Death Through the Looking Glass

by Forrest, Richard;

  Rocco’s hand curled around Damon’s ankle. As Rocco jerked the leg, tripping Damon back into the sand, Lyon rushed forward. Damon twisted to his feet and into a crouch, with the gun leveled at Lyon’s midsection.

  “Not another step, Wentworth!” He walked carefully around Rocco, taking care to stay away from the big man’s hands, and brought the butt of the pistol down on the prone chief’s head. As Rocco’s face slumped into the sand, Damon unsnapped the handcuffs from the holster belt and cuffed Rocco’s hands behind him. “Get the other pair out of the cruiser’s glove compartment! Go on!”

  Lyon entered the passenger side of the cruiser and clicked open the glove compartment. The extra handcuffs were on top of a pile of traffic summons forms. He glanced up at the ceiling, where the shotgun was bracketed. He tried to remember whether Rocco had told him the weapon was loaded or empty. He supposed the chamber would be empty, so he would have to pump a shell in.

  “Hurry up!”

  He glanced through the windshield to see Damon standing by the unconscious Rocco. Without further thought Lyon reached up and wrenched the shotgun from its mountings, pumped a shell into the chamber, and pointed the gun over the car door toward Damon.

  Damon laid the muzzle of the automatic against Rocco’s forehead. “You fire—and he gets it in the head!”

  “I can’t miss with a shotgun!”

  “Neither can I.”

  Lyon knew the shotgun blast would kill Damon before he could fire more than once. Even if the automatic was able to snap a second shot in his direction, it would probably miss—although the first, fired directly into Rocco’s head, could not miss. He let the shotgun clatter against the car’s fender, raised his hands, with the handcuffs dangling from his fingers, and walked toward Damon.

  “I don’t like the way he’s breathing.”

  “It doesn’t really make much difference. Put him in the balloon.”

  “What?”

  Damon waved the pistol at him. “You heard me. Dump him into the basket!”

  Lyon dragged Rocco toward the balloon basket and, as gently as he could, lowered the inert form over the edge, onto the floor.

  “Turn around,” Damon ordered. “Hands behind your back.”

  As Lyon obeyed, he felt the grip of the handcuffs over his wrists. “What are you going to do?”

  “Into the basket.”

  “There isn’t room, with him on the floor.”

  He felt the pressure of the automatic’s silencer against the small of his back. “You know, it doesn’t really matter whether I shoot you.”

  Lyon awkwardly put one leg over the side of the basket, teetered a moment, then shoved upward with the remaining foot and fell into the basket, on top of Rocco. Trying to find space on the flooring where his feet would not dig into the unconscious man’s vulnerable body, he struggled to stand.

  “You can’t do this, Damon.”

  “Wind’s right.”

  Lyon looked toward the pole at the front of the house, where an American flag rippled in the stiff breeze. It pointed directly toward the water, which meant that there was a strong offshore breeze. His fears were confirmed when Damon stood on the edge of the basket. Reaching as far into the balloon envelope as he could, Damon severed the release- and ripping-panel lines. He used one of the severed ends to tie the propane lever down in the ON position. With the butt of his pistol he knocked the propane valve off the tank in the basket.

  The balloon began to lift from the ground as the propane burned directly over Lyon’s head. It would be too high for him to reach with his hands cuffed behind his back.

  “What would you guess, Lyon?” Damon yelled up at him. “Maybe twenty or so miles out over the water before it comes down?” Damon gave him a mock salute and cut the mooring line.

  As Lyon looked down at the rapidly retreating ground, Damon seemed already to have dismissed them from thought. He was busily loading the airplane and radio device into the motorboat. It was obvious that they would be dumped into the sound.

  He wished he had told Bea everything. The rush of events had given them little time together, and he had never brought her up to date on his discoveries. There was only the forlorn hope that at some later time she would go over the invoices and papers concerning his recent purchases, and perhaps piece together his theory … that is, if she didn’t automatically destroy all his personal effects upon his death.

