Death Through the Looking Glass (14 page)

A triumvirate of white-robed young men with shaved heads moved slowly down the drive toward the gates. There was open hostility in their faces as they looked toward the police car. Rocco stuck his head out the window. “Official business.”

They exchanged glances, then one stepped forward. “This is sacred ground, and unless you have a warrant …”

“Listen, sonny. I can get a warrant. But if I do, I will be ticked off, and that bodes no good for sacred ground. Now, open the damn gate, or do I have to run this vehicle through it?”

As the gate reluctantly swung open, Rocco waited until the aperture was wide enough for the car, and then gunned down the winding drive with a screech of tires.

“You're proving something,” Lyon said as they approached the portico.

“Probably. You know, I wish I could get my lawn to look like this.”

“Get some disciples.”

The car stopped under the arch, and they were met by two more robed figures who seemed to have been cloned from the original three. “Dr. Blossom here?”

“It is time for his morning meditation,” a low voice answered.

“I'd like him to meditate with me a few minutes,” Rocco said.

One of the disciples hurriedly shuffled off. Lyon and Rocco, standing on the white steps in front of the ornate front door, were closely observed by the remaining disciples. “How are the townspeople taking the establishment of this religious community?” Lyon asked.

“Badly. I'm getting it from both ends: petitions from residents and calls from irate parents who want me to raid the place and get their kids back.”

“Wait until the kidnapping for deprogramming starts.”

“That's one hassle I'll gladly leave to Norbie.”

“Did you know that before the Mormons made the trek from Illinois to Utah, Nauvoo was the largest city west of Philadelphia?”

“I'll remember that,” Rocco said as he glanced up at the returning disciple.

“This way, please.”

They were led through the mansion to a glass-paneled door through which the Reverend Dr. Blossom could be seen bending over a white desk. The disciple knocked discreetly, and Blossom motioned them in. Lyon slipped out of his sneakers, padded to the desk and bowed. “Dr. Toranga Blossom, I am Lyon Wentworth.”

The Oriental looked up. He was resplendent in white trousers, white shoes and a soft white turtleneck. He stepped around the desk with an extended hand. “Call me Tony.”

Lyon, nonplused, straightened and automatically extended his hand. “We're sorry to impose on your meditation.”

Blossom waved a deprecating hand. “Just a P and L on a fast-food franchise I'm thinking of getting into.” He motioned toward a corner of the room where a deep white sofa and easy chairs were arranged in a semicircle. “Doesn't the hot pavement hurt your feet?”

Lyon looked at his bare feet, and then across the room to where his sneakers were neatly aligned by the door. “I think I will put them on.” He slipped his feet into the sneakers and paused before a picture frame containing a mounted scarf and a white ribbon with a red spot in the center.

Blossom smiled at Rocco. “I can imagine the purpose of your visit, Chief Herbert. Mr. Wentworth has a son or daughter who has become one of my disciples, and he's requested that you intercede.”

“We have another purpose.”

“A scarf of a thousand threads and a
hachimaki
,” Lyon said before the picture frame.

“Ah, you recognize them, Mr. Wentworth. One of the few mementos brought from my native country.”

“They are very rare,” Lyon said. “I understand that most of them were destroyed with the …”

“With the death of the wearer. Indeed, that was usually the case.”

“A relative?”

“No, mine. When I volunteered for the Divine Wind, as an officer of the Imperial Japanese Navy, my friends and relatives aided in the preparation of my scarf of a thousand threads.”

“I don't believe I've met a Kamikaze pilot before.”

“Kamikaze?” Rocco asked.

Blossom laughed. “No, Chief. Reincarnation is not one of my bits. I was indeed a Kamikaze pilot in 1945. My most honorable and venerable grandfather talked me into it. The dirty bastard almost got me killed.”

“I find it rather unusual that you're still here,” Lyon said.

