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The Pied Piper of Death

A Lyon and Bea Wentworth Mystery

Richard Forrest

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

In memory of Mary Bolan Forrest

ONE

They were going to be killed!

When Lyon Wentworth accepted the invitation to Bridgeway house to discuss a murder, he hadn’t realized that it was to be his own.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly in both hands as the small car tilted at a 45-degree angle. He unclenched one fist to pound on the windshield. The press of the crowd forced a contorted face forward until a nose splayed grotesquely against the glass.

At the gravitational point of no return the Saturn coupe teetered precariously and then flipped back on four wheels to shimmer on its suspension system.

A placard was shoved across the hood. Its streaked letters, scrawled in a red substance chosen to resemble blood, read, PIED PIPER OF DEATH!

Unseen hands jounced the car to the rhythm of the crowd’s metronome chant. “Pitch Piper Out! Pitch Piper Out!”

A single voice rose above the others. “Terminate Tommy mines!”

Bea Wentworth looked at her husband with concern. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“They’re protesting.”

She grimaced. “Somehow, I gathered that. Why?” The chant’s cadence shifted as a fist pounded the car roof. Overhead thumps multiplied as more hands joined the roof chorus until a cacophony of sound reverberated through the small passenger compartment.

An egg splattered against the rear windshield.

“Child murderers!” came from a deep bass voice that rose above the others.

Bea was puzzled. “What in the world are abortion protesters doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Wrong cause. This is the anti-land-mine contingent.”

Bea nodded. “Okay, I’ve got it.” She involuntarily recoiled as a spaghetti squash splattered against the front windshield directly in front of her.

At dusk they had driven up the winding road from the ferry dock that led to the high hill above the Connecticut River where the Piper mansion, Bridgeway, perched. It had been a pleasant drive on a warm summer evening until they rounded the last bend and approached the heavy wrought-iron gates that guarded the mansion’s entrance. The protestors had been sitting on loose stone walls on both sides of the narrow lane talking quietly among themselves. The car headlights had acted as a catalyst for action. Protesters from both sides of the lane had immediately blocked further forward movement. In seconds the Saturn had been surrounded by a shouting crowd.

Lyon scanned angry faces. They were a mixed group composed largely of the zealous young sprinkled with an older contingent marching on yet another crusade in a long line of social concerns. The veteran protesters had prospered through the years and were separated from the neophytes by variations in clothing styles. The youngest wore wash-faded blue jeans with obligatory torn knees topped by Grateful Dead T-shirts. The older group wore L.L. Bean slacks and silk-screened T-shirts with sincere slogans. These messages were usually concerned with mammalian animals. They protested the death of little seals, fur-bearing beasts, dolphins, and leg traps for rodents. The destruction caused by Piper Corporation land mines evidently hadn’t reached the commercial market yet, and the protesters had to use homemade signs to express their anger.

The group’s leader appeared to be a rangy graduate student with long stringy hair that fell loosely over the shoulders of his worn army field jacket. He had taken obvious care to pull his hair back in such a way as to reveal a single gold earring. He stood on a wide tree stump by the side of the road where he directed the attack on the car while simultaneously haranguing the crowd.

“For as little as three dollars a weapon they make these instruments of death,” the protest leader shouted. “And thirty percent of the victims are women and children.” His hoarse voice cracked.

“You tell them, Chuck!” someone yelled.

“They planted ten million mines in Angola and it takes one hundred dollars to clear a single mine,” the leader tried to shout.

“They won’t move,” Lyon said. “I can’t go forward or back.”

“You know,” Bea said. “I didn’t want to accept this invitation tonight. Peyton says he wants to talk about the future of his factory. I think that’s his excuse for some sort of political game, and Peyton Piper is hardly one of my supporters.”

“My reason for coming is even weaker,” Lyon said. “Markham Swan’s phone call was off the wall. I shouldn’t have paid any attention.”

“Maybe he’s the one who started this little demonstration,” she said with a small wave toward the angry crowd outside the windows. “Markham Swan is always trying to manipulate people. I wouldn’t put anything past him, particularly if women are involved.”

“His message seemed restricted to the Piper family. He talked about a murder, not destruction in the Third World. According to Swan, Bridgeway is to be the scene for a killing. He claims that someone in the Piper family is going to be murdered.”

“Are you sure he didn’t mean ours?” Bea asked.

“Oops!” Lyon said as the car was tilted on its side again. They were jolted again when the chassis slammed back to its normal position.

“All right! That’s it!” Bea yelled.

Lyon knew the significance of his wife’s tone and immediately grabbed for Bea’s arm. He was an instant too late. His fingers brushed helplessly against the back of her blouse as she catapulted out the door.

Bea shouldered her way through protesters, ducked under a sign swung at her head, and climbed up on the hood of the car. “Now hear this!” she screamed over the din of angry voices.

Lyon shoved his car door open, knocking over a dark-haired girl. He pushed through the crowd and wrenched a sign from an intense adolescent who was preparing to slam it against the back of Bea’s knees. The young protester seemed startled, but yielded the weapon with a shrug.

The long-haired leader, who still occupied the tree stump, pointed an accusatory finger at Bea. “Piper guests drink blood. We know your kind!”

“Your anger is misdirected,” Bea’s projected voice carried over the group.

“Sure, that’s why we’re collecting fireflies out here,” the adolescent who had yielded his sign to Lyon shot back.

“You want the mines defused?” Bea immediately responded.

The group’s agreement with her statement quieted some of the antagonistic mumbling. “You know it!” someone shouted as a mutual response for the group.

“You want Tommy production terminated and a fund created for mine removal?” Her clear voice carried over the lane.

A dissenting male voice replied. “Who is this crazy broad?”

“Shut up!” a woman demanded.

“Let her speak!” another added.

Their leader, standing on the stump, realized he was losing control and struggled to reestablish dominance. “And who the hell are you?”

“I’m State Senator Bea Wentworth. The Piper factory in the valley, his house beyond that gate, and all of you are now in my district. If you have a grievance, I’m here to listen and act on your behalf.”

“Tommy land mines have maimed thousands of innocents,” a voice said. “Each day in the Third World women and children peacefully working in the fields are blown to pieces.”

Lyon glanced up at the placard nailed to his captured sign post. PIPER PICKS PICKLED SHIT, it announced in large red letters. He allowed himself a tight smile upon the realization that for the last couple of minutes he had been unconsciously waving the sign in support of the protest.

A hand curled over his shoulder and caused him to turn toward its owner. “Glad you’re with us, Lyon.” He knew the speaker vaguely from years ago when they had both been on the faculty of Middleburg University. Although they had been in different departments and he couldn’t remember the man’s name, Lyon identified him by association with Chemistry and Lacrosse.

Lyon Wentworth was an inch over six feet, with a lanky build. His most prominent feature was a forelock of blondish brown hair that occasionally jutted over his forehead. He constantly brushed it back with an unconscious gesture that seemed to increase his often bemused look. He wore boat shoes, casual slacks, and a white sport shirt.

“I bought your last book for my six-year-old daughter,” Chemistry-Lacrosse said. “She liked the ending where the Wobbly monsters boiled the wicked witch in oil.”

“Glad she liked it,” Lyon answered.

“I suppose writing children’s books pays better than teaching?” Chemistry-Lacrosse asked.

“Sometimes.” Lyon smiled at his lie. If he’d stayed in teaching he’d be a tenured full professor by now, and that yearly salary was more than equal to royalties from several Wobbly Revenge books.

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.”

TWO

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.

Rocco released his hold on Bea’s arm. For the guard’s benefit he fumbled reluctantly for the key before he released her. In feigned disgust he unlocked the cuffs from her wrists and snapped them back on his belt.

Bea strode resolutely toward Lyon, followed by a very contrite guard supervisor.

“I didn’t realize who you were, Senator.”

“Forget it, Harry,” she said without turning.

“I can see now how you was trying to calm the crowd.”

“Next time I’m going to man the battering ram,” Bea said.

“Of course it’s your constitutional right to be against land mines,” Harry agreed. “I’ll radio the house for transportation and have all that gunk cleaned off your car’s windshield.”

Bea stopped abruptly. The confused security guard took three more steps and nearly ran into her. “Listen, Harry. Why don’t you get your act together and do something about your storm troopers?”

“They’re good at what they do, Senator. At the factory we have security access problems. The boys got to be firm to handle those situations.”

“Decking middle-aged ladies is not handling a tough situation. You’ve got at least one sadistic sociopath in your crew.”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re probably right.”

Bea shook her head in mute resignation, but a quick glance at the supervisor made her realize that she had unconsciously used her office to humiliate him. She flashed her brightest political smile at the subdued guard and extended her hand. “Friends, Harry? You take care of that lady basher and Mr. Piper hears zilch about our disagreement.”

“Thanks.” He took her firm hand. “Barry Nevins is the guy who dinged the woman. Rest assured that he hits the pavement tonight. He’s history.”

Bea closed her eyes for a brief moment. The ripples of life always seemed to expand toward infinity. Sadistic Barry probably had a wife and a bunch of dependent kids. She immediately rationalized her actions with the thought that those who took shots at defenseless women were probably less subtle in their abuse of family members. She could only hope that a financial lesson might have some benefit. It was done. She would have to live with it. She beamed another smile at Harry.

“Gretchen is turning into a real fine woman,” Bea said.

“You know my daughter?”

“She was a volunteer on my campaign last year. If I remember correctly, she’s now a student at Middleburg.”

“Sending her to college was the worst day’s work I ever did. You saw what those leftist feminazis had her doing tonight.”

“Harry, Harry?” Bea closed her eyes for another brief moment. She was exhausted over the night’s battles and the evening had hardly begun.

An electric golf cart with a rainbow canopy covering its rear seats swerved to a stop at the gate. The device was driven by a dark-haired man with a large head, who was dressed in a tuxedo. “Mr. Piper is expecting the Wentworths,” he announced in an extremely deep voice. He reached back to unlatch the low door in the rear. The instant they were seated the vehicle whirred noiselessly up the steep drive.

Bea looked up at the large house perched on the cusp of the cliff above the Connecticut River. Dark scudding clouds had moved across the sky obscuring the last of the day’s dim light. The steep approach, the bleak sky, and the harsh outlines of the stone outcroppings that composed the building’s walls caused the mansion to cast a looming, sinister-looking shadow.

“Very foreboding digs,” she said.

“A dwelling fit for a munitions manufacturer,” Lyon added.

Bridgeway was more than a dark, massive structure. During his first visit years ago, Lyon had decided that only a very strange man could have created a building that seemed to transform a bad dream suffered by a returning Crusader knight into reality. The insomniac Templar must have somehow confused Baroque, Byzantium, and Gothic architecture. Although this mixture was historically improbable, it probably reflected the yearnings and miseducation that a Piper forebear had imported from an obscure Germanic village. Whatever its intended design, the building had been constructed in massive proportions out of brownstone rock quarried nearby. The resulting creation was a surrealistic square gargoyle perched on a rock high above the river.

Lyon knew that the building had been begun by the original emigrating Piper and finished by his son just prior to the Civil War. Caleb evidently became a lonely and embittered old man who survived two wives and the death of his oldest son. Perhaps it was this sour personality that had imbued the house with its sinister characteristics.

They swerved into the final switchback in their approach to the house. The golf cart slowed and came to a silent stop. The house loomed high on the promontory above them; spasmodic windows cast irregular light across the hill, while faint nostalgic notes of a string ensemble drifted faintly toward them.

Their driver, his face barely visible in the dim light, carefully stepped down from the golf cart and stood stiffly before them in a posture that indicated anxiety.

For a brief moment Lyon wondered if it were possible to be mugged by a tuxedo-wearing highwayman who drove a golf cart. The possibility of robbery seemed even more remote when it became obvious that their quixotic chauffeur was considerably less than four feet tall. The small man extended a stiff hand toward him.

“R. Welch, Mr. Wentworth,” he said formally. “When I heard them call up to the house to pick you up, I took it because I wanted to speak with you.” He nodded toward Bea. “Senator, I have always voted for you.”

Bea automatically switched on her political smile, oblivious to the fact that it was not visible in the dim light. “Thank you, Mr. Welch.” Her firm grip was extended toward the small man who stood stiffly before them.

“You’re here to see Swan,” he said.

“Yes,” Lyon answered, more puzzled than ever.

“I have lived at Bridgeway all my life. I know that something is bad wrong here. Real bad.” He looked up at Lyon and even in the gloom it was apparent that he expected some pronouncement. “Well?” he asked after a pause.

“Swan asked to meet with me.”

“I know your history, Wentworth,” the surprisingly deep voice stated with a hint of menace. “You better not blow this one. Too much is at stake. It has to be stopped. Now!”

He turned and bolted from them. Within several steps he was lost in the shadows.

“I think we have just met Igor,” Bea said. “If the townspeople storm the hill with lit torches, I’m leaving.”

“I think our small friend has been drinking,” Lyon said.

“You smelled something?”

“Yep. We may have just been accosted by a drunken dwarf.”

“I’m not quite sure if that’s politically correct,” Bea said. “But what in the world was it all about?”

Lyon shrugged as another employee, dressed in the Piper Corporation’s ubiquitous coveralls, appeared in the drive before them. “The Rabbit said for me to take you the rest of the way,” he said as he climbed behind the wheel.

“Thanks,” Lyon answered. They were deposited on a spacious stoop under a porte cochere in front of a wide oaken door that was slightly ajar. Dual security cameras mounted on the walls on either side of the door swiveled toward them.

“Welcome to Bridgeway,” Bea said.

Lyon gave a short bow and extended a hand toward the open door. Arm in arm they entered.

A chamber ensemble was playing somewhere in the interior of the house. They followed the sound of muted music through a high stone vestibule and down a wide hall that emptied into an immense living room.

The three-story-high room had wide, curving stairs at each end that led to a balcony that ran along three of its sides. A number of doors entered off the balcony, and Lyon assumed that these led to bedrooms and other suites. The chamber music group played in an alcove located to one side of a massive fireplace that occupied nearly a whole wall on the room’s outer side. Uniformed waiters, including their diminutive chauffeur from the golf cart, circulated unobtrusively with canapes and flutes of champagne.

There were two dozen other guests in the room. Several political figures acknowledged Bea, while Lyon recognized department heads and nationally known scholars from Middleburg University and two other prestigious schools. He assumed that most of the other well-dressed men and women who carried themselves with such assurance were members of the state business community, which consisted primarily of insurance companies and defense contractors. The aggregate influence present in the room added up to a large percentage of the state power structure.

A portion of the party spilled through several French doors leading onto a patio much like the one at their home, Nutmeg Hill. Although their house was far smaller and more modest than Bridgeway, its similar location on a high promontory across the river sustained the remote kinship Lyon felt for Peyton Piper. In their youth they had been college classmates. Their interests and philosophies were now so divergent that no vestige of a relationship would have remained except for this vague alumni connection threaded together by their mutual homes facing each other high above the river.

The Wentworths had taken their first sip of champagne when Peyton Piper waved from across the room. He immediately began to make his way toward them. He slipped through the crowd, leaving a practiced wake of arm squeezes, busses, and hand clasps. It was an orchestrated movement of social tacking that Lyon had to admire.

Bea watched Peyton Piper’s progress with a politician’s eye. “He moves through crowds better than a lot of presidential candidates I’ve met,” she whispered to Lyon.

“He could do that when we were in college, but like good wine he improves with age. I’ve always had the feeling that Peyton started to hone those social moves in kindergarten.”

“No,” Bea answered. “Men like Peyton go directly from nursery school to prep. They don’t do all that other stuff like the rest of us mortals. You know, he’d be a damn attractive man if he weren’t politically right of Genghis Khan, in addition to manufacturing explosives and being so beautifully unctuous. I bet he plays great tennis and bridge?”

“Of course.”

Peyton had finally reached their side. He kissed Bea while simultaneously grasping Lyon’s arm at the elbow. “God, it’s good to see some real people here tonight,” he said for their benefit.

“As if the rest are all clones,” Bea thought to herself as she caught the faintest aroma of his after-shave lotion. She didn’t ordinarily care for scents of that nature, but whatever he was wearing smelled terrific. She wondered where he got the stuff.

Peyton was Lyon’s age and height although slightly heavier. With his even tan and compact body kept trim by social sport exercise and exquisite tailoring, he exuded an aura of fitness and well-being. His physical appearance was only a backdrop to his complete social assurance. Lyon had always felt that smug confidence was best represented by royalty or by those who came from old New England money. They were educated at certain prep schools that fed them directly into certain Ivy League colleges. They were not only accepted by but automatically assimilated into old-boy networks. It could be an intimidating facade, as shown by the nervousness that overcame Richard Nixon in his confrontations with Jack Kennedy.

While a caterer spoke confidentially with Peyton Piper for a moment, Lyon leaned over to whisper in Bea’s ear. “Musk of Tahitian virgins.”

She looked puzzled. “What?”

“The after-shave lotion.”

“How did you know I wondered?”

“I saw your little nostrils quiver.”

Bea sighed. “How can a man who can’t change a faucet washer notice subtle things like that?”

“Because I don’t sleep with kitchen faucets.”

Peyton turned his full attention back to them. “As I said, so glad you two could come. It’s always good to see you, Lyon, and later on I want to have a little tête-à-tête with Bea and Congressman Candlin.”

“We were met by a crowd outside the estate who were definitely not happy campers,” Bea said.

Peyton Piper laughed. “They’re wimps compared to the protesters Bridgeway attracted during the Vietnam war, when we manufactured napalm. That’s when we really had a parade of loonies climbing the walls. Now they’re criticizing the Tommy land mine. You know, I think if I manufactured rosary beads and crucifixes they’d call me anti-Semitic.”

“Why are they protesting since we aren’t at war with anyone this week?”

Peyton Piper smiled. “We don’t really know the shelf life of a Terrible Tommy land mine once it’s buried. Of course, it’s a passive weapon, but it might be lethal for as long as a century.”

Lyon wondered if the industrialist’s smile was due to irony or pride.

Bea looked incredulous. “Do you mean to say that those things are buried all over the Third World and last practically forever?”

“A Tommy has never been buried in American soil,” Peyton said proudly.

“That’s because they were developed after our Civil War,” Lyon added and received a sharp look from Peyton. “In some parts of the world they’re planted in more acres than rice or maize.”

Peyton put his arm on Lyon’s shoulder and flashed his most winning smile at the couple. “You know, Beatrice, even at college Lyon was always argumentative. Probably why he didn’t get invited into the Thumpers lunch club. If my old man, the colonel, was still around he would have called you anti-class.”

“Oh, God, Peyton,” Lyon said. “You’ll be calling the protesters serfs before the evening is out.”

Their host’s eyes widened in mock horror. “You mean they aren’t my vassals? Did someone release the serfs without telling me?”

Peyton flashed another winning smile after this great jest. Bea wondered if perhaps the humor was the actual camouflage and a part of this man actually believed in his divine rights.

“I promised I’d talk with you about those mines,” Bea said.

“You could never imagine the corporate battles we had over the Tommy, Beatrice. Let me tell you a little story. When I was first elected to the board of directors, the colonel still ran this company with an iron fist. At that time the Terrible Tommy was set to detonate at three feet. Army ordnance people felt that men couldn’t hunch lower than that unless they were flat in the dirt. Well, I went to the mat for a four-foot explosive height in order to protect the children who might wander on the field. The colonel, my own father, opposed me, but I won that battle, kids. And to this day the Terrible Tommy detonates at four feet.”

“It only maims taller children,” Bea said.

Peyton shook his head. “No wonder you two are married. You think alike. Isn’t that Congressman Candlin in the doorway? Excuse me. I’ll go net him for our little chat.”

Peyton began working the crowd back toward the room’s entrance, where the tall congressman stood cataloging the party participants with mild interest.

“It’s been a long time, Lyon.” The woman’s voice was low and intense.

Lyon was startled at the change in Katherine Piper during the two years since he had last seen her. Peyton’s wife was a thin woman who now wore heavy base makeup to disguise a chalk-white complexion and dark hollows around her eyes. Her other attempts to restore a past haunting beauty had succeeded only in making her appear slightly grotesque. Her carefully articulated movements and speech were the deliberate actions of the near inebriated.

“Katherine, I would like you to meet my wife, Bea.”

The woman took Bea’s hand with a limp grip that conveyed limited interest. “Yes, I have heard of you, Bernice.”

“Bea.”

“Of course, Lee. I hear you’re one of those superactive women who manages a career, puts down men, and still bakes cakes.”

Lyon could sense his wife’s antennae quivering. “Only on Mondays and Wednesdays,” Bea answered. “On the other days I sell my body.”

“Really, is there much of a market for it?” Katherine Piper said as the diminutive butler served her a tall glass containing what appeared to be orange juice.

“Ixnay,” the butler said to her. “Ocknay offnay.”

“Keep your place, you little troll,” Katherine Piper replied in a stage whisper.

Lyon stepped into the breach. “Did you know that Katherine was in grad school at our university when Peyton and I were undergraduates?”

“I noticed that my husband trotted out his ‘going to the mat with the colonel’ anecdote. That little fable is designed to prove that he’s not as bloodthirsty as his annual report would lead you to believe. Actually, his father was quite a man.”

“Granddaddy was a malicious warlord.” A young woman with glowing blond hair that fell past her shoulders appeared at their side. Her hand gripped Lyon’s. “Remember me, Mr. Wentworth? Paula Piper.”

Lyon took her hand and felt the same firm pressure her father transmitted during his greetings. “Of course, Paula. I haven’t seen you since I don’t know when. But I see that the braces are off.”

“Other things have come out too,” Katherine Piper said.

Lyon found it difficult to ignore the taut body of the athletic young woman in a tight green sheath with a plunging neckline. “Yes,” he agreed and felt Bea’s toe press painfully into his ankle.

“Paula is my step-daughter,” Katherine Piper said. “The unlamented first Mrs. Piper didn’t seem to understand that children should be drowned at birth like unwanted kittens.”

Bea was taken aback.

“Mums always joshes when she’s had too much vodka,” Paula said. “That’s why the Garden Club struck Bridgeway from their spring house tour. They didn’t think it was funny when she fell in the goldfish pond and swallowed a small frog.”

Lyon and Bea exchanged a private glance that signaled their discomfort over the treacherous warfare which had just been exposed between these two women.

“How would you know what I swallowed, Snookums? You were away at college,” Katherine said with what was meant to be a smile, but which came out as a lopsided grimace. “She’s majoring in sexual conquests,” she announced to Bea and Lyon.

“Mums already has an advanced degree in wicked step-mothering with a minor in alcoholism,” Paula retaliated.

“I think that you both have crossed any semblance of a line and that’s unfortunate,” Bea said with the candor that often burst through normal constraints. The two women looked startled.

“I think you are probably right,” Katherine Piper said after an awkward pause, her voice strikingly different in tone.

“Whether Katherine and I are polite to each other doesn’t matter,” Paula said. “Markham Swan says I’ll be dead before the month is out and that someday Bridgeway will return to dust.” She abruptly moved away from them and left the room.

“She’s in that love of death adolescent stage,” Katherine said. “Paula has unbounded admiration for a Valhalla of dead poets presided over by Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.”

“If she’s overly obsessed by suicidal poets, perhaps she needs professional help—immediately,” Lyon said.

“Oh, she’s not talking about killing herself,” Katherine Piper said. “This isn’t any adolescent cry for help. She’s referring to her own demise as forecast by that philanderer Swan, who is probably using that ploy to seduce her. Excuse me, I have to find out where that nasty little man has hidden my vodka.” Before they could respond she began weaving a course through the crowd.

“Speaking of murder warnings, I haven’t noticed Markham Swan in this group, have you?” Lyon asked.

“He’s always easy to spot,” Bea said. “Just check out clumps of women surrounding a lone man. No. I haven’t seen him.”

Lyon recalled the cryptic phone call he’d received from Swan earlier in the day. He had been working at the computer on the newest Wobbly book, They Take to the Air, when the call came in on the answering machine.

“I know you can hear this, Wentworth,” Swan had said when the machine answered the phone. “Drop the damn nursery school story that you’re writing and pick up the phone because I’m talking murder here.”

Lyon knew that Swan was aware of his phone system and would stay on the line until he answered personally. He reluctantly reached over to the machine and snicked the phone from its cradle. “Yes, Markham?”

“I know Bea is coming out to Bridgeway tonight to endorse Peyton’s latest rotten scheme, and I’d like you to come.”

“I wasn’t invited, Markham. I would also like to point out that I do not work for Mr. Piper. You do.”

“Forget the invite bit. You were a Thumper in college. That gives you the right to visit a fellow Thump at any time.”

“I am not a Thumper, Markham. As I recall, you blackballed me.”

“You always were a little bit of a dork, Wentworth. I’ve never figured out if those two years in Nam as an intelligence officer or your buddying up to our gargantuan police chief warped your mind, but something sure did. I know you get your jollies from murder investigations and boy do I have one for you.”

“I’ve sworn off that stuff,” Lyon said tiredly.

“You haven’t heard what I’ve got. I’ve turned up something in my work that’s screaming murder to me. The cutest member of the Piper family is going to get whacked.”

“And the whacker told you in advance?”

“No. I figured it out.”

“I thought you were writing a history of the Piper family,” Lyon said.

“Exactly. And I have come across a piece of pie that tells me that the kid Paula is going to get it—soon.”

“I can only take so much of Peyton Piper, Markham. And I’m not in that mood today.”

“How about me? I’m living out here in this fiefdom.”

“You’re well paid,” Lyon said.

Swan seemed to sigh, an unusual gesture for the usually self-confident man. “Come on, Wentworth. I think I’m on to something, but I need a reality check with someone I can trust and you best fill that ticket.” There was another long pause. “Please.”

The please was a first for Markham Swan. It was Lyon’s turn to sigh. “Okay. I’ll drive Bea out there.”

“Look me up at the cottage at nine,” Markham had said and then the phone buzzed a disconnect.

Rocco Herbert laid a large hand on Lyon’s shoulder. “I want you to know that I have orders from Daddy Warbucks to execute any protesters swilling his free booze.”

“I thought you were busy arresting outside agitators?” Lyon asked the police chief.

“That’s no fun without being able to toss Bea into a lineup.”

“Question,” Lyon said. “You have a coed daughter on the cusp of leaving teenagehood. Does she often speak of death lurking around the corner?”

“Only if she tries to sneak off for weekends with her latest boyfriend. Then she knows death lurks in the form of one large, angry police chief.”

“You aren’t up with the times, Rocco. That’s not the way things are anymore.”

“I know how they are, Lyon. I just don’t want to know about it when it comes to my own daughter.” He refused a flute of champagne with a small deprecating wave of his hand. “To further answer your question, teenagers do get fixations on death.”

“So I seem to remember from my teaching days and the countless submissions of morbid poetry. I wonder if Swan is playing up to Paula with this type of thing.”

“Knowing Swan’s reputation, I wouldn’t doubt it,” Rocco answered.

“What doesn’t fit is that he called and wanted me out here for some reason.”

Rocco held up his hands in mock protest. “Come on, Lyon, when it comes to Swan and women anything goes. Don’t take it seriously.”

“Protests have been known to get out of hand.”

Rocco laughed. “Did that group outside look like they were plotting a bloody revolution?”

“Well, no, but I’m no expert on revolutions.”

The remarkably short waiter appeared at Rocco’s side. He carried a silver serving tray holding a tall glass of vodka and tonic. “Your drink, Chief,” he said in his bass voice.

Rocco took the drink and sipped on it with approval. “Thank you, Rabbit. You make a remarkably good vodka and tonic.”

“I let the tonic bottle’s shadow fall across the vodka, Chief. And I thought we had a deal on the ‘Rabbit’ bit? I prefer to be known as Mr. R. Welch.”

“Of course, Mister R. I’ll call you anything you want as long as you’re clean.”

“Chief, I don’t even drive by a filling station if I can avoid it. When our car needs servicing, Frieda does the honors.”

“Glad to hear it Rab … Mister R.,” Rocco said. “Try not to get fired by Mister Piper again, and if you are, stay away from establishments that maintain long hours and cash registers.”

“You keep up the condescension crap and I’ll punch you out,” the butler replied.

“You know I have a bad football knee, Rabbit,” Rocco said and immediately regretted the cruel remark.

Rabbit glared at them. “Big people always have to take the cheap shots, don’t they? I’m going to go water your vodka.” He turned away and returned to the pantry.

Lyon cocked an eyebrow at Rocco. “What’s all this about gas stations and cheap shots?”

“I didn’t mean to come off as a smart ass,” Rocco replied. “But I swear to God, sometimes Rabbit, or Mister R. as he prefers, leads you right to the trough of cheap comebacks and requires you to drink.”

“And the gas stations?”

“The Welch Rabbit, as we have come to know him in the police trade, has a weakness for gas stations. Therefore, he and I have formed a team. He holds them up and I bust him. He hasn’t done time yet, but he got a suspended sentence in January and I have somehow been appointed his unofficial support group.

“Periodically they fire him here and he gets these irresistible urges to hit an Exxon. That’s when he calls me. Anytime, day or night, and we meet for coffee until the urge leaves him.”

“Like AA?”

“Same principle. But he’s gotten much better since he met Frieda, another little person, and they married.”

“Exactly what are you doing at this soiree besides bellying up to the bar, Rocco?”

“I am here at the specific request of the noble lord of the manor,” Rocco replied. “After that display outside, and some threats the family seems to have gotten, he wants me to discuss house security with his top rent-a-cop.”

The Welch Rabbit reappeared with a replenished tray and replaced the vodka. “Well, I’m off to check out the premises,” Rocco said as he clutched his fresh drink in a massive hand. “I’m thinking of checking out the new Sunoco on Route Eighty,” Rabbit said in a stage whisper to Rocco as they wound their way through the party back to the pantry.

Across the room Peyton Piper stood in a partly open doorway. When he established eye contact with Lyon he made a small beckoning hand gesture.

“I think it’s our turn to have an audience with the lord of the manor,” Lyon said. They made their way through clumps of guests and were ushered into a room in the far corner behind the west stairwell. As soon as they were inside Peyton firmly closed the heavy door.

A large stained-glass window in the outside wall depicted a life-size heroic pose of a Civil War union officer mounted on a rearing white charger. The soldier appeared to be leading an army as he waved a naked saber overhead. In the background, a vaulted stone bridge arched toward infinity.