  He braced himself against the side of the basket and watched with fascination. He had never made an ascent under these conditions and at this speed, but he could imagine the parabolic curve of the balloon as it gained altitude and, caught by the wind, swung out over the water.

  Rocco stirred and moaned on the floor of the basket. Lyon looked down at him and saw blood seeping from both leg wounds. Rocco moaned again as his eyes opened. His head bobbed back and forth as he looked at the side of the basket and strained against the handcuffs.

  “My God! Where are we?”

  “In the balloon.”

  “Oh, Jesus! What’s happening?”

  “If the propane held out, which it won’t, we’d be making the first transatlantic balloon crossing.”

  15

  Bea knew something was wrong as soon as she opened the door. Damon Snow stood before her, his body bent forward in a tired slump, and a slackness in his narrow features.

  “What is it?” she asked in a weak voice.

  “I don’t know how those things are supposed to work, but I was worried and thought I should see you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rocco and Lyon launched the balloon at Lantern City. They seemed to be in a hurry, as if they were checking on something.”

  Bea wanted to grab his shirt front and shout in his face. “I don’t understand. Rocco has always sworn he’d never go up.”

  “There was a strong offshore breeze that blew them out over the sound, and that’s the last I saw of them.”

  “How long ago?”

  Damon looked at his watch. “Almost two hours ago.”

  “My God! What time did you call the Coast Guard?”

  He looked puzzled. “The Coast Guard? I never thought of it. I began to worry after an hour, when they didn’t come back.”

  “Why did you drive all the way out here when you could have called?”

  “At first I thought they were headed for Long Island and would call you when they arrived. Then, when I saw the drift …”

  “Which way was the wind blowing when you left?”

  “The same as when they went up, about ten knots, from the southwest.”

  Bea ran for the study. Her hands trembled as she dialed the Coast Guard. The problem cascaded out in short, choppy sentences: “… That’s right, over two hours. The tank would be empty now.… Wind from the southwest … what’s the recent weather report?… Same wind as the last two hours.… Thank you. Yes, I’ll call the Civil Air Patrol.”

  Others to call. She couldn’t remember the numbers. Where was the phone book? Bea put her hands to her face for a moment until her mind cleared, and then she reached for the phone again to dial information. “This is an emergency. Please give me the numbers of the Civil Air Patrol, the Connecticut National Guard, the FAA team at Bradley Airport, and Westover Air Force Base. Please hurry!”

  As she attempted to give the pertinent information in a quick, rational manner, she saw Damon in Lyon’s chair, observing her. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked when she was finished with the last call.

  “There’s nothing more to be done.”

  “I’ll drive you to my house in Lantern City.”

  “They’ll be calling back here. I’d rather wait.”

  “What will happen to the balloon?”

  “That depends on a lot of things: their altitude, how well he conserved fuel, any air currents they might have picked up. When the propane runs out, the hot air will cool and they’ll come down in the water.”

  “It’s pretty calm out there today. An inflatab
le raft will save them until they’re picked up.”

  “There isn’t any raft or life jacket.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m going to have a drink. Will you have something?”

  “A scotch and water, please.” He followed her into the kitchen. “I feel responsible for this. I should have stopped them.”

  “It’s not your fault. Lyon is one of the most experienced balloonists in New England. He knew the risks.”

  “Why was he so insistent on going up?”

  Bea took an ice tray from the freezer and stood poised by the kitchen sink. “It had something to do with the murders. Lyon had been away for almost two days checking and assembling things. He told Rocco some of it when I was on the phone yesterday. They went off, and when he came back he fell into bed mumbling that he’d tell me the whole thing in the morning. He was gone when I awoke this morning. We never did have a chance to talk about it.”

  “Then you don’t know what he had in mind?”

  She slowly dropped ice cubes into two glasses. “As I said, he mumbled something; it sounded like, ‘nothing as it seems, through the looking glass. It’s all in the toys.’ It didn’t make much sense, and he was very tired.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Bea mechanically poured scotch into the glasses and added tap water. “I know this. He had the answer to the Giles murder.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

  “No, thanks,” she replied absently and handed him a drink. “He had been in New York.”

