A Child's Garden of Death (14 page)

They were going to kill him.

The sniper would wait patiently on the ridge, biding his time and counting on Lyon's impatience. He would assume that Lyon would stand, run, make some movement away from the protecting boulders.

If Lyon stayed in his present position, the rifleman would eventually begin to work his way down the slope. He would walk slowly, rifle at the ready, always keeping a clear field of fire between himself and Lyon's position.

He had been fired upon those few times he'd been at the front lines during the Korean War. How different. An impersonal automatic weapons burst, a stray artillery round … the difference between impersonal war and the hunted being stalked. The situation was quite clear. The sniper had full protection, no doubt aware that Lyon had no weapon, that the location was so remote as to virtually guarantee a time element necessary for the leisurely stalking.

It was 5
P.M.
Three hours to full darkness. An impossible wait.

Lyon could imagine the sniper at the top of the ridge shifting his weight to a more comfortable position, glancing toward the tree tops to check windage, positioning the rifle and scope so as to have a clear sight picture of the protecting boulder. He would be prepared for a quick shift to the right or left, assuming that Lyon might stand quickly and run for nearby cover or back toward the road. He would consider the possibility that Lyon might crawl, hoping that a low profile would offer some protection at the sacrifice of speed.

Lyon estimated that it was twelve or fourteen feet to his right until several large pines offered any appreciable cover. In the intervening distance only two small bushes provided the smallest hindrance to a clear field of fire. To his left was a small ring of stones where some long-ago hunter had built a camp fire, and beyond that a string of pines another fifteen or twenty feet away.

How long did it take a man to run a mere twenty feet? Less than ten yards, less than a first down, the length of an ordinary room. Three seconds … two …

Probabilities and timing clicked within Lyon. Assumption, the placement of the initial two shots that hit the water over his head would mean that the sniper was using a rifle with mounted scope. Assumption, he would most probably consider that Lyon would make a break to Lyon's left, his right, which would be toward the mill and the exit road.

The panic welled up and he had an inordinate desire to urinate. He recalled an automobile accident of ten years before. The car out of control on an icy hill, the swerving and then the moment of unmistakable knowledge that heavy damage if not serious injury would be the outcome. At that time he had the same feeling: Not to me … this can't be happening to me.

He had survived then; he wondered if he would now.

He fought panic and tried to concentrate on the possibilities, his only chance for survival. He couldn't stay where he was. In time the sniper would move slowly down the hill, past the logging road toward the rocks where Lyon lay. Then … at point blank range … a shot … into the lake with his body.

A dash to other protective cover would be suicidal under the present circumstances. A good marksman could probably get off two shots, perhaps three … and he recalled Lee Harvey Oswald, not a particularly well-trained marksman, with a poor rifle, and the devastation he had wrought.

The only chance to reach side cover would be a dash to his right, away from the exit road and therefore the least expected. Secondly, if the sniper was in the process of working his way down the hill, a further time element, small as it was, would require the raising of the weapon and a snap shot. His use of a telescopic sight would be an aid to Lyon in this instance. An excellent device for distant and calculated aim, but a distorting influence for a man working his way down a ridge line and having to raise his weapon for a quick shot.

Did he have a telescopic sight? Probably. He'd have to make that assumption. When would he start down the hill toward Lyon? Or had he already started?

He glanced at his watch. Four minutes after five. He wouldn't be on his way down the hill yet. When would he come? Propelling himself with his elbows, he inched toward the left and with his face inches from the ground looked around the edge of the rock, and then quickly drew his head back behind cover.

The bullet furrowed a path in the dirt where his face had been moments before. That settled that. His attacker was still at the ridge line in a position of readiness. Was he an impatient man? Lyon would have to assume that he was, would have to assume that he was not a professional killer, but a man who knew a little about guns, perhaps hunted deer in season, and who was now intent on, if not obsessed with, killing Lyon Wentworth. How long would an impatient man wait? His only chance lay in making a quick dash to the side while the man was working his way down the hill, when the rifle was not at the ready and trained at the rock formation. Lyon pictured the downward slope of the hill, the ridge top, the probable spot among the boulders where the assassin waited.

