The Death at Yew Corner

by Forrest, Richard;

  “Actually, I want to find out the traffic count and usage of certain areas in the Nahung State Forest.”

  “Nahung. Interesting piece of property. Undeveloped, of course.”

  “You must have some information concerning it.”

  “Of course. That’s where SCORP comes in. We do a comprehensive evaluation of every state outdoor recreational facility each year.”

  “Nahung’s been undeveloped for the last twenty years that I know of. Why reevaluate every year?”

  The quick, nontweedy look that Thornton gave Lyon was not of a thoughtful nature, but arose out of the self-protective device that most civil servants maintain as their final defense mechanism. “I suppose you need this informaion for some project Senator Wentworth is involved in?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Is there anything you can tell me about the Nahung forest?”

  “Let’s see what we have.” There was a careful shuffling of files until Thornton found the appropriate one. “Nahung, yes. We acquired it from the Valley Water Company in 1940. We allow hunting during the season and also give a number of wood-cutting permits during the winter months. Several small streams, no other bodies of water of any size, except of course, the forest does run down to the Connecticut River.”

  “Do you have any traffic counts or camper usage figures?”

  “Since we don’t have forestry personnel out there, we can’t allow camping. Too much of a fire hazard. That’s not to say that there isn’t unauthorized camping in the area.”

  “You do run counts. I mean, hikers use the land, dirt bikers, bird watchers, and that sort of thing?”

  “We like to feel that these lands are held for the people in a sacred trust.”

  “Then you do run traffic counts?”

  “The youngest is three years old.”

  “That would help.”

  “It would be easier, Mr. Wentworth, if I knew exactly what you were trying to find out?”

  “There are dozens of old roads and logging trails crossing the forest. I need to know which ones are passable by a van-type vehicle. The roads I am most interested in would have a low traffic count.”

  “We don’t have the figures for every logging road and trail in a state forest.”

  “I know you don’t, but logging roads and fire roads eventually connect with paved secondary roads. It is those junctions that will give me the information I need.”

  Thornton shuffled over his desk for another file. “I think we can give you some information.” He began to write figures on a map as Lyon peered over his shoulder.

  In Hartford, Bea turned off Park onto Nieman Boulevard and drove toward the Rustman home. She unconsciously slowed down as she attempted to put her thoughts in order and decide on the best approach to use on Barbara Rustman. When she was a block from the house, she saw a teen-age girl with a long blond ponytail going up the Rustman walk. The front door opened as Barbara Rustman came out on the stoop to greet the girl.

  Bea slowed the Datsun to a stop at the curb three houses up from the Rustmans’. Barbara seemed in a hurry, as indicated by a slightly forward bend to her body and the hasty conversation with the young girl. Although Bea could not hear the words, the older woman was obviously giving instructions to the younger.

  The girl entered the house and waved to Barbara, who hurried to a five-year-old Chevrolet parked in the driveway. She backed out without looking and turned down the street in the opposite direction from Bea.

  The young girl was obviously a baby-sitter. Barbara Rustman was going somewhere that was quite important to her. Bea started the Datsun and pulled away from the curb.

  She had once heard Rocco explain to Lyon the rules for car surveillance. At the time she hadn’t been interested enough to pay much attention. Until this moment she couldn’t recall following anyone. At least not since grade school when some boys down the street refused to let her come to their hidden clubhouse. In that instance she’d been easily detected. Didn’t Rocco say that you should let another car intervene between you and the subject? Yes. She dropped back and let a red Camaro get between her car and Rustman’s.

  The Chevrolet turned into a shopping center and pulled into a parking space in front of a supermarket.

  Bea slammed the steering wheel in frustration. She had been sure that Barbara was going somewhere important, that she had an appointment, or perhaps even a meeting with her husband. She watched the other woman hurry from the car and go into the store.

