A Child's Garden of Death (24 page)

“Thank you, Captain,” Rocco had said.

They had talked to Ren Wilson, foreman of the automated assembly line, the first man to reach Houston's door after the shot was heard.

“I was at the end of the table, the one near the door to his office,” Wilson had told them. “When we first heard the shot we all sort of sat there—stunned. Then a bunch of us ran for the door. Since I was closest I got there first.”

“Are you sure the door was locked?” Rocco had asked him.

“Listen, Chief, I'd swear to it on my mother's grave. I musta' tried it half a dozen times before somebody yelled to break it in.”

As the balloon drifted slowly along the course of the Connecticut River, Lyon was filled with a huge sense of dejection and depression. How many days had it been since he'd been airborne last, had drifted almost along this same route to take pictures of the grave site? Only a few days ago, and yet they seemed no closer to the solution than they had been when the grave had first been unearthed.

Three bodies found in a grave—one a small child. Martin dead. Now Houston dead. There must be a key somewhere. A key? Lyon laughed aloud.

He had it. The whole thing fit. The simplicity of the scheme was its very beauty. Now, with this last piece of information in place, the whole murder of Houston fell into an answer. He and Rocco hadn't been far wrong; all the details except the door and the recorder had been correct, and now, with the answer, proof would be available.

Lyon looked over the edge of the balloon basket, impatiently scanning the terrain below for a suitable landing area. The balloon had descended to level flight at just below four thousand feet and had drifted several miles downriver. On both sides of the river the land rose harshly from the water's edge to granite and traprock ridges. He would have to wait until the balloon drifted farther east in order to find a relatively flat piece of ground to use for descent.

The increase of the engines to full throttle first brought the airplane to Lyon's attention. Shading his eyes, he glanced toward the sound, but the glare of the sun made the plane invisible in the penumbra.

A hundred feet from the leading edge of the balloon the plane banked sharply into a deep turn. After completing the steep turn, the two-engine Cessna adjusted course for a direct heading at the balloon. Its position and altitude would carry it directly overhead, on a pass across the envelope.

He'd had private planes play cat and mouse before, but none as dangerously close as this one. He wondered if the pilot knew that if the plane's propellers should hit the balloon envelope or rigging, the balloon would immediately deflate and the rigging would hopelessly foul the plane's propellers, to plummet both vehicles to earth.

Engine pitch abruptly changed as the pilot throttled back to slow his pass over the balloon. Lyon could only estimate the distance from envelope to plane fuselage as slightly less than fifty feet. Past the balloon the plane eased into a slow 360-degree bank that once again placed it on a direct tangent toward the balloon.

The pilot had made a slight adjustment in altitude so that the new pass would carry the plane directly over the balloon with less clearance than before. Fear stabbed at Lyon. This was not some pseudo hot-shot pilot playing air games with a new and unfamiliar quarry. The repeated passes, each one at lower altitude, made it quite clear that the plane's pilot had the destruction of the balloon as a primary objective.

He flipped the toggle switch of the raid. “Kimberly. Kim. Come in, are you there?”

“Hello, Big Chief, this is Red Marble.”

“Listen, kids, get off the band,” Lyon said with as much control as he could muster. “This is an emergency.”

“I always call Big Chief at three,” was the plaintive reply.

“Please get off the band for a minute,” Lyon said as the plane made another pass over the top of the balloon.

“Is masta' ready to descend from the heavens?” Kim said.

“Knock it off, Kim. There's some joker up here playing Red Baron with me. Get to a telephone and call Rocco. It can only be our friend.”

She sensed the panic in his voice and dropped her sarcasm. “Do you have the plane's I.D. number?”

“Just a minute.” He took field glasses from the side of the basket and searched the skies. The plane was coming out of the sun again at a speed that would be close to a stall. As the plane side slipped slightly to correct approach position, he picked out the numbers on the wing and radioed them to Kimberly on the ground.

“I've got them,” she replied. “I can see you about two miles away from my position. From here it looks like the plane will hit you.”

