Death Through the Looking Glass

by Forrest, Richard;

  “It wasn’t my gun.”

  Nesbitt returned and slammed the door. He moved in jerky motions as a muscle in the side of his face twitched. “They can’t find the goddamn weapon. They’ve lost the goddamn piece!”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “We have the hijacker’s gun, but no Magnum.”

  “It could have been kicked under the seat.”

  He glared at Lyon. “We searched the bus.”

  “I told you, I dropped it on the floor. I didn’t want any part of it.”

  Nesbitt beckoned. “I want you to identify some items.”

  They returned to the squad room where the other passengers were being interviewed at desks lined in neat, ordered rows. A long table under the windows was covered with a multitude of tagged items. There were shopping bags, suitcases, newspapers, and an assortment of hand-carried luggage that had rested on the rack inside the bus or been found on seats or the floor. Lyon walked the length of the table until stopping near the far end where he picked up his briefcase and showed it to Captain Nesbitt. “This is mine.”

  “May we open it?”

  “Why?” He found himself on the verge of belligerency.

  “Routine.”

  “Go ahead. I have nothing to hide.”

  Nesbitt handed the case to an aide who took it to a desk where he methodically searched and made an inventory of the contents. Lyon continued scanning the assortment spread on the table and gingerly picked up an automatic pistol encased in an acetate bag. “This looks like the weapon the hijacker was carrying, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

  “We think it is.”

  Two items next to the gun interested him: a poplin jacket and a small flight bag. “The man who gave me the gun—I think he was wearing a jacket like this. Now that I think about it, I believe he was sitting next to me in the bar and had a bag like this near the stool.”

  Nesbitt glanced at the tags on the jacket and bag. “They were found on the floor of the last seat.” He looked thoughtful. “It’s possible that the guy in the last seat took these off, put on something he had in the bag, and left—after picking up the gun.”

  “It could have been a sport coat.” Lyon had a fleeting recall picture of a man in a sport jacket and beard standing in the tunnel as the police cruiser slowly rolled past. “As we were leaving the tunnel, I saw a man in a jacket, wearing a gold badge, who might have been the man behind me.”

  “A cop?”

  “He had a badge hanging from his pocket.”

  “Let’s go back to my office.”

  They resumed their places in the office, although Nesbitt, for reasons of his own, had dismissed the stenographer. The captain sat behind his desk and drummed his fingers. “Are you sure it was the same guy?”

  “No, but it could have been.”

  “A cop … a gold badge … but why not use the gun himself, why give it to you?”

  “I don’t know, Captain. All I can tell you is what happened.”

  “That was an interstate bus,” McAllister said. “Do your men usually carry their weapons when they cross state lines?”

  “Not unless they’re on official business. That’s why I’m very interested in the guy—if he is a cop.”

  “I can only tell you what I saw. The man who sat behind me and gave me the gun is possibly the man I later saw in the tunnel with a badge.”

  “And you’d know him?”

  “I don’t think identification of that sort can ever be absolute.”

  “As you can imagine, the situation interests us.”

  “Right now I want to get out of here and go home.”

  “I’d like you to look at some photographs, Mr. Wentworth.”

  “Now?”

  “We know you’ve been through an ordeal. Could you come back in the morning? The bus company is providing facilities for everyone involved.”

  “Yes, of course.” Lyon wondered if they’d be quite so considerate if it weren’t for his wife’s position.

  “Missing gun or not,” Nesbitt said as he crossed the room and extended his hand, “we still thank you.”

  The detective called Harry took Lyon in an unmarked car to an East Side hotel where the Nutmeg Transportation Company had rented a floor. As they left the elevator on the sixth floor, they found themselves in a large foyer where a bar had been set up and a uniformed bartender mixed drinks.

  The other passengers had arrived a few minutes before and had drinks in hand as they talked in a loud chatter. As the elevator door closed behind Harry and Lyon, the room grew silent while everyone turned toward them.