He imagined himself the rifleman, the gun resting across one arm, the stock against his shoulder. He could feel the stock, the metal of the trigger guard … semi-automatic … the scope with the cross hairs centered at the rock. Lyon waited … Lyon waited to kill Lyon … he lay along the ridge top and waited for himself to stand and run for the mill … he waited and knew how much he wanted to kill.

Five-sixteen. Lyon on the ridge was impatient. He wanted to shoot … he wanted to kill and get it over with. He slowly stood, the rifle held before him. Yes. Five-eighteen. He took a tentative step forward. Another and another. To the left here, don't let that tree get between you and the rock below. Keep the rifle high, chest high, ready to swing forward instantly. Go down the hill, circle that bush.…

Five twenty-two. Lyon's hands perspired and his breath came in shallow gasps. He drew his legs under him until almost in fetal position and inched toward the right, away from the mill. He knew it would be impossible to stay in this position long; his legs would cramp from the awkward stance. On hands and knees with his hunched back inches below the top line of the rock, he dug his toes into the sandy dirt in sprinting position. A last look at his watch. Five twenty-five.

Lyon sprang forward, hurtling toward the protecting pines, and in the last few feet dove head first.

The shot hit the tree above him, and he rolled over into the pine brush and caught a quick glimpse of the man … halfway down the slope. Another shot and another. The bushes hid him from sight as the rifle rounds cut a nearby branch. The man stopped to reload.

His present cover gave him only slightly more freedom of movement, and hardly more protection than he had before. He began to inch backward, using each particle of foliage as cover, constantly going backward until his feet dangled over the edge of the lake bank.

The waiting game would be over for his attacker and he'd soon be here. He pushed himself farther backward until he felt his feet touch water. He pushed until his thighs and then his torso and head were over the bank and he lay prone in the lake water with only his head above the surface.

The lake bank rose a foot above the surface of the water with grass growing from the shore, hanging long tendrils over the edge of the bank to brush the surface of the water. He remembered the school of fish swimming out from under the bank. There would be a few inches of bank indentation. Behind the slight mat of grass growing over the bank's edge would be a small hollow, caused by the natural erosion of water as the lake level fell and rose in its yearly cycle. He turned on his back to slide his head under the bank grass. The translucent waters of the lake hid his body and he could breathe behind the thin veil of foliage.

His feet searched for and found a large boulder on the lake bottom. He wedged his toes under its cantilevered edges in order to keep his body at an angled position and his torso below the three-foot depth. He knew his face was hidden, and the beat of his heart began to slow to a more normal rhythm.

Unless his arm began to bleed more profusely he could stay in this position for an indefinite period. He would have to stay until nightfall. Now, the prime danger would be fear and panic etched to a high degree of senseless nonreasoning over the long hours' wait. He would have to think, to curb the natural propensity to jump up and run, to ignore the cramp in his left instep. Lyon felt the lake. He willed himself to be a dispassionate observer watching the ruined mill, the quiet waters, and all around this quiet spot.

Lyon Wentworth thought about frogs. He contemplated the strange wonderment of metamorphosis, the grumpy dignity of a sitting bull surveying his domain, the odd appearance of the swimming animal, eyes only protruding from the lake's surface. Lyon thought about frogs and children and the problems these small reptiles might have.

Once the sun spent itself, the surrounding hills of the small lake valley brought dusk quickly. He inched his head away from the protecting bank and slowly turned over. His feet fought for balance on the lake bottom as he slowly crawled from the water to lie on the ground.

He massaged his legs until feeling began to return to cramped muscles. Half-standing, he crouched his way toward the tree line and lay behind a protecting pine. It was quiet except for the usual night noises. In the dim light, dark tree shadows protected him as he made his way slowly up the hill toward the ridge.