He crouched down in the rocking basket as the plane, almost directly overhead, approached the top of the balloon. Around the trailing edge of the plane's wings, liquid poured in a slim, steady stream as the plane passed a few feet over the top of the balloon.

As rivulets of liquid coursed down the side of the balloon envelope, a drop fell on Lyon's hand. He tasted it—gasoline. The airplane's fuel caps were off, and gasoline was siphoning out of the wing tanks, successfully covering a good portion of the balloon's skin with gasoline.

The plane banked and approached the balloon again in what Lyon knew would be the final pass. He could see the hand extended from the pilot's window with the flare gun poised.

As the flare hit the top of the balloon the gasoline broke into flames with a clap. The plane's engines whined with throttle increase.

Looking directly upward through the sleeve into the interior of the balloon envelope, Lyon could see through the micro-thin sheen of the top surface that fire burned along the rigging of the upper circumference. Now, along the sides of the balloon, fire approached the basket as it burned steadily along rigging lines.

He grabbed the emergency lines leading to the ripping panel and pulled them quickly downward with all the leverage he could muster. A large portion of the side envelope immediately peeled away and the balloon lurched sideways and downward.

Grasping the sleeve immediately over his head, he yanked it from the envelope, allowing more hot air to escape. Glancing at the altimeter, he saw his height at thirty-two hundred feet with a quick rate of descent. The immediate danger would be quick explosion of the whole envelope, in which case he knew that the remaining portion of the balloon, basket, and himself would immediately plummet earthward.

His only chance lay in a rapid rate of descent before explosion and complete destruction of the envelope. As large quantities of hot air escaped through the hole caused by the ripping panel, the bag began to sag.

Two thousand feet and falling quickly. He hurriedly tried to calculate the rate of descent and correlate that against parachute descent, the critical survival factor.

Several of the rigging ropes on the right side of the envelope broke away above the supporting ring, and one end of the basket dipped precariously.

Thirteen hundred feet. The slanted downward trajectory of the balloon slid along the path of the Connecticut River. He looked skyward and could see the airplane disappearing rapidly over the northern rim of hills.

Eight hundred feet. The rate of descent was faster than any he had ever experienced. From above he could hear portions of the envelope shredding. As more rigging lines gave way, the basket tilted further to an almost vertical position. With both hands he grabbed the supporting ring overhead and held on, knowing that it would remain until the last line parted.

He was below the hill and ridge line to each side of the river. The altimeter and other instruments had fallen from the basket, but he estimated height at two or three hundred feet above the north-south line of the river.

If it held for a few more seconds he would reach the water. Then the danger would be in becoming enmeshed in the envelope and remaining rigging lines, many of which now flapped dangerously.

Thirty feet above the waterline Lyon let go of the supporting ring and dropped free from the balloon.

He hit the water feet first, and the impact shuddered through his body. His feet brushed river bottom silt, and looking upward he could see the translucent surface light far above, as he began the slow and interminable rise to the waterline.

He gasped for air as his head broke the surface and he weakly trod water. Turning toward downstream, the path of the balloon, he saw that the surface was undisturbed. The balloon had either exploded before striking the water, or else had sunk immediately.

The shoreline was over a hundred yards away and it might have been ten miles, he thought, as he began slow strokes through the water. A fisherman in a small boat rowed nonchalantly toward him and Lyon raised an arm, shocked to see for the first time that his arms were blackened and burned.

The fisherman's oars dipped cleanly through the water as he approached. “I've heard of balls of fire,” the man said as he pulled alongside Lyon, “but that was ridiculous.”

Twelve

The ghosts of Lyon Wentworth held him tightly by the hands. The two little girls, one with hair of gold, the other dark as night, led him across the grassy field.

“Come on, Daddy,” the gold one cried and pulled him forward.

“Show us the Wobblies,” the dark-haired child said.

They pulled him through the field of new-mown grass. In the distance he saw their house, Bea standing on the porch beckoning to them as the wind whipped her dress.

