The Pied Piper of Death (2 page)

Bea spread her feet farther apart for better balance on the car hood. She turned a slow semicircle in order for her remarks to be heard clearly on both sides of the lane. She extended her arms and hands in a gesture requesting silence. The protesters' catcalls sputtered to silence as they slowly obeyed her request.

Lyon had often had the opportunity to observe his wife's unique attention-gathering quality. By the strength of her personality and the force of her courage, Bea was slowly gathering the reins of control. The dynamism of her presence was gradually establishing her dominance and shifting the crowd's allegiance.

Bea was neither large nor strikingly beautiful. She was slightly under medium height, with a full figure. If the moderate-length hair that bracketed her face made a gaminelike first impression, this fey quality was belied by the darting intelligence and intensity displayed in her eyes.

Lyon had always felt that a good deal of his wife's sexuality arose from her energy and infectious zest for living. This élan was often displayed through her positive support for those things she admired, and her combative stance over those she opposed.

“Hear me out!” Bea said. “Then I'll listen to you.” She had them. The group was so silent that the ordinary night sounds of the surrounding meadows could be heard. “I have been asked here to a meeting,” she said. “Mr. Piper has requested that I meet with him concerning the future of the Piper Corporation. Not only will I listen to what he has to say, I will tell him how you feel.”

“Tommy land mines are the rotten drool of an evil giant!” a voice screamed, at the edge of hysteria.

“They sow death where food should grow,” another added.

Shouts of agreement drowned further additions to the litany of protest.

Lyon mentally reviewed his knowledge of the Terrible Tommy land mines as manufactured by the Piper Corporation. The company had been formed 150 years ago by a Piper who emigrated from an obscure town in a small Germanic province. The first known Piper had little money, but carried a comprehensive knowledge of gunpowder manufacture. Great-grandfather Piper had been convinced that the world was violent and therefore in need of his brand of destruction. His timing was exquisitely perfect. The seeds of the Piper Corporation had been planted and nurtured in time to truly blossom during the American Civil War.

The factory had prospered during that internal conflict, and had multiplied again and again with each subsequent war. The Pipers occupied their own explosive niche, which consisted of land and sea mines, assorted booby traps, and other deadly devices of a remote-controlled or self-detonating character.

Piper's primary product during the twentieth century was the Terrible Tommy land mine. R and D had been minimal on this product ever since it had been developed from a Spengmine 44 German prototype manufactured during World War II. This particular explosive device was buried in a shallow grave with a disguised tripwire. When activated, the tripwire ignited the first propellant charge, which blew the device waist high into the air. At the prescribed height, an anchor wire triggered the main charge, which spewed hundreds of small steel balls in a wide, deadly swath. For men of average height, the swirling balls tended to strike waist high, causing massive abdominal and spinal injuries. For those of shorter stature, the missiles were invariably fatal.

Thanks to efficient mass production combined with high volume, Tommy mines could be produced for a few dollars per unit. This low price, worldwide availability, and ease of use made the Terrible Tommy a boon to emerging nations intent on sowing terror in rural areas. As these isolated conflicts stretched over years, the crude maps indicating mine locations were lost, as were the trained personnel capable of safely defusing the devices.

Acres of land needed for cultivation to feed starving people were left strewn with these hidden seeds of death. The desperation for new crops eventually forced human sweepers into the fields. It was often the village's most vulnerable: the old, young, and female, who cleared these fields of destruction in the only way they could … by walking over them.

Bea was nearly finished with her extemporaneous talk. “I will do my best to discourage the production of these devices in our state,” she concluded with a final lilt to her voice similar to a gospel preacher's invitation to salvation.

Her affirmative conclusion actually caused cheers from some members of the crowd.

Shrill whistle blasts shattered the night.

Two portable searchlights that had been silently positioned along the estate's high walls near the gate simultaneously blinked on. Their beams crisscrossed over the crowd for a few moments until they focused on Bea astride the car hood.