Reaching up the right wall were two-story-high shelves containing bound volumes of family and business documents carefully preserved for more than a century. Glass cabinets on the floor and walls of the left side of the room displayed museum-quality Civil War memorabilia.

“I believe you both know Roger Candlin,” Peyton said.

The congressman was a tall, balding, cadaverous man. His few surviving strands of hair were brushed across his head, while opaque dark eyes increased the sense of distance about him. Somber clothes were in keeping with his personality. He gave a dour smile as his long tapering fingers quickly brushed Bea and Lyon’s hands.

Roger Candlin had not remained in office for ten terms because of personal charisma, but seemingly in spite of it. His political control of his district and a good portion of the state was immense. His incisive mind contained a wealth of personal information concerning constituents, state office holders, campaign contributors, and other individuals who might have influence in a state election, enabling him to resurrect names, family backgrounds, and person history nearly instantaneously. Over the years he had created a vast web of debits and credits. His staff provided myriad services for voters who needed help with any federal or state agency. He was ruthless, remarkably efficient, and unerringly able to identify foibles in others. The primary secret of his incumbency was simply that his wealth of knowledge put him in possession of intimate facts that discouraged active political opposition. Few felt secure enough in their backgrounds to chance an election challenge against Roger Candlin.

“I came to Bridgeway tonight for a nine o’clock appointment with Markham Swan, Peyton. Do you know where he is?” Lyon asked.

“I let him stay in the gate cottage,” the factory owner replied.

“Then I’ll leave you three and arrive at my appointment a little early,” Lyon said.

Peyton laughed. “If Swan said nine I wouldn’t arrive a second early. You might find yourself acting as coitus interruptus for Swan and his latest.”

Lyon nodded, knowing that there was hard truth in Peyton’s sarcasm. The room attracted him with its smell of old leather book bindings and collections of family and Civil War relics. He ran his hand admiringly along a matched set of bound correspondence. “Your family’s past seems well documented,” Lyon commented.

Peyton laughed. “Preservation of the name and glorious past. It’s an old New England habit, Lyon. We try to keep it all together.” He gestured expansively toward Roger Candlin. “And here’s a living example. Did you know that my forefathers worked with the congressman’s back in the days when the Candlins were private bankers?”

“Until the day his granddaddy told my granddaddy to sell Piper Corporation stock short,” Candlin said without apparent emotion.

Peyton chuckled. “The old colonel did have one hell of a strange sense of humor.”

“The earnings report was far better than the colonel had indicated,” the congressman continued in a flat voice. “It cost my family every cent we had to cover that short sale.”

Peyton’s hand curled over the congressman’s shoulder. “That was another generation, Roger. Much water has flowed past Bridgeway since then. The colonel’s financial games are long forgotten.”

“But of course,” Candlin replied in the same emotionless voice.

The butler entered with a tray of champagne glasses. “Rabbit’s family has been with us for generations also,” Peyton said as he patted the head of his scowling servant.

“Usually as court jesters,” Rabbit said. “Only these days we get to do away with the bells on the hat and the pointy shoes.” He offered champagne to everyone.

Lyon waved his away, but Peyton insisted that he take a glass.

Peyton raised his glass. “A toast to the removal of the Piper Corporation. May we drink to all that it has contributed to the Nutmeg state over the past century and a half.”

Candlin did not raise his glass. “Did I hear the word removal, Peyton? Or is that your poor idea of humor?”

“No, Roger. I am not being facetious. I am considering making the formal announcement of our relocation at a press conference tomorrow. It’ll be a lesson to those idiot protesters who disrupted my guests. The left-wing contingent seems to have forgotten that Piper Corporation provides an economic base for the Connecticut Valley. We pay the highest industrial hourly wage in the northeast.”

Bea was upset. “Peyton, your factory has been in Connecticut practically since we killed off the Indians. You just can’t close down and leave without months of warning and severance pay arrangements.”

“Our labor costs are outrageously high and not competitive with other states, much less other countries. It’s a simple matter of economics, Beatrice. I was below the Mason-Dixon line recently and found that they sharpen their pencils when they beckon industry in the southland. I have an obligation to our stockholders to take the most profitable course of action.”

Roger Candlin made an indescribable sound, which Lyon interpreted as a sort of hurrumph. “You and your family own a majority interest in the voting stock of the Piper Corporation, Peyton. Don’t hand me any of your stockholder crap.”

“You will devastate the economy of the Murphysville-Middleburg area,” Bea said. She tried to avoid the astonished look Lyon turned in her direction. An hour ago she was standing on the hood of a car accepting the baton of protest from a concerned group of people. Now, she was arguing for the retention of that same factory that made items that had no functional use except killing. It was a quandary of a distinctively political nature.

“Please don’t weep crocodile tears for the community, Bea,” Peyton said. “Moments ago you were glaring at me as a typical munitions monster. Those people ranting outside wouldn’t care if I close all our doors permanently. In other words, you can’t have it both ways. We don’t make frying pans. We make weapons. And I intend to take us to an area that appreciates us.”

“Why don’t you tell us what you really want, Peyton,” Roger Candlin said.

“Peace on earth and good will toward men,” Peyton laughed. “Don’t patronize me, Roger.”

“I ask again. What do you want?”

“More champagne?” he asked.

Heads shook.

“What do I want?” Peyton Piper mused. “Well, I’d like that goddamn protesting stopped, and then I’d like some appreciation for our contribution to the economic well-being of the area.”

“That’s certainly possible,” Roger Candlin said slowly. “My staff could arrange some well-placed news articles and TV interviews, that sort of thing. It doesn’t take much real effort to paint any sort of kettle or horse a different color.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you have a real zinger waiting for us, Peyton?” Bea said.

Peyton Piper smiled graciously. “Next, I want the party nomination for the United States Senate. And that’s something you two in partnership with the Piper money can give me.”

THREE

“Good God, Peyton!” Bea said. “You aren’t even a member of the party.”

“I’m registered as an Independent.”

Bea glanced at Candlin in surprise. “I believe you’re actually considering this proposal.”

The congressman avoided her eyes. “The fact that he’s registered as an Independent is not a problem. That’s a minor detail that we can get taken care of tomorrow. When he makes a formal announcement we’ll pass out some sort of ‘see how distinguished I am for not registering before’ statement. I’ve made a quick calculation of the convention votes. If we’re not close enough to go over, we’ll have the solid twenty percent necessary to force a primary. Are you ready for that sleigh ride, Peyton?”

“But of course.”

“How much money did you have in mind?” Candlin asked. The remark was thrown out casually, but everyone knew that was the crucial question of the night.

Piper smiled. “A great deal. I feel the need for a change of scenery and Washington suits me fine. As a matter of fact, I’ve given it enough thought to consider that Mrs. Piper, who hates to travel, will remain here at Bridgeway. I will ask Paula to take a sabbatical from college and act as my hostess.”

Why does that not surprise me, Lyon thought.

“This is ridiculous,” Bea snorted. “We don’t even come close philosophically. I think you should be talking to the other people.”

“Since when did philosophy matter?” Peyton smiled. “What’s important is winning elections. The way it reads now, you guys are forced to back a very vulnerable incumbent.”

“I’ve seen candidates bounce back from scandal before,” Bea said. “The voters might forget that sex business by the general election, or there’s another scenario where the candidate plays the contrition game and throws himself on the mercy of the electorate. He does have options, Peyton.”

“You can’t win without the feminine vote. And since faithful wife caught faithless senator boffing his aide, he’s going down the tubes. I have private polls that show his present approval rating as somewhere alongside Saddam Hussein.”

Lyon turned away from the group. His wife was under attack, but it would be inappropriate if he attempted to take up cudgels on her behalf. Her political positions were of her own choosing, although what Peyton proposed presented several unique problems. An hour ago Bea had been in agreement with the protesters who were rallying against the munitions manufacturer. Now she was being asked to endorse him.

He walked down the aisles of the long room with its high bookshelves and display cases filled with weapons, medals, and other memorabilia. The room had a strong sense of history.

Under the heroic stained-glass window was a desk strewn with books, note cards, and a computer terminal. Lyon imagined the area to be a research station created by Markham Swan for his book on the Piper family.

Three months ago Peyton had called Lyon about that project. “I want a book written about the family and Piper Corporation, Lyon. I don’t mean a PR whitewash. I want the truth.”

“Uh-huh,” Lyon had said. Why was it that people who insisted on the truth often wanted their own version of the truth?

“I want a significant work that shows what my company has contributed to this state and nation. Now, since it is a family-run organization, the background will also include a lot of Piper lore. You know the kind of material I’m talking about. It should probably begin with the Civil War. Or perhaps a decade before that when the company began to mushroom and construction began on Bridgeway and its Underground Railroad station. It’s damn interesting historical stuff, if I do say so. I was thinking along the lines of calling it, ‘The Piper Contribution.’”

“Are you asking me to work on this book for you, Peyton?”

“Hell, yes, Lyon. You’re the writer I know best, and I believe that classmates should stick together when we can.”

“Peyton, I write children’s books. My main series characters are the Wobbly monsters. My biggest seller was Nancy Goes to Mount Vernon.”

“If these Wobbly things of yours are labor agitators we had better forget the deal.”

“The Wobblies are a pair of kind monsters with red tongues and tails who look scary but do good things.”

“I know some union shop stewards that fit that description—except for the good things part.” Peyton guffawed at his own humor. “Hell, if you can write that crap you can write anything.”

“Markham Swan was in school with us,” Lyon had finally suggested.

“Markham has a personal problem that resulted in some bad publicity.”

“He was a Thumper,” Lyon countered.

Peyton considered the last comment seriously. He examined it mentally a moment before speaking his interest. “Possibly I should talk with him. It’s not as if his name would actually appear on the book.”

“Let me put you two in touch,” Lyon had finally said. He had recommended Markham Swan for the assignment with the knowledge that Swan’s political beliefs and background were closer to Piper’s needs. Lyon and Swan had taught together briefly at Middleburg University some years ago. They had also been thrown together again when Swan, who had turned to historical writing, was doing a young adult treatment of the Battle of Gettysburg and their mutual publisher had reintroduced them. Lyon had recently learned that the writer had also written a company-sponsored history of a cigarette company. Considering the tobacco project, there wouldn’t be any ethical reason for Swan to avoid tackling a benign treatment of a munitions manufacturer.

He had called Markham that afternoon. “This assignment has no socially redeeming features,” Lyon told him. “The Pipers manufacture explosive devices that kill people.”

“Great!” Swan had replied. “I need the dough, and if he’s desperate enough he might pony up big bucks.”

“You’ve obviously recovered from your assignment with the cigarette company?”

“Hell, yes. I’m not dumb enough to ingest that junk into my lungs.”

Swan did not seem to be present at the party in the other room. That could mean that the historian was hard at work on his assignment, or that writers, like other hired hands, weren’t necessarily welcome when the squire entertained his equals.

“I will not be a party to this,” Bea Wentworth said with such conviction that her voice carried down the long room to where Lyon stood under the stained-glass window. He hurried to Bea’s side as she faced the two belligerent men. “I will not allow the nomination of a U.S. senator to be auctioned off like a rock star’s underwear,” Bea said.

“Lady, you are really naive,” Piper returned.

“We haven’t gone into the question of party discipline. If you should get the nomination and win …,” Roger Candlin began.

“I’m a team player,” Piper responded. “I know the meaning of cooperation.”

The congressman almost smiled. “I’m glad you do, because few seem to these days.”

“You can count on me for my money and loyalty. I hold a few tiny philosophical differences concerning the government on the backs of big business, but that’s nothing you can’t live with.”

“Oh, God!” Bea groaned.

Roger Candlin gave a subtle body signal to the industrialist. Lyon realized that the gesture was not seen by his wife.

“I have to check on my guests,” Piper said in response to the suggestion. “I’ll be back shortly.” He shut the door quietly as he left.

Roger Candlin shook his head in exasperation at Bea. “I knew there was something quirky about you, Wentworth,” he said coolly. “Do you always respond so violently to political suggestions?”

“Are you really going to consider that man’s proposition seriously? Why don’t you simply sell yourself on the nearest street corner?”

“We take his money and then we throw him to the wolves, Beatrice. That’s the way this game is played.”

“This man manufactures land mines that are blowing up children throughout the world,” Bea said.

“As the Kennedys once said,” Candlin argued, “you get elected, then worry about your philosophical positions.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Bea said.

“I wonder how you’ve survived in politics as long as you have,” the congressman replied.

The argument would continue. Since he could not participate, Lyon thought it expedient to leave the room.

The party was still in progress in the huge living room. Peyton had staked out a social station in the corner opposite the string ensemble. A group of laughing men surrounded him. Their tanned looks and obvious affluence identified them as the ‘golf-playing’ contingent. They broke into a unanimous whoop of laughter at Peyton’s latest remark.

At the extreme edge of the long patio that ran by the parapet over the river, Lyon found Paula Piper standing in the shadows. Her slight form, in contrast to the massive stone walls and overhangs, made her appear very vulnerable. He recalled watching her volunteer activities during Bea’s last campaign. The young woman’s vibrancy and zest were infectious. Her open personality was in many ways the exact opposite of her father’s assured pragmatism. He hoped that these appealing qualities in her were never lost or destroyed.

When he stood next to her at the low wall she glanced up in mild apprehension until she saw who it was. A tentative smile signaled her recognition. Lyon leaned on the wall to stare out into the night.

“Did you know we have a ghost at Bridgeway?” Paula said. “If you look hard enough on the nights of a full moon you can see her rise up from the river and walk along the parapet.”

“Anyone I know?” Lyon asked.

“Mary Piper. That was Old Caleb’s first wife. Caleb is the Civil War colonel immortalized in our stained-glass window.”

“What did Mary do to deserve such a fate?”

“That’s the disturbing part. We don’t know. The story is that they were having dinner out here on the patio when Mary abruptly left the table and walked over to the parapet. She climbed on the wall, spread her arms wide apart, and before anyone could stop her, leaped into the river. Her body was never found. They say that six months later she rose from her watery grave to haunt us forever.”

“Have you seen this apparition?” Lyon asked.

She gave him a real smile this time. “Of course not, but I like the story. When I was fifteen I spent a great deal of time making up reasons as to why she jumped. Most of my reasons were variations of family problems that teenagers face.”

“That sounds a little morose,” Lyon said, aware that this was a mental state that often consumed adolescents.

“I’m going to die,” she said quietly without rancor.

“We all are, Paula … eventually.” He sighed inwardly at her new mood. During his days teaching English at Middleburg University, he had been only too aware of sensitive adolescents who seemed to write hundreds of poems announcing their affinity with death.

Paula tried to manufacture a laugh, but the effort produced only a choked sob. “Evidently not eventually,” she said. “I’ve just been informed that my murder is practically around the corner. Like, this month.”

He considered the possibility that the protesters outside the mansion had truly frightened her. “Those people who were demonstrating tonight are against killing,” he said. “I don’t think they will harm you.”

“I don’t mean them. I know most of the younger ones from school, and I would have been with them if Daddy’s hired goons wouldn’t laugh at me. I’m talking about something else.”

Lyon wondered what in the world Swan was up to. If he were using this murder game as a ploy with a very sensitive, death-obsessed young woman, he was into cheap hits. But if sex was his ultimate aim, why did he ask Lyon to come tonight? “I don’t understand.”

“Markham Swan says it’s my turn,” she said. Her eyes were wide in astonishment and fear. Lyon realized that her feelings transcended poetic sensitivity or adolescent depression. This was pure fear. This was a display of a deep human emotion—a dread of imminent death.

“Someone is going to kill me,” she insisted with conviction.

“Who is someone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wait a minute, Paula,” Lyon said. “How old are you?”

“I just turned eighteen,” the young woman replied.

“Do you have many jilted lovers thirsting for revenge?”

She blushed. “I’ve only had one lover and he hasn’t been jilted yet.”

“Someone is after your money?” Lyon suggested.

“I do have a trust fund from my grandparents and Mom, but I’m an only child.”

“Terrorists are out to get you?”

“Terrorist countries are often Daddy’s best customers.”

“Then there is no reason why anyone would want to kill or even harm you, is there?” Lyon said.

“No.”

He made a final attempt to turn her. “There is something called a panic attack, which has fearful symptoms. Perhaps you should see a doctor.”

“Please don’t be condescending, Mr. Wentworth. I mean what I say. Look at this.” She handed Lyon a white piece of copy paper folded into four parts. “Please read it.”

Lyon carefully unfolded the paper to find several lines centered on the page. He tilted the paper toward the light and read: “Paula: The Piper Pie proves it. You are going to die this month. Come to the gate cottage at nine tonight and I will show you how I know.” The note was signed Markham Swan. Lyon carefully refolded the paper and handed it back to her.

Her eyes were very wide as she looked into his face. “You see what I mean?”

“How well do you know Markham?” Lyon asked.

“We were introduced when he first arrived to start the book. I see him around the estate and we’ve exchanged a few words. He puts in a great deal of time at the house and often works in the library, but I’ve been away at college for most of the time. He’s also living in the gate cottage with his wife. I once found him alone with my stepmother in the library. They were standing very near each other and looked like they had just quickly stepped apart. They looked sheepish.”

“What is the Piper Pie?”

“I haven’t the slightest,” the young girl answered.

Lyon laughed. “A new cook perhaps? A lousy baker?”

She looked. “You’re not taking this seriously?”

“You’ll have to make it clearer for me,” Lyon said.

“Rabbit delivered this note earlier in the day and I believe it.”

“I think there is something I should tell you about Markham Swan,” Lyon said. “Actually, this situation is my fault since I am the one who recommended him to your father. I never considered the fact that he might be working out of Bridgeway and that you two would meet more than casually.”

It was her turn to laugh. The sound was a sparkling tinkle of pure sound. “I see how he looks at me. I learned about that sort of thing a long time ago.”

“He does have a reputation in that area,” Lyon said. “In fact, the reason he gave up teaching was his involvement with a young woman student whom he eventually married.”

“So I am not supposed to go to any evening trysts at the gatehouse with the infamous Markham Swan?”

“As a matter of fact, I’ll be there. I’m here tonight because Markham phoned me about this nine o’clock meeting. He’s involved in some sort of huge head game, but damned if I know what it is. I swear to you, Paula, I will find out.”

She tilted her head and seemed to be considering her options before she turned to him with a wide smile. “Then you’ll go for both of us and protect me from the lecherous Mr. Swan?”

Lyon peeked into the library, to find Bea seated alone at the library table. She was bent over a small Tiffany lamp that cast a multicolored glow across her face. She seemed tired to the point of exhaustion. He wanted to hold her and protect her, but that was not possible at this moment.

She turned with a small smile of recognition and relief. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Where are the two dragons?”

“They have temporarily retreated into their caverns under ostensibly different pretexts, but I suspect they are actually holding a secret conference concerning my care and feeding.”

“Let’s go home. The hell with them.”

She shook her head. “No way. I’m not backing off. If that super-WASP wants the nomination, he’s going to have to work for it. Let him convince me along with about six hundred more state delegates. And you can’t leave until you deal with Markham Swan.”

“Want me to stay with you?”

She shook her head again. “It would just inhibit them, delay things, and infuriate you. Go to Markham Swan’s overly dramatic meeting and see what in the world he’s up to. If he’s discovered monsters hiding at Bridgeway, they can’t be worse than the ones I’m jousting with.”

Lyon left the house by the front door and went around to the side, where he found a wide parking area filled with guests’ cars. He also located the electric golf cart, with the keys still in the ignition. He switched on the motor, clicked the front lights, and drove slowly toward the front gate.

He was nearly to the small house at the wall when a muffled retort echoed across the hills. A second noise followed it after a count of four.

The sounds were not quite like any gunfire he had previously heard. Although the surrounding hills made it impossible to pinpoint the direction of their origin, the sounds were certainly not the result of a car backfire or thunder. They sounded more like the distant explosion of large firecrackers.

He stopped the cart by the front door of the small cottage, then sat still for a few moments, listening to the sounds of the night. It was quiet except for a lone cricket and a single owl. If he turned in the right direction and listened carefully, it was possible to hear a distant muted din from the remains of the party at the house up the hill.

Lyon had not noticed the gatekeeper’s cottage during the incident with the protesters. The structure was barely visible from the outside of the estate since it faced the interior side and had no windows or doors on the far side of the wall. A narrow building three stories high located next to the gate’s entrance, it was constructed of the same brownstone material as the main building, and was actually built into the estate’s walls. It was a nondescript building matched by a twin structure located on the other side of the gates. The second building had a double-wide entrance and was evidently used for equipment storage. A single light shone through a leaded window built into the oval-shaped door.

Lyon stepped from the cart and used the knocker on the front door. No answer. He knocked again and heard the reverberations of the sound echoing through the small building. There was no response from the interior of the house.

He knocked again without result and then tried the handle and found the door unlocked. He slowly pushed it ajar.

The building’s narrow structure restricted the floors to one room in width, built in a shotgun design. Entrance was directly into a living room area, with a small dining room beyond, followed by an efficient-appearing kitchen area. He assumed that the bedrooms upstairs were laid out in a similar manner. The small dining room had been converted into an office. A computer monitor that reflected the flicker of a screen saver was the only light illuminating the room.

The body was slumped over the table directly in front of the computer.

A short-haired blond woman was hunched in the far corner of the room. Her back pressed against the wall while her hands were clenched into fists that pressed tightly against her mouth.

She made small mewing sounds as she stared at the corpse in the flickering computer light.

“What happened?” Lyon said.

“He … he’s dead,” the woman finally mumbled. “The son-of-a-bitch is finally dead.”

“You killed him?” Lyon asked in a low tone that was half question and half statement.

She didn’t answer.

Lyon looked more closely at the corpse. There wasn’t any need to feel for a pulse or begin heroic resuscitation efforts. Markham Swan was dead. No one could have survived the massive wounds to his head and throat.

FOUR

The physician chuckled as he examined the dead man.

Although the doctor’s first name was Lars, the assistant medical examiner for the State of Connecticut was usually known as Happy Hansen. Considering the circumstances of his work, his loud laugh was often inappropriate. These unexpected and exuberant bursts of joviality frequently jolted the most seasoned police officers and accident-seasoned paramedics. There was little question in the minds of his associates that Lars’ attitude could transform a generally gruesome situation into the genuinely macabre.

“You going to fly that ridiculous new balloon of yours at the hot air meet at Farmington next week, Wentworth?”

“I think not, Happy. I’m not comfortable with its performance yet,” Lyon answered.

Happy laughed. “Just as well. Miserable excuse for a hot air balloon if I ever did see one.” Hansen gave a triumphant gurgle as his tweezers successfully clamped a metal object. He squinted at his newfound possession and laughed again. “Hey, big fella, look at this.”

Rocco Herbert, whose size overpowered the cottage’s small dining area, leaned toward Happy. “What do you have?”

“This little baby that just fell out of our victim will rattle your cage.”

Rocco squinted at the clamped object. “What in the hell is it?”

“This guy’s got what I call a double whammy. In other words, someone took him out twice. There are two wounds here, Chiefy,” Happy continued. “Rather massive actually. They appear to have been made by the same type projectile. The head wound missile is still inside the cranium. The second was lodged in the soft tissue of the neck and fell out when I turned the head slightly,” he said as he dropped the object into an acetate bag.

Rocco held the transparent bag up to a ceiling light and slowly turned it for a better perspective as he examined it carefully. “Damnedest thing I ever did see.”

“If it weren’t so large, it would slightly resemble a pellet shot for one of those compressed air guns,” the doctor said. “As a bullet she would be about a …” He took a small instrument from his breast pocket and measured the size of the object through the acetate. “About fifty caliber or more, I’d say.”

Rocco nodded, “Could be, but it’s far too large for any air gun. How about something for commercial use?” Rocco suggested. “A compressed air tool of some sort that would eject something this size with considerable force?” He handed the envelope to Lyon.

“Maybe,” Larsen agreed in an uncharacteristically serious vein.

“Possibly it has something to do with heavy construction equipment,” Rocco said. “I’ll check it out with some civil engineers and the highway department in the morning.”

Lyon handed the bag back to Rocco. “No need,” he said. “It’s a bullet.”

Hansen returned to his examination of the body, shining a penlight into the fixed pupils. “Wish I could be that sure about things. I’m not even sure this guy’s dead.” He laughed. “I also doubt the judgment of anyone dumb enough to buy a balloon like that Cloudhopper you just bought. Face it, Wentworth, bullets are not your specialty. When was the last time you fired a rifle, or any firearm for that matter?”

“He doesn’t believe in guns,” Rocco answered. “He feels that if guns don’t kill people then bullets act as damn good surrogates.”

“You’re something else again, Lyon,” Happy said. “I see bullets all the time and this is the strangest looking one I ever saw. Look at the concave rear. What in hell kind of metal is it made from? The state police forensic guys will go ape trying to figure it out and will finally end up shipping it off to the FBI lab.”

“It’s a minié ball,” Lyon said.

“You may be Minié, but I’m Mickey,” Happy Hansen said with a further burst of laughter that made Rocco wince and roll his eyes behind the examiner’s head.

Rocco took Lyon’s comment seriously enough to reexamine the evidence bag. “The thing is bullet shaped, Lyon. The front part is rounded to a near point like any ordinary bullet load. If you’re thinking of a minié ball like in antique firearms, you have it wrong.”

“I don’t think so. The minié principle was used in military firearms from about the 1850s on. It had extensive use during our Civil War.”

Rocco shook his head. “I’ve seen old firearms loaded. The rifle had a ramrod, which you used to shove powder and paper wadding into the barrel. That was followed by the musket ball, which was nearly as large as the caliber of the weapon. The projectiles were large round jobbers like fat marbles.”

Hansen chuckled. “Guys who write kiddie books shouldn’t throw musket balls. Hell, Wentworth, what do you know about ordinance?”

“Minié balls were not round,” Lyon continued as if he had not heard the medical examiner’s last remarks. “They were bullet shaped, with a concave rear that rested on the powder charge which was shoved down the barrel with the ramrod. The minié principle held that when the rifle was discharged, the rear of the bullet expanded until it fit snugly against the rifling, thereby making it more accurate. They were called minié balls after a Captain Minié, but they were what we call bullet shaped.”

Hansen raised an eyebrow at Rocco. “You taking notes from our arms expert here, Chief?”

“The guy’s like that,” Rocco responded. “He’s got all kinds of weird knowledge that seems to come out of nowhere.”

“Usually out of books,” Lyon finally countered, “but in this case it’s knowledge from a different source. When I first started teaching I had a contract with Gettysburg College. Since English instructors are not overpaid in the heartland of Pennsylvania, for extra money I studied and passed an exam to be a weekend guide at Gettysburg battlefield. I’ve picked up many a minié ball from the ground where they fell.”

“Call them what you want,” Hansen said. “But at least two of those suckers killed this guy.” He guffawed again.

Captain Norbert, commander of the nearby State Police Barracks, nodded to a trooper corporal. His subordinate acknowledged the signal with a barely perceptible flick of his eye and then brought his fist down on the wide wooden panels that made up the front door of the gatekeeper’s cottage.

“Open up! Police!” Without further prompting, he began a two-handed beat that created a staccato thump of noise.

Years ago, Norbert had barely qualified for entry into the state police academy due to the height requirement. As time went on, he had seemingly tried to erase this deficit by enlarging the upper portion of his body. He had eventually produced a pronounced pyknic build with a barrel chest that seemed to make him slightly top-heavy. This change in his center of gravity forced him to walk with a slightly forward tilt that appeared remarkably like a bantam strut. The other members of his accompanying force resembled recently discharged Marine drill instructors.

Doctor Happy Larsen tore the door open and glared at them over the rim of his granny glasses. “You guys want to wake the dead?” His belch of laughter nearly convulsed him but failed to move the stone-faced state police, who pushed past him into the small building.

“Rocco! Chief Herbert! I know you’re here,” Norbert bellowed.

“Will you shut up, Norby,” Rocco said as he poked his head out of the dining room. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d quit monitoring my radio frequencies.”

“Secure the crime scene,” the state captain commanded his corporal.

Rocco pointed a long finger that froze the corporal in midstep. “It’s been done. Trooper, you touch a damn thing and you are dog meat,” he commanded in a low voice.

The confused corporal looked at Captain Norbert for confirmation. The state police captain shrugged. “It’s his jurisdiction … temporarily,” he said. He stepped closer to the taller police chief and spoke in a whisper that carried throughout the downstairs. “One-horse towns with hick police shouldn’t handle sophisticated crimes, particularly those committed on the estate of one of the most prominent men in the area. Stick to your traffic tickets and occasional gas station holdups.”

“The ME is here and the state forensic people are on their way,” Rocco said. “We have a suspect upstairs who is presently undergoing preliminary interrogation.”

“It’s the wife if it’s the usual deal,” Norbert said. “The deceased is Markham Swan, right?”

“Right,” Rocco answered.

“We busted him a few years ago. Stat rape as I recall.”

“The charges were dropped,” Rocco replied. “He married the girl.”

“It figures. The guy couldn’t keep his pants zipped and he was roving again. The wife knows the symptoms. She finds out what fluff he’s bouncing on and blows him away. Tidy and neat. These cases make a great record for the closure statistics since wifey usually feels so bad she’ll confess to killing anyone. We let her attorney plead it to manslaughter, and we have another quick conviction to take to the major.” He peeked into the small dining room to glance at the body slumped over the computer. He waved at the ME. “Gunshot wound, Happy?” he asked.

“What’d you expect?” the ME replied with a chortle. “Although some around here would speak about a whiff of the grape?”

“Grape? What kind of talk is that?” The State Police captain looked uncertain. “You mean poison?”

Doctor Happy shrugged. “Minié balls I will not discuss with this guy,” he muttered. “Call it death by unknown projectile,” he said in his most authoritative manner.

Norbert whispered to his standby corporal and Rocco. “God, he’s a horse’s ass. Who did you say was breaking down the wife?”

“I didn’t say,” Rocco answered, “but Lyon Wentworth is the one talking to her.”

Captain Norbert flushed red, which gradually deepened into a purplish hue. “Wentworth! I can’t believe you would leave a primary suspect with that liberal airhead! What kind of idiot are you?”