  “Really?”

  “He had a bunch of receipts and invoices that he pulled from his pocket and stuffed into the dresser.”

  “Receipts for what?”

  “I don’t know.” She felt a chill and looked across the room toward the man looking at her with the level gaze. She slowly placed her drink on the counter. “Liquor doesn’t seem to help. I think maybe I’ll take a tranquilizer. Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  As Bea disappeared up the stairwell, Damon Snow took the automatic from his pocket and began to screw the silencer to the barrel.

  Rocco had managed to sit up, with his back wedged against the side of the basket. “How are your legs?” Lyon asked.

  “Could be a lot worse. He got me in the thigh and calf, but the bleeding’s slowed, so he must have missed the arteries. Right now, I’ve got the feeling that my wounds are the least of our worries. What’s going to happen?”

  Lyon looked out over the edge of the basket. To the left and behind were the Race, Fisher’s Island, and the distant shore of Connecticut. They had passed Montauk Point, on the right. Open sea lay ahead. “We’ll go down when the propane runs out.”

  “Into the water?”

  “I’m afraid so.” They were still on the rising edge of the parabolic curve that was taking them higher into the atmosphere and farther out over the water. Lyon knew that the altitude record for a hot-air balloon was 86,000 feet, but that had been in an enclosed gondola with life-support systems. He didn’t inform Rocco that once they reached 18,000 feet they would begin to feel the effects of oxygen deprivation and would start to die of hypoxia.

  In the distance was the low outline of Block Island, their last landfall.

  He looked up into the envelope to see the panel lines flapping uselessly. The cut lines were too deep within the bag for his handcuffed hands to possibly reach, even if he did manage to balance on the rim of the basket. Their trajectory still carried them toward Block Island. If the wind remained constant, without diverting puffs, they would pass over the northerly spit of land at the island’s apex.

  His mind sought frantically for the temperature and descent formulas so carefully learned years ago in ground school and almost as quickly forgotten. He slid down in the basket with his feet next to Rocco’s. Lyon could figure the temperature inside the envelope, and he knew that the seventy-five degree ground temperature had fallen three degrees for every thousand feet of altitude … he must convert those Fahrenheit temperatures to Kelvin and try to calculate the air pressure and its effect on the balloon circumference.

  “For Christ’s sake, Lyon, don’t conk out on me now!”

  Lyon shook his head vehemently and closed his eyes. There were so many variables, and it was almost impossible to work out the equations accurately in his head. He lay back against the wicker and cleared his mind of everything but the applicable data.

  Lyon blinked his eyes open to face a frightened Rocco. He struggled to his feet to look at the small finger of land still in the balloon’s path. “We can make it to Block Island if we can manipulate the burner.”

  “How?”

  “Can you get into a squatting position?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you can, and if I throw my legs over your shoulders while you stand … I may be able to reach the rope around the burner lever.”

  “It’s worth a try.” With a grimace of pain, Rocco drew his leg up and shoved himself forward until he was kneeling on the swaying basket floor. Lyon swung his legs over Rocco’s shoulders and tucked his feet under.

  “Can you stand?”

  “I’ve got to.” Rocco placed one foot flat on the floor and involuntarily let out a groan of pain. His body wavered for a moment, and then the other leg went forward until he was bent forward in deep-knee-bend position, with Lyon swaying on his shoulders. “Here we go!”

  Their bodies leaned from one side to the other on the unstable platform as Rocco slowly rose. Lyon pulled his cuffed hands up as far as he could. His fingers searched for the rope tying the lever.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Rocco said as his right leg splayed to the side and both men crashed down against the side of the basket. “I can’t do it, Lyon. My legs won’t hold up.”

  Time was running out. The propane had to be adjusted immediately in order for the balloon to have a gradual, constant descent toward the spit of land that was less than a quarter of a mile in width. A miss of a hundred yards in either direction would mean drowning. Lyon wondered briefly how long he could tread water if he was able to escape the confines of the collapsing envelope, but he knew that Rocco, with his injured legs, would be completely helpless.