  Lyon gave a small wave and then whispered to Harry. “Do you know where my room is?”

  “Sure.” He led Lyon midway down the hall to an open door. When the detective entered, he checke the window to make sure it was locked and looked into the bathroom and single closet. “You’re in with a guy named Collins.”

  Lyon glanced at a new valise aligned neatly on the luggage rack at the head of one of the twin beds, and then over to the far bed where his briefcase had been thrown. He watched Harry continue his minute search of the room. “Are you worried or something?”

  “The city of New York wants that nothing happens to you.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “Should be. There’ll be two of us on the floor all night.”

  “Fine.”

  The detective left and Lyon sank onto the bed. His life had been changed, and he wondered if the afternoon’s events could ever be set aside. A lethargy consumed him, and he wanted to lie on the bed, close his eyes, and fall into an oblivious sleep.

  He must call Bea.

  The prospect of any well-meaning friend calling his wife and informing her of the day’s events horrified him. Or she might turn on the news.… He must get to her first.

  He reached for the bedside phone and asked the operator for his Connecticut number.

  The phone rang … rang … and rang.

  3

  Bea Wentworth had never become accustomed to hate. The strength of voters’ feelings often seemed to transcend ordinary political differences. Not only did they disapprove of her positions, they often acted as if she were personally endeavoring to overthrow the Republic single-handedly. The loyalty of her supporters nurtured her career and allowed her usually to succeed in November, but she sometimes felt that her supporters did not have the fervor of her enemies—or at least that’s the way it seemed.

  The Murphysville High School auditorium was only one-third filled, but this did not discourage the zeal of the moderator. At least she thought it was zeal. The batteries on her hearing aid were weak, and sound had begun to drift toward the inaudible range. She reached for the tiny device in her ear, twisted the volume to its loudest position, and once again the words were discernible.

  The moderator nodded toward Bea on his right and then toward her opponent on his left. “And now that we’ve had the formal presentations from our congressional candidates, we move into what I call ‘cross fire,’ which is when they direct questions at each other.”

  Bea smiled with affection as she saw Rocco Herbert at the rear of the auditorium yawn in a losing battle to stay awake. Rocco, Murphysville’s chief of police and Lyon’s best friend, had uncomfortably folded his six-foot-eight frame and 280 pounds into the last seat in the rear row.

  “Our first question, determined by a flip of a coin earlier, goes to Willard Morris.”

  Bea snapped her attention back to the dais. Her opponent nodded in her direction and was about to begin when an aide whispered and slipped him a note. Willard Morris glanced over at Bea with a smile she could only categorize as malevolent. Still, he was good-looking, and like so many young Turks who now filled the political scene, he seemed cloned from the depths of some public relations firm. The qualifications did not seem to improve over the old machine ward heelers; at least the machine men were known to represent certain vested interests. The new ones disguised their leanings, blew in the wind,
and this one was about to blow at her—with both barrels.

  “Madam Secretary”—he made it sound derogatory—“your stand on gun control legislation is well known. In fact, when you were state senator from this district, you introduced the first such bill, even with the knowledge that Connecticut, the arsenal of democracy, has a good many residents employed by gun manufacturers. However, I would like your explanation as to how you reconcile that position with your husband’s possession of a loaded gun in New York City this afternoon?”

  Rocco Herbert snapped awake and stood in the aisle.

  “I’m sorry,” Bea answered. “I don’t understand the question.”

  “I’m referring to your husband shooting a man today.”

  “I’m sure my opponent is mistaken,” Bea said to the moderator.

  “Would you please clarify that, Mr. Morris?”

  Willard Morris waved his note in the air. “It has been announced that Lyon Wentworth of Murphysville, Connecticut, shot a man in the Lincoln Tunnel today.”

  There were murmurs throughout the audience as all eyes turned toward Bea.

  “Unless there’s another Lyon Wentworth around here,” Willard Morris added quickly.