The corporal and Rocco exchanged swift looks. The trooper’s grim lips curled into the slightest trace of an anticipatory grin. The captain’s subordinate was obviously going to relish the physical confrontation he expected to begin momentarily. “I can’t do a damn thing about this guy,” Rocco said to the corporal. “Captain Norbert’s my brother-in-law.”

“I would like to point out that Wentworth is a civilian,” Norbert said.

“A very perceptive one,” Rocco added.

The bedroom was small, but as comfortable as the other rooms in the cottage. There was one narrow window near a canopied bed that had curtains which could be drawn to the floor on drafty nights. A small bedside table and an ornately carved wardrobe completed the remainder of the room’s furnishings. White walls with colorful cafe curtains gave a cheerful touch that lightened the room.

When Rocco radioed for backup and the medical examiner, Loyce Swan had left the dining area and the body of her husband and climbed the stairs to the small bedroom. Now she lay fully dressed on the bed and stared up at the canopy.

Lyon stood at the foot of the bed. She gave no sign that she was aware of his presence. “What happened?” he asked.

There was a delay before she answered. “I don’t know.” Her voice was flat and devoid of feeling.

“Did you kill him?”

“No. I often wanted to, but I didn’t.”

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“I was in the garden. That’s in the side yard just outside the kitchen door. I heard voices arguing and then the shots. When I ran inside he was slumped over the computer like you found him. The front door was closed and no one else was there.”

“Were the voices you heard male or female?”

“I really couldn’t say. I could tell that one was Markham’s, of course. The other person could have been anyone. I was outside, beyond a heavy door, and they were in an interior room. I really didn’t see or hear anything.”

“Why did you want to kill him?”

She sat up with an abrupt movement and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her gaze looked through him as if she were actually focusing on a spot just over his head. It was a look of fright, loss, and the bewilderment that precedes the horror of overwhelming acceptance. As she spoke, a tremor caused her hands to shake. “If I had killed him it would have been because of all the women he made love to. He was a philanderer who gave the word a bad name. He didn’t just want some women, he wanted all of them. And I still loved him. Which probably proves that I had a problem.”

“If you didn’t do it, who do you think did?” Lyon asked.

“Hand me the phone directory.”

“You have an address and number?”

“Hell, no! I’m going to give you a list of suspects. Any man who is a father, husband, lover, or friend to any woman is a potential suspect. I’ll keep it simple and restrict it to the state of Connecticut since he hasn’t traveled much of late.”

“That many?”

“And then some.”

“Why didn’t you leave him long ago?”

She pushed off the bed and walked over to the small window, where she leaned on the sill to look out over the shadowed grounds. Her face was illuminated by the revolving flash of the dome lights from the state police cruisers parked below. Her body shook slightly with quiet cries. Lyon knew that he had these golden minutes, if you could term them that, to find her at her most vulnerable. It was during this time that he might be able to obtain the most valuable information concerning her exact role in the killing. He was aware of the unsavoriness of what he was doing, but rationalized its necessity.

“Can you possibly narrow down a list of suspects?” he asked again.

“Like I said, the numbers are legion.”

“Could it possibly have been someone here on the estate? Someone here at Bridgeway?”

“I think he was making love to Katherine Piper, and maybe the young girl, Paula. Markham did not discriminate because of age, race, religion, or national origin.”

“And yet you still stayed with him?”

She whirled to face him. “Yes. When he got me I was a kid. I was a child of seventeen who’d learned some nasty sexual tricks from my stepfather that I was using to extract my own version of personal revenge.”

“Abused kids often become promiscuous and Markham took advantage of that.”

Her attitude softened. “It wasn’t as you think. I made an appointment for his office hours and I intended to play my little game with him. It was an inventive little enticement that I had used on several of my more interesting male teachers. Markham almost immediately sensed what I was up to and turned it around in a strange and wondrous way. Instead of my being the seducer, he became the lover. Gently and subtly he took control and I became the beloved. It was the first time that had happened to me and it changed me in ways that were for the good. Bastard that he was, I loved him then and I love him now. In a sense he made an honest woman of me because he taught me how things could be. He loved me, you know. In his own strange way. Unfortunately, he had this compulsive need to spread this talent of his around. I wanted to kill him and I would have died for him. Does that explain anything?”

“Yes. I suppose it does. Markham called me early today and asked that I stop out here tonight. He also wrote Paula a short note. Do you know anything about that?”

Loyce shook her head. “Not really. He did say that he might have you stop in, but that’s all he said. I can imagine what he said to Paula.”

Lyon felt an object with his foot and looked down at the toe of his shoe, to see that it rested against something protruding from under the bed. He stooped and ran his fingers along the contours of what was obviously a gun. He bent over to pull a short rifle out from under the bed.

She watched his movements without expression.

He wrapped his handkerchief around the stock of the weapon and held it up. “What’s this?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “It looks like one of those guns they have in glass cases over at the big house.”

He recognized the weapon as a .58 caliber carbine based on an Enfield pattern that had been made at the Confederate States Arsenal at Tallahassee, Alabama. It was capable of firing the minié ball that the ME had discovered. “What time did you go out into the garden?”

“Around nine. There’s a light out there. I was picking greens for our salad.”

“You hadn’t eaten yet?”

“No. Markham liked to eat late, in the European tradition. I always suspected that a late dinner extended his matinee hours.”

Rocco appeared in the doorway and looked skeptically at the weapon in Lyon’s hands. “What do you have there?”

“I found it under the bed in here.” Lyon handed him the carbine. Rocco took the weapon carefully, gripping the stock through the handkerchief. He tilted the barrel to smell the muzzle opening. “It’s been fired recently,” he said. “We’ll have it checked out at the lab.” A patrolman standing immediately behind him bagged and labeled the weapon.

“Have you touched this rifle?” he asked Loyce.

“I might have. Markham was constantly bringing all sorts of historic items home from the big house as part of his research. He’d keep them a couple of days and then exchange them for other items. He’s had all sorts of guns in here, cluttering up the room. I’d have to move them around to dust or make up the bed.”

“In other words you might have touched this weapon?” Rocco pressed.

“Yes. I just don’t remember.”

Rocco sighed. Lyon recognized the gesture as his friend’s continual lament for the human condition, which even after all these years seemed to disappoint him constantly.

“We’re going to need a serious talk, Loyce,” Rocco said.

He was going to get her.

Oh, God, was he going to take her. When he was through she’d be a complete wreck, useless for any other activity. So, they had a wall around her and guards at the gate. He welcomed the challenge. The fence was only ten or twelve feet high. There were trees with low branches along the lane near the wall that practically invited intruders. It would be a simple matter to shinny up a tree, work out on a limb that extended over the wall, and then drop over. If there did happen to be a protective layer of cut glass running along the top of the wall, he could work farther out on the limb before he dropped to the ground on the other side.

Bridgeway wasn’t built for security. You would have thought that the Pipers, with all their blood money, would have taken proper precautions. Any bright munitions manufacturer would have installed a proper security fence with heat-sensing devices, guard dogs, and a battery of television cameras equipped with a sophisticated alarm system. Piper was too cheap. All that he seemed capable of doing was marching out his wooden soldiers, who weren’t good for anything but beating up old ladies.

He’d pay for that one too. No one hit his people and got away with it. Oh, God, he’d think of some delicious way to make the capitalist pig squirm. It gave him satisfaction to know that his actions tonight would punish the factory owner.

He pressed back against the wall. The next step was to work his way toward the orchard a hundred yards farther on. Light fell from a lamp near the cottage. He stepped around it so as not to be silhouetted in its glare.

He found the proper tree, with branches that hung conveniently over the wall’s far side. It couldn’t have been easier. The tree was meant for climbing. He bent his knees and jumped high enough to grab an overhead branch. He hung suspended for a moment and then swung his feet up into the tree’s crotch. He levered his body up. It was an easy step to two more limbs and then he was above the wall. He tested a thick branch that jutted over the wall and when he was satisfied that it was strong enough, he swung out and hand-walked a few feet before he dropped to the ground on the far side. He seemed to be in some sort of garden. It was dark and hard to identify the plants, but they may have been roses. He pressed back against the wall.

A shot sounded and then another.

He automatically fell to the ground and rolled under a bush while simultaneously pulling his legs up toward his chest as he curled into a fetal position.

Running footsteps coming toward him. They were by his side now and then gone. Whoever it was had gone past him. A man’s bouncing silhouette disappeared down the walk. He was convinced that his pounding heart and rasping breath would alarm a dozen security guards, but as he continued to lie quietly, the breathing and heart rate gradually returned to normal.

The shots were not meant for him. Except for the distant sounds of the party the estate was quiet.

Where were the guards? They must have heard the shots. They should have mounted a full-scale search, but evidently there wasn’t going to be any further activity. Perhaps they hadn’t heard the sounds over the noise of the party. It was just as well. He was risking his life on the inadequacy of their security, the lack of night-vision apparatus and regular patrols. The risk would be rewarded if tonight’s objective were attained.

He had memorized a rough drawing of the estate’s interior. He knew each nook and cranny, every turn and hall of the place. He knew she would be in her room. That was where he would take her. The greatest risk in the operation would be during the last few feet. For thirty seconds he would be exposed on the balcony before her door. It was a risk that had to be taken.

He left the protection of the wall shadows and cut across the walk and lawn until he reached the east side of the house. His trajectory had been perfect and he had arrived only four feet away from the narrow door that entered into the auxiliary pantry. He knew the door would be unlocked. He slowly turned the handle, slid inside, and pulled the door shut.

“Who are you?”

The deep voice from the shadows startled him so badly that he nearly fell. He couldn’t see anyone.

“Who you?” the slurred, deep voice persisted.

He frantically searched the narrow pantry for the voice’s owner. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he was able to see a little man sitting in the doorway of a cupboard near the floor. He clutched a bottle of brandy and stared at the world belligerently. He was dressed in formal wear that looked like a waiter’s or butler’s uniform. It took him a moment to realize that he was in a dim room with the one they called Rabbit.

“I’m a friend of Paula’s.”

The little man smirked. “Sneaking in for a little hanky-panky?”

He nodded. It was to be a little more than that, but he wasn’t about to tell this gnome that. “I know where her room is,” he said and left the drunken elflike man inside the cabinet as he took the backstairs by twos.

Her room was at the end of the balcony, only a few feet from the small interior stairwell. He would be exposed for only seconds as he slipped in her room.… A sliver of light seeped out from under the heavy wood door. He slipped out of the stairwell and put his hand around the brass handle and slowly turned it. He stepped inside and closed the door.

She sat at a dressing table half surrounded by mirrors. She wore a short teddy that barely covered the top of her thighs.

He couldn’t help but stare at her.

She looked at his image in the mirror without turning. The hairbrush paused in midstroke as their eyes met in the mirror.

“What do you want …?” she asked.

“You know damn well what.” He stepped toward her.

“Don’t hurt me,” Paula said in a pleading voice.

“Come here.” He grabbed her by the long hair that cascaded over her shoulders and yanked her to her feet.

She turned to face him a moment and then jerked violently away. “Please …”

“God, you are a lousy actress,” he said with a smile. “Next I expect you to threaten to throw yourself from the parapet if I ravish you.”

“I’m torn between that or being a modern girl who might give you a shot in the groin. You wanted the games.” she said with a shake of her head that splayed hair around her face.

“How else was I to get in here?”

She flung herself at him as they fell back on the bed.

“When I was on the Middleburg force we posted a uniform at the door when we tossed a place.” Harry, the security lieutenant, belched his disgust at the TV monitor focused on the gate cottage. “Look at those clowns,” he remarked to no one in particular. “Keystone Kops.”

At the lockers against the far wall, Barry Nevins gave his ex-superior the finger in the mirror. He continued stuffing some of the contents of his locker into a small gym bag. His eye caught movement in the TV monitor on the far right of the left bank. Someone had slipped into the girl’s bedroom. Old retread Harry didn’t know how to scan the newly installed system.

Screw him. Harry had just given him the old firing shaft, so let him do his own work. It wasn’t his responsibility when he was off the clock—and he’d stay off the clock until sometime tomorrow when he’d recovered from the hangover he was going to create tonight. Only then would he call a certain unlisted phone number and talk to old Peyton Piper Poo and suggest that he be rehired. Somehow, he thought he would be, with some proper excuse given to Harry.

“Happy Lars has the case,” Harry announced. “Boy what a weirdo that sawbones is.”

“I think someone is going to blow the girl away,” Barry said in a voice almost too low for Harry to hear. What the hell. Maybe some excitement would come out of all this.

“Yeah sure,” Harry replied automatically. “Rocco Herbert is trying to run the murder case. God, that big jerk can’t keep the school crossing guards in line. Swan’s old lady did him in and can’t say I blame her. The guy was jumping all the bones at Bridgeway.”

“So, I’m like history, huh?” Barry said as he stuffed his favorite sap, a sock filled with two rolls of quarters, into his gym bag.

“Sorry about that Barry,” the security chief said, “but the senator saw you hit the dame. I had no choice. You had to go.”

“Thanks for backing me, old buddy.”

Harry shrugged. “Nothing I can do, man. She saw you. It was a dumb thing to do.”

Barry wondered if he should try to tell Harry about the intruder again. His former supervisor, intrigued with events at the gatehouse, had obviously missed the man’s entry into Paula’s room. It was probably too late now, anyway. The kook had probably either raped or killed the girl by this time, or maybe both. Barry savored that possibility for a brief moment until he realized that his fantasy was interfering with a great game plan.

“I’m cutting out,” Barry said as he zippered his small bag and started for the door. He waited until the last possible moment, when he had his hand on the handle and the door partially open. “By the way, there’s an intruder just went inside the girl’s room. If you’d been watching the monitor you’d seen it.”

Harry’s eyes shifted automatically to scan the appropriate monitor. The far right screen now showed an empty upstairs hallway. “I don’t see anything.”

“That’s because he’s not in the hall now. He’s inside her room with a knife to her throat as he jumps her.”

Harry jerked to his feet so abruptly that his wooden straight chair fell over on its back with a clatter. “Jesus H. Christ! We’re in deep shit. Come on, let’s go!” He dashed for the swinging door that led to the living room and the main stairwells. He stopped abruptly when he realized he wasn’t being followed.

“I don’t work here no more,” Barry said with a smirk.

“Christ, man! I need you now,” Harry said. “You’re hired back. I’ll square it with Mr. Piper because you spotted the break-in.” He stopped stock-still to cast a withering glance at the other guard. “There better be a guy up there.”

“There is,” Barry said. “He’s probably doing the girl right now.” Both men dashed for the stairs. “We need backup,” Barry gasped as he pressed against the wall next to Paula’s bedroom door. “This guy is probably carrying.”

“No time. No damn time,” Harry wheezed.

The moans started.

“No question about it, he’s doing it to her now. We got to go in,” Harry commanded as he slipped the revolver from his holster. “On three we move in.”

“Jesus, Harry,” Barry replied. “I didn’t buy into this kind of heavy stuff.”

“He’s killing the girl. Just listen to it,” Harry said as she moaned again. “Now!”

Both men took two steps back and rushed forward to throw themselves against the door. The wood splintered under their combined impact.

“Freeze, bastard!” Harry commanded. He assumed a shooter’s crouch immediately inside the room and swept the revolver in a circle until it was aimed at the bed.

“I think we got a situation here, Harry,” Barry said.

“Oh, Jesus,” Harry said as Paula sat up in bed.

It was quite obvious to both of them that the couple on the bed did not have any hidden weapons. Paula’s physical position and accompanying glare made it apparent that she was more than a willing participant.

“How much does unemployment insurance pay, Barry?” Harry asked.

The zip of the body bag was an instant call for silence.

Everyone momentarily stopped what they were doing. The forensic lab people with their evidence envelopes, fingerprint experts, and photographers all paused for a moment as the gurney containing the body was wheeled from the small cottage. The laughing medical examiner managed to restrain his sense of humor until the gurney reached the ambulance.

Loyce Swan was still in the small bedroom where Lyon had talked with her, but was now watched over by a police matron. Markham’s widow had curled up on the bed and closed her eyes. The policewoman carried a paperback novel, which she began to read under the dim light.

Rocco and Lyon left the milling scene and walked up a winding path that meandered through the grounds toward the main house. Imitation gas lamps were placed periodically along the walk and cast a defused glow across the path.

“What are you going to do about jurisdiction on this case?” Lyon asked his friend. “Are you going to let the state police handle it?”

“Norby’s panting for it. He loves a homicide with what he thinks is going to be a fast closure. He really gets off on ‘cases closed’ statistics.”

“As a town, rather than incorporated city, Murphysville has the option of turning a complicated criminal matter over to the state police and stepping aside,” Lyon said.

“And if I let the state have the case, what do you think Norbert would do?”

“I think he’d arrest Loyce Swan before your car reached the end of the lane. Not only is he convinced that she’s guilty, but he knows that the newspapers will have a field day with the story. The circumstantial evidence against her is strong.”

“The chances are she probably knocked him off,” Rocco said.

Lyon stopped in the center of the path and looked back at the cottage a moment before speaking. “I don’t think she did, Rocco.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Lyon. Husbands and wives do frequently kill each other. It’s part of that ‘until death do us part’ thing. Find me an alibi, another suspect, or even a hint of a different scenario. Give me something to battle Norbert with,” the chief concluded in near exasperation.

“I have a strong gut feeling.”

“You won’t believe what Norbert is going to say to that one. Jurisdiction or not, he’ll go to the state attorney general for a warrant.”

“I can imagine, but I still don’t believe Loyce killed her husband.”

“Intuition?”

“Something like that,” Lyon answered.

Lyon’s intuitive, “something like that” gut feeling had once saved Rocco’s life. The large police chief looked obliquely at his friend a moment as the former Ranger captain recalled a humid day years ago in a country far away. He remembered a young intelligence officer predicting an enemy assault without the benefit of hard evidence. His estimate then, as now, was based on a subconscious assimilation of evidence and personalities and could not be articulated. It had worked then and saved lives, and later the same feelings had worked in another murder case. “I’ll go along with you,” Rocco said.

They were startled by a pistol shot. Rocco reacted first, crouching and drawing his revolver in one fluid movement.

“It’s from down there,” Rocco pointed toward the gatekeeper’s cottage.

A voice shattered the night. “Get the bitch!” was the command shouted by Captain Norbert. “She’ll try for the wall. Stop her!”

Rocco holstered his pistol. “Oh my God, what in the hell is he doing now?” He began to trot down the path toward the cottage.

Lyon heard the shouts of men as they searched the grounds. In the distance toward the wall he saw the bob of lights as men with flashlights searched the brush.

He saw her running up the lawn toward him. She ran with an athletic grace, both arms pumping, but her breath was coming in gasps. She didn’t see him until nearly the last moment.

She looked up, but it was too late and they collided. His arms went around her to keep her from falling.

“He’s … he’s going to arrest me.… He’s going to arrest me for murder if he doesn’t kill me first,” Loyce said as she buried her head in Lyon’s shoulder.

Captain Norbert, followed by his two corporals, strode toward them. The bantam state police officer nodded to the trooper on his right, who immediately snapped handcuffs on Loyce’s wrist.

“She’s my collar,” Rocco said. “Unlock her.”

“You taking her in?” the state police officer demanded.

“She’s going into protective custody with the Wentworths until the grand jury sits.”

“No way, big man,” Norbert snapped. “She ran from state police custody so she takes a fall on a fugitive and resisting arrest charge. First thing tomorrow, the state’s attorney gets the case for a murder one warrant.”

“You can’t do that, Norby,” Rocco said.

“Watch me,” Norbert answered. “And I can. You know it’s legal.”

FIVE

The intertwined young people looked frightened until Paula recognized the intruders. “Oh, my God!” she said to her companion. “It’s Daddy’s baby-sitters.”

Chuck rolled over and stuck his head under a pillow. “I knew your father was protective,” he said. “But if these guys shoot me I’m going to be pissed.”

“I think we have a problem,” Paula said to the security guards as she pulled a sheet over her exposed body.

Barry smirked. “You sure do, kiddo. I recognize your playmate as one of them agitators. Your dad wouldn’t care if we lean on him a little.”

“You broke into my room,” Paula retorted.

“We thought someone had busted in,” Harry stuttered.

Paula shook her head. “Obviously he was invited.”

Harry looked at Barry with appreciation. He recognized a survivor when he saw one, and he certainly needed one now. “You got any ideas?”

“I think the little lady’s in deep trouble,” Barry said.

“You have got to be kidding,” Paula said.

The security guard ignored her. “I don’t think this little eighteen-year-old girl wants Daddy to know she’s entertaining guys in her bedroom, much less scumbags who just came from protesting the Terrible Tommy. I think Daddy would take that bad. Real bad.”

“Oh, so that’s the way it’s going to be,” the young woman said.

“I say we keep it quiet, Harry,” the second security guard said. “We keep our mouths shut and she says nothing.”

Harry nodded. “You got a point.”

Paula sighed. “Bastards.”

Lyon once saw Rocco hit a brigadier general prior to an infantry attack. The general’s order had been dangerous and ill thought-out: He’d used rank as an excuse and refused to listen to any argument for cancellation. Rocco’s protests had been ignored and the possibility of his company’s complete destruction had forced the young officer to confront the general officer. The blow had been delivered, the attack had been canceled, and ultimately the event became one of those military events that were ordered never to have occurred.

Rocco’s feelings were building into that same mood tonight, although this time they were directed at Peyton Piper. Peyton’s actions would have appeared innocuous enough if it hadn’t been for his remarks to departing guests. Both men stood on the stoop before Bridgeway’s large door as the few remaining guests departed. Peyton kissed, shook hands, or otherwise personally acknowledged each departing couple. Before they were escorted to their cars, Rocco required personal identification and made notes of their home and business addresses.

It was Peyton’s remarks that lit the fuse of the police chief’s temper. The factory owner’s stage whispers concerning bureaucrats and small-town police enraged Rocco. Markham Swan’s death was relegated to something between a tragic accident and a domestic squabble. The rush to disassociate anyone at Bridgeway or the Piper Corporation from the incident had already begun. By morning, the pressure on the media to follow this line would be immense.

Lyon knew that Peyton’s annoyance with Rocco was exacerbated because Congressman Candlin had decided that he could make no political answer concerning the senate nomination until an indictment was handed down in the killing and the publicity had died down.

Captain Norbert was oblivious to any political nuances that did not affect his crime closure statistics. He was unconcerned with the identity of guests, ignorant of political problems, and jubilant over a possible indictment of Loyce Swan. After her recapture he had gallantly escorted her to his cruiser for the short trip to the barracks.

The last guest’s departure signaled an orgy of cleanup. A hoard of uniformed waiters along with other catering personnel descended for their attack on the party’s detritus. Lyon, Peyton, and Rocco stood by the living room door watching the frenzied activity.

“How well did you know the deceased?” Rocco asked their host.

Peyton shrugged. He seemed suddenly tired and his mantle of social exuberance appeared to have fled. “Not well enough in the beginning and far too well in the end,” he replied. “I knew the guy was a swordsman in college, but most men outgrow that type of thing. Naturally I had reviewed his professional qualifications, which seemed adequate. I never dreamed that he had personal problems that would intrude here at Bridgeway.”

“You sound as if hiring him was a mistake?” Rocco prompted.

“It was,” Peyton replied. “The man turned out to be a lecher who took complete advantage of my hospitality and employement.”

“Be more specific,” Rocco said. His questions gradually hardened as his tone firmed.

“He annoyed my wife and probably my daughter. There have also been several complaints from female employees. The man was incorrigible in that arena.”

“The sexual arena?”

“That is precisely what I mean.”

“And yet you had him living on the estate?” Rocco pressed.

“I invited him to live in the cottage on a temporary basis. It seemed logical at the time since that house was vacant and his primary research materials were here. It seemed convenient and practical. That was before I knew of his reputation.”

“Exactly what happened?” Rocco pressed.

“He made a pass at my wife, isn’t that enough?”

“And then?”

“I intended to fire him tomorrow morning and have him escorted off the estate by security personnel.”

“But you never had a chance to do that?”

“It would seem that someone else beat me to it. I understand from Captain Norbert that the wife was the culprit. Not that I blame her.”

“Where were you during the murder?” Rocco asked.

“I was in the library with Senator Wentworth and Congressman Candlin,” Peyton replied. “Isn’t that right, Bea?”

Bea came out of the library to join them during Peyton’s last remark. “Most of the time. There were a few minutes about the time of the murder when you and Roger Candlin were outside the house.”

“Yes, of course,” Peyton said. “We did leave for a few minutes to get some fresh air. But I was with Roger during our short walk.”

“Bullshit!” a voice yelled from the balcony.

They all looked up at Chuck Fraxer standing with Paula on the balcony outside her bedroom.

Peyton pointed an angry finger at them. “How in the hell did he get in here?”

“While I was breaking into this dump I saw you down by the gate cottage,” Chuck Fraxer yelled down to them. “Alone.”

“I was by myself for only a few moments until Roger came back,” Peyton said.

“Exactly where did Roger Candlin go when he left you?” Rocco asked.

“Good God, Rocco. I don’t know. You don’t ask a U.S. congressman about his bowels.” As Barry Nevins appeared on the balcony near Chuck Fraxer, Peyton pointed a finger at the security guard. “Arrest that man for trespassing!” he yelled. “I want him prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

“For what, Daddy?” Paula asked. “I invited him in.”

Peyton flushed and for a moment seemed about to yell at his daughter, but regained control before he spoke. “Then escort that man out of here,” Peyton commanded. “Get him off Bridgeway property. Now!”

“I’m going with him, Daddy. If your goons so much as touch a hair on Chuck’s head I will run away,” Paula said.

Once again Peyton seemed about to respond, but merely turned away. “Let her go as far as the gates,” Peyton told the two guards. “Then throw that idiot off the premises.”

“How about a tour of the place, Mr. Piper?” Rocco asked. He looked down at his small notebook. “I would like to speak with several people.”

“You don’t seem as convinced as Captain Norbert that Loyce Swan killed her husband,” Peyton said.

Rocco shrugged. “You never can tell. Things often turn out differently than you expect.”

“Is this absolutely necessary?”

“It is,” Rocco responded in a tone that did not brook further comment.

“I’d like to go with you two,” Bea said. Peyton recovered a vestige of his social tools and offered her his arm.

Lyon waited until the others left and he was alone in the living room. The last vacuum cleaner had been turned off and trundled away. The caterers were loading the remainder of their equipment into a van parked at the kitchen entrance.

Peyton had taken Rocco and Bea to the far wing of the house. He walked into the kitchen, where a single light over the restaurant-size stove cast a cold light across the shadowed room. Racks of pots and other utensils hung gleaming from ceiling racks, their shining surfaces reflecting shards of light off the stainless steel refrigerator doors and other bright surfaces. Even the thick chopping blocks in the center of the room had oiled tops that sparkled cleanliness. The quiet was a strange juxtaposition to the frantic activity the room had exhibited earlier.

“Roll me over in the clover, turn me over, and do it again,” two drunken voices sang.

Lyon distinguished an off-key baritone and a slurred soprano.

The baritone took the lead. “Oh, this is number two and I’ve got her by the shoe.”

“Roll me over, lay me down, and do it again,” the feminine voice answered.

Some of the hired help were draining the whiskey glasses, was Lyon’s thought.

“This is number eight and I have her by the gate,” the duet continued.

“What the hell,” Lyon wondered aloud as he searched for the voices.

“Roll me over, lay me down, and do it again,” the female voice added again.

He found them in the butler’s pantry. Katherine Piper sat at a table which was ordinarily used for polishing silverware. She had a nearly full pint bottle of Absolut vodka in front of her, which she poured into a water tumbler half-filled with orange juice.

“Right on,” the Welch Rabbit commanded from his supine position on the cabinet counter underneath rows of silver goblets and ornate tea services. “Hit it again, Katty,” he commanded as he brought the lip of a silver flask to his mouth.

“Got visitors,” Katherine Piper slurred.

“Tell them to fuck off,” Rabbit said without turning his gaze from some interesting panorama that seemed to be reflected in the bottom of the cabinets above his head. “You’re the lady of the place, tell them to fudge it.”

“You always were a gentleman, Rabbit,” Katherine said.

“You know it, Katty.” The Welch Rabbit finally turned his head and saw Lyon. “That you, Wentworth?”

“I believe so, Rabbit.”

“Party’s over. Go home. Mrs. Piper and I are having a conference between majordomo and lady of the house. We are planning next month’s menu and arrangements for a formal state visit. Got it? It’s employer to employee.”

Katherine Piper giggled. “Actually we are considering becoming lovers, but we can’t figure out how to work out the technical details.”

Rabbit returned the giggle. “If my wife ever finds out it would be snap time.” He brought the flat of his hand down so hard on the surface of the counter that he winced in pain. “Snap! She’d cut my head off.”

Katherine Piper lurched to her feet and grasped the edge of the table with both hands to keep from falling. “Frieda will be furious, Rabbit,” she said. “I will drive you home because you are too drunk to drive.”

“Nonsense! I am only as drunk as I pretend to be.” He swung his legs over the edge of the counter and hit his head on the bottom of the shelves. “And tonight I am very imaginative.” He held his head with both hands and looked down at the floor below his feet. “Who moved the floor?”

Katherine Piper shifted her grip from the table edge and cradled Rabbit’s head. “Rabbit is the only true gentleman at Bridgeway.”

“My granddaddy always said, we might be small in stature, but we are large in soul.” He pushed off the counter and fell to the floor. Lyon and Katherine helped him to his feet.

“I’ll drive if you’ll tell me where we’re going,” Lyon said.

After further confused discussion, Lyon surmised that he was to drive the golf cart to Rabbit’s house, which was located off the grounds of Bridgeway, on a lane a quarter of a mile away.

Katherine Piper demonstrated her ability to sober at will and provided coherent directions.

They stashed Rabbit in the back of the cart with his feet pointed directly to the rear.

“Does he always drink like this?” Lyon asked as they drove down the hill toward the gate.

“There seemed to be two things bothering him tonight. I’m one of them. He watches over me like a little brother, and when he does that we often drink together.”

“That’s big brother,” the slurred correction came from the rear of the cart.

She turned and pulled their rear passenger’s ear lobe, “Little men seem to have big ears.”