  Bea took a kerchief from her pocketbook and tied it over her head. Wide sunglasses from the glove compartment completed her disguise. She hoped the simple subterfuge would be sufficient, but she suspected that her appearance in the store was so out of context for Mrs. Rustman that she would barely be noticed. She waited until two women with small children entered the store before she followed.

  Barbara was performing the fastest shopping expedition that Bea had ever witnessed. The woman seemed frantic as she wheeled her cart in and out between other shoppers and snatched a haphazard assortment of goods from the shelves. When Barbara wheeled into the check-out line, Bea abandoned her cart and slipped out of the store.

  She sat in the Datsun mentally cataloging the items the other woman had purchased. There were canned goods, fruit, and fast foods—food for a husband in hiding or quick meals for a harried mother of two children.

  Barbara Rustman put her groceries into the backseat of the Chevy and drove quickly from the parking lot with Bea not far behind.

  Two miles further on, the Chevrolet pulled into the parking lot of a motel. Bea drove past, made a U-turn in a gas station, and went past the motel a second time. Barbara had left her car and was knocking on the door of the second unit from the far end. Bea drove past as the motel door was opened.

  She made another turn at a McDonald’s franchise and drove back to the motel. She parked in the far corner of the lot and slouched in her seat to watch the room Barbara had entered. She was convinced that Marty Rustman was in there with his wife.

  It was an hour and a half later when the couple emerged from the room. Barbara hurried to her car as the man walked toward a large Buick.

  Gustav Tanner, the nursing home administrator, walked with a small man’s strut as he climbed into his car.

  6

  It was uncomfortable standing in the back of a pickup truck as it thumped over rutted dirt roads. Patrolman Jamie Martin drove while Rocco and Lyon stood in the truck bed, held on to the cab roof, and looked to each side. They had been searching for the grave for five hours, and Lyon’s ankles had begun to hurt from the constant jouncing over rough roads. The minor roads crisscrossing the state forest seemed endless.

  Rocco was tight-lipped, grim, and reminded Lyon of an alert Roman centurion leading his phalanx through some deep forest in Gaul.

  Rocco thumped on the roof of the truck cab and Jamie Martin brought the vehicle to a quick halt, which almost threw Lyon over the roof onto the hood. The uniformed officer slammed from the truck and looked up at his chief.

  “See something?”

  “Hell, no! My legs hurt.”

  Lyon looked over at his friend gratefully. They both stepped down from the back of the truck and walked briskly back and forth to unwind their knotted muscles.

  “Well?” Rocco said.

  “We could have missed it. The forest is thick in parts, and if it was more than a few yards from the side of the road, we’d miss it.”

  “Or if they covered the grave with leaves, we’d never see it either.”

  Lyon reached inside the cab for the map that lay on the seat. He examined it closely until he located their position. “How many miles have we covered so far?”

  “About thirty, Mr. Wentworth.”

  Lyon looked up at the sky. The sun had dipped beneath the tree tops. In minutes deep shadows would fall across the forest floor and obscure their vision. “We’ll continue for another fifteen minutes and then we’ll have to come back tomorrow to finish.”

&nbs
p; “You’ve got an interesting theory, Lyon. I know you’ve done your homework in picking out the roadways to search, but I have other business back in town. I can’t spend another day out here.”

  “I’ll get Kim and Bea to help. I appreciate the time you’ve put in so far, Rocco.”

  “Appreciate, hell! It’s my job.” He leaped back onto the truck bed with an agility that surprised Lyon.

  The truck began its ponderous, lumbering way down the narrow logging road. Lyon was afraid that they were faced with a nearly impossible job. He recalled an incident in this forest four years ago when a light plane had crashed. The pilot had been killed and the body had remained undetected for five months before a group of scouts accidentally stumbled upon the wreckage. If Rustman’s abductors had been careful and gone at least a hundred yards into the woods, they would never locate the grave. He could only hope that they were impatient men who were undisciplined and afraid of being detected. In that instance they may have dug a shallow grave only a few feet from the side of the road. They may have assumed that the natural fall of leaves would obliterate any evidence of the grave.