The circle of light illuminated Bea as she stood with her hands extended over the crowd in a gesture resembling a benediction. Two dozen uniformed guards, with military-like precision, trotted through the gate and split into identical columns that bracketed the protesters. The heads of the flanking columns pinched together to form a wedge-shaped phalanx that effectively controlled their target.

The security force wore starched white coveralls with a bright yellow
PIPER CORPORATION
patch on the shoulder. They carried stubby billy clubs at port arms.

The protesters jeered at the attackers, but the disciplined movement of the security force forced them to retreat past the Wentworths' car. A pickup truck, filled with additional men dressed in the immaculate white coveralls, nosed slowly in behind the guards' V-shaped phalanx. At the road junction fifty yards past the mansion gates, the guards formed a single line across the lane. The force in the bed of the truck jumped from the pickup and positioned a sawhorse barricade across the road.

The security forces regrouped behind the barricade. The men's impassive looks were broken only by an occasional glance of mild disdain.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” a security officer in the middle of the front rank yelped as a tomato splattered against his chest. He instinctively tucked the club under his arm and reached for a pocket bandanna.

The first vegetable missile was the signal for a barrage that pelted the security officers with an assortment of ground-soft tomatoes. A white-haired guard, whose stiffly starched uniform and gold bars on his lapels identified him as a supervisor, switched on a portable bullhorn.

“Leave the area at once!” his voice boomed down the narrow lane that ran between the New England stone walls. “You are trespassing on Piper property.”

“Peyton Piper picks shit,” a voice yelled from the crowd.

A few of the guards swallowed laughs under the withering glare of the supervisor.

A police siren sounded in the distance.

“Rush the fascist pigs!” someone yelled.

The security force's orchestrated attack had changed the protesters into a cohesive mob that now operated with a herd instinct. Without command, they began to move slowly toward the barricade. The guards thrust their clubs straightforward in proper crowd control technique, only to find the movement ineffectual as the continual press of bodies shoved them aside. The thin line of security personnel slowly fell back toward the gate.

“This is your final warning!” the lieutenant shouted through the bullhorn.

“For Christ's sake, shut up, Harry,” a guard to the right of the supervisor said in a loud aside. “Warning before what? Before we open up with machine guns or call out the Cossacks, for God's sake?”

“You're a fink, Daddy!” a young girl with ripped knees in her jeans and long black hair hanging down her back shouted from her seat on the trunk of the Wentworth car.

The lieutenant of the security forces looked visibly shocked. “What in the hell are you doing with those creeps, Gretchen?” he yelled at the raven-haired young woman. “You're supposed to be in class.”

“This is like a field trip in consciousness raising,” the girl shouted at her father amid murmurs of approval from surrounding protesters.

“Let's hang Piper!” a clear voice echoed over the group.

“Get the bastard!” was the mutual agreement of the crowd as they surged forward.

The security guards' battle line wavered a moment and then broke as many of the men crowded on the bed of the pickup and were hastily driven back through the gates. Small clumps of remaining guards began to fight with the protesters.

“Wait! Stop!” Bea yelled. Her voice was lost in the din. She reluctantly climbed down from the car. “For God's sake,” she said to Lyon. “They came to protest destruction and now they're out for blood.”

A police car with a flashing dome light turned into the lane.

As everyone's attention turned toward the approaching vehicle, a security guard took the opportunity to smash a middle-aged woman in the side of the face with the head of his club. She dropped to the pavement like a silent stone.

Bea Wentworth, whose curiosity was not piqued since she knew who was driving the Murphysville police cruiser, was the only one to witness the assault. She dashed forward and knelt beside the fallen woman.

The remaining guards took the new event as an opportunity to regroup and form a new if shorter battle line across the face of the gate. The cruiser moved slowly through the crowd and stopped when its nose touched the sawhorse barricade.

Police Chief Rocco Herbert slowly unwound from the driver's seat. Rocco was an extremely large man with a craggy face. He was too big to be a professional football linebacker, although guard or tackle might have been a suitable position. The chief's large six-foot-six frame carried closer to 300 than 200 pounds. His massive bulk did not slow his reflexes, and he could move with a surprising alacrity if the situation warranted.