“Screw you,” was Rabbit’s final comment before he emitted a snore.

They passed by the gate cottage and sped into the dark lane that ran along the perimeter of Bridgeway’s grounds. “You said two things were bothering Rabbit?” Lyon said.

“I don’t know the second, except I feel that something else is bothering him, and has been for some months. He seems happy enough with Frieda, but who except the participants really knows what transpires in a marriage?”

Lyon glanced over at the woman sitting next to him whose face was barely visible in the half-moon night. Her features had gradually firmed into a more rigid cast from the slack features of the near-drunk. “You seem to have remarkable recuperative powers,” he said.

“There’s nothing like a murder to set the tone for an evening.”

“You and Rabbit don’t always drink like this?” Lyon asked.

“Rabbit’s always there when I need him. He’s the one who keeps me sane around here. When I need to drink, like tonight, he drinks with me.”

“Where were you when it happened?” Lyon asked as casually as he could, knowing that there was no truly casual way to ask for an alibi during a murder investigation.

“In my room, and before you ask, no one saw me,” she replied. “Markham and I were also having an affair. I bet those two items will place me high on someone’s list of suspects.”

“I’m sure they’ll eventually get around to talking with you. Knowing Rocco Herbert, he’ll probably talk with you tonight.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“What’s happened to you, Kate?” Lyon asked.

“By that, do you mean did I kill Markham? Bastard that he was and as much as he deserved killing?”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Then you’re asking how a nice girl like me who was once rather attractive and a little bit bright could end up as a Hadrian rummy.”

“I would never have used those terms.”

“A few years ago I found myself as a contract college instructor without a tenure track. My affairs were becoming further apart, my drinking was increasing, and my cute little figure was filling out. Peyton bounced in for a second chance after his first wife was killed in the airplane accident.” She waved her hands expansively. “I traded my going nowhere career for this place and Peyton.”

“And picked up a heavy dose of cynicism along the way.”

“That’s the rate of exchange for these trades, Went. Turn down this drive and Rabbit’s house is behind those trees.”

Lyon stopped the cart in the darkened drive not far from the cottage nestled in a grove of trees. He turned off the ignition and the lights flicked off. Rabbit slept soundly in the backseat. Katherine Piper put her hand lightly on Lyon’s arm and brushed her lips across his cheek. “It’s pass time,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m easy. No fuss. No bother. No phone calls the next day and no repeats required unless you do the asking.”

“You know I find you attractive, Kate. But there’s …”

“That sounds like a Bea but. Are you one of those strange birds that actually loves his wife?”

“Not so rare.”

“You don’t travel in my circles.”

“Question time,” he answered. “Why did you have the affair with Markham?”

She gave a small laugh. “Because he was here. No, I mean that. He paid attention to me. When he first arrived at Bridgeway for his research on that great literary event, The Piper Contribution, I was given the assignment of touring Markham around the grounds and library. Peyton did not seem to realize that such activities for Markham were the equivalent of issuing a prepaid hunting license.”

“You were that easy?”

“I was willing to be, but I restrained myself. It was delicious having that much attention paid to me after all these years. Markham worked diligently at my conquest and I rewarded him suitably.”

“Then you had no reason to be angry with him?”

“But I did. He threw me over the day before yesterday. I know, of course, that this was not an unusual occurrence for Mark. Once conquered the prey becomes carrion and fresh flesh is required.”

“Then you hardly hated him enough to kill him?”

“I didn’t? What makes you think that?”

As Lyon levered the sleeping Rabbit from the rear seat, Katherine eased behind the wheel and sped down the drive in the nearly silent cart. Lyon watched her go as Rabbit awoke.

“She didn’t do it,” Rabbit mumbled as he leaned his head against Lyon. “She was with me the whole time.”

“Nice try, Rabbit.”

Rabbit leaned heavily against him as they moved in lockstep down the drive toward the house.

It was a tiny dwelling obviously built on half a normal scale for the exclusive use of little people. The miniature house had a steeply pitched roof tiled with white slate that glistened in the moonlight. Dark timber supports spaced evenly along the walls gave the dwelling the appearance of a Bavarian forest cottage. A welcoming shaft of light fell through gaily colored cafe curtains in the two front windows and cast a bright swatch on the path before them.

“Who’s out there?” A woman leaned out the open portion of the Dutch doors. “Is that you, Rabbit?”

“Yes, Frieda, light of my life. I am with a friend who cannot stand loud noises or violence. So please be on your good behavior.”

“If you’ve been drinking, I’ll violence both of you. You can bring your friend in if he isn’t throwing up all over the place,” she said.

Frieda was a busty woman of sharp features and Rabbit’s height. Her long straw hair was wound around her head in long braids. She wore a floor-length sheath mostly hidden by an embroidered apron that fell past her knees. She held a cast iron frying pan in one hand and glared at the two men in her doorway.

“Hello, honey,” Rabbit said. “Love you.” He kissed her cheek.

“We will see about that,” she said in a perfectly normal voice that belied her height.

Lyon stooped to enter the tiny kitchen. The room’s proportions were for a child or adult who happened to be under four feet tall. He could see past the kitchen into the front parlor, where the furnishings were also built to this small scale.

“Sit over there,” Rabbit said with a gesture toward a lone straight chair of normal size that sat in a corner.

“Thank you.” Lyon sat in the chair while Frieda continued glaring at her husband.

“I was held up working the party,” Rabbit said as he pulled himself erect.

The frying pan clanked on a chopping block with a loud crack that made Rabbit jump.

“You were into the Piper brandy again. They sent you to the wine cellar and you brought back some of the Napoleon for yourself. You cannot be trusted in the wine cellar, Rabbit.” The pan whacked down on the chopping block again and Rabbit shivered.

“I’m sorry, Frieda. It won’t happen again.”

“I know it won’t happen again. I’m going to make sure of that.”

“No, Frieda, please.”

It occurred to Lyon that Rabbit had made an extremely poor career choice when he decided to hold up gas stations. He seemed to have a low threshold of fear as this threatening little woman in front of them now proved. “It is punishment time.”

“Come on, Frieda. My stomach won’t take it.”

“You want brandy, you get brandy.” Frieda reached into a cupboard and grasped the neck of a liquor bottle. She opened it with a flourish and plunked it down with a thump in front of Rabbit. A large empty water tumbler quickly joined it. “Drink.”

He squinted at the bottle’s label. “This is a very bad year.”

“And it gets worse. Drink!” She poured the large tumbler half full of brandy and folded her husband’s hand around its base.

Rabbit glanced imploringly at Lyon. “My wife believes in aversion therapy.” He took a large gulp and gripped the edge of the table with both hands as his cheeks began to balloon. His face turned florid before he stumbled frantically toward the bathroom.

“Drunk,” Frieda said as she looked toward the closed bathroom door with concern. Then she turned toward Lyon. “Coffee, Mr. Wentworth? It’s all made and I was just about to have a cup.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I know your wife from her politics. Sometimes on the television I’ll see you by her side.” She poured coffee from a small pot on the stove into demitasse cups. “Has Rabbit been playing up to Mrs. Piper again?”

Rabbit stumbled from the bathroom. “She needed my help again.” He visibly winced when he rejoined them at the table and Frieda handed him the remains of his brandy.

“I’ve heard about the goings-on at the big house,” Frieda said. “Cook stopped in on her way home and told me about that man Swan. Mrs. Piper is very foolish and should not have been involved. As you can guess, Mr. Wentworth, there are no secrets from the servants in a large establishment like Bridgeway.”

Lyon watched with macabre interest as Rabbit slowly choked down the final two ounces of brandy. He clenched the table’s edge, but this time was able to retain the liquor. “The Pipers serve better booze than this kerosene. They know how to treat a dwarf,” he said as the new alcohol laid a carpet of slurred sarcasm over his speech. “We get to live in this house that the first colonel built for my great grandfather. We all grew up here and are attached to the property like serfs.”

“If we had children they would grow up here,” Frieda said wistfully.

“And be exploited like the rest of the little people,” said Rabbit with an ineffectual thump to the tabletop.

“You don’t have it so bad,” Frieda said. “You aren’t exactly working in an underground mine like the seven dwarfs. The only time you go underground is to ransack the wine cellar.”

“If I were one of those exploited seven dwarfs I’d be the one they called Grumpy. All the little people should be grumpy because we got what’s called the short end. You notice that Snow White didn’t stick around the little people. After her nap she couldn’t wait to run off with the Prince.”

Frieda sighed. “After a couple of drinks my husband goes into his ‘Great Speech,’ which sometimes includes how he might have been president if he could see over the podium.”

“They force us to stay here, you know,” Rabbit said in a drunken conspiratorial tone. “The Pipers are the ones who keep us here.”

“Now, Rabbit, that’s just not true,” Frieda objected.

“You do not know the history, it goes back generations,” Rabbit said. “Some of us try and leave, but it doesn’t work. We always come back to Bridgeway. My granddad ran away to join the circus and ended up in Hollywood as a Munchkin.”

Lyon looked at the little man with interest. “Your granddad was a Munchkin?”

“A Lollipop Guild Guy. That’s where he met Mom, out there in Hollywood. Then after The Wizard of Oz was over the roles got scarce and no way were they going to work the circus.”

“I don’t blame them,” Lyon agreed.

“We keep coming back and back and that’s all she wrote,” the little man said as his head slumped forward on the table.

Lyon stood. “I think he’s out for the night. Can I help you get him into bed?” He stooped as his head hit the ceiling of the low room.

Frieda’s hand gently brushed the top of her husband’s head. “No, comfort tonight he does not get. Let him sleep out here and awake with a crick in his little neck.”

“All right then. It’s been nice to meet you, Frieda.”

“He’s had too much to drink tonight, but he is a good man. A man possessed by things I don’t understand, even if we are the same size. I suppose we each react differently to our burdens.”

Lyon had his hand on the low doorknob but turned with the feeling that this upset wife had something to tell him. “What do you mean?”

“He’s moody at the best of times. As I said, a good man, but a soul with a little darkness. Recently he’s been even more upset. Strange things are going on at the big house. Things are happening that are bothering him, and I don’t know what they are. I worry that he might go back to gas stations.”

“It’s hard to imagine a man like Rabbit robbing gas stations.”

“Your friend the policeman told you about it?”

“Yes, a little.”

“There was only one robbery and it was quite silly. You know, that’s how we met?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Rabbit’s life of crime began and ended at the Amoco Station out on Route Forty-nine. He used one of the old guns from the big house library. It was a Civil War pistol. I was the cashier on duty but was sitting on a high stool so he didn’t know I was his size. He pressed the gun against the window and to me it looked like a big cannon. I thought it was so funny to see this little guy with a huge pistol that I began to laugh and the gun went off accidentally. I fell off the stool and he thought he had killed me. He rushed in and held me and then we began to laugh together and that’s how the police found us. Something was wrong with him the day he tried to rob me and something is wrong now. I don’t know what it is.”

Lyon nodded. “I may have an answer. I’d like to talk to him tomorrow when he feels better. I have a question about something called the Piper Pie. Markham Swan wrote a note to Paula just before he was killed saying that the Pie was important as a clue.”

The Welch Rabbit looked up. “What do you mean about the Piper Pie?” He began a deep giggle that died as Frieda reached for the brandy.

“You know about the Pie?”

Rabbit laughed again. “Of course I know about the Pie. My relatives are buried all over it.”

SIX

“It might have been Igor’s liquor talking,” Bea said half to Lyon and partly into her pillow.

“I don’t think so, but we’ll find out tomorrow afternoon when Rabbit and I go for a walk to the Pie, wherever and whatever that is. And his name is not Igor. He is Randolph Welch, sometimes known as Rabbit. Or Mister R.” Lyon lay in bed next to his wife and stared at the ceiling. The familiar house sounds of Nutmeg Hill sighed and creaked around them. “The Welch family are old family retainers who have lived near the Pipers for generations.”

“You mean small family retainers,” she mumbled sleepily.

“You are not being politically correct, darling.”

“I am not entirely convinced that I like this Rabbit person whatever his size,” Bea said. “His life seems to consist of gas station holdups and drinking a great deal of liquor with his boss lady, who he knows has a problem in that area.”

“Actually, I think he’s a very sensitive man born with an unfortunate physical infirmity.”

“I assume you refer to an excessive love of the grape as his problem?”

“Come on now, you aren’t listening. He’s a man of small stature. That condition confronts him every day of his life.”

Bea propped up on her elbows. Her eyes widened, signaling battle joined. “Listen Wentworth, in my Senate Subcommittee on the Disabled and Infirm, I work with people with real problems: like the blind, the lame confined to wheelchairs, and others with physical problems that you can only have nightmares about. I defy you to compare them to a man who is perfectly capable of living a nearly normal life like this Rabbit. From what you tell me, he is married to a woman his size and lives in a house built to their proportions. He is gainfully employed and seems to have access to a great wine cellar.”

“I had coffee with his wife, Frieda, after Rabbit passed out. She’s very worried about him.”

“In what way?”

“She can’t place the reason. I wonder if he might be involved in other things that are happening at Bridgeway.”

Bea closed her eyes as she sank back on the pillows. “We’ll think about it in the morning over coffee.”

She was dog tired, but feared that tonight’s emotional overload would keep her awake. She was concerned not only about the murder at Bridgeway—although she hardly knew Markham Swan—but also about the possibility of Peyton Piper’s senate race.

Compromises such as these demanded by Piper tore her apart. She had faith in her own ability as a state senator, but to keep her seat she had to survive politically. Piper’s demand was a typical hydra-headed example. One face was composed of land mines that were an anathema to her. Another face forced her to consider the reality that his factory employed hundreds of her constituents. The party needed a fresh new candidate, but Peyton?

These were vexing contradictions and she often wondered if their solutions were worth the emotional rendering. She forced herself to think of the long, slow river that ran below their house. She imagined it flowing over her, enveloping her as it swept her out to the great sea.

Lyon laced his arms behind his head and listened to their house. Nutmeg Hill was located on a saucer-shaped promontory that rose a hundred feet above a sharp bend in the Connecticut River. The house was reached by a drive that twisted up from a secondary highway and ran between high stands of pine that marched in formal lanes on either side of the lawn. The structural lines of the house were dominated by a widow’s walk that ran the length of the gambrel roof. Leaded glass windows reflected flashing darts of sunlight.

They had purchased the property a number of years before. The house had been originally constructed in the early nineteenth century by a successful sea captain. After the Civil War the original family’s fortune faltered. The house began a slow process of decay that was exacerbated when a last surviving spinster moved south and boarded the windows and doors. Vandals and weather hastened further deterioration. Lyon and Bea had accidentally discovered the building—nearly hidden by underbrush and tangled growth, but with its foundation and walls still intact—while on a walking trip. They had fallen in love with its secluded location and panoramic perch. After finally arranging to purchase the house through the estate of the last deceased spinster, they had spent several years of painstaking labor refurbishing it.

It was only five miles from the Piper mansion located across the river, but Lyon considered it a hemisphere away.

Rocco and Lyon met at noon for their usual Thursday lunch at Sarge’s Bar and Grill in Murphysville.

Sarge’s place was an anachronism. The owner, a former army master sergeant, had a retirement dream of owning a workingman’s sports bar. He expected a boilermaker clientele who enjoyed betting on an occasional ball game. Initially, its location in an older residential area of two-family homes, not far from a ball-bearing factory, had guaranteed the right mix of customers. When the factory vacated its building and was replaced by an art gallery, gentrification struck like a thunder clap. The customers were soon divided into two distinct groups. During the day retired workers nursed beers and discussed ball games without wagers. At six the bar’s atmosphere radically changed. The night manager arrived with a German chef and a bartender who actually knew how to mix drinks. Cans of Bud mated with cheap bar whiskey abdicated to German food joined with imported wines or tankards of dark German beer. These items were served on checkered tablecloths lit by wicker-covered bottles holding flickering candles.

On most days Sarge made a valiant and usually successful attempt to drink himself unconscious before the last boiler-maker was chug-a-lugged and the first bottle of Zinfandel was uncorked.

Rocco Herbert was the rare customer who straddled both groups. He qualified as a daytime drinker, and after dusk he often turned into an exuberant sauerbraten customer. Their former military service together required Sarge to maintain a constant supply of properly chilled vodka and ground sirloin for the chief’s gourmet hamburgers. Lyon was reluctantly accommodated with a dusty bottle of Dry Sack sherry but was forced to satisfy any hunger pangs he might have with displays of pickled pig’s feet and eggs.

Rocco usually occupied a booth in the far corner, near the window that overlooked a four-way stop sign down the block. Walkie-talkie communication with patrolman Jamie Martin and his hidden cruiser usually made this observation post a productive spot for generating traffic tickets.

Lyon watched from the door as a flagrant violator in a green Corvette sped through the stop sign without slowing. The sin was compounded as the sports car proceeded to swing past a stopped school bus.

Rocco’s hand never toggled the talk button on the small radio on the table in front of him.

Lyon carried a pony of sherry back to the booth. Rocco had been born and raised in Murphysville and was already chief of the small police force when Lyon and Bea began to renovate Nutmeg Hill. The two men had met earlier during their military service. Rocco, a mustang officer commissioned from the ranks, was a Ranger in charge of the division’s reconnaissance platoon. Lyon, fresh from college, was an officer on the staff of Division G-2. He was often thrown in contact with Rocco when the Ranger officer acted as the division’s eyes and ears. The friendship had continued on through the years. Their divergent personalities seemed to complement each other in an odd manner, making for a strong pairing.

Lyon slipped into the booth opposite Rocco. “Catch many today?”

“A few. This case is a real bastard, isn’t it?”

“True. You don’t find many guys shot dead with minié balls these days,” Lyon answered.

“As I told you he would, Norby has requested a murder warrant from the state’s attorney for Loyce Swan. Since she’s in his temporary custody at the barracks, if he gets the warrant, which he will, he controls the case and I’m out of it.”

“See no other suspects, hear no other suspects,” Lyon said.

Rocco shrugged. “That’s about it. He’s got a wronged wife who was home alone with the victim. A possible murder weapon was under her bed with her prints on it. Loyce had motive and opportunity.”

“Then the lab has established the antique carbine as the murder weapon?”

“The minié balls’ lead was so soft that they flattened out on impact, which obliterated any distinguishing marks. So the rifle cannot specifically be identified as the murder weapon.”

“Bridgeway House is practically a museum for Civil War stuff. There must be a dozen carbines out there. Anyone could have had access to a similar piece.”

“Norby pointed out that the weapon you found in the bedroom had been fired recently. Loyce says that on a lark her husband test-fired it.”

“Damn, Rocco,” Lyon said. “There’s reasonable doubt.”

“Norbert’s turned up a recent life insurance policy with the wife as a beneficiary. He’d execute her tomorrow if the law allowed it.”

“I personally don’t believe Loyce killed her husband,” Lyon said. “I spoke with her alone minutes after it happened and I believe her.”

“You’re operating on an emotional level. I don’t necessarily agree that she’s innocent, Lyon, but I do want the case kept open. I don’t like blinders on police work.”

“Explain that one.”

“Markham Swan was a known ladies’ man. He was murdered in his own home. His wife admits handling the possible murder weapon and is the logical suspect. What about others? Norby is closing the door to any other suspects. As far as he is concerned, no further investigation is necessary unless it’s for additional evidence to hang Loyce even higher.”

“Then no one is interested in Peyton Piper, who we know was unhappy with Markham? We also know Peyton was alone outside the cottage at the time of the murder. That’s in addition to the fact that he admits he was ready to fire the guy in the morning. Then there’s Peyton’s wife, who had an affair with the deceased. Which raises the question of how angry was the jilted woman, or how upset was her husband over the affair? We also seem to have a bunch of people running around the estate about the time of the killing, including one congressman, a bunch of security guards, and the young man caught in bed with Paula. What’s his name?”

“Chuck Fraxer.”

“Right,” Lyon said. “He was skulking around the estate at the time of the murder. He might also be upset with Swan if he thought that an older man made a pass at his girl. And this is only the short list, there might be others.”

“Exactly,” Rocco agreed. “We haven’t even started to look.”

“Markham claimed he had information concerning a possible threat against Paula’s life.”

Rocco arched an eyebrow. “A tie-in, maybe?”

“Are you asking me, Rocco? You’re the police officer. I write children’s books.”

“And you’ve got a mind that fits a weird case like this.”

Lyon laughed. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”

“Now you see what I mean about Norby’s warrant. He’s focused his investigation in one direction and knocked out all other suspects. I want to put the boots to the little bantam rooster, Lyon. Once and for all, he’s got to be taught. That’s where you come in.”

“Wait a minute, big chief. I am not going to be a part of any games you are playing with your brother-in-law. I have a contract for another Wobbly book, Rocco. I did say that I’d meet with Rabbit to find out what in the hell the Piper Pie is. I’ll turn that information over to you and then I’m done.”

Rocco shrugged. “Loyce will probably be out of prison in twenty or thirty years. Can you finish your book by then?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Ask Loyce what’s fair if you’re so convinced of her innocence. All I need from you is an hour’s work beside finding out about the Pie. I’m talking just sixty minutes, and you’re just about the only person who can do it.”

Each knew that the last time such a request had been made it had turned into a dangerous two weeks. But Rocco held important chits and his look signified that he was calling one in.

Lyon sighed in resignation. “What quickie task did you have in mind?”

“Someone’s got to check out Markham Swan’s papers.”

“You mean his manuscript? The book he was researching for the Piper Corporation?”

“Yep. Norby doesn’t seem to have any interest in the material since he’s convinced that the wife is the perp. If Swan possessed information about family problems, skeletons, and so forth, it would be somewhere in his papers.”

“You’re right, of course. The guy was a writer,” Lyon said. “Everything he learned would be somewhere in his notes.”

“It’s a few minutes’ work,” Rocco said.

Lyon stood on the graves of generations of small people and looked out over the Piper Pie.

The burial mounds of the Welch clan faced a weathered marble obelisk that stood guard over the Piper family plot. The tall monument was located in front of a white granite mausoleum that marked the center of the Piper Pie. The gravesites radiated out from the needle-shaped monument in neat rows. This arrangement made the graveyard look like a pie neatly divided into wedges.

Rabbit waved his hand at the obelisk and mausoleum. “That little arrangement is the original colonel’s,” he said. “They have his bones stuck in a crypt inside.”

“How long did the colonel live?” Lyon asked. “This Piper history lore is confusing me.”

Rabbit laughed. “They were all colonels. The guy planted in the mausoleum was the first one. He earned his rank in the Civil War.”

“Heroism in battle?” Lyon asked.

“Money to the governor. He was appointed colonel after he recruited and paid to equip his regiment,” Rabbit said. “My great-grandfather served with him. Or was it my great-great-grandfather? Anyway, my granddaddy was wounded in battle at Antietam and came back here a cripple.”

The battle of Sharpsburg if you’re from the South, Lyon thought. “In other words, each generation of the Piper family has a patriarch who becomes the colonel?”

“A colonel one way or the other. Sometimes they actually go to war and earn the rank, but that’s dangerous. Far safer to have a governor appoint them colonel of the foot guard or militia or something. It’s Peyton Piper’s turn this generation, but that’s going to be a little difficult since he spent the Vietnam war running the company’s Canadian division. I think Peyton’s going to have to go to Kentucky and grease the gov down there for his title.”

“Tell me about Katherine Piper, Rabbit.”

The butler turned away from the graves and looked over the hills. “Nothing to tell. Katherine lives with Peyton at Bridgeway. That’s about enough to drive anyone to drink. She’s an unhappy person married to a very unpleasant guy. He makes me want to give up gas stations to mug munitions manufacturers.”

“Then why do you stay on at Bridgeway?”

“I’ve tried to leave two dozen times, but something keeps pulling me back.” He plucked a long blade of grass and placed it in the corner of his mouth. “Hey, maybe it’s fate and damnation. We Welches are tied to this place the same as the Pipers. Our dead are mixed with their dead, our living with theirs. I don’t like Peyton, but would die for his wife or daughter, so things seem to balance out.”

“Why did Swan think Paula was in danger?”

Scudding clouds moved across the promontory, obscuring the ramparts of the distant Bridgeway house. As the sky dimmed, tendrils of mist reached toward the apex of the slender monument towering over the graves.

“Paula’s danger was in being boffed by that scum Swan.”

“Can you think of anyone else on the estate who might have wanted to kill Swan?”

“It would be a long list, with me near the top.”

Lyon believed him. “Are you and Peyton together on that list?”

“Probably. Okay, you’ve seen the Piper Pie,” Rabbit said. “What more can I show you?”

“You can tell me what Markham Swan meant in his note when he said the Pie proved something.”

“He was probably trying to arrange a meeting with Paula,” Rabbit countered.

“I don’t think so. Let’s walk through it,” Lyon said as he started down the gentle slope in a direct line toward the obelisk. He tried to recall the exact wording of the note Markham had sent to Paula. “The Piper Pie proves it. You are going to die this month. Come to the gate cottage at nine tonight and I will show you how I know.”

Rabbit and Lyon walked the carefully laid-out rows. Each headstone was identical in shape and size except for the center monument, which celebrated the life and death of Caleb Piper. Lyon walked over to the front of the monument to read its inscription:

CALEB PIPER

B 1820 D 1890

COLONEL

“My granddaddy knew him well since he worked at the big house. Poppa said that Caleb was an SOB. He used to beat his kids with a bullwhip, and once in a while take a few quick slashes at the hired help. They said he was a real bastard who used to treat his tenant farmers like they were slaves.”

“Didn’t seem to hurt him,” Lyon observed. “I see he lived to the ripe old age of seventy. In those days the average life expectancy was about forty, so he was practically ancient.”

“Probably too mean to die. The Pipers were always like that. Holier-than-thou lords of the manor.”

They walked up and down a few of the rows. Lyon noticed that husbands and wives were buried next to each other. There were often several wives with their infant children next to a single husband. The descendants were grouped according to generations. It was a very logical formation indicating a solidarity that few families could muster. He stopped at a group of graves and examined several of the markers.

Standard Piper was buried near his sister, Rebecca, and another brother named Christian. Their spouses and children were clumped around them in descending order.

There didn’t seem to be a clue in the graves. Was something besides old bones buried here? Or did the mausoleum that contained the body of the original colonel also contain something else?

The rear of the mausoleum extended into the leading edge of the small hill near the Welches’ graves. A stone walk ran along the front of the squat, granite building. Two Civil War cannons stood at each corner of the stone walk, with their muzzles pointed out over the graves toward the distant shore on the far side of the Connecticut River.

Lyon stopped at one of the cannons and placed his hand on the metal barrel. “The family seems to have their own National Cemetery here,” he said.

“They blew up a lot of people to get this far,” Rabbit said.

Lyon noticed that the cannons seemed well maintained. Their metal wheels and cast iron barrels were shiny, as if waiting orders from some ancient battery commander. Their size and barrel circumference identified them as Parrot ten pounders.

He turned away from his examination of the fieldpiece, to see bobbing hair moving down the lane beyond the high, loose stone wall that bracketed the family burial plot. The blond hair shimmered in the bright sunlight and then a hand waved to them.

Rabbit’s face softened as they watched her. “Roller-skates like a child and probably makes love like a harlot,” the small man said wistfully. “I don’t understand big people.”

“Young women are a special breed no matter what their height,” Lyon said.

Paula Piper swept through the cemetery gates on her Rollerblades and sped down the concrete path toward the center of the pie. Her acceleration around the obelisk swiveled her in an arc in front of them as she grabbed a cannon barrel. She tried to skid to a stop but had such forward momentum that her feet splayed out in front of her. She grasped the fieldpiece tightly to keep from falling.

Her laughter sprinkled over the day. Lyon and Rabbit smiled. “Daddy’s got to hire younger bodyguards if they’re going to keep up with me,” she chuckled.

“I’ve found the Piper Pie,” Lyon said with an expansive gesture across the graves.

“Hey, yeah,” Paula said.

“Those skates are going to kill you,” Rabbit said. “And aren’t you too old for that kind of nonsense?”

She kissed him on the forehead. “Oh, Rabbit, don’t be such a troll all the time.”

The Rabbit flashed a look at Lyon that was an even mix of frown and adoration for the young woman. “Hear that, Lyon? Troll. We Welches are still considered the Piper family jesters.”

“If Daddy finds you pumping booze into my stepmum you are going to be an unemployed troll,” Paula said with a laugh.

Rabbit gave a burst of laughter at a memory conjured up by Paula’s comment. “When Paula was a little girl she once poster-painted me into the stained glass window of the colonel’s glorious charge. I was a troll sitting under that bridge.”

“A glowering one,” Paula said.

Lyon tried to force a serious attitude over the conversation. “There’s a clue in here somewhere and we ought to try and find it.”

“A clue—how?” Paula asked as she sat on the edge of the bank in front of the cannon to remove her skates.

“I’m convinced that Markham Swan knew something significant or he wouldn’t have asked me to meet with him. We were not close friends and the meeting would have been out of character unless he had something important to tell me. I believe he knew something about this Pie.”

“Sure,” the young woman said. “It holds the bodies of my dead relatives.” She placed the skates neatly on the side of the hill and walked ahead of Lyon down the cemetery’s center row. At the far end of the row was a small grove of trees. “I used to come here when I was small. I always thought it was scary to have all your relatives buried in one spot like this.”

“What about those who died in wars?” Lyon asked.

“They always had them shipped back,” Paula said. “They’re all here, at least they are mostly all here except for a couple like Mary who went swimming from the parapet.”

Sst.

The sound registered instantly with Lyon. He not only immediately recognized what the barely perceptible sound meant, but it transmitted immediate muscular commands that made him react in a spectacular burst of energy.

He later realized that he had heard the sound several times during a visit to a Civil War reenactment.

A rigid drill procedure was required to fire a muzzle-loaded cannon in the Civil War. After the loading sequence had been completed, a cannon sergeant stepped smartly toward the rear of the barrel and ignited a fuse or short string of powder at the touch hole of the barrel. This powder train led to the main charge inside the barrel behind the shot. A microsecond after the touch hole was ignited, the cannon fired. During one long summer’s day he had heard dozens of these firings.

Lyon threw himself forward in an awkward body block that caught Paula in the small of the back. His forward momentum knocked her to the ground.

The cannon directly behind them belched with a loud roar that echoed across the valley.