  Bea saw Rocco leave the auditorium. The increasing noise from the audience was lost as the hearing aid lapsed into silence. Her voice unconsciously rose. “YOU KNOW, WILLARD, YOU’VE SAID SOME DUMB THINGS IN THESE DEBATES, BUT THAT’S THE DUMBEST AND LOWEST YET. IF YOU’LL EXCUSE ME.” She rushed for the steps at the side of the stage and ran up the side aisle after Rocco.

  She found him at a pay phone down the corridor near the cafeteria. He hung up as she reached him. “It seems to be true, Bea. God only knows how. Last time I saw Lyon fire a weapon was in Korea when he blew away half our defensive wire.”

  “IT CAN’T BE. He’s incapable of hurting anyone.”

  “Let’s go to the office and get the details.”

  When Lyon entered the cocktail party in the wide foyer, all conversation came to an abrupt halt. They turned to face him, drinks in hand, the festive mood switching to awe. He remembered only a few of them: the thin voodoo lady, the crooning grandmother now incongruously holding a large manhattan cocktail, a short bespectacled man with thinning hair, the others a blur of vague remembrances.

  They were the usual assortment of individuals who seem to ride long distance buses, but were now fused together by a common experience that would forever weld their lives. He had heard people tell of such cohesion in the Underground tunnels of London during the blitz and by men in combat units who shared a common hell unknown to others.

  Half of the passengers were black, who perhaps rode buses for economic reasons; another quarter seemed to be older women on their way to visit relatives; servicemen and commuter types like Lyon made up the remainder of the group.

  Lyon smiled and they relaxed. “Do you suppose he’s got a sherry back there?”

  The mood broke as they swirled around him with voices that merged into incoherence. A large glass was shoved in his hand as he listened and nodded.

  The elevator doors opened and again the crowd quieted. Robert Hannon, the young man who had been shot, stood before them with his arm in a sling. He waved with his uninjured arm. “They said I could go home. Lucky for me he didn’t have Mr. Wentworth’s gun or I wouldn’t have an arm.”

  They made a tight circle around Lyon and the young man.

  “Everyone listen a minute.” A rotund man with a round cherry face stood on a chair. “I’m Joe Moultrie and advertising gimmicks is my game: matchbooks, golf tees, that sort of thing.”

  “We don’t want any.” There was more good-natured jeering.

  “Wait a sec. I’m not selling tonight, at least not my usual line. Now, I think that we’ve all been through something today.” There was mutual agreement. “And I think we ought to make this an annual occasion. A get-together. You know, a reunion right here, this room, this date, next year. What do you say?”

  There was unanimous approval.

  Lyon felt a tap on his shoulder and turned toward a very sincere-looking bus driver. “I’m the one who should really thank you, Mr. Wentworth.”

  Lyon shook his head. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “They wanted to give me a week off with pay, but I talked them into letting me take the special bus tomorrow morning. No other passengers but those of us here, plus a good-looking hostess to serve coffee and rolls. Real class, but the folks deserve it.”

  “I think they do.”

  At eight they were ceremoniously ushered into a private dining room at the end of the hall. There was momentary confusion over the seating arrangements until the driver took the place at the head of the table. Lyon found himself facing a wilted fruit cocktail with the voodoo lady to one side and a short man with thinning hair on the other.

  During the introductions, he discovered that the black woman was Maura Dalencourt, a Haitian who had moved to New York thirty years ago and worked, until her retirement, as a chambermaid for the Plaza Hotel. She talked to Lyon with extreme deference, her eyes never leaving his, as if she still felt him possessed with divine power.

  “I understand we’re roommates, Mr. Wentworth.”

  Lyon turned to the man seated at his right. “Mr. Collins?”