“I have to go, children,” he said. They squeezed his hands tightly and he winced in pain.

“Don't go,” they cried in unison. “Don't go.”

But he left them and walked through the yellow, swirling fog.

Bea stood next to the hospital bed crying. “I don't know whether to kiss you,” she said through tears, “or chew you out for destroying your eight-thousand-dollar toy balloon.”

Lyon fought his way through a haze of morphine. The small hospital room was filled with blurred edges; a yellow halo surrounded Bea where she stood at the head of the bed. In slow motion the room returned to focus. He tried to sit up, but fell back on the pillow as a wrenching pain racked his neck and shoulders.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Seven.”

“Night or day?”

“Night. You know, Lyon, if you're going to spend half your life in the water, you'll need advanced swimming lessons.”

He smiled, and that hurt also. “… it does seem to be becoming a habit. Did they get the pilot of the plane?”

“Kim got through to Rocco, the State Police were notified, and as far as I know, they covered all the local airports from Massachusetts to past New Haven.”

“Good. If they made it in time they should have our friend.”

“I certainly hope so. You know, dear husband, I'm introducing a bill tomorrow in the Senate. No middle-aged balloonists who write children's books are allowed to chase murderers.”

“That narrows it down,” he smiled, “except that I'm not middle-aged.”

“A strong case could be made for that,” she said.

Lyon pulled his white-mittened hands from under the sheets and examined them. The bandages covered many of the fingers and reached upward to his elbows. “I didn't even realize I was burned,” he said. “What happened?”

“By the grace of God and a passing fisherman, you were saved. I don't think you could have made it to shore by yourself.”

“I'm not sure I could have either. You know, if our friend keeps this up, he's going to make me angry.”

“You keep this up and you'll be dead or divorced—or both.”

“Come here,” Lyon said and Bea sat dutifully on the edge of the bed. He surrounded her with bandaged hands and pulled her toward him. She kissed him on the forehead as he nuzzled her neck.

“There's probably a city ordinance against doing that in a hospital bed,” Rocco said from the doorway.

Flushing, Bea jumped off the edge of the bed. “I told you,” she said, “he's haunting us like some overgrown specter.”

“Don't you like me, Beatrice?”

“I love you, darling, but you turn up at the damndest times.”

“You two can exchange pleasantries later,” Lyon said. “Did they get my friend, Rocco?”

“No,” the large man replied. “We covered all the airports as quickly as we could, but the plane landed in nearby Plainville, minutes after you went into the drink.”

“The plane? Whose is it?”

“The ident shows that it belongs to the Houston Company. We found it parked at the far end of the runway, but that's a small airport and no one is sure who took it up or brought it down.”

“Who had access to the plane and is a licensed pilot?”

“Helen Houston and Jim Graves are both pilots and both have used the plane on numerous occasions,” Rocco said.

“Pick them both up,” Bea said. “Somebody tried to kill Lyon.”

“We've tried,” Rocco said. “Neither Helen or Graves can be found. We've got their homes staked out and an APB out for both of them.”

“Could they be in this together?” Bea asked.

“I don't think Graves would have enough spunk in the bunk for Helen Houston. No, I don't think so,” Rocco said.

Painfully, Lyon sat up and swung his feet toward the floor. Swiveling his head several times, he discovered that the neck and back pain was bearable. Standing, he felt foolish in the short hospital gown, and the bandaged hands made him feel awkward.

“Where do you think you're going!” Bea yelled.

“I'm a member of your constituency and need your help,” Lyon said. “Now, help me get my pants on.”

The Murphysville police cruiser edged toward eighty miles per hour as it sped toward the shore. Rocco Herbert drove with casual ease, one arm resting on the window frame, the other hand lightly caressing the steering wheel.

At one point a State Police cruiser had pulled into the lane behind them and had given chase until Rocco switched on the blinking red roof lights. The state car turned off with a parting toot of its horn.