Death in the Secret Garden (20 page)

He glanced up in alarm. While he watched, a second arrow followed the same trajectory and punctured the balloon a few feet from the first.

Lyon grabbed the suspension ring that supported the basket. He pulled himself up to the rim. His shifting weight caused it to tilt precariously. He climbed higher until he stood on the ring, but he was not able to reach the arrow shafts.

A third arrow punctured his right forearm. The searing pain caused that hand to slip from its grip on the ring. He dangled over the basket 1200 feet above the river.

He groaned in pain. Swinging his body in a pendulum motion until it was directly over the basket, he released his grip and fell to its floor.

He groaned again as he yanked the arrow bolt from his flesh.

Another arrow easily found its oversize target. Lyon gripped the rim of the basket with his uninjured hand to pull himself erect. The balloon, without a recent propane burn, was beginning to cool. As the temperature dropped it began to sink at an alarming rate. The lower the balloon descended, the easier the target.

He risked an additional wound by exposing himself to yank on the propane lanyard. A satisfying burner whoosh heated the envelope interior and gradually slowed the descent.

Lyon examined the punctures in the balloon made by the arrow bolts. The holes were too small to cause a critical loss of buoyancy. There was little actual damage.

It was entirely possible that the archer had a confused conception of balloons. Many people lumped dirigible, fixed, and hot-air balloons in the same category. The films of the flaming Hindenburg dirigible burning to cinders at its mooring post was etched on many people's memory, regardless of age. The fact was that the Hindenburg carried pockets of hydrogen gas, which were highly flammable when punctured or sparked. Modern fixed balloons or dirigibles carried the nonflammable helium. Hot-air balloons stayed aloft simply because warm air was lighter than ordinary air. All the punctures in the world would not cause a fire.

There was no forward progress. The balloon hovered as motionless as a wind-becalmed sailboat. There was nothing he could do about forward momentum. The only control he could exert on the craft was vertical. He could ascend or descend, but lateral movement was completely dependent on the wind.

And his assassin waited below.

There was an audible hiss from the exterior of the basket. It took only moments to determine that an arrow had separated the rubber propane tube that led to the burner from the nipple of its storage tank. His supply of propane was hissing away into the atmosphere.

The gauge on the tank indicated that it was nearly empty. He quickly reattached the burner line to the tank and stopped the escaping gas. The wind would eventually push him away from this area, possibly to the safety of the other side of the river. However, the huge loss of propane might not allow the necessary time for the wind to return.

He was sinking. A glance at the rapidly shifting numbers on the pyrometer and altimeter indicated that the air within the envelope had cooled and the balloon was going down.

His attacker would notice the huge balloon's descent. He would have the perfect opportunity to shoot again. Lyon would be an easy target when the balloon landed or, as was more likely over a forest, when it crashed into the trees.

He was afraid to present another choice target by leaning over the edge of the basket to check his position. He attempted to estimate his exact position by sightings across the river. His intimate knowledge of the area verified the fact that he was descending directly into the heart of the state forest.

With the small amount of remaining propane, he attempted to give short burns in order to descend in an orderly step-like manner. A few feet above treetop level the propane burner sputtered out. He was out of fuel.

Lyon braced as the basket crashed into the top of a tree. He immediately pulled the ripping panel to spill the remaining air from the envelope so he would not be pulled along the treetops. The balloon bag settled over the wicker basket, which was now firmly wedged in the top of a tree.

An angry eagle circled overhead.

Fifteen

Lyon lay on his back with his feet braced against the side of the balloon basket. His right hand clutched a four-foot length of branch he had broken from a limb that pierced the wicker. He had sharpened one end to a point with his Swiss Army knife. The knife was still in his left hand with its longest blade open. Because he would be vulnerable as he climbed down from the tree, his assailant would wait below for him to descend. As time passed and nothing happened, his curiosity would be overwhelming. The attacker would be forced to inspect the wreckage to see if Lyon were dead or injured.

He was neither. The balloon's tree crash had been jarring, but did not cause injury. He was now forced to play a waiting game, since any attempt to reach the ground would be catastrophic. Eventually a curious face would peer over the edge of the basket. His only chance was a spear lunge toward that face followed by a slashing knife attack.