SEVEN

Lyon and the young woman were sprawled across the grass as they watched a small balloon of white smoke from the Parrot’s barrel drift lazily over their heads.

Their ears still rang from the cannon fire, which had erupted only a few yards behind them. Lyon staggered to his feet. He was hardly able to believe he was unhurt. He looked down in alarm at the woman sprawled by his feet, but no jagged wounds tore through her flesh. She looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” she said.

“Someone threw one hell of a firecracker at us,” Rabbit said.

“I think not,” Lyon replied. “It was the cannon.”

“No way!” Rabbit shouted. “That hunk of iron is for show. It hasn’t worked for a hundred years.” He helped Lyon pull Paula to her feet. The young woman still seemed dazed and disoriented. “You okay, Punkin?” the small man asked.

“I think so. Was it the cannon?”

Lyon walked over to the Parrot ten pounder on the walk in front of the mausoleum. He smelled the acrid residue of gunpowder ten feet away from the old muzzle loader.

“What did I tell you,” Rabbit said from the path. “That baby hasn’t been fired since Antietam. And that was something like one hundred forty years ago.”

“It was fired at us a few seconds ago,” Lyon said. “Come here and see.”

Rabbit peered into the barrel. “I’ll be damned!” he said. “Someone loaded shot and a charge in this sucker and blew it out at us. Jesus, if you hadn’t knocked her down it would have blown your heads off.”

“I think the damn thing was loaded with grape,” Lyon said.

“Then it wouldn’t have hurt us,” Paula said. “It was firing like they do in riots when they shoot rubber bullets.”

Lyon shook his head. “Not hardly. In the Civil War and before, grapeshot was used as a close-range antipersonnel weapon. A number of iron balls were sealed in a flimsy canister that disintegrated when the cannon went off. If they were short of iron balls, they just stuffed old nails, or pieces of metal of any sort, in the barrel and fired it off. This junk probably made a pattern like a gigantic shotgun blast that took out a large swath of enemy troops standing in the way.”

“So if you hadn’t knocked Paula down she would have been blown apart?” Rabbit said.

Lyon nodded. “At this range, yes. We were lucky it passed over our heads.” The rag-a-tag metal missiles had probably passed harmlessly over Rabbit’s head. The canister shot would have torn into Lyon and Paula while missing the small man.

“It would have missed me, huh?” Rabbit said, as if in response to Lyon’s thought.

“Yes.”

“I had nothing to do with this. I was behind you guys when the damn thing went off.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute. How come Mr. Super Reflexes here was able to hear a cannon fire and take cover? Sounds to me like a scare-the-shit-out-of-the-troops bit is at work here.”

Lyon examined the breach and touch hole of the ancient fieldpiece. He felt for powder residue leading up to the small aperture. “I heard the fuse powder train sputter. It was probably laid a little longer than usual and took slightly more time to explode. Those moments allowed me to react. I think that whoever set it off needed a little extra time. He knew how to load this thing, and therefore realized that Parrots had a habit of blowing up when fired. This might be particularly true with a weapon that hadn’t been used in a century. Whoever it was also needed a long fuse to give them time to get away.”

“Get away where?” Paula asked as she stared across the empty cemetery. “I don’t see anyone now, and I didn’t notice anyone after the explosion.”

“I think Rabbit knows where he went,” Lyon said.

The short man frowned at Lyon. “You’re a smartass. How do I know that?”

“Because you grew up around here and would know.”

“You’re talking about the passage?”

Lyon nodded. “There has to be one into the mausoleum. There’s no other possibility.”

“My grandmother loved the story about Bridgeway and the Underground Railroad. Pipers helping slaves escape was something that really got to her. She was proud that a Welch had helped build the station.”

“How does it work?” Lyon asked.

“I never knew anything about that stuff,” Paula said, “and I grew up here.”

Rabbit gave her arm a pat. “Your mom died when you were young. If Katherine knew about it she would have stored her secret supply of vodka out here.”

“The person who fired that cannon used the passage,” Lyon said. “There was no other way to disappear so quickly.”

Rabbit walked around to the side of the small building. “It’s been so long, I’ve nearly forgotten how it works.” He knelt by the mausoleum and ran his hand lightly over the stone wall. He twisted a loose stone near the base of the wall. A small door three feet high slid sideways to reveal the dark interior. As Rabbit stepped through the opening, the door swung back to re-form the stone wall.

“Now you see me, now you don’t,” they heard his muffled voice shout from the interior of the crypt.

“What’s in there?” Lyon called as he searched for the protruding rock release. He found the lever, and the door swung open again.

Rabbit scurried out. “It stinks like a musty grave in there.”

“Any signs of activity?”

“The dead don’t move around a hell of a lot, Lyon.”

“How about our cannoneer?”

“If you want to explore around a bunch of ancient bones looking for a guy who just tried to kill us, be my guest!”

“We have to do it,” Lyon replied.

“Why?” Rabbit asked.

“Because I want to find out what’s happening,” Paula said directly to the small man.

Rabbit sighed. “God! Am I a sucker for young blond big people. Let me at least run home and get a couple of flashlights and maybe a length of good rope.”

Rabbit trotted off in the direction of his cottage. Paula and Lyon sat on the raised walk in front of the mausoleum and leaned back against the wall. A bright sun warmed them. Paula grasped Lyon’s arm with a tight grip. “I guess that cannon did a number on those trees, huh, Mr. Wentworth?”

“It would seem that way.” He sensed a note of near hysteria in her voice.

“Joyce Kilmer wouldn’t care for that.”

“No. I don’t expect that she would.”

“I don’t want to die! I know I’ve talked a lot about death, but maybe that’s because I’m so frightened. That cannon was meant for me. Swan was right. Someone is trying to kill me, and I haven’t the slightest idea why.”

There wasn’t any answer to that. They continued to sit near the cannon and look out over the river. It took Rabbit twenty minutes to return, burdened with a water bottle, a heavy rope looped over his shoulder, and three large flashlights.

“Loaded for bear,” the little man said, “and I hope to God we don’t find any animals down there.”

“I hate snakes,” Paula said.

“I really do not want to go in there again,” Rabbit said.

“Neither do I,” Lyon agreed but he twisted the protruding stone to open the recessed door anyway.

They all stooped to enter the crypt. The door swung noiselessly shut behind them. Their flashlight beams played across the narrow enclosure, causing shafts of light to intersect in constantly changing patterns. Two large stone esophagi were located near the walls and were covered with a thin layer of pure white dust. A similar layer on the floor was swirled and eddied in odd configurations. It seemed obvious that the dust had been purposely disturbed to hide footprints.

“It’s spooky,” Paula said.

“Who’s buried in here?” Lyon asked.

“The original colonel, Caleb Piper, and his second wife, Lavinia,” Paula answered. “The funny part is that it was wife number one who built this place. Mary’s the one who decided to go swimming off the parapet after dinner one night and never returned.”

“The body was never discovered,” Rabbit added. “They say she haunts the place.”

“We don’t need her to haunt,” Paula said. “I’ve got a stepmother who is perfectly adequate in that field.”

Rabbit bristled. “You know, Paula, you are damn unfair to Katherine.”

“I know she’s your drinking buddy.”

“Only when necessary.”

“You two knock it off,” Lyon intervened. “Let’s find out who tried to blow us up before we settle family problems. You’re the one who used to play in here as a kid, Rabbit. Where to now?”

“Mary Piper had this place built before there was anyone to plant in here. It was designed to hold up to five or six runaway slaves at any given time. The escapees were brought here by boat and landed at the base of the cliff right below us. They would remain hidden for several days until they could be moved to the next stop on the railway that led to the Canadian border.”

Paula looked around the narrow confines and shivered. “It would be horrible to stay in here for more than a few minutes, much less days.”

“Is there still a way to get down to the river?” Lyon asked.

“I knew it when I was a kid,” Rabbit said. He ran his hands along the far wall until they struck another protruding rock. He applied pressure until it slowly turned. A section of wall, built a century and a half ago by skilled artisans working with precision, slid open to reveal a narrow tunnel. The passage was barely wide enough for them to proceed single file.

Rabbit led the way. Lyon took the second position but had to hunch over to keep from colliding with the low roof. The passage twisted to the right and angled toward the river with a marked downward slope.

“My cousin and I used to play in here,” Rabbit said with a voice that echoed down the stone corridor. “My cousin was a big person, but was family and used to me.” He stopped abruptly and turned to face them. His flashlight canted up at an angle that turned his obliquely illuminated face into a macabre grimace. “I should have been grateful that a big person let me play with her, right?”

“Oh, Rabbit,” Paula said. She pressed past Lyon to put her arms around the small man. “Now stop that.”

It took several seconds for the anger to seep from Rabbit. “Okay, let’s go,” he said hoarsely and continued down the tunnel. “This passage is cut through solid rock right to the cliff face. That took a hell of a lot of work.”

The corridor came to an abrupt halt at a dark hole in the floor.

“I’m not sure I want to go down there,” Paula said.

“There are metal ladder rungs in the rock that go down about fifty feet to the river level,” Rabbit said as he uncoiled the rope wrapped over his shoulder. He tied one end securely around his waist and handed the looped remainder to Lyon. “Feed it out to me. I’ll test the rungs as I go down. If anything has rotted and I fall, you can belay me.”

“I understand,” Lyon said as he tied one end of the rope around his own body. He looped the remainder over his shoulder and through his hands in such a manner that he could feed it out gradually as Rabbit descended. “Ready?”

“Here goes nothing,” Rabbit said as he stepped into the darkness.

Rabbit had fastened his flashlight to his belt so they could watch the bobbing light swing back and forth against the narrow walls as he slowly climbed down the rungs. The small man’s baritone echoed up the passage.

“Lay me down and do it again,” they heard him sing in an off-key rendition.

“What’s that?” Paula asked.

“An ancient maritime sea ditty,” Lyon answered.

The light stopped its pendular swing. The beam shifted and swung up to point directly at them. “I’m down and it’s safe and clear,” Rabbit called to them.

The short passage at the bottom of the shaft ended at a small cave located on the edge of the riverbank. The narrow entrance was covered with heavy brush growing across the opening. Lyon could see watermarks on the cave walls where it had flooded during the times of a high river rise. They pushed through the brush to stand on a narrow ledge overlooking the river, which lapped at their feet.

A small rowboat bobbed at anchor fifty feet offshore. The security guard, Barry Nevins, held a fishing rod in one hand and a can of beer in the other. He turned to face them as they lined up along the shore. “Lousy fishing,” he called.

“How long have you been there?” Lyon called back.

“About an hour.”

“See anyone come out here?”

“Yeah. A while ago someone was standing where you guys are.”

“Who was it?” Lyon asked. “Can you give us a description?”

“How the hell should I know? I’m off duty and not being paid for that crap.”

“Damn liar!” Rabbit said in a low voice that the wind carried across the water.

Barry stood up in the rowboat. “What did you say, you dopey dwarf?”

“You’re dead meat, Cro-Magnon,” Rabbit said as he plunged into the water and began to swim awkwardly toward the rowboat.

Barry picked up an oar and held it over his head. He was ready to strike as soon as the small man was close enough. “You’ve had it, dwarf dork. You are going to be fish food!”

“I didn’t really feel like swimming just now,” Paula said.

“Me neither,” Lyon agreed as they made racing dives into the water. They stroked rapidly to intercept the swimming man.

EIGHT

When Lyon drove through the front gate of Bridgeway House without stopping at the security guard’s signal, he knew all hell would break loose. A piercing alarm went off before he reached the end of the drive. Harry, the chief of security, was glowering on the stoop’s second step with arms akimbo when Lyon braked the car to an abrupt halt near the door.

“I can’t let you in, Mr. Wentworth. We got strict orders that no one sees the girl.”

“Where is Paula?” Lyon asked innocently.

“In her room. She’s not allowed any visitors,” the guard said firmly.

“Ten to one she’s not there,” Lyon said. “In fact, I can guarantee she’s not on the grounds.”

Harry blanched. Opposing emotions flickered across his face as he took a moment to decide if he should believe Lyon. His instincts came down on the side of belief. He bolted back inside the house.

Lyon’s shoes squished as he uncomfortably marched through the door to the living room, and then up the stairs to the balcony. He heard Harry’s frantic calls for assistance over the phone in Paula’s empty room.

The Connecticut River had not yet warmed for the summer, and he shivered from his recent swim. His shirt had dried on his back, his pants were damp, and his shoes were waterlogged. The swimming Rabbit had been determined to reach the rowboat and engage Barry in mortal combat. It had taken Lyon and Paula’s combined efforts to tow the enraged man back to shore.

Before Lyon had returned to the mansion, they had escorted Rabbit home. He had managed to escape their grip twice and had started back for the river, but his short legs had been no match for Paula’s long ones. Finally they had delivered him into Frieda’s firm clutches.

Lyon had ordered Paula to stay at the Welches’ where he thought she would be safe for the next two hours. He telephoned Bea from the small cottage.

“You remember the security guard who coshed the lady protester?” he said to his wife on the phone.

“He was fired,” Bea replied.

“He’s back and turning up in strange places,” he said as he explained about Barry and the rowboat. “Can you have the state police and FBI run a quick background check on him?”

“Sure,” Bea answered. “You think he’s into things?”

“Up to his neck. Thanks much.”

Paula had told him that her stepmother’s room was two doors down the hall from hers. He stopped at the proper door and slipped out of his wet shoes, squirming his toes against the thick hall carpeting before he knocked. No answer. He knocked again.

“Amscray,” was the muffled reply from the other side of the closed door.

“Mrs. Piper, it’s Lyon Wentworth.”

“Stuff one of your kiddie books under the door and scurry away. Tell your supercompetent wife to vote Communist.”

“I don’t think there’s much of a Communist party left anymore,” Lyon said to the dark wood of the door panel.

“No more Commies? God, what a blackout that was,” was her muffled reply. “Go away, Lyon. I am busy weaving gold cloth to keep that nasty little man away.”

Lyon turned the door handle and found it unlocked. He stepped inside the bedroom and quietly closed the door. Katherine was standing on a small balcony looking toward a distant ocean. She wore a long transparent nightgown partially covered by a full-length silk housecoat. A tray with a sandwich and a small glass of milk was centered on a table by the side of the bed.

She turned to face him and raised a stemmed glass. “It’s good pepper vodka, best taken neat. Care for some?”

“Perhaps if you have some Dry Sack sherry?”

“Pity. I’d love to drink the afternoon away with you and see where it led.”

“Is that your usual luncheon invitation?”

“Of course. Didn’t Peyton tell you that as a fallen Piper I give land mines a bad name? After all, I committed the worst possible sin for his class. I enticed one of his employees to my bed. You do not work for us, but as an uninvited guest from the wrong side of the river, you are nearly in the same category. Generally, I have found that most men have deliciously rotten intentions, of which I fully approve.”

“Like Markham Swan?”

“Oh, yes. Rarely do intentions get more rotten. He was not only an employee, but a true bounder in his own right.”

Lyon laughed in spite of himself. “That’s a word I haven’t heard in a decade. Are there really any bounders left? I would have thought that territory had been usurped by modern morality.”

“Markham Swan gave the term entirely new dimensions. Not only was he a lecher of wide capacity, but he seemed to view the feminine half like that mountain climber. Markham wanted to possess all women merely because ‘they were there.’”

“Tell me about your relationship with him.”

She looked at him a long moment over the rim of her goblet before turning away to wave the glass over the low balustrade of the small balcony. “Do look at my very special river view.”

Lyon moved to her side and looked down. The patio parapet was directly below the balcony, and below that the cliff fell in a sheer drop down to the river. It was a straight fall of two hundred feet.

“Mary Piper jumped to her death from the patio just below this window,” Katherine said. “I can understand her fascination with the fall, and since she was married to a Piper, I understand her reasons.”

“Why did you marry Peyton?” Lyon asked.

She finished the contents of her goblet and poured more from a nearly empty bottle secreted behind the window drapes. “When I knew him in college and while he was married to Helen, he seemed suave, charming, kind … and rich. That’s an unbeatable combination.”

“What happened to change that?”

“Living with him. I found him to be cruel, pompous, overbearing, but still rich.”

“And Markham Swan was not any of those things?”

“He certainly wasn’t rich, but he could make love like a God. That makes up for a lot.”

“Including his leaving you for another woman?”

“My dear Lyon. I never had him completely enough for him to leave me. He always had other women. Not only his wife but others. The man was constitutionally incapable of monogamy. I knew that.”

“Then you wouldn’t have killed him over that?”

“Not only wouldn’t I have, but I couldn’t have. On the night of the murder, I was too drunk to do it.” She let the stemmed crystal glass slip from her fingers. It dropped into the void over the river. “A beautiful thing destroyed. Like Markham. Too bad.”

She moved to the side of the king-size bed and tore the spread from satin sheets. Her robe dropped into a puddle on the floor as she slipped the shoulder straps off her gown. She sat down in a slow, sensuous movement and patted a place by her side. “Join me?”

“Not at the moment, thank you,” Lyon said. “Was Peyton angry enough over your affair with Markham to murder him?”

Katherine Piper broke into gales of laughter that were choked off by a cough. She drank a sip of milk from the tray by her side and grimaced. “Peyton doesn’t kill people. He does something far worse. He ruins them financially. He was perfectly capable of doing that to Markham. I am quite sure he intended to have him blacklisted with every contact the man had. But it wouldn’t have been over me, Lyon. My husband became immune to the jealousy virus after the second time he was required to ruin the career of the tennis pro at the country club.

“No, he wouldn’t kill for me, but possibly he would over Paula. I know that Markham intended to work on her as his next project. I don’t know how far he had progressed.” She pulled the straps of her gown back over her shoulders. “I care more for Paula than most people realize. If Markham had seduced her, I might have killed him. Consider that, Lyon. Drunk or not that night, I would have found a way.”

Bea believed in being thorough. Lyon had asked her to run a background check on Nevins. She’d done that and turned up nothing except a few traffic violations. She’d go one better and make a personal visit.

The address they gave her at the Piper Corporation personnel office indicated that Barry Nevins lived at 2000 Elysian Fields. She knew the address, which was for a trailer park located on the outskirts of Murphysville.

It often seemed incongruous to her that house trailers, designed for movement on the open road, should so often be parked in the smallest possible lots. There was something of the dispossessed to those who lived in these portable shantytowns, as if they clung to the edge of society as they burrowed into their rusting metal homes.

The Nevins unit perched on cement blocks at 2000 Elysian was more disposable than most. Two abandoned cars squatted on either side of the rusted trailer and hugged the earth on flattened tires. Other detritus of living was strewn haphazardly over a tiny lot enclosed by a ruptured picket fence barely two feet high. The unit’s windows were streaked with dust and mud that made them opaque from the outside.

Bea parked in a narrow aisle between two trailers and knocked loudly on the small door.

The door was wrenched open. Barry Nevins loomed over her. His feet were bare, his faded blue jeans splotched with a collection of unknown stains, and he wore a rumpled T-shirt. He clutched a can of beer and gazed down at her with a blank look. As recognition dawned, his expression registered acute distaste.

“Well, if it ain’t little miss big shot who loves to get people fired.”

Bea straightened up with as much dignity as she could muster and looked up at the man on the steps above her. “They tell me you’re still employed by the Piper Corporation?”

“You came all the way out here to check on that? You are weird, sister. No thanks to you, I got canned. But certain things happened and now it looks like I’m back.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I do special favors for the boss. That satisfy you?”

“May I come in?”

He stepped away from the door and Bea followed him inside.

Nevins opened a small refrigerator with such vehemence that its door cracked against the wall with a loud thump. He snatched a can from a half-empty six-pack of Bud and popped the top. He drained the can in a long continuous gulp while looking at Bea standing in the small living room area. When the beer was finished he crumpled the can with a one-handed flourish and tossed it to the side, where it clattered across the linoleum.

“What the hell do you want, lady? Wasn’t it enough that you tried to get me fired?”

“I thought you were.”

“Like I told you, the boss needs a man who will do as he’s told.”

She wondered what that might involve.

Something bothered her about the interior of the trailer and it took her a few moments to realize what it was. It was not just the apparent paucity of furnishings and personal belongings, or the scruffy condition of those things that were there; it was the battering. The interior of the trailer had actually been attacked. There were holes in the walls and wide spidery patterns on other partitions where blows had shattered plaster and Formica. Chunks of wood and processed board had been torn from furniture and dividing walls. The trailer had the hell beaten out of it.

“Is Mrs. Nevins here?” she asked.

“There isn’t any Mrs. Nevins anymore, lady. She took off two years ago. Went out one night for a pack of beer for me and never came back. Went to a shelter, they said. I never could find her, even with my police contacts. Came back once, the bitch. Came back when I was at work and got some of her clothes. Took the kids with her, not that that’s any loss.”

Thank God for small favors, Bea thought. “You and Harry were watching the TV security monitors the night Markham Swan was killed.”

“So? That’s how I spotted the Fraxer guy crawling in the sack with Miss Goody Two-Shoes. Bonus from the old man for that one.”

“That happened just after the man was murdered.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“I checked,” Bea said. “There’s a monitor on the front gate that swivels. It would have a good picture of the gate cottage every four or five seconds. You might have seen something.”

“I saw nothing, lady.” He snatched another beer from the small refrigerator.

Their eyes met for a brief moment until he looked away. “Nothing?” she repeated.

“That’s what I said.”

“And you just coincidentally happened to be in a rowboat on the river near the underground station tunnel at about the time a cannon almost killed my husband and Paula?”

“Like you said, lady, coincidence.”

“I think not,” Bea said without thought and immediately realized that the remark was a mistake.

Barry Nevins dropped his can of beer. It rolled across the marred linoleum floor and spewed out its contents in gulping bursts. His eyes, frightening in their complete absence of feeling or compassion, focused on hers. He viewed her in the same manner he might look at a small rodent he was about to kill. Bea suddenly realized she was dealing with a sociopathic personality.

“I have to leave,” she muttered.

She took two steps toward the door before he grabbed her arm and spun her around. His features had changed from the dark opaque quality of a moment before to a skewered smile that was his unskilled attempt to camouflage a leer.

“Where you going, lady?”

Their faces were inches apart.

“Let me go,” she said in a very low voice keyed to a calm level.

He didn’t answer. There were obviously several thoughts shifting behind his dark eyes and she did not care for any of the alternatives. “Let me go, Barry,” she said again in the same calm and level voice. “Let me go or you will regret it more than you have ever regretted anything in your life.” She delivered the command in the most matter-of-fact voice she could muster.

He looked at her for another long moment and then slowly let his hands drop from her body. “I got a feeling we aren’t through with each other, lady,” he said as she stepped out the door.

Peyton Piper was coolly formal. He stood in Bridgeway’s library, impatiently running his fingers along the case of a matched pair of flintlock dueling pistols. “You know, Wentworth, just because we were classmates and fellow members of the Thumpers does not allow you to call me at the factory and demand I return home. Is that understood?” Once the formal display of tempered authority had been displayed, Peyton smiled and clapped Lyon on the shoulder. “Right, old top?”

Lyon’s shiver was not due to that morning’s river swim. Nor was it from residual fear over the cannon incident. It was anger at this pompous mannequin. “I was never a Thumper, nor did I want to be,” seemed to be the worst insult at hand.

“Yes, that’s right. Sorry. You were blackballed, weren’t you?”

Lyon was chagrined at the sharp pain. After all these years, it still hurt that he had been denied access to a snobbish club that he hadn’t wanted to belong to in the first place. No matter what intellectual positions we stake out, we are still so vulnerable, he thought. “You know, it was always a mystery to me why you took Markham into the Thumpers.”

Peyton gave a ribald laugh. “Initially we didn’t take his application seriously, although he had two damn good sponsors. That was before Markham revealed his true talent. He had an ability that made him the strongest of that fall’s applicants, except for Jiggs Chaney of the Connecticut tobacco Chaneys, of course.”

“His writing ability?”

“Good Lord, no. Markham Swan was born with the ability to get women. He was our official pimp, although we never called him that. If you didn’t have a date for Saturday night and wanted to get lucky, Markham was the one to see. He was quite popular in his own slimy way.”

“And you knew that and still had him in your home with your wife and daughter?”

“As I told you earlier, I thought he had outgrown that stuff the way you do acne. Still, he knew better than even to look at Paula. Katherine?” Peyton shrugged. “I suppose you could say that gives me a motive, doesn’t it?”

“Paula and I were almost killed a short while ago. I believe your daughter was probably the target of the attack.”

“I have already investigated that incident and find your conclusion highly exaggerated. Your problem, Lyon, is that you are far too imaginative. You find ghouls behind every pillar and suspects hanging from the rafters. My best security man called me before you did. Barry tells me that there was a minor explosion at the cemetery, but that its cause was obvious. You were the object of Rabbit’s practical joke.”

“Hardly. That cannon was fired.”

Peyton shook his head. “I think not, Lyon. Let me tell you about Rabbit. That little rodent hates normal people and will do anything to embarrass them. He drinks too much, which makes his foul mouth worse. He only works here because his father and grandfather before him were family retainers and my wife has taken a strange liking to the little runt. If it weren’t for that, he’d be on an unemployment line calibrated to his height. The so-called attempt on Paula’s life was undoubtedly hidden firecrackers planted by that pipsqueak. The only danger my daughter faces is from that gold-digging hippie, Fraxer what’s his name? I have given orders that she be protected from him.”

“The cannon was fired. I heard it, felt it, and sniffed it.”

Peyton snorted. “Easily faked. I mean, face it, Lyon. No one would be fool enough to fire that ancient thing. A full charge would probably blow it up in their face. Why should they risk it when there are enough assault rifles around the country for a hundred mass murders?”

“Whoever fired that cannon escaped through the Underground Rail tunnel that goes from the crypt to the river.”

“Underground Railroad! You don’t believe that old saw? If there’s any secret passage down there, it was constructed so old Caleb could smuggle his bimbos in for a little extracurricular slap and tickle. Rabbit’s granddaddy was probably the lookout.”

“No freed slaves?”

Peyton shook his head. “It’s my understanding that old Caleb was such a bigot that if the State of Connecticut had allowed it he would have had slaves working in his factory. I can’t believe that he ran a station on the Underground Railroad. Now, maybe his eccentric wife who threw herself off the parapet would have done that sort of thing. Her final exit proves that she had a flair for the dramatic.”

“Then those old stories aren’t all true?”

“Markham Swan included the Underground Railroad in his book because it made good sympathetic copy and I thought it might swing me some of the black vote.”

“I think I’d like to see Swan’s notes.”

Lyon shifted the chair closer to the computer on the cluttered desk in the dining area of the gate cottage. He was convinced that Markham would never have asked to meet with him unless he had something substantial to reveal. The fact that the murdered man was researching a book on the Piper family and felt that Paula was in danger increased Lyon’s suspicions.

Markham Swan was not murdered by an irate lover, or his own wife. He was killed by someone his discovery threatened.

What was it?

The answer had to be in Markham’s notes. His dangerous information related to the Piper family. This meant that Swan’s discovery might be accumulated data or something he had turned up recently. The dead man had undoubtedly done something in the last day or two that had warned his killer.

A threat to whom?

Swan’s note to Paula talked about the Pie. How did the Piper family cemetery fit in?

The small room containing the computer and other files was a shambles. Every flat surface held a collection of old newspapers, computer software, files, and historical memorabilia. Only the computer sat alone, with its empty screen staring blankly into the room.

Lyon knew that, like many writers, Swan appeared more haphazard and inefficient than he really was. No matter how the two men disagreed, Markham was still a thorough researcher, a trained historian. Eventually his collection of miscellaneous and seemingly haphazard facts coalesced into a coherent study of his subject. Somewhere inside this computer there was a logical collection of data that might solve the problem of the Piper Pie.

He clicked on the computer.

The screen flickered to life as the initial booting sequence began. For a moment lights flickered in the tiny windows of the various drives, and then built-in memory and system tests flashed on the screen as the system activated.

Instead of merging into a DOS prompt or Windows display, the screen flashed a dark blue screen with a yellow rectangular insert with a heading: PASSWORD.

Lyon exhaled slowly as he hummed two verses of Rabbit’s “Clover” song. “Damn,” he finally said.

Bypassing the password required a revamping of the computer’s motherboard or else a hacking ability far beyond Lyon’s rudimentary knowledge. He placed computer lore in his personal realm of useful but esoteric subjects, alongside catalytic converters in his automobile, the Hubble constant in cosmology, and some women’s selection of eye makeup.

Although Markham had the necessary education and intellectual tools of an academic historian, he kept his work on a commercial level. His history book on the battle of Gettysburg had been for a young adult market, his work for the tobacco company and now the Piper corporation paid hack jobs. Lyon did not think that the dead man’s password would be some esoteric Latin phrase, or a quote from Homer in the original Greek. The password would be something that had meaning for Markham, although it might be laced with a touch of irony.

Lyon leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, visualizing the dead man whose secrets he hoped to examine. Markham was not only a conservatively oriented research writer, but also a man with a Don Juan complex. A man of that sexuality with a researcher’s background must have kept a tally or score of some nature. Markham Swan might not maintain his financial records in good order, but his conquests would have statistical and anatomical descriptions.

The password might be a synonym or play on words for the act of sexual congress.

Swan was far too sophisticated for the password to be a simple bathroom wall epithet. Nor would it be the obvious synonyms in French, German, or Russian.

Lyon began to type all the esoteric synonyms for having sex. When none of his alternatives were the correct password he began to type in foreign phrases for the act.

Still no response. He tilted the chair back in fatigue.

He had used every phrase and slang he could think of without result. He thought of Swan’s personality again. The man did have conservative beliefs. With that in mind, he began to type in a new series of potential passwords. He began with a list that consisted of men the dead writer might admire: George Patton, Ghengis Kahn, Machiavelli, Adam Smith … the list went on without result.

Next he tried a list of writers and artists that Swan had mentioned to him in passing over the years. No result.

He would have to speak with the dead man’s wife to find important personal combinations that might work. If that wasn’t successful, he would have to dig up a discreet computer expert who could jump the password through the motherboard.

Damn! He should be able to figure this out. He had known Markham Swan since college, when they had both been up for membership in the Thumpers. As Peyton had recently pointed out, Lyon had been blackballed, but Markham had been admitted for his pandering ability.