  Rocco thumped on the roof of the cab. The truck swerved to a halt as the right front wheel sank into a deep hole. Jamie Martin stuck his head out the window. “See something, Chief?”

  “Back up to that birch.”

  “Birch?”

  “That white tree back there.”

  The patrolman threw the truck in reverse. The wheels spun uselessly for a moment, and they could smell burning rubber before the truck lurched out of the hole and backed up. Before the truck came to a full stop, Rocco vaulted over the side and ran toward the woods.

  Lyon followed and caught up to Rocco who stared down at the edge of a rock by the birch tree. A piece of rope lay at the base of the rock. Along a sharp edge of the stone were dark stains. He lifted the severed rope with the edge of his pencil and dropped it into a small acetate bag. “The way I see it, someone rubbed that rope against the rock until it broke.”

  “His arms would have been tied behind his back.”

  “He’d have to sit with his back against the sharp edge and rub. It would have taken a long time.”

  “Over here, Chief.”

  Jamie Martin stood by a small pit partially filled with dirt. It was three feet deep and the length of a man.

  “I think we’ve found it,” Lyon said.

  Martin looked puzzled as he stared into the pit. “But there’s no one in it.”

  “There was.”

  Sarge’s Place was a dim bar utterly devoid of redeeming features, but they felt comfortable in its dingy ambience. The owner, retired sergeant Renfroe, had served under Rocco in the army, and the relationship between the two still existed. Lyon had once attempted to define his own predilection for the place. He had noted the absence of any omniscient television screen, counted the fact that Sarge always kept a bottle of Dry Sack under the bar for him, and then stopped. He and Rocco were just used to the place.

  They’d driven from the state forest to police headquarters, where Rocco had put out an APB for Marty Rustman, and then continued on to the bar in separate vehicles. They slipped into their usual booth and Sarge brought the sherry in a pony for Lyon and a large tumbler of vodka and ice water for Rocco.

  Rocco looked up at his old sergeant with concern. “If you looked any better, Renfroe, you’d have a lily planted on your chest.”

  “It’s drinking all that customers buy me, Captain. Does terrible things to a man.”

  “A man’s liver, too.”

  “If I stopped drinking now, my liver would become unpickled and probably kill me.” Sarge shuffled off, drew a short beer from the tap, downed it in one gulp, and belched.

  Rocco and Lyon stared into their drinks and then simultaneously raised their glasses. Rocco leaned back in the booth and stretched his legs. “The bastard’s run amok.”

  “It would seem so. What are the odds on picking him up?”

  Rocco shrugged. “It depends on how careful he is. Pasquale will have the Rustman house staked out. He’ll also cover union headquarters and will watch Rustman’s friends and acquaintances. Sometimes a guy who tries to drop out of sight will take off for another part of the country.”

  “He obviously hasn’t.”

  “Then he’ll contact someone. He’ll surface eventually. I think the guy’s around the bend.”

  “It must have been a horrifying experience when you consider he was kidnapped, probably knifed or shot, and then buried.”

  They watched their drinks as if the future movements of Marty Rustman would be revealed in them. “The question is, how many more is he going to get before he’s caught?”

  Lyon finished his sherry and looked toward the bar to catch Sarge Renfroe’s attention. “At least one more.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I believe that two men grabbed Marty at the nursing home, but one of them went back inside to kill Dr. Bunting.”

  “Maginacolda.”

  “Exactly. I think the man who drove the van needed help. He stopped somewhere for a third man.”

  “Who will be the next victim?”

  “Yes, whoever he is.” Sarge swayed toward them with another round of drinks. “By the way, what will happen to Kim on the assault charge?”

  “I’ve arranged with the prosecutor for a thirty-day suspended.”

  “I guess that’s the best that can be expected.”