  Rocco turned his head toward the propane tank. “Why don’t you just turn the thing off from here?”

  “Damon knocked off the valve.”

  “Pull out the connecting hose so the damn thing won’t feed fuel.”

  Lyon shook his head. “There’s too much pressure in the tank. If we pull out the hose, the propane will blow up toward the burner and we’ll turn into a fireball.”

  “Then don’t let it all out.”

  Lyon nodded his head. “It might work.” He hunched across the basket toward the tank and sat on its edge, with his hands behind him around the connecting hose. His fingers fumbled at the holding brackets at the base of the tank and gradually worked them loose. The hose broke free from the tank, and a short gasp of propane rushed past Lyon’s neck before he jammed a finger in the aperture.

  Over their heads, a burst of flame broke around the burner. “Is the pilot light out?” Lyon yelled.

  “I don’t think so.”

  As the air in the bag cooled, they began to drop. When the rate of descent increased, Lyon fumbled for the loose end of the connecting hose and awkwardly worked it over the nipple. The burner burst into a long streak of flame. He left the hose attached for a count of five and then jerked it away from the tank and covered the opening.

  The balloon began a stepped approach toward the island, until at 1,200 feet the propane gave out. They began to drift rapidly and noiselessly downward.

  As they passed over the leading edge of the island at a hundred feet, a small boy walking the water’s edge looked up and waved.

  “How are we doing?” Rocco asked from the floor of the basket.

  “We’re not going to make it,” Lyon replied. “We’re still at 80 feet, and we’re n
ow approaching the far end of the island. I think we’ll touch down on the other side—in the water.”

  “In the water, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could sum this up in one word.”

  Lyon looked toward the horizon to see only open sea as they passed over the island. The basket skimmed the water. “If we can stay afloat for a few minutes, someone may come out with a boat.”

  “Do the best you can. I’ll float like a rock,” Rocco said as he struggled to his feet.

  Lyon looked at his friend with compassion as the forward edge of the basket skipped along the waves and settled into the water. Their combined weight pushed the gondola under. The bag slowly began to fall sideways as the last of the heated air cooled and seeped from the aperture of the envelope.

  They stood in the sunken gondola under the warm morning sun as the basket settled to the bottom and water lapped at their waists. “Tide’s out,” Lyon said in a faraway voice.

  Rocco threw back his head and began to laugh. The sound spewed out in a choking gurgle that took on body and rolled out over the water. Lyon joined in, and waves of mirth convulsed them both.

  Bea took the receipts from the drawer where Lyon had wadded them and spread them along the top of the bureau. He had purchased a hodgepodge of items: electronic parts, toy airplanes, chemicals. What did they add up to?

  “Find anything?” Snow asked from the doorway.

  She turned. “Damon! You startled me.”

  “Can you make anything out of what he left?”

  “It doesn’t make any sense.” Things nibbled at the corner of her mind, and she hastily stuffed the receipts into her slacks as Damon watched her with searching eyes. “Come on, let’s finish that drink.”

  He followed her downstairs. “Perhaps I should look them over.”

  She waved to him nonchalantly. “I don’t think I want to fool with it now.” In the kitchen she freshened their untouched drinks. “Do you remember the name of that girl who had identification in the Giles plane? The one who didn’t exist?”

  “Carol Dodgson.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought it was.” She was immediately sorry she had asked. Damon sat on a kitchen stool and watched her speculatively, as if waiting for her to proceed. What had Lyon said as he tossed in his sleep? “Through the looking glass.” Carol Dodgson … Carol through the looking glass. Charles Dodgson, Lewis Carroll’s real name. Lyon had also told her about the first interview in Damon’s office, with dozens of Alice dolls posed around the room. And Damon knew how to fly. The receipts had something to do with airplanes, radios, perhaps something that was radio-controlled. If anything happened to Lyon, the list could be duplicated. She could go back to the stores and purchase the same items, and that would reveal what Lyon had discovered on his abortive last flight.