Lyon casually typed “Thumpers” into the computer. It was a word important to Swan, and from what Peyton said, it also had a strong sexual connotation.

The screen changed to an icon display. He was in.

A fast review of the hard drive files indicated a neat and orderly progression of notes concerning the book called The Piper Contribution.

He began to read.

It was an hour before Lyon had it. The list that scrolled down the screen was a simple genealogy of the Piper family with a few identifying notes by each name. He stopped scrolling and stared at the list.

It was now quite clear why Markham Swan felt the answer was in the cemetery plot known as the Piper Pie. It was obvious what he had found out and why he had been killed.

NINE

These dead now held a new significance.

Lyon stood directly in front of the obelisk and looked out over the grave wedges that comprised the Piper Pie. Bea was by his side, her hair gently ruffled by a warm breeze that danced past from downriver. While Lyon seemed transfixed by the neat rows of headstones, she turned to look at the tall monument with a puzzled frown.

“Who, beside an Egyptian pharaoh, would erect a gigantic phallus to dominate his future grandchildren?” she asked.

“That miniature Washington Monument was built by the original colonel. If I’m reading things correctly, Markham Swan’s genealogical notes tell us that part of the answer to his murder is written on those tombstones,” Lyon said.

“I can’t see how they’ll tell us anything. They don’t even have any fancy inscriptions that would make for interesting grave rubbings.”

“Markham had faults, but he was thorough.”

A flash of sunlight glinted off car chrome from down the narrow lane leading past the cemetery. Murphysville Cruiser Number One sped past the cemetery, then skidded to a stop and backed recklessly to the entrance. The driver shifted into forward and drove through the narrow wrought-iron gates flanked by a pair of stoic stone lions.

“Yonder comes he who shakes the ground,” Bea said. Rocco Herbert heaved himself from the police car, shaded his eyes from the sun, and glowered in their direction.

“I wonder why he’s cross?” Lyon asked.

Bea sighed. “I sometimes think that Rocco is angry at the world half the time.”

Halfway to the monument, Rocco waggled an accusatory finger at them. “I have no time to fool with this stuff,” he said loud enough for “this stuff” to echo from the hills.

“We can understand,” Lyon said, “since the weight of the nation’s crime-fighting efforts rests upon your shoulders.”

“Worse than that. I’m facing a wages strike with the school crossing guards. Pandy Jerome has got them organized and they’re demanding time and a half for rain duty and double time when it snows.”

“You’ve got to learn to compromise,” Bea suggested. “Give them triple time for snow, with no extra money for rain. Then cancel school on snow days.”

Rocco stopped abruptly. “Hey, you know, that’s not a bad idea. You politicians really know how to screw people in a compromise. Okay, why are we graveyard hopping?” He glanced briefly at the uniform rows of tombstones. “Poor rubbings area. This place will never attract the garden club crowd.”

“I’m going to show you the reason why Markham Swan was killed,” Lyon said.

“In translation, that means you’re going to point out the tombstone he was screwing behind when he was caught in the act by an irate husband?” Rocco said.

“That’s not quite what I had in mind, but this isn’t twenty questions. Let me give you the guided tour.” Lyon glanced at the first page of a sheaf of folded notes that he took from his back pocket. He walked slowly down the center row of the Pie and then made a right-angle turn to walk along the first row of stones. “Caleb Piper and his second wife are buried in the mausoleum behind the obelisk.”

“After her swan dive off the parapet into the river, the first wife’s body was never found,” Bea added.

“Okay,” Rocco said as he held both hands before his body in a gesture of supplication. “I know how you two think. All I have to say is that my caseload is chock full. I have the school crossing guards to fight with, Norby to fend off, and lots of other stuff hanging fire. I do not need an ancient crime suddenly appearing as an open case. I’ll listen to any significant information you have as long as it pertains to something that happened in this century. No. Make that this decade.”

“Be patient, and hear me out,” Lyon said. They followed him as he moved slowly down the first row of tombstones, which was now swathed in shadows from the tall needle monument. Again, as he often did in the proximity of the long dead, Lyon seemed to sense their presence. He stopped before the middle stone in the first wedge of the Pie and ran the palm of his hand across the rough stone in a gesture that was nearly a caress. “This is where Standard Piper, the patriarch’s first born, is buried.” Lyon read from the words and letters etched in the stone: “BORN 1855–DIED 1873.” He looked down at his notes. “Caleb’s firstborn was cut down in his eighteenth year. Records of the time indicate that he accidentally shot himself in the head with a minié ball while hunting wild turkey in a nearby wood-lot.”

Rocco nodded. “Those things still happen around here. God, I hate Fall and the start of hunting season in Murphysville. The usual casualty count is one dead deer and at least two wounded hunters. I think they clean their weapons with ninety proof vodka.”

“Accidents do happen,” Lyon said as he proceeded to the next row of stones. He read from the second monument: “CHRISTIAN PIPER. BORN 1879–DIED 1897.” Again a referral to his notes. “Christian was born to Standard’s younger brother. He was cut down in his eighteenth year while playing cards on a riverboat going from Hartford to New York City in 1897. It seems there was a dispute over an inside straight poker hand. The man who fired the shot was never located.”

“Poker can be a violent game,” Rocco agreed.

“Okay, we proceed,” Lyon said.

“You know, lover,” Bea said, “I love genealogy as well as any other New Englander, but as far as the Piper family is concerned I am not overwhelmed with interest.”

“Oh, but it gets more interesting.” Lyon hurried his pace as he entered the next row. “Over there lies Thomas Piper, who was shot accidentally in his eighteenth year by the police when they raided a speakeasy in 1920. Rebecca Piper, Peyton’s great-aunt, has a tombstone, but there really isn’t any body buried there. Rebecca disappeared right after her eighteenth birthday.”

Bea had proceeded ahead of Lyon and had showed little interest until now. She stopped. “Wait a minute. Did they all die in their eighteenth year?” she asked.

“Yes,” Lyon answered.

Rocco had begun to look interested, but now he shrugged off his speculation with a grunt. “It’s all coincidental. The nineteenth century was a violent time in this country. It’s also not unheard of for young women to run off and never be heard from again.”

“In the olden days they were sold into white slavery or something,” Bea said.

“If your scenario is correct, Rocco,” Lyon said. “Rebecca Piper ran off with the circus right after she delivered her child, Lance, Peyton’s uncle.”

“What happened to Lance?” Bea asked.

Again Lyon referred to the notes he had made from Swan’s computer information. “Lance lived a little bit longer than his eighteenth year, but was killed in his nineteenth. I think the reason for the delay was that the killer had difficulty in finding him since Lance was in the army during the Korean war.”

Rocco’s manner had shifted into the nonjudgmental pitch of the police interrogation. “How did he die?”

Bea answered. “He was killed in combat during the Korean War, right?”

“Wrong,” Lyon answered. “Lance was killed at Fort Dix, New Jersey after a live ammunition exercise. The Army thought it was one of his own men who shot him in the back.”

Bea put it together. “So since the middle of the eighteenth century, the firstborn of each Piper generation has died under mysterious circumstances.”

“It’s always the oldest child and always in their eighteenth year,” Lyon said.

“With the exception of the Korean War guy,” Bea added. “But that might have been an accidental omission.”

“If what you say is true, then Paula is next,” Rocco said.

“She’s just turned eighteen,” Lyon said. “Markham Swan was trying to warn her the night he was killed. Swan said the answer was in the Piper Pie. He was partly right, some of the answer is here,” Lyon said with a sweeping gesture across the graves.

“What now?” Rocco asked.

Lyon sensed that the surrounding dead were speaking to him in urgent voices just beyond the realm of understanding. Those interred on this hill high above the river had lain restlessly for a hundred years. It was up to him to give them peace. “There’s a set of identical circumstances in these deaths that is beyond coincidence. I think as we continue to search we’re going to find more strange facts.”

“God, Lyon!” Rocco said. “Some of those crimes are over a hundred years old. If they are crimes.”

“Let’s start with the latest. Bea, can you check into the Defense Department’s records and see what the investigation showed about Second Lieutenant Lance Piper’s death?”

“I’ll have to ply government friends with favors to get fast results,” she replied.

“Please ply. And Rocco, somewhere they will still have records on Rebecca Piper’s disappearance. It’s possible that some archives may have information on the killing of Thomas Piper in that 1920 speakeasy raid.”

“I’ll see what I can dig up,” the large police officer said. “Although I’m still not sure why we’re bothering.”

“I have a gut feeling,” Lyon said, “that when we find out what’s been happening, we may have a hint as to who killed Markham and why.”

“How come no one put this all together before?” Bea asked.

“There were decades between each incident,” Lyon answered. “Each death occurred under different circumstances. Only in broad retrospect do we see the similarity of family placement and age. Even with that, the pattern didn’t jump out at anyone until Markham Swan began to lay it all out for his book. I’ll be at the Hartford Courant newspaper morgue,” Lyon said.

“I’ll be in Hartford too,” Rocco added, “checking in the dormant records of the Hartford police. I’ll drive you up there, Lyon. You’ll make better time with me since I always travel with my siren on and the bubble lights going.”

“I always suspected you did that,” Bea said.

Since Connecticut is a state with virtually no county government, Rocco knew that very old police records, if they still existed, would be in the dormant records department of the Hartford Police. A sergeant with an abundant mane of pure white hair in reception at the Morgan Street headquarters laughed when he asked directions.

“Dormant Records! Jesus, Chief, no one goes down there except when we’re hazing new recruits.”

“Pretend I’m young and direct me.”

“Take the elevator to the basement,” he chortled. “I don’t mean down to the firing range and locker room. I’m talking subbasement here. If you can get past the rats and the water level is low, you might find him. If you are lucky, the Beast is either home drunk or has retired.”

“The who?”

“Lieutenant ‘Beast’ Langstrom is in charge of Dormant Records. That is, if he’s still alive or hasn’t been forcibly retired.”

“Oh, that guy,” Rocco said with a nod of recognition. “Wasn’t there some incident about his exposing himself during a Saint Paddy parade and taking a piss against the reviewing stand?”

“He still claims he thought he was in the rear of the stand. But that’s only cop lore shit, Chief,” the desk sergeant said. “I for one don’t even know if the Beast really exists. But somebody is down there.”

“Thanks,” Rocco said as he rang for the elevator.

As the sergeant had predicted, Dormant Records was located in the lowest reaches of the building. The peeling sign near the elevator door pointed past the boiler room. A dusty entrance sign announced, RECORDS. The general level of housekeeping proved that any files stored here were truly dormant. A musty smell seemed to rise from the damp cement floors. Ancient wooden file cabinets lined the walls, their yellowing, handwritten labels often unreadable. Naked light bulbs strung half a dozen feet too far apart were the only illumination.

“Anybody home!” Rocco yelled in a voice that echoed down the corridors.

“Who wants to know?” a gravelly voice answered.

“Chief Rocco Herbert, who hates goddamn games!” he yelled back. He attempted to follow the source of a thump-cracking noise.

“Office is closed till Tuesday,” the voice said between cracks.

Rocco slipped sideways past a high row of files that partially blocked a corner. He entered a small room dominated by a cluttered rolltop desk. File boxes reached to the ceiling like temple support columns. A lone police officer tilted precariously forward on a wide desk chair. The room’s single occupant was an obese lieutenant in an unpressed uniform with a wildly askew tie stained by blotches of unknown substances. He was intently cracking walnuts with the butt of a .45 automatic.

The butt of the .45 pulverized a walnut into dozens of inedible pieces. He frowned. “See what you made me do. I told you we were closed, Herbert. Now, beat it!”

“I need information, Beast. Nineteen-twenty speakeasy killing in Hartford. Man by the name of Thomas Piper got blown away.”

Another crunch shattered a walnut into the proper bite-size fragments. Lieutenant Langstrom delicately picked at the pieces. “They never let you forget, do they?”

“You mean what happened at the Saint Paddy’s Day Parade?” Rocco commiserated.

Langstrom glared. “You out to lunch, Herbert? I’m talking about the liberal press. They must be after us again about friendly fire casualties. The boys accidentally kill a civilian or two and they never let you forget it. What is it this time?”

“I’m here about a case that goes back a lot of years.”

Langstrom raised an arched eyebrow. “You sure you’re a sworn officer? Or are you a constable?”

“Will you knock it off, Beast? I’m not a civilian. I got a new case piggybacking on an old one. Okay? I need information.”

“On the nineteen-twenty Park Street police raid?”

“You know the case?”

“A witness said we blew the guy away. The deceased was some rich young kid who was drinking pure grain they passed off as booze. They tried to say that we blew him away with a goddamn minié ball yet.”

“A what?” Rocco asked in astonishment.

“A Civil War piece fired the shot that killed the kid. It was found on the floor. They said one of our guys had it as a throw down. Get that, Chief. Like one of our guys is carrying a Civil War piece around as a throw down. God, they were as bad then as they are now. Some things never improve.”

“How come you remember a case that old?”

“I got nothing else to do down here. I read all the good ones.”

“Jesus, Beast! That was seventy-five years ago.”

“I keep up with the interesting ones that show possibility for the mags. I used to make a few bucks selling true crime stories to the pulps that went in for crime and gore. You know the kind. Mags like True Private Eye and Crime and Punishment. They always had a bimbo on the cover with a torn blouse and her skirt up to her waist. Some guy’s menacing her with what might be a pistol. The gore was on the inside pages. You got paid according to how much blood you generated. Decaps paid the best. I sold them one piece about the Windsor Locks Decapitator. This guy put his victim’s head inside the ratchet of the canal lock and when he turned …”

“The speakeasy case, Langstrom. Tell me what else you remember.” Rocco demanded.

“You paying?”

“Hell, no! I’m a cop like you.”

The Beast smiled, and Rocco wondered how a man could have teeth like that and still eat walnuts.

Langstrom leaned back in his swivel chair and belched. He laced his arms behind his neck as Rocco sat on a nearby box of records. “Well?” Rocco pressed.

“It was a high-class speak over on Park Street. You can imagine how it was. Volsted Act or not, our guys didn’t touch those places as long as they paid their dues. Well, one day the Feds had a bug up them sent by parties unknown. Our guys had to put on some sort of show, so evidently the force set up a quick in and out deal to satisfy the Bible thumpers. Our people burst in with a couple of the Feds along. There’s a little yelling and one shot. This Piper kid falls dead. No one’s even got a weapon drawn. A civilian finds this old gun behind the bar. The kid was shot in the back. There was no way to smuggle that cannon into the place and yet we got blamed. The cover-up went down because the kid came from some rich family.”

The Beast belched again and Rocco was not surprised to see him rip a beer bottle cap off with his teeth. He drank most of the bottle in a series of continuous gulps. “About a decade after the speakeasy shooting, something happened to another member of that same family,” Rocco said.

The Beast tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder. It silently disappeared into a void in the distance. “Yep. You’re talking about the one who disappeared. Don’t remember her first name, but it happened around the same time as the Lindbergh baby snatch. The bad guys were really into kidnapping about that time.”

“Her name was Rebecca.”

“Sounds right. I sold that one to the old Bound and Gagged sheet. That kept me in beers and nuts for a month or two. Seems there was this rich young girl over in the central area of the state somewhere …”

“Near Murphysville,” Rocco suggested.

“Yep. Some backwater place like that. Well, this kid just up and disappeared. Never could find a trace of her.”

“Then it was a kidnapping?”

The Beast pounded another walnut. “No ransom note or the like. State police finally dropped it. They figured she ran off with some no-account lover.”

“Do you remember any other details?”

“Weren’t none. That’s why I couldn’t do more with the story and had to lay it off on Bound and Gagged. The girl was last seen one afternoon walking in the family cemetery. Good color in that, the mag said. But they had to make up an ending. You can guess what they came up with.”

“Sold into white slavery,” Rocco said.

“You musta read some of those old copies. Sold into white slavery by the yellow hordes, as I recall. Anyway, truth is that some servant of the family saw her walking in the cemetery and then nothing. It was the same family as the kid in the speak. Vipers was their name, or something like that.”

“Piper.”

“Sounds like it. I almost had a feeling there was a family curse on those people. I tried to sell that idea to Bound and Gagged, but by that time they were in the process of going belly up. Those good old bloody mags are gone now. People nowadays have no imagination and want to get their blood and violence on film.”

“You ever tell anyone these stories?”

“Not since I stopped selling them to the mags. In fact, now that you mention it, no one ever comes down here for anything anymore.”

Bea Wentworth wondered how many apartments, shopping centers, and condos named Wildwood there were in this country. She slowed the Saturn to turn off New Jersey’s Route 129 just past the Wildwood Continuing Care Retirement Community sign. Underneath the name and above the logo was the community’s marketing slogan: WE CARE FOREVER.

She shivered at the concept as she turned down a cul-de-sac that ended in front of the apartment units and administration building. Directly in front of the U-shaped apartment complex was a three-hole pitch-and-putt golf course. A single player, wearing wildly checked Bermuda shorts, knelt on one knee near the second pin. His ball lay a few feet out and he examined the green’s tilt as thoroughly as a general analyzing enemy terrain.

She parked in a visitor’s slot in front of the main building and entered a highly polished terrazzo tile entryway that led to a gleaming reception desk. “I’m looking for Colonel Squeeks,” she said. “I understand that he lives here.”

The peppy young woman behind the desk smiled automatically and spoke exuberantly. “Oh, yes, Marvel Squeeks is one of our favorite residents. In fact, you practically ran over him when you came in. He’s out there on the golf course now. If you just turn right around and stomp right down you can’t miss him.” She giggled. “Oops. Sorry. I call the line dancing classes on Mondays and Wednesdays and I forget myself. If you’d like a sales brochure we are opening our next section in a month. We recommend a full-living luxury apartment to begin with. When you require further care we will move you, at no cost, to our assisted-living units. If necessary, from there you can progress to our state-of-the-art skilled nursing home, available to those who need full care with their activities of daily living.”

Bea blanched. The remains of her day crumbled into a thousand shards. She looked blankly at this refugee from a cheerleading camp who still smiled from behind the reception desk. She realized that she was older than Miss Call-the-Line-Dancing—but that much older? “Do I look like a potential purchaser?” she asked in a low voice.

Another giggle. “Oh, I meant for your parents, of course.”

Of course, Bea thought as she left the lobby and crossed the drive to the pitch-and-putt golf course. The colonel had sunk his putt and was preparing a pitch shot over a sand bunker to the final hole.

“Colonel Squeeks,” she called out.

He squinted in her direction. This seemed inadequate, so he shielded his eyes from the sun and changed glasses. “Do I know you, young lady?”

Young lady, Bea thought. This was truly a day of extremes. “No, sir,” she replied. “Army Personnel at the Pentagon gave me your name.”

“I don’t practice medicine anymore, young person. And for quite a few years I have been Colonel Squeeks, Retired. So that your trip out here is not a complete waste, want to watch me make my shot? It’s going to be a quickie so as not to hold up that foursome behind us who want to play through.” He bent over his nine iron and eyed the golf ball seriously.

Bea looked over her shoulder and felt a surge of disappointment at her wasted time and effort. In the far distance a maintenance man rode a large grass mower across a side lawn. “I’ll wait, Doctor.”

“I’m kidding about the foursome. I’m not dotty yet. That comes next week.” The golf club hit the ball with a neat click that lofted it in a high arc. It dropped firmly on the small green, only five feet from the pin. The colonel grunted in satisfaction and turned to Bea with a smile. “How’s that?”

“I’d say it couldn’t be much better,” Bea replied.

“Ought to be good. I play these same three half-holes six times a day. I have nothing else to do now that Boots is gone. Funny how things work out. We waited years to put down our endowment fee and move in here. We were still in good health, but we thought, let’s just be on the safe side and not worry about the future. So we moved to this place in order to have the nursing home as protection in case we needed it. Boots never did need it. She went in six weeks when the Big C got her. Funny, huh?” He bent over to make his putt.

“Boots?”

He laughed and missed his putt as the ball swerved to the side. “They used to laugh at that name whenever we changed assignment stations and reported in. Doctor Marvel Squeeks and Boots. Lots of fun at the officers’ club. Enough of that. What do you want, young person? Did I treat a relative in one of my wars?”

“You did an autopsy on a young man many years ago. It took some doing to come up with your name.”

“I did a lot of autopsies on young men. Young men were what we managed to kill, wound, or maim most in my business.”

“In 1951 at Fort Dix, New Jersey, a young second lieutenant was shot in the back after a training exercise. He was dead on arrival at the base hospital. The records show that you performed the autopsy.”

Colonel Squeeks missed another shot and glared at the offending ball. “Yes, the Fort Dix one. Funny, most of them merge together and are forgotten, but not that one. I’m not sure if the reason I still remember is because it seemed like such a waste since it was after a training exercise, or because the powers that be gave me a hard time over the report. You know how the service is. They like everything tied neatly together. And that case just didn’t work out that way.”

“Why not?”

“The accident happened after a combat exercise in which live ammunition was fired. The training problem was called, “The Platoon in the Attack” or some such thing. At the end of the exercise the men were supposed to turn in all their remaining rounds, but there was no way to keep an accurate count of what had actually been fired. Usually nothing came of it.”

“But this time something did?”

“Damn tooting. One of the men must have really had it in for the lieutenant and loaded a live round back into his piece. He was shot in the back in the middle of the company street. No one saw who did it. That’s where I came in.”

“You found the bullet?” Bea asked.

“What was left of it. The Provost Marshall wanted to make an arrest. Every man in the platoon had a rifle and each one had been fired that day. I was to extract the bullet so they could run ballistics tests on each rifle in the platoon.”

“And you couldn’t find it?”

“Oh, I found it okay. I took one piece of strange metal out of that kid’s back. It didn’t match up to any projectile our army fired in this century.”

“And the investigators weren’t happy?”

“That’s an understatement. They were livid. Never could run a ballistics match on those M-1s.”

“And they never found out who killed Lieutenant Piper?”

“Was that his name? I’d forgotten that. Nope. Never did make a case against anyone.”

“The piece of metal you extracted. Was it shrapnel?”

“Any piece of metal imbedded in a man is shrapnel, young lady. So you could call it that. What it wasn’t was like any bullet we used in this century. This was a funny mashed piece of metal. It wasn’t like any of the junk I took out of men over the years.”

“Did you make a guess?”

“That made them madder yet. I told them it looked like a Civil War minié ball.”

TEN

She stood in the center of the field, which sloped up gradually behind her. The meadow seemed to merge into the horizon near the rim of sky. Ankle-high, new-mown grass sprinkled with dots of tiny yellow flowers surrounded her. A gentle wind brushed her hair into slow easy waves. The clarity of the early morning light gave a deep hue to the natural greens and bright yellows. It was a technicolor day.

Paula Piper seemed confused. She looked in each direction as if expecting help.

Lyon stood far below her on the cusp of the rolling land that stretched toward the distant girl. A Civil War Spencer carbine was cradled comfortably in his arms. He knew that any cry of warning he gave would be warped by the wind and lost in the distance.

The danger marker was slightly to his left. Although he did not read German, its meaning was clear. It was a rough-hewn wooden sign in the shape of a slanted cross. In another place it might warn of a railroad crossing. In this field its scrawled black letters warned of another danger:

ACHTUNG

MINEN FELD

“Don’t move!” he yelled.

His words were lost in the wind.

But his name carried across the meadow. He heard it as if from a faraway tunnel, “Lyon.”

“Don’t take a step! The field is full of Tommys. You know how they are. If you step on one it will leap in the air before it explodes. You hear me?”

“I’m afraid,” she said with a hesitant step toward him.

“No!”

“Tell Rebecca I’m coming. I can’t wait longer.”

The young woman with her hair blowing in the wind began to run across the field toward him. As she continued down the slope the incline increased her momentum.

“No!” he screamed again. She wouldn’t stop.

He knew that mines were laid in patterns that varied from the simple to the complex. No matter what design the weapons occupied under this hill, she would eventually step on one of the buried Tommys.

She did. The barely audible barking thump was immediately followed by ejaculated clods of dirt as the mine leaped into the air. For a brief moment the platter-shaped device looked like a hovering frisbee.

She froze in midstride to stare at the weapon in mute horror.

The Tommy exploded and spewed its deadly emissaries across the field. Dozens of steel balls tumbled her backward as they ripped into her chest.

“God, no!”

Lyon sat up. His arms reached forward as they grasped at empty space. Perspiration beaded his forehead. The final vivid image of his dream still seemed real in the dim confines of Nutmeg Hill’s master bedroom.

“What in the world is the matter?” Bea asked in alarm.

“I had a bad dream.”

“It must have been.” She plumped her pillow in her usual nesting manner. “I’ll never get back to sleep. It’s like dawn, huh?”

He glanced at the small clock on the bed table. “Five. I think I’ll start the coffee.”

He snicked his terrycloth robe from its hook on the closet door and slipped into it. His bare feet padded down the stairs to the kitchen, where he turned on the coffee machine that had been preloaded the night before.

Lyon leaned against the back doorframe and looked across the field by the side of the house. He watched the early morning light creep across the lawn as the coffee began to drip.

He heard Bea come into the kitchen. “I guess I’m ready for coffee now that you’ve made it. One of the perks of being married is having someone willing to listen to your bad dreams. So, okay, tell me about it.”

He told her of the minefield while he poured.

They sat in the breakfast nook, cradling warm mugs of coffee. “Wait a cotton-picking minute,” Bea said. “You’re telling me that in your dream you were standing in a field holding a rifle? Which is a gun that translates into a phallic symbol. And that little sexpot Paula is running toward you until she explodes. Wentworth, didn’t you ever take psych one-oh-one?”

“It’s not a sexual dream.”

“Try telling that to old Sig Freud.”

“I think that dreams can sometimes be a signal from the subconscious. They can be an ordering of our conscious thoughts in a symbolic way.”

“Run that by me again.”

“My subconscious has picked up on something about the Piper matter. It’s trying to tell it to me in the only way it can.”

“Through the symbols of a running sexpot and a Civil War musket? You said she called out Rebecca. That’s one of the occupants of the Piper Pie, right?”

“Partly right. Rebecca Piper was Peyton’s great-aunt who disappeared in the early thirties.”

“What is your subconscious trying to tell you?”

“Damned if I know, Bea. If I did, I wouldn’t need all that scary background material.”

There wasn’t anything frightening about Sarge’s Bar and Grill. Its beery daytime atmosphere was as familiar to them as a pair of old sneakers. Rocco had preceded them and was occupying his usual booth. He had a double vodka clutched in his hand as he stared morosely out the window at an ancient school crossing guard escorting kindergarten children across the street. Lyon and Bea slid into the booth across from him as Sarge served Lyon Dry Sack sherry and Bea a diet soda.

“You drink too much, Rocco,” Bea said.

“I see that you’re illegally parked in the loading zone again, Senator.”

Bea loudly slurped her diet soda.

“Okay, guys,” Lyon said. “What do we have?”

Rocco gave a straightforward account of his trip to the Hartford police station. Bea wanted to hear more about the Beast in Dormant Records, but she sensed Lyon’s impatience and withheld her curiosity.

“Where did you say Rebecca was last seen?” Lyon asked.

“In the family plot. The place you call the Piper Pie,” Rocco replied.

“And they never found out who owned the Civil War gun found in the speakeasy killing?” Bea asked.

“Not only couldn’t they ID the owner, but it disappeared from the property room.”

“Doctor Squeeks believes that Lieutenant Piper was killed by something that resembled a Civil War minié ball.” Bea finished summarizing her previous day’s trip.

“Did the colonel have any idea of how it could have been done?” Rocco asked.

“He did,” Bea answered. “He told me that in those days they fired rifle grenades from a mounting on an M-1 rifle by using blank cartridges. He believes that a minié ball could have been forced into the barrel and fired by a blank with enough force to kill a man.”

“Then the killer could have been any man in that platoon,” Lyon suggested.

Bea shook her head. “Even that’s not simple. Most of the men went for showers when they returned from the exercise. They left their weapons in unlocked racks in the barracks. Not only the men in the platoon had access to those weapons, but any civilian employee from the boiler detachment, or working in the PX across the street could have picked up a rifle, fired out the barracks window and replaced it in the rack.”

“Christian Piper was killed in 1897,” Lyon said. “The newspaper morgue papers tell me that there was an argument over cards on the Hartford-New York packet and he was shot once in the chest. Let me quote the newspaper report of the time: ‘Mr. Piper succumbed from a minié ball wound caused by a revolver souvenir from the Great War.’”

“And the shooter?” Rocco asked.

“‘In the ensuing melee, the unsavory gentleman involved in the game of chance seemingly disappeared over the side of the craft and swam to shore near the Seven Sisters hills.’ Quote unquote,” Lyon said.

“Bridgeway is built on one of the Seven Sisters hills,” Bea said.

“Surprise coincidence,” Lyon said bitterly.

“What about the hunting accident in 1873?” Bea asked.

Lyon shrugged. “The newspaper reported a hunting accident for Standard Piper, oldest son of Colonel Caleb Piper. The young man was killed while hunting in the north woodlot near Bridgeway. He was shot by his own weapon.”

Rocco nodded. “That one could be an accident for real. We have them around here by the dozens. Often it’s some guy carrying a loaded weapon who tried to climb over a barbed wire fence. The trigger catches on a metal barb, and bam—he’s gone. That could have happened to Standard Piper. He was only eighteen and you know how impatient kids can get.”

“In hunting accidents, if the victim isn’t shot by another hunter, is a snag on the trigger often a cause?” Lyon asked.

“A good deal of the time that’s what happens. The fields around here are filled with old wire.”

“Barbed wire wasn’t patented by Joseph Glidden until 1874,” Lyon said softly.

“Quoth the Answer Man,” Bea said.

“As a matter of curiosity,” Rocco asked Lyon, “do you know your own car license plate number?”

“He doesn’t,” Bea said, “but he remembers stuff like barbed wire. Don’t ask me, Rocco. I can’t figure it out.”

“That north woodlot is still vacant,” Lyon said. “I walked it yesterday and there isn’t any wire in there. Only a few New England stone walls.”

“A man hunting in the woods is found dead from a wound that appears to be from his own rifle. Unless the entrance wound was in the center of his back, most law enforcers of those days were going to rule it an accident. Who was going to think murder for an eighteen year old?”