‘Anyone up there? Hello in the balloon! Anyone there?' a voice shouted from below. After a few moments without a response there was the sound of exertion, rustling leaves, and the occasional crack of a small limb. Someone was climbing the tree.

Lyon gripped his weapons. He would not cower in the basket and allow his attacker to casually pump arrow bolts into him. He would probably not win, but would make a fighting attempt to save his life.

A pale face appeared over the rim of the basket. Lyon thrust the spear directly toward the man's throat.

At the last moment he recognized the lopsided grin, now merging into a grimace of terror, as belonging to patrolman Jamie Martin. Lyon was able to deflect his thrust slightly so that the spear imbedded itself in the basket's wicker, inches from the officer's body.

‘Jeez! Watch it, will you, Mr. Wentworth?' The face disappeared as Jamie clambered down the side of the tree.

‘What in the hell's going on up there?' Rocco boomed from below.

‘He tried to stick me like a pig!' Jamie yelled.

Lyon peered over the edge of the basket with relief. ‘Is anyone else down there?'

‘Nope. But we did find this,' Rocco said as he held a crossbow over his head. ‘Someone taking shots at you?'

‘Something like that,' Lyon said as he began the tricky climb from the tree.

‘Bea saw you go down from Nutmeg Hill and called us,' Rocco said.

‘How in the hell am I going to get my stuff down now that the volunteer fire department won't help?'

‘Why don't you just leave it? The basket would make a fine eagle's nest,' Rocco said. ‘Hey, what happened to your arm?'

‘The archer took more than just potshots at the balloon. Some of those bolts were meant for me.'

Rocco looked contemplatively at the crossbow. ‘The last time I saw one of these was in …'

‘Spook's tree house,' Lyon said.

‘They called him the bowman in Nam. The silent killer, the noiseless special ops assassin.'

‘Is he alive?' Bea's voice came from behind a thicket a few feet away.

‘Mostly,' Lyon answered. ‘Thanks for calling Rocco.'

Bea circled around the underbrush. ‘You know, Wentworth, if we ever divorce it will be over stuff like this. I am not a happy camper when I watch my husband drop out of the sky over a forest near a cliff above a river.'

‘This didn't help any,' Rocco said as he showed her the crossbow. ‘Our guy, Spook or whoever, took a few shots at Lyon with this thing.'

‘The “guy” part is sexist,' Bea said. ‘With a device like that, a hundred-pound woman could have loaded, cocked, and fired those arrows. No upper-body strength is needed when you can arm it by winding the ratchet. Now, let's do something about that wound.'

In Lyon's study at Nutmeg Hill, Rocco attached a VCR to a small television and loaded it with the bank robbery surveillance film. Lyon wheeled in a blackboard and began to diagram First Federal's lobby.

Bea was on the phone at the desk. ‘I'm telling you, Gus, there is no way we can get that thing out of the trees without the help of the volunteer fire department … No, of course he's not still in it … What do you mean, too bad? If a cat was up there you'd rescue it … Oh, you don't do cats anymore either … OK, Gus, a donation to the volunteer fire department retirement fund. How much?'

Lyon paused in his diagraming to hold up a single finger. Bea retaliated by holding up five. Lyon groaned while Rocco laughed.

‘Thank you, Gus,' Bea said. ‘The check will be in the mail.'

Lyon finished his diagram. He had drawn in the counter and room dividers with circles to represent the tellers, other bank personnel, and customers. ‘Run the tape, Rocco.'

‘I would like to remind you two that this film brings back bad memories. I sat on an inner tube for a long time after this little episode.' The TV flickered until the tape began.

‘Three tellers behind the counter,' Rocco announced in a monotone.

On the far right were the four bank officials at their desks. The teller to the right had a line of customers that consisted of Skee Rumford, Mead MacIntire, followed by Eddy and Mildred Rashish. Spook, clutching his disability check, was first in line at the left-hand teller. Judge Styles was behind Spook, while an unidentified man and woman were in front of the center teller.

‘That's Rebba Dirk at the deposit slip counter,' Bea said.