Rocco walked quietly toward the mansion's gate. He slowly turned his head, viewing one side of the lane then the other. Occasionally he nodded at those he recognized. He stopped a few feet from the line of guards and turned to face the crowd.

“Okay. Break it up! Everyone go home!” He did not raise his voice, but its timbre seemed to carry easily above the subdued crowd.

As the large police chief moved past him, Lyon shook his head. “We've got a medium-size riot here and you're the only cop the town can spare?”

Rocco turned to look at his friend impassively, with only the slight suggestion of a smile crinkling the edges of his eyes. “One riot needs one cop.”

“Oh, God, that's an old Texas Ranger saw,” Lyon said.

“Are you implying that small-town Connecticut cops aren't as macho as Texas Rangers? You'll never park unticketed in downtown Murphysville again, Mister.” He turned toward the remaining crowd. “You heard me! Everyone go home.”

The protesters stood stubbornly immobile for a moment until a slight ripple of movement seemed to infect them. They began to disperse in small clumps that ambled back down the lane toward their cars. Rocco turned toward Bea, who was helping the injured woman to her feet. “Is she all right or do you want me to call for an ambulance?”

“I'm okay,” the woman answered. Her eyes flashed. “I don't blame the worker who did this. Peyton Piper is the one who God will make pay the penalty—with his life if necessary.”

“Try the courts first, Mrs. Hinton,” Rocco said.

“I'll be your witness,” Bea said as she handed the woman a business card. “I saw everything that happened.”

The injured woman nodded and hobbled slowly after the dispersing group.

Harry, the supervisor, brushed rotting vegetable garbage off his uniform as he approached Rocco. His men intuitively formed a protective shield on either side. “She's the ringleader,” he said as he pointed a finger at Bea Wentworth. “I demand that she be arrested. I want an example made here, Chief. I have security camera shots of this loudmouth standing on the hood of her car exhorting the group to attack. She incited them to riot. She's the leader and the worst of the lot and I'm personally going to prefer charges.”

The two guards on either side of Harry stepped forward to grab Bea's arms. Lyon started toward them but was restrained by Rocco.

“Do I get shoved in a lineup?” Bea asked Rocco.

“I happen to know for a fact that you're a born troublemaker,” the police chief replied.

“I'm in hot water up to my ass, Chief,” the guard lieutenant said to Rocco. “Mr. Piper is expecting some bigwig state senator for a meeting with the congressman. This would be the night those idiots picked for their fun and games. They have screwed me to the wall, and she's responsible. I want to see this broad strung up so high she twists in the wind.”

“I can pony up a dozen charges if you want, Harry,” Rocco said. “We'll start off with trespassing and then move on to inciting to riot, indecent exposure …”

Bea tore her arm away from a guard to shake a finger at Rocco. “I resent the indecent exposure bit.”

“That's a generic charge for all politicians,” Rocco said.

“Thanks, Chief, I really appreciate it,” Harry said. “We need to set an example for the rest of these feminazi pinkos.”

“Just tell Mr. Piper that his important meeting will be indefinitely delayed,” Rocco said over his shoulder as he snapped handcuffs on Bea and marched her toward the cruiser.

“Huh?”

“Tell him that Senator Wentworth can't join him tonight, but she might be released late Monday afternoon after the judge sets bail.”

T
WO

The security lieutenant made a series of strange gurgling noises in his throat before he lurched after Rocco and Bea. Lyon leaned nonchalantly against one of the massive gate pillars guarding the entrance to the estate. He felt something digging into his shoulder and turned to read the brass plaque fixed to the stone and displaying a raised word in gold letters:
BRIDGEWAY
. That name recalled a distant memory. He vaguely remembered a Piper family anecdote Peyton had told years ago at a college keg party. If he remembered correctly, some sort of Civil War doings in Piper family lore concerned a bridge incident. It was a tale filled with dashing officers mounted on gigantic white steeds performing heroic deeds. Peyton had made the tale palatable for cynical undergraduates by telling it against a background of fanciful incidents and self-effacing humor.