“They were all eighteen,” Bea said.

“We seem to have four eighteen-year-old men shot to death and one eighteen-year-old woman missing,” Lyon said. “Each of the men was killed under different circumstances, but each died from a minié ball wound. All of this occurred in one family at somewhat regular intervals.”

“If we reduced that to a mathematical formula,” Bea said, “and ran it through a computer, the odds of random coincidence would be one in a million.”

“Guarantee it,” Lyon said.

Rocco signaled for another drink and Sarge ambled over to the booth with the vodka bottle to pour another double shot. “This is ridiculous,” Rocco said.

“So, if a double isn’t big enough, you get a triple,” Sarge said agreeably as he continued pouring.

“I didn’t mean the drink, but thanks anyway, Sarge,” Rocco said. “Granted that the fickle arm of coincidence would be stretched mighty thin, but that’s not as troublesome as the long-toothed murderer you guys are trying to construct. Standard Piper was killed in a hunting accident in 1873. Need I point out that was over one hundred twenty years ago? If we had a twenty-year-old killer going for his first one in 1873, we’d now have a perp pushing his big one hundred and fiftieth birthday. Come on, guys. Knock it off.”

“The Piper family curse,” Bea said with a smile into her soda.

Lyon leaned back in the booth. “Well, Bridgeway house does have all the prerequisites for a curse. We have a nice dank mausoleum located in an interesting family cemetery. In addition to that, there’s a cliff jumper who returns during the full moon to finish her dessert. To really round out the haunting, I would like to add a baying dog and possibly some ancient bones cavorting on the lawns.”

“If you’re into the supernatural, Wentworth, you have the wrong criminal justice agency here. You want people really far out like the CIA,” Rocco said. “Is that your bag now?”

“Of course not! I don’t believe in curses from other dimensions, just as I don’t believe in agile killers pushing their second century. But something is going on here, Rocco.”

“If we don’t do something soon, we may have another killing on our hands,” Bea said.

Lyon agreed. “Maybe that’s what my dream was trying to tell me. Paula is next.”

“When?” Rocco asked.

“It could happen anytime.”

In the library of Bridgeway House, Peyton Piper continued polishing the 1840 Dragoon saber with the triple-bar brass hilt. His full attention seemed drawn to the weapon’s finish rather than to Lyon’s recital of past Piper deaths. When Lyon finished, he continued working on the brass fitting with a chamois cloth. When he was finally satisfied, he carefully replaced the saber on its felt cushion in an open case next to its mate. He ran his thumb across the sharp blade before turning to face his former classmate.

“Sure, we’ve had violent deaths in the Piper family,” Peyton began. “The nineteenth century was a turbulent time. Caleb’s son was killed in a hunting accident. Do you know how many people have died from accidents on Bridgeway property in the last hundred years? A bunch, Lyon. Another Piper was shot on a riverboat while playing poker. Anyone who plays that damn game with strangers ought to be shot. Speakeasies were illegal, bad things happened in them. Many thousands of men are killed after or during army training. Your problem is that you overdramatize!”

“There are too many coincidences that form a pattern, Peyton.”

“We Pipers are active people. We are involved in life. Things can happen to active and involved people. I resented Swan preying on Paula’s teenage obsession with death. His motives were sexual; yours are equally transparent and as insulting.”

“Paula is the target of a killer. Will you protect your daughter? Use that private police force of yours to guard her until we get to the bottom of this.”

“And the end of your little fable will just happen to coincide with the closing of the party nominating convention in July?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Isn’t it odd that at the same time that I make a bid for the senatorial nomination, a move opposed by your wife, you just happen to come up with this far-out story about a Piper curse.”

“I didn’t phrase it so sophomorically.”

“It must be magical since, according to you, these murders have been going on for one hundred fifty years. For a century and a half some evil force is eliminating the Piper firstborn. Come on now!”

“That’s exactly what’s been happening. The record speaks for itself. A computer model would indicate that the facts are impossible to explain without a murderous intent.”

“Give me a little respect! I am a businessman trained to make pragmatic decisions based on marketing, production, and financial facts. I do not avoid decision making, and I am quite capable of considering opposing possibilities. However, what you have just given me is an impossible train of circumstances dreamed up by a drunken police chief, augmented by an ambitious lady senator, and orchestrated by a space cadet. In other words, you speak utter nonsense. Your juvenile scheme is a poor attempt to screw me out of the nomination. Your advice seems to suggest that I retreat to Bridgeway with my daughter. We remain surrounded by armed guards and let the senatorial nomination go by default. Wentworth, you are using my daughter as a cheap weapon to defeat me.”

“Paula is in grave danger.”

“I agree on that. She is pursued by Charles Fraxer who wants to marry her for my money. The last time I saw that scum he had broken into my house to seduce my daughter in her own bedroom. I have taken steps to correct that young man’s attitude.”

ELEVEN

The world had become a menacing place.

Lyon leaned out the Saturn’s window and viewed the Welches’ small cottage and surrounding woods with deep suspicion. During his first view this tiny house, built to scale for small people, had seemed cozy and quaint. Recent events, however, had given Bridgeway house and its surroundings a bleak pall.

He had phoned Bea from the mansion. He told her that although he did not have Peyton’s cooperation, he had a plan for temporarily hiding Paula.

There had been an uncomfortable pause on Bea’s end of the line. “I suppose you’re considering asking her to visit Nutmeg Hill?” she finally said.

“You’re being Freudian over that dream again.”

“As we speak I’m looking directly at the subject in question and wondering where I hid my aerobic exercise videos.”

“I have another idea,” he had replied. “I think I can get her admitted under a false name for the summer session at Harris Junior College in West Virginia. Bill Johnson is director of Admissions down there and will help me out if I explain.”

“That’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“Exactly. What better place for her until we get this sorted out?”

Bea and Paula stooped to exit the cottage’s small front door as they hurried out to the car. They waved to Frieda standing in the doorway. Lyon moved to the passenger seat while Paula squeezed into the narrow rear compartment.

“Lyon hates to drive,” Bea said to Paula. She drove past Bridgeway’s front gate to the lane that led down to the secondary highway. Two lone protesters, their placards on the ground, drank coffee from a thermos as they slouched by the side of the road. When they saw the coupe they jumped to their feet and began waving their signs frantically.

Paula tapped Bea on the shoulder. “Stop, please.” She leaned out to talk to the protester waving the PITCH PIPER OUT placard. “Have you seen Chuck Fraxer today?” she asked. “He told me he’d be out here.”

The middle-aged woman waving the sign seemed relieved to substitute normal conversation for belligerency. “A Piper Corporation truck stopped by to get him about a half hour ago,” she said in a neighborly tone. “We were concerned, but Chuck said that a girl named Paula wanted to see him.”

Lyon glanced at Bea with concern.

“Oh, my God!” Paula said. “Which way did they go?”

The woman pointed down the lane toward the obscured entrance of a logging road. The narrow rutted path wandered north past several cornfields. It disappeared into the center of a heavily wooded stand of second-growth timber. “Over that way. They said it went to the back entrance.”

“That’s the north woodlot I walked yesterday,” Lyon said. It wasn’t necessary to stress Chuck’s danger. “There’s no entrance down that way.”

“Let’s go!” Bea said as she threw the car into gear. The Saturn leaped ahead and nearly knocked over the woman with the protest sign. Bea took the turn into the logging road with a screech of tires, but was forced to slow as the car jounced over the rutted path.

“I never sent him any message,” Paula said. “We talked on the phone early this morning and were to meet at his place near school. I think Barry’s got him.”

Bea edged the speed of the small car up to its practical maximum on the inadequate road.

Directly ahead a Piper Corporation security truck erupted through a thicket in the woodlot. It lurched up the single lane logging road with a wavering trajectory that its driver fought to control.

“Get off on the shoulder!” Lyon shouted.

“There isn’t any. Let those bastards move,” Bea yelled back.

“We’ll all be killed!” Paula screamed from the rear seat.

“I have the right-of-way!” Bea yelled. “You hear that, you guys?” she shouted out the window at the pickup, which was now only yards away.

Lyon could now see Barry grimly hunched over the wheel. He also saw that they were vehicle-jousting against superior equipment. The truck was equipped with a roll bar for protection of the cab. Oversize tires raised the reinforced front, designed for a winch and snow plow, above their hood. It was obvious that in any front-end collision the small Saturn would be destroyed.

“Let them by!” he cried as he grabbed the wheel and forced their car to swerve off the road into a ditch. The car tilted precariously. Their wheels spun uselessly in the dirt until they stalled to a stop.

The pickup sped past without reducing speed. A cloud of dust swirled over the tipped coupe.

“Unless Chuck was lying down in the truck bed he wasn’t with them,” Paula said.

“I think we had better look for him in those woods,” Bea said. “And I think we had better look for him fast.”

Chuck Fraxer had been hanged.

Lyon did not actually locate him in the search so much as run into the young protester’s dangling feet when they struck him on the shoulder. Small droplets of blood dripped from the hanging body and fell on his face. He looked up into the foliage where the body was tied. Paula was only a few feet behind him and Lyon pulled her against his shoulder and away from the sight of the hanging man.

“What is it?” The young woman asked.

“Don’t look.”

“Break it up, you guys,” Bea said from behind them. “Let’s cut the guy down.”

“God, I hope I can be as tough and unfeeling as her when I’m older,” Paula said.

“If you don’t get out of my husband’s arms you aren’t going to get much older,” Bea said as she began to lower Chuck Fraxer to the ground.

The protester had been hoisted aloft by a rope that ran around his chest and under his arms. His nose had been bloodied in the beating, while the words “I love Tommy” had been painted across his bare chest. He groaned.

“He’s not dead,” Paula said as she rushed to cradle his head on her lap and brush hair back from his blood-streaked face.

“They just seem to have beaten the hell out of him,” Lyon said.

“Barry did this, just like he probably killed Mr. Swan,” Paula said. “He senses what Daddy wants and then does it without being asked. It’s clever that way. My father is never responsible since he never directly asks for these terrible things to be done. And when they are, somehow Barry gets rewarded.”

It took an hour for Lyon to walk to a nearby farmhouse, phone, and wait for Rocco Herbert. He returned with the police cruiser to drag the Saturn from the ditch. When Chuck Fraxer adamantly refused hospital treatment, Rocco used the car’s first-aid kit to make a rudimentary attempt at treating his cuts and bruises.

Rocco insisted that Lyon and the graduate student ride with him for the trip to Middleburg. Bea and Paula would follow in the Saturn and meet them at Fraxer’s rented house on the outskirts of the Middleburg University campus.

“How many guys were involved?” Rocco asked as they waited at the bottom of the Seven Sisters hills for the ferry.

“Three,” Fraxer mumbled through bruised lips.

“I’ll need their names for the warrant,” Rocco said.

“Don’t know,” was the mumbled response.

“Well, we can start with Barry Nevins and offer him a deal if he implicates the others,” Rocco said.

The two-car ferry nosed into the wooden pier as its single deckhand roped it taut and raised the gate. Rocco drove aboard and braked at the far end, where he crossed his arms and glared at the injured man in his finest authoritative manner. “Somebody takes a fall for this adventure of yours or I arrest you for trespassing. Got that?”

They sat silently for a moment and were halfway across the Connecticut River before Chuck Fraxer spoke. His words were slightly unintelligible because of his split lip.

“For God’s sake, those guys were sicced on me by her father,” Chuck said. “If I start rattling that Pandora’s box it will work its way back to him and I’ll end up in a court case against my potential father-in-law.”

“How potential?” Lyon asked.

“Very, as far as I’m concerned,” Chuck replied.

“She’s awfully young,” Lyon said.

“Eighteen going on thirty-two,” Chuck answered.

They were nearly at the end of the short trip and the ferry was positioning for the docking when Lyon made his proposal. “If you do what I say, Rocco will drop all charges against everyone.”

“I will?” Rocco asked without a great deal of protest.

“I am sending Paula away for a few weeks,” Lyon said. “You will not know where she has gone nor will anyone else. I want you to insist that she go for her own safety.”

“That makes sense,” Chuck agreed.

The house, which Fraxer shared with several graduate students, was located a block from the campus. The building was a rambling wood-frame dwelling typical of homes built in the late twenties. A wide porch containing an assortment of mountain bikes, old car seats, and piles of newspapers circled three sides of the first floor. The upstairs windows boasted an assortment of coverings that included torn window shades and psychedelic throws.

Rocco helped the limping Fraxer up the outside stairs, past the broken screen door, and into the hallway.

“God, I hurt all over,” Fraxer moaned.

“They did a professional job on you. Notice they didn’t break anything or do permanent damage. This is called the warning. They’ll go for broken bones at some future time no matter what sort of deal Lyon thinks he cut with you.”

“I believe in nonviolence, but if they keep this up I may go in for that paramilitary revolutionary bit.”

“It’s my job to take care of them,” Rocco said.

“No way. This is between me and her old man,” he said with a nod toward Paula. “The bastard has had his shot, even if he did use surrogates. Next time is my turn.”

“Knock that off!” Rocco ordered as he steered him into the living room.

The long room took up the bulk of the first floor and was a strong contender for a World War One battlefield look-alike. What had once been built-in bookcases on either side of the fireplace were now filled with beer bottles, potato chips, and assorted junk food wrappers. Paper cups, partially filled with indeterminate beverages, were placed along every available flat surface. The furniture consisted of several couches and easy chairs whose protruding stuffing identified it as early American curb. Throw pillows strewn around the floor completed the decor, except for a large photograph of a rather nondescript man that dominated the mantelpiece.

Rocco glanced casually at the large picture. “That guy looks like Willie Sutton the bank robber.”

“Jack Kerouac,” Lyon answered. “He’s the beat generation author who wrote On the Road.”

Chuck Fraxer looked at Lyon through a swollen eye with more respect than he had shown previously. “That’s right.”

Lyon gently took Paula’s arm. “What did you mean back in the woodlot when you said that your father had Swan killed?”

Paula hesitated before answering. “I was very upset over seeing Chuck beaten. I just meant that it was possible. Swan was beginning to hit on me and Daddy knew it. Everyone at Bridgeway knew something was going on between Swan and my stepmother. Daddy said that he intended to fire the man, and I just wonder if Barry didn’t follow those orders literally.”

“Barry was in the house at the time of the killing,” Lyon said.

“It took me about three minutes to get from the gate cottage to the house,” Chuck said. “Barry could easily have done it in one of those silent carts.”

Rocco made a note. “Nevins has his foot in everything, doesn’t he?”

“The bastard Swan deserved what he got,” Fraxer said with a wince. Paula had taken over the treatment of his injuries and was dabbing his various cuts with a strong antiseptic solution.

Lyon picked up a thick book with a heavy cover from the couch partially covered with the ripped Indian blanket. “This is the second volume of Lee’s Lieutenants. Who’s the history buff?”

“Ow,” Chuck Fraxer said as Paula dabbed a particularly sensitive injury.

“Chuck’s a graduate history major,” Paula said with pride.

“Really,” Lyon answered. “What’s your area of expertise?”

“American history,” Fraxer mumbled as he grabbed Paula’s hand. “How about working to get that paint off my chest?”

“Any particular period?” Lyon asked.

“Civil War and Reconstruction,” Fraxer replied.

“Ever fire a musket?” Rocco asked in a casual tone.

“Once, at a Powder and Ball gun exhibition.”

“That’s damn interesting,” Rocco said. “I don’t suppose many people have done that these days?”

“Of course they have,” Fraxer replied. “There are lots of gun nuts who collect working muzzle loaders and fire them as a hobby.”

“Lots?” Rocco asked.

“Jeez, Chief, what is this? A class in logic? Okay, there are some people around that know how to fire those old weapons. What does that mean?”

“It means that if you’re over a hundred and thirty years old you’re in big trouble,” Bea said.

Since Congressman Roger Candlin had to run for office again in November, it was time for him to pretend to be an appealing personality. In his case, the most drastic change consisted of portraying himself as an ordinary worker. This ruse was not entirely successful, and he was as ill-suited for that role as aristocratic members of the ancien régime might have been.

Candlin was a grand manipulator in the heritage of the great puppeteers. His present control was primarily restricted to two Connecticut counties. Nevertheless, this power was sufficient for him to act behind the scenes on a state and, to a certain extent, national level.

Bea Wentworth, as ingenuous as it was possible for a politician to be and still survive in elective office, did not care for Congressman Roger Candlin. Since he had long ago given up any attempt to control her activities, their mutual hostility was obvious but suppressed.

They met by prearrangement at the gates of the Piper Corporation’s main plant during the 7 A.M. change of shift. Candlin wore a hard hat and casual clothes that made him seem more awkward than a dark Brooks Brothers suit, and carried a handful of leaflets. His brush with the unwashed would last only long enough for the mobile television crew to get their byte.

Bea stood by the congressman’s side as he handed out leaflets and offered a limp hand to the emerging shift workers. It was his usual habit to mumble something completely immaterial to the passing workers. On one past occasion Bea had heard him repeat the phrase, “Down with Carthage,” several hundred times to batches of confused submarine welders. Their frowns had provided poor television coverage. A bright aide had suggested that he now use the phrase, “Hope you win the lottery this week.” This had produced far more telegenic results.

“Why do you do this, Roger? These people all know how insincere you are.”

“They’re setting up the cameras now, Beatrice. After that we can have some decent coffee,” he said without moving his lips.

“Please warn me before they film since I don’t care to be seen at the gates of a munitions factory owned by a man I detest.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, lady,” he mumbled as the camera operator and producer moved into view.

“Hold it like that, Congressman,” the mobile television producer said as Bea stepped aside. That command caused an immediate metamorphosis in the congressman that was just short of miraculous. His smile broadened. His handshake instantly changed from a fish-fin dip to a hearty grasp that would do a lumberjack proud. His lottery comments to the workers as they passed through his gauntlet seemed to carry a special significance, as if he had personally rigged the drawing on their behalf.

“We got it, Congressman. Thank you, sir.” The television crew began to pack up their equipment. Candlin instantly dropped the remaining handouts to the ground, where they were promptly retrieved by an assistant. He turned and strode away from the gate, leaving several workers looking after him with their hands still extended.

Bea followed him to an RV parked in the corner of the lot. The Winnebago had a huge banner across its side that read, RE-ELECT CONGRESSMAN ROGER CANDLIN. YOUR FRIEND AND MINE.

Candlin shrugged Bea toward a built-in table. He stood in the kitchen area at the small sink and began to scrub his hands with bacterial soap. An intense young woman served coffee from a Silex.

“God, I hate campaigning. I really ought to run for the Senate. At least then I’d only have to do it every six years.”

“Why don’t you try for the nomination?” Bea asked. It had instantly occurred to her that, for all his faults, Roger would be the far lesser of two evils compared to Peyton Piper.

“Because the nomination’s not going to fall that way this year. I am also not convinced that I am the right person to make that run now or in the future.”

“And Peyton Piper is?”

With a nearly imperceptible gesture, Candlin signaled to the woman with the coffee. She evidently received the command clearly as she immediately left the RV. “Peyton’s an ass.”

“But a wealthy one?”

“Of course. You know, Wentworth, you blow my tanks.”

“Egalitarian today, aren’t you? That’s real assembly line talk.”

“You are a hypocrite. We need the Piper plant here in our district. You know it. I know it, and God only knows the people who work here know it.”

“Even if they make a product that maims people throughout the world?”

“Even if they make botulism that is used anywhere but here. We need the wages. Wake up to economic reality.”

“Sometimes I do wake up. It’s usually in the middle of the night. I sit bolt upright and think, now why in hell is the congressman backing me politically? What am I doing wrong?”

“The more wrong you do the better I like it, Senator. Your state district covers a good chunk of my national district, Beatrice. You’re very controversial and often in the limelight. I try to be inconspicuous. Your liberal churning fogs over my backstage maneuvers. You take most of the heat and I am elected because of my incumbency. It’s a marvelous trade-off. Actually, our relationship is rather like that of those jungle parasites. The pairing of the ferocious predator with a nearly inconspicuous parasite living on his left ear who performs some small but necessary function.”

Bea didn’t much care for his analogy since she had an idea which of the pair she was meant to represent. “That may be, Roger, since I’m not a big important fish. But if Peyton gets the senate seat he will be on the national scene.”

“It keeps the factory here. His nomination also funds our soft money by at least two hundred thou, and it shuts him up.”

“You know, Roger, there’s always the chance that he could be elected. Then what?”

“I’ll handle him if he ever gets to the Hill. You know, his family and mine go way back. We’ve always been able to control the Pipers, whether they’re colonels or senators.”

“How far back do your families go?”

“The Civil War.”

“Your people served with the old colonel in his regiment?”

“Practically every eligible man in this county served with that drunken coot during the war. He raised the regiment.”

“And everyone basked in his glory.”

For one of the few times since she had known Roger Candlin, he actually smiled. It was a thin-lipped affair, but since it was neither a grimace of pain nor a preamble to a sarcastic remark, she could only construe that it was an actual smile. “Glory, you say? They gave the old bastard a medal and then shipped him off to run an ordnance depot for the rest of the war to keep him out of trouble.”

“I understand that your family lost a great deal of money because of some machinations by one of the Piper colonels.”

Candlin shrugged as if it were a question of little significance. “Over dinner one night at Bridgeway, the colonel confidentially told my grandfather that the company earnings were going to be way down that year. Those were the days when there wasn’t any law against insider trading. My family sold thousands of shares of Piper Corporation stock short. It was the colonel’s idea of a fearsome joke. The earnings figures were released and they were excellent. When my family came to replace the short sale they had to pay through the nose to buy stock from the colonel.”

“Enough to start a generational family hate?” Bea asked.

“That was over sixty years ago when the world was populated with a different cast of characters.”

TWELVE

“Are we going to observe Confederate artillery positions from our hot air balloon?” Bea asked. She leaned against the barn door with her hands folded across her chest as she watched Lyon spread the balloon’s empty envelope carefully across the lawn in preparation for inflation.

Lyon finished his preliminary work and began the process of inserting hot air into the balloon. “Very funny.”

“Recently we seem obsessed with the Civil War. Didn’t they use balloons for observation?”

“Yes, but there are few gun emplacements around Murphysville, Connecticut, so I thought I’d just think.”

“About minié balls?”

“And of people who shoot them.”

“You know, catching this guy is really simple. All we have to find is someone either one hundred thirty years old or with a weird picture in their attic.”

“How about climbing inside the balloon and extending your arms so the bag fills faster?”

“You’re out of your mind. The last time I did that, I ended up with the shortest haircut in New England. You know of course, that thing is really only half a balloon. It does not have a cockpit.”

“Gondola,” Lyon corrected.

“Whatever. At least in a regular balloon I have the faint illusion that I’m standing on something substantial. In that thing there is nothing at all beneath you.”

“The harness is safe enough.” Lyon stopped adjusting the flame on the propane burner of the Cloudhopper balloon and looked across the yard at his alarmed wife. She seemed more frightened now than when she faced down the pickup truck on the narrow logging road.

He looked up at the thirty-foot-wide 21,000 cubic foot balloon. It was bobbing a few feet above his head, straining against its tether, which was fastened to an iron stake buried in the ground. “It’s perfectly safe. I’ve been hot-air ballooning for years and this is just a slightly different model. It’s a tad smaller than usual and with a harness instead of a gondola.”

“Not being able to land properly in any balloon is bad enough, but that thing is dangerous. And if you’re so damned experienced, how about the time you landed on the golf course and those men tried to kill you with their putters?”

“They were five irons actually. Those guys had a lot of money riding on that particular hole.”

“Or the day you dropped in on a nudist camp?”

“I’ve always liked volleyball.”

“Can you be tempted not to go?”

“Nope. Care to come with me? I can rig it for two.”

“Everyone has a price.” Bea closed the distance between them and slipped her arms around his neck. Her foot kicked the rucksacklike frame containing the propane burner under a bush. “How about a matinee?”

Lyon kissed her. The Cloudhopper began to dip toward the ground as its interior air cooled. “I’ll inflate the big balloon and we can go up together and do interesting things.”

She broke away and retreated toward the house. “No way. I’m not into airborne performances.”

He retrieved the propane burner and centered it under the balloon’s envelope. A ten-second flash of flame was sufficient to reheat the interior air and restore balance to the balloon. He slipped into the parachute-type harness and adjusted the rucksack containing the propane burner. After the mooring line was released, he pulled the short lanyard to give the burner another five seconds of fire. The last burn changed the balloon’s equilibrium and he was snatched aloft as the balloon bobbed quickly above the trees.

The balloon rose slowly after its initial surge for altitude. He nursed it slightly higher and stabilized at eight hundred feet. A light wind from the northeast carried him away from Nutmeg Hill along the westerly bank of the river.

Lyon hung suspended from the harness as the wind carried the balloon slowly forward. As the noiseless journey continued he began to feel the rush of freedom and release that balloon flight always created. He rocked gently in the harness and occasionally shattered the silence with the barking whoosh of an additional propane burn to maintain level flight.

He remembered a free-fall parachute jump he made years ago. Before the canopy opened there were fleeting moments of this exhilaration. Balloon flight was an extension of such feelings. He often imagined that his view of the slowly moving panorama below was the same as that of a large bird whose sweeping glides banked at the whim of warm air currents.

These trips were a time for reflection. The scenery of the flights was so far removed from ordinary surroundings that the mind seemed to view the world and its problems from a different perspective. It was a time when the subconscious could chew on a seemingly unsolvable problem like a silent terrier dog. If a solution or even the hint of an answer were reached, the thought might be fed to the conscious mind.

He looked down with interest as wind currents carried him over Bridgeway. The balloon’s trajectory pushed him past the Piper Pie dominated by the tall monument. These were the graves whose silent headstones held the secrets of an anguished family sacrificing their youth to an early death. The firstborn in each generation was seemingly murdered by some ancient cabal.

The balloon was nearly out of its hour-long supply of propane before the answer came. He knew what his dream of Paula in the minefield had been trying to tell him. She had called the name of Rebecca—the Piper woman in the 1930s who had mysteriously disappeared. Rebecca, the young mother who had so callously deserted her young baby. The young woman who had last been seen walking on the Piper Pie near the mausoleum.

He had a good idea what had happened to the young mother; a certainty that she had met the same fate as other firstborns in the Piper clan.

Lyon impatiently pulled the ripping panel line. This emergency cord released a large section of the balloon’s envelope and allowed large gulps of hot air to escape. The massive loss of air immediately changed the temperature of the balloon’s interior and caused the craft to begin a rapid descent. He was now committed to a landing pattern. He would be unable to make course changes or regain vertical control.

Lyon estimated that if he continued on his present course he was going to land on the Murphysville town green. This seemed far preferable to snagging the steeple of the Congregational Church.

He had vented the balloon too early!

During his descent the wind had shifted toward the edge of the town green. This reversal changed his horizontal drift and swept him toward the buildings lining the green’s north border. He had planned a stepped approach, with a gradual loss of altitude, until he hovered over the lawn near the gazebo. At that point he intended to touch down gently for a stand-up landing. This was not to be. He would be lucky to survive.

The wind carried him at treetop level toward the classical New England Congregational Church situated at the edge of the green. He frantically pulled the lanyard for a propane burn, but before the burner could heat air within the partly open balloon envelope the fuel was exhausted and the burner sputtered to a halt.

When the sagging envelope cleared the pointed steeple he had renewed hopes of a safe but jarring landing in the empty parking lot behind the church. Then the suspension harness snagged on the steeple point. The abrupt halt spilled the remaining hot air from the bag and slammed him against the side of the building, where he hung against the belfry.

He was never sure whether the cause was the shock of his body hitting the belfry or an irate custodian, but the church clarion began blaring a version of “Onward Christian Soldiers” from a gigantic speaker aimed directly at him.

The church’s minister, working in his study in the rectory next door, looked up from his desk and gave a puzzled scowl at Lyon hanging from the steeple.

“Call the Fire Department!” Lyon yelled loudly, half-deafened by Christian Soldiers.

Within two minutes Lyon heard separate sets of approaching sirens and then the deep-throated whistle blast from the volunteer firehouse.

A patrol car swerved to a stop in front of the church and Rocco catapulted from the driver’s seat and rushed toward the building with a bullhorn in his hand. “You know what this means, Wentworth?” Rocco Herbert’s voice echoed over the green. “The volunteer fire department is going to have to bring out the hook and ladder. They are going to be pissed.”

It was another five minutes before the extension ladder slowly began to rise from its fire truck bed and swing toward the steeple.

“Crimminy nicket, Wentworth,” Volunteer Fire Chief Terry Randall said as he hooked his safety harness to the rail. “You’ve got to stop this.” He perched near the top of the ladder as it hovered over the church. “We voted last year no more kittens. This year you head the list,” the volunteer fireman said as he maneuvered the ladder closer to Lyon. “You know, I got a guy waiting in my barber chair. When he finishes leafing through my Playboy he’s going to get restless. That’s when he starts thinkin’ about the new unisex shop on Essex Street with them young women stylists wearing them tight pants.”

“Sorry about that, Chief.”

“If I didn’t think so much of Senator Wentworth, you’d stay up here until they replaced you with the Star of Bethlehem at Christmastime.”

When Lyon was able to shift his weight to the ladder, he released the harness. The balloon envelope fell free and plunged into the parking lot. With Rocco’s help he rolled up the deflated balloon and stuffed it into the back of the patrol car. By the time the balloon was secure, the fire engine had pulled away.

“I know where one of the missing bodies is,” Lyon said.

“We’ll celebrate that fact at Sarge’s Bar as I write up your summons,” Rocco said.

“Exhume whom!”

Lyon’s prior assessments of Peyton Piper’s cool social aplomb were destroyed as the CEO of the Piper Corporation exploded in rage. His face reddened. His body shook. He seemed to have difficulty in holding a fork in his trembling hand.

“We need you to make a formal request with my department,” Rocco said in an officious monotone as he looked past Peyton’s shoulder to the panoramic river valley outside the Piper dining room. “That will simplify the paperwork and allow us to proceed.”

“You actually want to open my family crypt?” Peyton Piper asked incredulously.

“They just want to peek a little, dear,” Katherine Piper said. She took a sip from her goblet of spiked orange juice. “The whole thing seems perfectly harmless to me. I doubt that Chief Herbert is stealing bodies for Yale Medical School.”