“Not really so miraculous. I joined the group in May 1945. My squadron was poised for destruction of the American fleet at the time they invaded the homeland. As we all know, that never happened, and the remaining Kamikaze pilots survived. There were a few die-hards in the squadron who wished to dive on the
Missouri
during the signing of the articles of surrender, but members of the royal family were able to dissuade them. So you see, gentlemen, my life was spared through the intervention of a man-made blossom.”

“The atomic bomb,” Lyon said.

“Yes. The destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki showed me the way. I knew then, in a brilliant flash of godly intuition, the fate of the world and my purpose in it.”

“Which is?”

“The world will destroy itself, of course.” As Blossom talked he became filled with a deep intensity and an almost beatific look. “Yes, the world will die in 1982. In a multitude of brilliant blossoms, the world will perish, and only the chosen will survive.”

“Through your intervention?”

“Oh, no. I am a practical man. Through the inhabitation of deep caves in the abandoned Colorado mines. We are already arranging the purchase of our shelters. The people of the Blossom will survive and populate the earth with a true feeling of brotherhood.”

“If the earth is going to destroy itself, why the great interest in acquiring material things?”

“Like money, Mr. Wentworth?”

“Exactly.”

“The purchase even of abandoned mines and all the necessary accouterments for prolonged existence requires money. Just as we view the atomic wars to come as a real possibility, we are pragmatic in our fund-raising efforts. We live in complete love, and we invest as wisely as my meditation allows.”

“Such as a one-fourth interest in the Darling Corporation?”

“I expect that ultimately that will be quite lucrative.”

“Particularly with Giles and Esposito dead.”

“God moves in mysterious ways.”

“Doesn't the reduction of your investment group through murder bother you?”

“You may have noticed that we have excellent security here at the house of the Blossom. No, it doesn't bother me. My disciples will defend me—to the death if necessary.”

“You knew Tom Giles?” Rocco asked.

“But of course. He was our attorney, arranged our incorporation in this state and the purchase of this property, and we were partners in the Darling Corporation.”

“And Sal Esposito?”

“I never met the man. I knew the name, and that he was a co-investor in our land deal, but the papers were signed separately, and we never met.”

“Where were you the night of the murders?” Rocco snapped.

“Here, at the house of the Blossom.”

“Can you verify that?”

“Of course. As I recall, I was receiving two new members, brothers Early and Winston. When new members join the brotherhood, I like to spend a good deal of time with them for initial orientation. We have marathon sessions of meditation and prayer.”

“For the time of both murders?”

“Yes. The same brothers.”

“I'd like to talk to them,” Rocco said.

Dr. Blossom sighed. “The media and so many in authority doubt my veracity. It's a pity, you know. My message of survival should not go unnoticed.”

“I'd like the message from brothers Early and Winston,” Rocco said.

“Of course.” Blossom pressed a recessed button on the side of his chair, and a robed figure appeared instantly in the doorway. Blossom rose and extended his arms outward as the beatific look returned. “Oh, dear brother, would you bring brothers Early and Winston to me?”

“Yes, Reverend.”

“I would prefer to speak with them alone,” Rocco said.

“I would have imagined that would be your procedure. I shall leave you.”

Brothers Winston and Early, their shaved heads glistening, sat stiffly upright on the edge of the settee. They reminded Lyon of first-day students sitting expectantly before him. He wondered what ingredients of naïveté, idealism and alienation had brought them here. Salvation is a heady brew; spice it with brotherhood and it becomes an intoxicant. A far cry from his own mild immersion in the clear waters of New England Unitarianism—a religion he recalled someone's saying was a little bit about love, a little bit about God, and mostly about Boston.

“Were you two together the day and evening of the thirtieth?” Rocco asked.

The two disciples exchanged bewildered glances. “Why do you want to know?” one asked.

“Which one are you?”

“Brother Winston.”

“I'll ask the questions, Winston.”

“We are new disciples. It was our orientation period.”

“Together?”

“The two of us—and of course the Reverend.”

“And the evening of the sixth?”

“The same.”

“If you're so concerned about us,” Winston said petulantly, “ask Dr. Blossom. We were with him. Are you trying to bust us?”