‘Enter bank robber Wiff Stamen holding a pistol and wearing a ski mask,' Rocco said.

They watched in thoughtful silence as the drama repeated itself. Wiff threatened the teller and then whipped off his mask in an act of bravado. He ordered everyone to the floor and they obeyed as if poleaxed.

Rocco entered the bank. He dropped to one knee and the short gunfight began.

Rocco bent over Wiff as he handcuffed the wounded man.

‘Run that back,' Lyon asked. ‘Start when you come through the door. Do we have a different camera angle?'

‘We got angles up the spangles,' Rocco said as he fast-forwarded the film to another preselected position.

When the frames began again they had a better view of the weapon as it fell from Wiff's fingers and slid across the floor.

‘It went to the left,' Bea said. ‘Toward Rebba Dirk at the deposit slip counter and near where Skee dropped down at Wiff's order.'

‘It comes around to Skee, doesn't it?' Rocco said. ‘But you know, we never did identify that man and woman in front of the center teller. Needless to say, I was occupied with taking down Wiff and later on the wound in my backside. The unknown couple must have slipped out before the back-up cars arrived.'

‘They could have actually been in on the hold-up,' Lyon mused.

Rocco nodded. ‘It's possible, although we never could get Wiff to implicate anyone else. What was it you said out at the state forest about a woman and the crossbow?' Rocco asked Bea.

‘That a slender woman could have fired the thing as easily as a man.'

‘True,' Rocco agreed, ‘but assuming that Rebba did get Wiff's gun, which has been identified as firing the murder shots, why would she? What possible motive would she have to kill a teenager, a whore, and a church secretary?'

‘I think we have a division of labor here,' Lyon said. ‘Rocco locates Skee, while Bea and I make a valiant attempt to interview Edward Dirk and his mother.'

At the Dirk home Lyon let Bea take the lead.

The two women were of equal height and build. Their personalities were entirely different except for their mutual stubbornness.

Rebba stood rigidly in the doorway. The door was only open as far as the safety chain would permit. ‘You cannot come in. I thought I made that quite clear the last time you were here.'

‘We must talk to your son,' Bea countered strongly.

‘I consider this harassment. If need be, I will get a court order. For some reason, the Big Buddy organization poisoned your husband against Edward. You all seem to have this obscene desire to frighten him.'

‘Oh, Rebba, stop that,' Bea said. ‘You know it's not true.'

‘I warned you. I'm going to close and lock this door and then call Judge Styles to get me a court order.'

She tried to slam the door. Bea winced as it crashed against her foot.

Lyon wondered if he should tell this stubborn woman that Judge Styles had decided to take up permanent residence in the Murphysville Nursing Home.

‘Let me tell you something, Rebba Dirk,' Bea said in a low voice. Lyon recognized the tone. It was usually reserved for political opponents who were treading on one of her cherished ideals or projects. ‘I am chair of the State Senate Social Services Committee,' Bea continued. ‘If you do not let us in, I will make a phone call to the commissioner. Within the hour you will be swamped by hordes of social workers armed with all sorts of legal documents. Believe me, Rebba, one thing you never want is to be attacked by social workers investigating the welfare of a child. Not in my state, you don't.'

Rebba blinked. Edward hovered in the background. Her voice changed slightly, preparing to negotiate. ‘Why are you so concerned about this?'

‘Someone tried to kill my husband today,' Bea said. ‘And for obvious reasons that pisses me off.'

‘I can understand that. But what does that have to do with Edward?'

‘Your child saw something in the woods the day Boots Anderson was killed.' Bea held up an envelope of suspect photographs. ‘We think he saw who did it.'

‘It frightens him to talk about it. You saw how scared he gets.'

Bea waved the envelope of pictures. ‘Give us five minutes. We want to see if he recognizes any of these men.'

Rebba seemed to be pondering the balance of an invasion by social workers versus her son's possible fright. She evidently decided against the social workers and the chain fell away from the door. ‘Five minutes. Not a second more. Edward is extremely sensitive, so try and not frighten him.' She opened the door and stood aside. ‘What happened to your arm, Mr. Wentworth?'