  “Yes. Major Collins, U.S. Army, retired.” The handshake was limp, the palm sweaty. “Don’t worry, Mr. Wentworth, I don’t have any combat nightmares and wake up screaming. Thirty years in the Finance Corps never put me within a hundred miles of any shooting. I’m traveling on a thirty-day ticket and plan to spend a week in New England. I wonder if you could suggest some points of interest I might take in?”

  It happened as they were finishing the prime rib entrée.

  Maura Dalencourt stood with a sharp cry and raked her cheeks with clawlike fingers. Her choking sounds were nearly incoherent. “The duppy! The duppy of the evil one is here!”

  Lyon clutched her hand. “It’s all right, Maura. It’s all right.”

  “There is the sign of the duppy!” She pointed a thin finger toward the center of the table where a fork and butter knife lay crossed over each other.

  “No, it’s going to be all right.” Lyon put his arm around her and led her from the room toward a small alcove in the foyer. They sat on a narrow love seat with their knees touching. He put his hands over hers. “There is no duppy. The man is dead and the duppy gone.”

  “You know of the soul, you know he was Baron Samedi, the evil one.”

  “I know you are safe.”

  “Because you see such things you are a good Rada, the one who killed Petro the evil one.”

  “I am concerned—for you.”

  “It is unusual for a white man to be aware of this.”

  “I read many books.”

  Her hands left his and vibrated before them. “I feel it. The duppy wills us to die.”

  “No,” Lyon said softly. “I do not feel that. We are all tired from the day, that is all.” He brought her hands back to her lap and felt the pressure of her squeeze. He wondered how many times in the past he might have passed her in the halls of the Plaza, how many times she might have come into his room unnoticed.

  “I will be all right?”

  “I promise you.” She sighed, and the very structure of her body relaxed as tension seeped from her hand to his. Her head nodded, her eyes closed, and she leaned against his shoulder and slept.

  Later, two of the other women passengers led the barely conscious Maura Dalencourt to her room. Lyon stretched and tried to work out the stiffness caused by the long uncomfortable position on the narrow love seat. They told him he had a phone call.

  He took it in his room and held the phone away from his ear. “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, LYON?”

  “I wasn’t hurt.”

  “THANK GOD FOR THAT. It took some doing, but Rocco finally got through to Captain Nesbitt, who told us the whole story. We’ll pick you up in less than three hours.”

  “Wait until mornin
g. I’m about ready for bed now and have to look at some photographs in the morning.”

  “We’ll meet you in Nesbitt’s office. And, Lyon—I love you.”

  “I love you too, Bea.” He knew she was searching for more to say, something that would make it all right, but of course the phrases could not be found. It didn’t matter, he knew what she meant. “Good night, darling,” he finally said.

  “Good night,” she answered, and there wasn’t any necessity to say more.

  “Mr. Wentworth.”

  The soft tone startled him and he turned quickly to face the door. “Oh, Major Collins, you gave me a start.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Thought you might like a nightcap. Sherry, isn’t it?” He extended a glass.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Do you think there’s anything to the old woman’s demons and curses?”

  “Good Lord, no.”

  He sat on the edge of his bed. “I thought I knew you from somewhere, so I hope you don’t mind that I asked that we bunk together?”

  “No, of course not. Please call me Lyon, or, in fact, anything you want as long as it’s not Baron Samedi.”

  “Samedi?”

  “A voodoo bad guy.” Lyon pulled on his drink. “That one’s not in my two-oh-one file.”

  “Two-oh-one file?”

  Lyon detected the vague trace of an accent in his companion’s voice, but couldn’t place the country of origin.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Collins extended a copy of Lyon’s book, The Wobblies’ Revenge. “I’m going to stop and see my grandson in Springfield, and I bought it this morning. You are the author, aren’t you?”

  Lyon glanced at his photograph on the back of the dust jacket and smiled at Collins. “I plead guilty.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I wonder if you’d autograph it for me?”

  “Of course.” Lyon accepted the pen and opened the book to the flyleaf to find there was already an inscription. He glanced at it hastily: