of recent events shuttled before him. Bea on the green introducing Randy Llewyn as Junior Haney’s carefully placed shots barely missed her. Bea standing by the kitchen window as high-velocity bullets shattered the glass inches from her head.

  She gave him a hesitant smile and slowly opened her robe and let it fall to the floor. She was very alive, and he loved her.

  “You still haven’t said what you had in mind.”

  “I’ll explain later,” Lyon Wentworth said as he stepped toward his wife.