“You were with the doctor on both occasions?”

“Ask him.”

“I have,” Rocco said.

The Reverend Dr. Blossom took the earphones off and gently laid them on the table.

“I think those kids would lie to hell and back for their leader,” Rocco said from the driver's seat.

“The Mouse in the Monastery,”
Lyon replied. “This mouse has to proselytize the larger rats in order to save the books; the learning of the ages must be preserved.”

“Oh, Christ!” Rocco said and almost ran into the gates before they were opened.

Bea sat dejectedly in the breakfast nook as Robin perched on the kitchen counter, her arms akimbo. The young girl's eyes flashed as they swept past Lyon leaning against the wall.

“Thanks a lot, you guys. You didn't tell me I was going to be the only girl on that hulk.”

“I thought you'd enjoy that part,” Bea said. “ALL ALONE WITH MEN.”

“You need a new battery in your hearing aid,” Robin said.

Lyon thought he heard a deep internal rumble from his wife as she stiffened.

“Can you imagine what it's like being seasick and having forty guys chase you over the rigging so they can show you how to tie square knots in the anchor locker?”

“Where'd you jump ship?” Lyon asked.

“Nantucket. And I hitched back.”

“What have you and Rocco been up to?” Bea asked.

“We'll bring you up to date,” Lyon said as they filed into the study.

“I hope somebody hid the chalk,” Kim said.

Rocco and Lyon described their interviews with Damon and Dr. Blossom. Each man amended the other's statements until the nuances and feel of the day's conversations were apparent to everyone.

“YOU KNOW, IT'S A PRETTY DUMB THING FOR GARY MIDDLETON TO HAVE LEFT THE MURDER WEAPON AROUND SO IT COULD BE FOUND.”

“Without it, the State Police wouldn't have enough to convict.”

“Then they aren't taking the investigation any further?” Kim asked.

“No,” Rocco replied. “From this point on, all their efforts are directed toward building a case for the prosecution against Middleton and Karen Giles: developing witnesses to their affair, subpoenas for financial records, the ballistics evidence …”

“Couldn't Damon Snow have left the party the night Esposito was killed, and then sneaked back? We might not have noticed.”

“I know he was here all that night,” Lyon said.

“Then it's got to be Dr. Blossom and his crew of nuts,” Bea said.

“And he has two witnesses who are willing to swear they were with him at the time of both killings,” Rocco said.

“What about the Manson case?” Robin asked.

“How's that?”

“They never actually proved that Manson killed anyone personally. Only that he directed his clan to do the killings. Couldn't these so-called disciples of Dr. Blossom have been in the same position?”

“Without an informant, there's no way to get near that type of conspiracy,” Rocco said.

“We have to infiltrate the Blossom people,” Lyon said.

Bea laughed. “I can see the newspapers now: Secretary of the state resigns, prominent children's writer and local police chief throw over all to join Blossom people.”

“You're not getting me into any white robes,” Kim said.

“I've seen them on the streets with their salad bowls,” Robin said. “The average age of those kids is nineteen.”

All eyes turned to the young girl sitting Indian-fashion on the floor.

“Did you say nineteen, dear?” Bea asked.

“Now, wait a minute!” Robin said, jumping to her feet. “That ship was bad enough, but you aren't exiling me with a bunch of religious freaks.”

“You can wear your bikini under the robes,” Bea said with a smile.

11

“Can't this hick town find a better place to have a meeting than this dump?” Captain Norbert picked up a shot glass and glared at the streaks along the sides.

Sarge Renfrow threw a damp bar rag and yelled, “Four cops in here don't exactly help business, you know!”

Rocco waved. “Another round, Sarge.”

Norbert covered his glass with a palm. “We've got to get going. What else do you want to know?”

“How about putting surveillance on Dr. Blossom?”

“You're the one who's always yelling about jurisdictional rights.
You
do it.”

“In the first place, Norbie, I don't have the manpower. And secondly, my men aren't trained for that sort of work.”

“What do you have on Blossom?”