The glow of the man's cigarette revealed him at the grave site. He sat on a flat rock, rifle across his knees, and smoked impatiently. On the road below, ribbons of moonlight illuminated Lyon's waiting car. An easy shot. The assassin waited out Lyon from his vantage point. Waited for a fleeing man to run across the road toward his car.

Lyon stopped stock-still twenty feet behind the waiting man. Unheard so far, he was afraid to turn and retreat back up the hill, or even to work his way sideways in the hopes of outflanking and avoiding the waiting killer.

As Lyon ran forward the man turned, rifle in hand. Lyon threw himself forward at the hulking figure, and they both fell backward into the gaping grave.

The rifle sideways between them bit into their bodies as Lyon's fingers felt through the pudgy flesh for the fat man's throat. Their breath came in grunts as the man clawed for Lyon's face and eyes. Fingers worked their way into Lyon's mouth and pulled his lips sideways. He caught the heavy scent of nicotine as his teeth ground into the man's fingers.

Lyon's thumbs pressed against the other's windpipe until his racking gasps began to subside. His knee found the man's groin, and then he quickly let go as the other man grasped for his neck.

Lyon was out of the hole with the rifle as the fat man lay gasping. The man got to his feet with labored breath and crawled from the grave. Lyon stepped backward with leveled rifle.

“Stop! For God's sake, stop,” he heard himself say in an unfamiliar voice.

The breathing of the fat man increased in intensity as he came toward Lyon.

At a range of ten feet Lyon's first two shots missed Bull Martin. The man came steadily toward him. The third shot caught him in the stomach and flung him backward into the grave with an astonished look that quickly changed to horror.

Bull lay in the grave with both hands grasping his stomach. “Help me. Oh, God … help me.”

Lyon knelt next to the dying man. “I'll get help. You killed them. You killed them, didn't you?”

“Fuck you.”

“You killed them.”

“I beat him senseless … the bastard. I beat his damn brains out … he was too perfect. No tolerances, he said … no tol …”

“And the others?”

“I beat … beat his …”

The man was dead. Lyon looked at the fat body at the bottom of the grave, the hands still clutched over its abdomen. As moonlight broke through the trees Lyon saw his own body. He was covered in blood from his wound and Bull's, and his clothes were wet and streaked in mud. He swung the rifle by the barrel and let it fall through the brush. Then he began to tremble.

The nurse who came to complain about the noise was now half-squiffed and sitting on the lap of the intern who had been dispatched as the second noise-abatement emissary.

The room rocked with laughter as Rocco recounted the aftermath of his ripping off the IV and orthopedic sling. In the corner Lyon shook a container of Manhattans with one hand; the other arm was encased in a sling.

“What … what almost killed me,” Rocco laughed, “was this intern who came in to see me the next day and told me that I wasn't allowed out of bed until they took me off the critical list.”

“Where in hell did you think you were going?” the intern asked.

“I don't know,” Rocco replied. “I only knew that I wasn't going to lie here and listen to everyone discuss my demise.”

“You were damn lucky,” Lyon said.

“
YOU WERE BOTH LUCKY
,” Beatrice retorted.

“Have you had your hearing checked recently?” the nurse said and hiccuped.

Lyon slumped into a chair and handed the cocktail shaker to Bea. With a smile and a pat on the shoulder she proceeded to make the next batch of drinks. He looked around the room. The head of Rocco's bed raised him to a partial sitting position, while one leg extended outward in an orthopedic sling. Rocco held his glass high with a grin that swept through his bruised face. His wife, quiet for once, and even smiling, stood next to him. The intern and the nurse in the far corner were involved in an intimate, whispered conversation, while Bea poured everyone a fresh drink.

Lyon thought the room had an aura of a successful transatlantic balloon crossing, the discovery of the mother lode, victory over the infidels, the shooting of the Red Baron, and he wondered why he wasn't happy.

“You're looking too glum, old buddy,” Rocco boomed. “None of that. You're the man of the day. I propose a toast to Lyon.”

They all raised glasses, and even the intern staggered to his feet. “To Lyon Wentworth,” Rocco continued. “Writer of children's fantasy, menace on highway and airway, and lousy shot.”