  They were quiet. Each man understood the need not to talk as they temporarily dwelt in private places with private thoughts. As Lyon looked at his friend hunched over his vodka, he saw the Wobblies perched on each of Rocco’s shoulders. The outline of his monsters was faint. Their forms were barely distinguishable, but they looked at their creator with sad eyes.

  Lyon did not think that he would be able to write another book. A part of him knew that this was fallacious, that he had felt like this before; but it was still depressing. The last book was finished and was now in the quick hands of Mandy Summers. He should be thinking about the next, outlining possible ideas, writing portions of important scenes, and talking to his editor about a new contract. But literary matters seemed unimportant in light of his increasing involvement in the recent bizarre events. The situation had sapped his creative energy and consumed his emotions. He knew that he would have to stay with the investigation until it was complete. Only its final solution would release him from the obsession. Then the Wobblies might return.

  Rocco Herbert was fatigued. He wanted to quit the force. He was tired of scraping motorcyclists off the pavement with a spoon, tired of the daily trips to the local discount store to pick up teen-age shoplifters, tired of night stakeouts to ambush old men who revealed their shriveled instruments to young women on dark streets. In times past he had considered running for town clerk, but the incumbent seemed intent on dying in office. Perhaps one day, when the present town clerk passed on to the great record vault in the sky. He hoped it wouldn’t be too long.

  “How much have they had to drink?” It was a faraway feminine voice.

  “Not much, Senator Wentworth. You know that Lyon only has a pony or two of sherry. And the captain only drinks ice water.”

  “Renfroe?”

  “Well, maybe a little vodka laced in once in a while. But they’ve only had one.”

  “Sarge?”

  “Maybe four or five, Senator. That’s all. Honest.”

  The two men turned to look up at Bea standing by the booth. “Hi, hon.”

  “Let me have a dry martini, Sarge.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Bea slipped into the booth next to Lyon. She thought she heard Sarge Renfroe mumbling under his breath about women in bars, but she was too tired to take up the feminist cudgels, and Sarge was past redemption in that area anyway. “Are you two conscious?”

  “We are not sloshed. Merely contemplative.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. By the way, Marty Rustman’s wife has a thing going w
ith Gustav Tanner.”

  “Tanner?”

  “I followed her to a motel where she met him.”

  “Could it have been for other reasons?”

  “They pulled the blinds and were in there an hour and a half.”

  It happened ten minutes later. Lyon had finished telling Bea about their discovery of the grave when Rocco’s attention was drawn to the bar. He never knew whether it was some subtle intonation in Sarge’s voice or a blurred movement he caught from the corner of his eye. He was instantly alert as he shifted imperceptibly toward the edge of the booth.

  Rocco looked over the edge of the booth toward the bar. Sarge’s eyes were wide with fear as he stood stiffly before a man on the other side of the bar. Renfroe nodded and then turned to open the cash register. He began to scoop bills from each of the drawer’s compartments.

  “Hurry,” Rocco heard the customer say.

  He slipped from the seat and hunched forward. His right hand drew the .44 Magnum holstered at the left side of his waist.

  Bea looked frightened and Lyon put his hand over hers.

  Rocco took three strides across the room with his pistol held in both hands. “Easy, son, easy, and we’ll all be okay.”

  Lyon turned to shield Bea. The robber’s gun became visible as he brought it up from his side and pointed it directly at Renfroe’s head.

  “He goes first,” the man said.

  “Drop it,” Rocco replied softly.

  The man spun on his heels as the gun wavered toward Rocco. The barrel of Rocco’s gun caught him across the cheekbone and split the flesh in a long gash as the momentum of the blow knocked him sideways and across the floor.

  Rocco’s left foot slammed on the fallen man’s gun hand while his right kicked into the stomach. He knelt and tore handcuffs from his belt and cuffed the man’s hands behind him. He grabbed the bandit’s shirt collar and dragged him across the floor and out the door.

  There was stunned silence in the bar. Sarge Renfroe poured himself a stiff drink with trembling hands. “The captain’s one tough bastard, isn’t he, Mr. Wentworth?”