Peyton glared across the table at his wife.

Rabbit scowled at the whole proceeding as he cleared away the remains of the meal. He balanced a serving tray over his head with one hand as he pushed through the swinging door into the pantry. Rocco and Lyon stood awkwardly by the doorway to the large dining room. Lyon felt like a poacher brought before the country squire for punishment, rather than a classmate trying to solve a serious family problem. They were pointedly not invited to the table for coffee.

“Why in God’s name would you want to desecrate a century-old grave?”

“I think there’s an extra body buried in the crypt,” Lyon said.

Piper pointed the tines of his fork at Lyon. “You know, Wentworth, the reason you were never a Thumper was because of this type of radical reasoning. What in the hell makes you believe there’s someone else in my relative’s grave? How could you know if they were? Finally, who the hell cares?”

“I believe that your great-aunt, Rebecca, is also in that grave. I would think that you would want to find out how she disappeared.”

“Admittedly the Pipers have a vivid family history, but this is nonsense!”

“The guy’s hardly ever wrong,” Rocco said in Lyon’s defense.

“The man is not logical,” Peyton said. He shook his fork again. “You know, Wentworth, you were the one who convinced me to hire Markham Swan in the first place. That bastard made a play for every woman at Bridgeway, and got himself killed for his efforts. All my troubles began when that Romeo slithered through our front gate.”

“Oh, let them dig up the graves,” Katherine Piper said after another sip of orange juice. It was obvious that she was taking great delight in her husband’s discomfort. “I think it would be rather fun. We might make a charming social event out of it. Perhaps we’ll invite some of your good friends from the Thumpers. What do you call an exhumation? Would it be an ‘opening’ or ‘a coming out party’?”

Peyton’s look across the table made it apparent who he wished as the additional occupant of the crypt. “Will you keep your comments out of this discussion?”

She ignored him. “Tell me, Chief Herbert, how would Peyton’s cooperation help you?”

“The Piper Pie is a private gravesite,” Rocco said. “The town ordinances are rather vague on how to handle the opening of an enclosed above-ground grave for the purposes of a cursory examination. We might not actually have to go inside the coffin itself, so in that sense it would not be a true exhumation. We might simplify matters by calling the investigation a preventative maintenance check on the physical integrity of the mausoleum. Under those circumstances, a simple verbal request by Peyton to me will be adequate.”

“But we’d still be able to determine whether my theory is correct,” Lyon added.

“That seems perfectly reasonable to me,” Katherine Piper said. “Don’t you agree, Peyton?”

“It’s not your family crypt,” her husband said petulantly.

“No, but all of this is tied into the murder of Swan and the danger that Paula may be in.”

“You don’t give a damn about Paula.”

“I do, more than you realize. Oh, we may go on with each other, but it’s an odd kind of sparring relationship that we have. You might be surprised at how concerned I am for her.”

The discussion concerning his daughter seemed to remind Peyton that he was unsure of her whereabouts. He flipped a small phone from a mounting attached to the underside of the table and punched in a series of numbers. “Where’s Paula?” he demanded over the phone. “What do you mean you don’t know? That’s why I pay you clowns.”

“We have her,” Lyon said.

“Forget it,” Peyton snapped into the phone before he jammed it back in its place. “Explain that, Wentworth.”

“Bea is making arrangements for her temporary safety,” Lyon said. “She’ll fill you in when everything is complete.”

Piper looked taken back, as if unused to another’s assumption of authority. “When you two go into people’s business you go all the way, don’t you?” He seemed on the verge of protesting further but then stopped. “Well, at least she’s not with that professional student.”

“We will probably have assault charges against two of your men over an incident they had with Chuck Fraxer, Mr. Piper,” Rocco said. “There may also be a conspiracy charge against you.”

“Fraxer’s a liar. I am certain my men were not implicated in any events he concocts.”

“Lyon and Bea saw the results.”

“I am so pleased I have a new eyes and ears,” Peyton said sarcastically. Piper social instincts immediately returned as he turned his full charm on Rocco. “Didn’t your mother and father work for the company, Herbert?”

“Yes, sir, they did. My father retired from the Piper Corporation and lived on his pension until the day he died.” He neglected to add that his father was a shop steward who constantly battled management and was eternally bitter over work rules and safety regulations.

“Then your family has obligations to the Piper Corporation?”

“My father paid his debt to the company, Mr. Piper. I owe nothing. I may develop a slight obligation in your case if we have your cooperation. That obligation might mitigate certain charges.”

Peyton Piper considered Rocco’s last remarks. “A little extortion, huh?”

“Call it what you will,” Rocco answered.

Piper calculated his options in the few seconds before he replied. “Okay, you have a deal. We make a quick visit to the family cemetery and you drop all charges against my men.” He called out. “Rabbit, get in here!”

“There’s a call bell under the carpet by your foot, Peyton,” Katherine said.

“I know that!”

Rabbit stuck his head around the swinging pantry door. “Did Bwana Master call?”

“You always seem to know everything around here. How do we get into that mausoleum up at the Pie?”

They matched Peyton’s angry rapid stride as they walked down to the Pie from the main house. The butler had disappeared for his “tool kit” and now swiveled the electric cart to a stop in front of the obelisk. Rabbit may have been the last to arrive at the graves, but he did announce himself with a certain flourish.

“Ta da!” Rabbit said as he slid from the cart and posed with an exaggerated rotating hip motion to display the wide tool belt cinched low on his waist. His legs were not long enough to accommodate the length of some tools, so a long wrench and sledge handle dragged the ground.

“Knock it off, you clown, and get at it!” Peyton said with irritation.

“You certainly can turn any event into a no-fun deal,” Rabbit said as he handed each of them a large flashlight from the backseat of the cart. He approached the grillwork covering the mausoleum door with tiny steps.

Peyton Piper broke the ritual again. “For God’s sake, Rabbit! Let’s not make a gigantic production out of this.”

Rabbit glared. As if in retaliation for the interruption he slowly produced a wide key from his back pocket. With the same exaggerated small steps he approached the massive padlock securing the grill to the stone by means of a heavy hasp. He daintily dropped spatters of 3-In-One oil into the lock’s keyhole before inserting the key.

It wouldn’t turn.

“Use the damn pliers from your belt,” Peyton snapped.

Rabbit appeared to ignore his employer, but did withdraw the pliers and grasp the key. He used both hands to clamp the handles and strained to tighten his grip, but the key would not turn.

Rocco reached over Rabbit’s shoulders to grip the lock in one hand, the pliers in the other. He turned the key a full revolution until he sheepishly pulled the broken key stem from the lock.

Rabbit laughed. “You busted it.”

Peyton slammed his fist against the grill. “This is ridiculous! I don’t intend to stand around all night paying farcical homage to my long-gone relatives. Go in through the side door.”

Rocco turned to Peyton. “I don’t see any side door,” he said softly.

“Mr. Welch knows what I mean,” the factory owner responded.

“There’s a hidden entrance on the side that opens by turning one of the protruding rocks,” Lyon said.

Rabbit replaced his tools in the belt. “Why, so it does, sir.”

“Don’t pull that obsequious crap with me, you runt.”

“Careful, Mr. Employer. You are infringing on my rights as a little person. I may have to go to the labor board.”

“Oh, Jesus! Not again. You’ve already beaten that dead horse to death. Can we get this over with?”

“The side door,” Lyon said.

Rabbit stepped around the corner of the structure and turned the rock. Before the passage was fully open he stepped inside the crypt. The others turned on their lights in preparation for following him.

“I think I’ll wait outside,” Katherine said. “If you’ve seen one exhumation you’ve seen them all.”

Rocco ducked to follow Rabbit through the small entrance. Peyton immediately went after Rocco, while Lyon gave Katherine a wistful smile before he entered. The interior of the stone room appeared to be the same as on their last visit. Their footprints had scuffed the thin layer of dust and sediment on the floor, but otherwise the interior was unchanged.

Lyon played his light beam around the vault and admired the workmanship of the concrete crypt that held the colonel’s casket. The frieze worked into the stone sides told a definite story. In the first panel a heroic man in uniform waved a bare sword overhead as he rode a prancing stallion. In the background was a seemingly infinite line of smartly marching infantry wearing Civil War forage caps and carrying long muskets at right shoulder arms.

The next panel was dominated by the representation of a vaulted stone bridge. The officer’s sword was now horizontal as it pointed toward the bridge. The man on the horse used his free hand to wave his campaign hat aloft. The troops formed a neat line behind him.

The third panel showed the heroic officer crossing the bridge followed by his obedient troops; the soldiers achieved their objective as they routed a frightened enemy in the fourth panel.

Peyton shook his head in admiration. “Who says you can’t take it with you? This old guy took his glory all the way to the River Styx.”

Rocco Herbert hadn’t been paying the least attention to the artistic side panels, but had been inspecting the underside of the top slab covering the vault. “I think this thing just slides off,” he said.

Piper agreed. “I don’t see any type of fastening. It probably weighs a ton.”

“I’m not going to remove it all the way. We just need to swivel it far enough for us to get a good look inside,” Rocco said.

Rabbit slipped unobtrusively into the far corner.

“Here goes,” Rocco said as he placed his hands under the edge of the stone. He gave a small grunt as he pushed.

A deep grinding noise filled the small mausoleum as the slab slowly turned. Lyon and Peyton bent to support Rocco’s efforts. The lid continued to swivel until it formed a cross across the tomb.

Their lights flicked inside the open crypt. No one spoke for a moment.

“That’s interesting,” Peyton Piper said as he swept his light back and forth. “Where’d he go?”

The casket was open and empty.

Rocco’s beam flickered up and down the vault and around the interior of the empty casket. The casket’s lid had been pried off and neatly propped against the interior wall of the vault. “I’ll be damned.”

“Grave robbers?” Lyon asked.

“The Pipers are all too cheap to be buried with anything valuable,” Rabbit said from his corner.

“I thought you said we were supposed to find another body in here, not lose one,” Piper said accusingly to Lyon.

“Let’s try the other vault,” Lyon said.

They swiveled the slab back to re-cover the colonel’s crypt and turned their attention to the second vault. This crypt was shorter than the colonel’s, without elaborate artwork. They were able to slide the slab easily into the cross position.

Rocco was the first to shine his light into the interior.

Peyton Piper’s light beam crossed over Rocco’s and jiggled as the industrialist broke into laughter. “I don’t believe what I’m seeing. That son-of-a-bitch. That old roue!”

Rabbit slipped out of the corner to peer into the open vault. He chuckled. “My granddaddy always said that the colonel liked his whiskey cold and his women hot.”

“What is he wearing?” Rocco asked. “It looks like a Civil War uniform.”

“He was probably buried in his full dress uniform,” Peyton said.

Lyon knelt on the mausoleum floor and leaned into the vault to gently finger the brittle clothing of the second cadaver in the crypt. “Something is wrong here,” he said. “Something is very wrong.”

“Jesus! That’s naive, Wentworth,” Peyton said. “Of course something is wrong. How the hell did Caleb get from his casket into the vault containing his wife?”

“And why?” Lyon said nearly to himself. “Because this isn’t his wife.”

THIRTEEN

They stood in a silent semicircle around the stone sepulcher and looked down at the macabre pairing. Reflected light created shadowy swatches that gave a somber tone to the tableau.

The spell shattered when Katherine Piper ducked through the hidden entrance. She pushed between Rocco and Peyton to peer into the coffin.

“Hey, they’re not as bad-looking as I thought they’d be. You know, Peyton, it’s not very funny to pose them like that.”

Peyton enunciated each word of his reply carefully, as if that delivery emphasized the gravity of his feeling. “We did not place them in that position. In fact, they are not supposed to be together.”

“Well, if I didn’t know that they had been dead a long time I’d think that …”

“We can imagine what you think, Katherine, and we do not care to pursue that line of thought any further.”

“He’s a hell of a hypocrite,” Rabbit said as he put a hand on Katherine’s forearm. “He’s the one who suggested they might be doing it.”

“That’s it, Rabbit,” Peyton said. “You are through. You have finally managed to destroy the loyalty it took five generations of your family to build. As of this moment you are unemployed.”

Katherine squeezed Rabbit’s arm. “Don’t believe a word of it. I’ve just rehired you as my footman or whatever.” She looked back into the crypt, “Why are they mixed up?”

“If we knew that we wouldn’t be standing around like dummies,” Peyton said. “The question is how did old Caleb get from there over to here?” he asked as he gestured from one stone vault to the other.

“I don’t mean that. I mean the woman from another time,” Katherine said.

“She’s wondering why it’s not Caleb’s wife,” Lyon agreed. “I think the one in women’s clothing is Rebecca.”

“Damn it, Wentworth! What in the hell are you talking about? Caleb’s first wife disappeared after she jumped off the parapet. He then married Lavinia, who died a year after he did and was buried in here with him. Well, not with him, but in here next to him. She was interred in this vault. That’s the two of them together. Lavinia and Caleb.”

Katherine Piper laughed.

“God, is that inappropriate,” her husband said.

“Look at the clothes,” she said. “Watch an old movie on late night television and pay attention to the women’s styles. Notice the long hemline down to the ankles and the cut of the upper body of the dress. That’s an early nineteen-thirties dress if I ever saw one. Next, look at her hair and notice that it’s still intact enough to show she had a permanent sometime in the past. That’s no nineteenth-century woman.”

“I’m convinced it’s Rebecca,” Lyon said again as he reached carefully into the crypt with both hands to remove a small locket from the woman’s neck. He gently opened the heart-shaped pendant to reveal two small photographs. He held the open locket toward Peyton.

“That’s one of my uncle’s baby pictures next to a photograph of my great-uncle,” he said. “That can’t be Rebecca. She disappeared in 1932,” Piper said in a low voice.

“I think we’ve found her,” Rocco said. It was his turn to bend into the crypt. His massive hands gently held the woman’s skull and slowly turned it until one side was directly under the beam of Lyon’s light. “I don’t believe we’ll need a medical examiner to pronounce the cause on this one,” he said.

“My God! Look at the size of the hole in the side of her head,” Peyton said as he turned away.

“The bullet entered the temporal region of the skull. I’d estimate a .58 caliber projectile,” Lyon said. “That was a popular size for muzzle loaders in the Civil War.”

Rocco gently lay the woman’s head back on its bier before turning to Lyon. “Minié ball?”

“I’m sure the medical examiner’s office will find the projectile still within her skull. Those muzzle loaders were large calibers, but they had an extremely low muzzle velocity. They didn’t have nearly as much penetrating power as modern weaponry.”

They sat quietly in Bridgeway’s library. Unasked, Rabbit made a trip into the wine cellar. He found a bottle of the finest Napoleon brandy in a far corner and returned with the dusty bottle to decant it in the pantry before serving everyone in the library. Katherine Piper went up to her room while Peyton slumped in a captain’s chair at the large center table. Rocco began to pace under the window containing the stained-glass depiction of Colonel Piper’s heroic charge.

“Cemetery vandalism is despicable,” Peyton mumbled as he took a snifter from Rabbit’s tray and swirled it between his palms.

“It’s usually teenagers who do that stuff,” Rocco said. “You got any vodka, Mr. R.?”

The small butler nodded and returned to the pantry by the side of the room.

Lyon browsed along the rows of exhibits displayed under the high stacks of bound volumes. He bent occasionally to examine an item. “Teenagers who broke through a hidden door or slipped past a locked grill?”

“We’ve had vandalism before,” Peyton said. “Possibly it’s those antibusiness protesters trying to make some sort of macabre point.”

“I believe those bodies were moved for a reason other than making a political statement,” Lyon said.

“Good Christ, Wentworth! Why?” Peyton boomed.

“Let me get this straight,” Rocco said as he took his memo pad from his breast pocket and began to scrawl notes in his own informal shorthand. “A preliminary examination seems to indicate that the cadaver dressed in the Civil War officer’s uniform was probably Caleb Piper, who died of natural causes.”

“Correct,” Peyton said. “Unless our poltergeist is into cross-dressing in addition to his other perverted tricks.”

“And we conjecture that the woman in the more modern clothing wearing the locket is probably Rebecca Piper, Peyton’s great-aunt. This is the same woman who disappeared in 1932 shortly after giving birth to a son.”

“My uncle.”

“Who was killed during the Korean War,” Lyon added.

“Which would mean that we are missing the remains of Lavinia, Caleb’s second wife,” Rocco said as he noted it in his pad.

“Don’t forget Caleb’s wife number one,” Lyon added. “Mary.”

“Damn it, Wentworth!” Peyton said. “Don’t you listen? I’ve mentioned several times that the colonel’s first wife, Mary Piper, jumped off the parapet into the river. Her body was never recovered.”

“She probably washed downstream into the Sound,” Rocco added. “I’m beginning to think that no Pipers disappear around here. They just play musical graves. All right, Lyon, we found Rebecca like you said we might. She seems to have died like so many of the others.” Rocco thought a moment and chewed on the end of his pencil before turning to Peyton. “If that is Rebecca in the crypt, was she the firstborn?”

“Yes.”

“What in hell happened to Caleb’s second wife?” Rocco mused.

“Tell me something,” Lyon asked. “From the time Mary Piper killed herself until Caleb remarried was how long?”

“How the hell should I know?” Peyton left his chair and crossed to the rows of bound ledgers and books. “It’s all in the family lore, I suppose. Let me look it up.”

They watched as he scanned the series of ledgers, pulled down a large Bible, and thumbed through its rear pages. He ran his fingers down to midpage and then looked up at them with a puzzled frown. “If this is the case, and I’m sure it’s a misprint, Caleb married Lavinia three weeks after Mary took her own life.”

Rocco groaned. “I’m glad I don’t have to investigate that one. Three weeks doesn’t even border on the obscene, it’s smack dab right in the middle of it.”

“I’m surprised he was able to get his first wife declared dead fast enough,” Lyon said.

“Dig a little deeper in those records and you’ll find a little political hanky-panky,” Rocco said.

“So, it would appear that there’s a surface possibility that Caleb was interested in Lavinia before Mary died,” Peyton said. “That might have been the reason for her suicide.”

“Who saw her die?” Lyon asked.

“Caleb was having dinner with the original Roger Candlin when it happened,” Peyton said. “They were evidently eating dinner on the patio when Mary abruptly left the table and ran to the parapet. She jumped before anyone could stop her.”

“Wait a minute,” Rocco said. “Run that name by me again.”

“Roger Candlin.”

“Any relation to Congressman Candlin?”

“A direct descendent, I believe. Our families have been involved in various business endeavors for generations. In the early days of the Piper Corporation expansion, the Candlins were our investment bankers.”

“Interesting relationship,” Lyon said.

“Typical,” Rocco snorted. “Rich New England families have been in bed with each other for generations. And yet the only people who get screwed are the rest of us.”

“You know, Chief Herbert, I don’t need that socialist crap.”

“We’re not here to worry about some grave desecration that may have occurred fifty years ago,” Rocco said. “We’ve had a recent murder at Bridgeway and that’s why I’m here.”

“It’s all intertwined,” Lyon said.

“I am not spending any more time on ancient misdemeanors. You have any relatives who were into practical jokes, Peyton?”

“My Uncle George was into leaky wineglasses and clay dog doo-doo. He wasn’t very popular around holidays.”

“Then George did the grave shuffling,” Rocco said. “Is he still around?”

“He is if you count the Piper Pie. He occupies the fourth row, third from the left, I believe.”

“He probably rigged the joke years ago,” Rocco continued.

“Involving a missing woman?” Lyon asked.

“All right, so it doesn’t explain everything,” Rocco said. “But I can’t spend more time on it. I’m a small-town cop who had a burglary in town last night, vandalism at the high school, and some new creep is peddling crack in town. Those are my concerns.”

In answer to a beeper at his waist, Rocco left the room before either Lyon or Peyton Piper could answer.

“Let’s call it a day, Wentworth. I think it would be appropriate for me to arrange some sort of memorial service for my Aunt Rebecca.” He looked thoughtful. “The service will have to be handled without publicity, of course. I think the Reverend Duncan can be counted on for his discretion.”

“What were those books you were searching?” Lyon asked.

“Family records. Ancient lore signifying little.”

“How come Markham Swan didn’t have them down at the cottage?”

“Certain volumes were never allowed to leave this room,” Peyton said. “He had to work from them here and make notes.”

“Mind if I glance at them?” Lyon asked.

Piper looked at him. While it was obvious that he initially had no intention of honoring the request, his social sense and political ambition prevailed. He waved toward the section of the bookcase where the bound volumes of family records were kept. “Help yourself. Turn out the lights and lock the door when you leave.” Peyton paused at the door. “And don’t stay long. I’m not in the mood for another long-term guest.”

What Peyton Piper so casually referred to as a bunch of ancient lore was actually a full historical record of his family for the past 150 years. Diaries, Bibles, ledgers, business records, and boxes of correspondence occupied a full wall of the library.

Lyon did not believe that he would find anything incriminating in the material. Over the years, any derogatory material in the records would have been deleted by family protectors, leaving only a rosy portrait of the Family Piper. Any hint of scandal concerning Caleb Piper’s hasty marriage to Lavinia would have been expunged long ago.

Lyon needed to hurry: Peyton’s indulgence could terminate at any time.

He walked along the bookshelves and let his fingers run lightly across the bindings. The voluminous records began with the construction of Bridgeway House. He suspected that prior to that time the obscure emigrant family did not consider their past worth recording. The early volumes recorded two parallel developments—the growth of the Piper Corporation and the construction of the house—and he thought they might hold the key.

He began with the mansion’s building records. Construction of the house actually began with the original Piper, who died before its completion. Caleb Piper, the colonel of Civil War fame, completed the building after his marriage to his first wife. The early records simply referred to the building as “The Piper Home.” Evidently it wasn’t called Bridgeway until after his return from the Civil War.

There were countless folders of old invoices, lists, and drawings concerning materials and the importing of labor for its construction. Lyon nearly missed the note concerning the first Mrs. Piper that was attached to a rough sketch. Written in the clear wide penmanship so prized at the time was, “Mrs. Piper desires that only those men who are returning to their countries work on the station.”

That note was attached to a simple line drawing of what appeared to be an ordinary dormitory-type room. The room bore no resemblance to the interior of the mausoleum that was purported to be the Underground Railway station. Lyon assumed that concern about secrecy prompted Mary Piper’s directive about workmen. He put the note and drawing aside and continued flipping through other material.

He had an inchoate feeling that Mary’s actions might hold a clue to the mystery. Using the sliding ladder to explore upper shelves he found a narrow container labeled MARY PIPER. It was out of order and placed at the far end of a top shelf. The layer of dust along its top lid indicated that Markham Swan had never reached this box in his research. He took the file down and carefully placed it on the table under the Tiffany lamp.

The first document in the box was a short letter. If this woman’s body is recovered it may not be buried in sacred ground as she took her own life. The note was signed in large bold letters: Caleb Piper.

The sparse contents of Mary Piper’s box revealed a few details of her short life. A nuptial agreement and Hartford Courant articles showed that she was a bright young woman who was the only daughter of a wealthy Middleburg ship owner who operated a series of river packets. Her father’s boats sailed from Middleburg to Springfield in one direction; and to New York City in the other. Her family were early Unitarians, free thinkers, and Abolitionists. This probably meant that her father’s packets were used for part of the transportation within the Underground Railroad system. It was ironic that it was on this very same route that a subsequent Piper had been murdered over a card game.

Mary Piper had evidently subscribed to William Lloyd Garrison’s Abolitionist newspaper, The Liberator, as there were several copies inside the container. A headline on one of the Liberators caught Lyon’s eyes:

STATION X IN NEW ENGLAND LARGEST IN UNION

ABLE TO HOLD TWO-DOZEN FREEDOM SEEKERS

MORE STATIONS NEEDED WITH THIS DEDICATION

The front page of The Liberator contained an ink drawing of a room that matched the one Lyon had found in the construction files. The article about the largest stop on the Underground Railway identified it in only a vague manner that kept it anonymous; but it was obviously Bridgeway to any reader with intimate knowledge.

The room in the drawing and in the Liberator article was not the space in the mausoleum. The holding room for escaped slaves was somewhere else.… But where?

The early records verified that the colonel’s tomb was constructed long before his death. Rabbit had said the crypt and the tunnel to the river were meant as a station on the Railway. Escaped slaves on their flight to Canada were hidden at the station until they could be given passage on one of the riverboats.

The escapees might have to remain for days waiting for the proper packet to make its secret stop. The crypt would not be a logical place for lengthy stays. Lyon looked at the drawing of the room to be constructed. It showed a narrow room with a long table in the center and bunks against the wall: a bit more hospitable for a long wait than a dank room containing two empty tombs. He now felt there must be another room somewhere near the mausoleum that also had access to the passage down to the river.

The question was to find it.

Rabbit opened his bedroom window and glared down at Lyon. “You throw another rock against this house and I will come down and beat the crap out of you.”

“I need help, Mr. R.,” Lyon said.

“Try a triple dose of Prozac.”

“There’s another room in the Piper mausoleum.”

“If I were allowed to have a gun you’d be history.”

“I want you to help me find it.”

“Drop dead!”

“Go with him!” Frieda yelled from bed. “At least with you both gone I can get some sleep.”

It took a grumbling Rabbit fifteen minutes to become halfway mobile. Lyon sat in their small kitchen and watched him brew instant coffee in the microwave. He shuddered as the finished product was garnished with a raw egg, hot sauce, and red pepper. Rabbit sat at the miniature table and sipped on the completed concoction.

“You, Rocco, and Katherine Piper drink too much,” Lyon said.

Rabbit glared as Lyon knew he would. “Did we appoint you guardian?”

“If you didn’t imbibe to excess you wouldn’t have to drink that junk.”

“It so happens I like this junk,” Rabbit said an instant before he bolted for the bathroom.

“Are you gone yet?” Frieda called from the bedroom.

“Working on it,” Rabbit answered his wife.

“Move it. Now!”

Reluctantly Rabbit began to gather his gear, which consisted of rope, two powerful flashlights, and at Lyon’s suggestion his tool belt.

“You know, Wentworth, this is ridiculous,” Rabbit said as he steered the electric cart down his drive and into the lane leading to the nearby cemetery.

“Possibly.”

“Piper said you were nuts. Why do you think there’s another room down there and where in the hell is it? I’ve never seen another passage.”

“One of the sketches made during the construction of Bridgeway indicated another room. I believe that’s the one which was the true station on the Underground Railway.”

“I told you, the runaways waited in the mausoleum until the riverboats came to pick them up.”

“I don’t think so,” Lyon said. “I think there was a larger, more practical room built into the structure somewhere else.”

They arrived at the mausoleum and flicked on their lanterns. A half-moon flickered dimly through scudding clouds and made the white stones stand out in ivory relief. A light breeze off the river rustled trees in the distance. The cannon’s black barrels at the foot of the obelisk glowered ominously over the graves.

“I have been going in and out of here since I was a kid,” Rabbit said. He pushed the stone lever to open the concealed door on the side of the mausoleum. “And believe me, there isn’t any other room in here except the passage down to the river.”

Lyon followed Rabbit inside and splayed his light around the walls. Nothing seemed to have changed since they had replaced the bodies and recapped the tombs.

“See,” Rabbit continued. “Nothing.”

Lyon nodded. “It would seem that way. I’ve thought about it and decided that two bodies in the same tomb didn’t make any sense unless …”

“Unless what?”

“It was simply a question of storage space. Whoever last used the Railroad room needed easy access and the colonel was temporarily placed next door. Whoever it was had to leave hurriedly before replacing the colonel back in his coffin. For one reason or another, they never returned to rectify the problem.”

“Do you stay up all night thinking of these things?”

“The entrance to the station is through the colonel’s tomb.”

“Junk talk! We’re standing in the station. The runaway slaves waited right here,” Rabbit insisted with a wave around the small interior.

“I understand that large numbers of escaped slaves often had to wait days before they could be placed on a river packet going north. The place where they waited was constructed by workers who returned home to Europe after the house was complete.”

Rabbit’s tone changed from disbelief to serious questioning. “You think the entrance to the real station was through the colonel’s crypt?”

“Yes. Let’s get at it.” Lyon shoved the stone lid of the colonel’s tomb into the crossed position. He turned to face the skeptical Rabbit who stood behind him. “Well?”

“You want me to go in first?”

“Yes.”

“Damn,” Rabbit muttered as he climbed over the stone side. He bent to crawl toward the head of the container. “Nothing here. Nothing. Damn waste of time,” his muffled voice carried back to Lyon. “Oh, for God’s sake, there’s an open panel at the far end.”

Rabbit stopped talking. The beam from his flashlight disappeared. Lyon heard a faint shuffling sound in the distance. It was five minutes before Rabbit crawled back. He threw his arms over the side of the vault and looked up at Lyon with a chalk-white face.

“What’s down there?” Lyon asked.

“Two more bodies for openers. And other things … strange, weird things, Lyon. You had better come see for yourself.”

Lyon climbed over the edge of the vault. Once inside he turned his light toward the far end, where it illuminated a small open passage. He dropped to his hands and knees to crawl through the opening. Beyond the mausoleum wall the passage widened sufficiently for men or women to walk upright in single file. The narrow corridor continued for another dozen feet until it opened into a long narrow room.

The station was carved out of the rock that formed the escarpment above the river. As he entered the room and let his light sweep across the walls, he saw that it followed the basic configurations of the drawing found in the old files. A line of double bunks had been built along one wall. A rough-hewn table took up the center floor space. Storage cupboards were located along the far wall, while on the river side were narrow window slits. These openings were positioned under the lip of the hill, with heavy undergrowth obscuring their appearance. They would be invisible to anyone on or across the river.

The two cadavers were dressed in midnineteenth-century dresses and were propped on wide chairs at each end of the table. Their extended arms made them appear to be engaged in animated conversation. Their voluminous skirts were covered with a film of fine white dust. The surrounding rock evidently had an absorbent quality, as the remains of their flesh had drawn and tightened over their skulls to form a desiccated brownish covering.

“The two Mrs. Pipers,” Lyon said.

“I thought one of them took a dive into the river?” Rabbit asked in a strained voice.

“That’s what they said. I believe the second, Lavinia, died of natural causes. Odds are that the first wife has a bullet wound.”

“People saw her jump into the river,” Rabbit insisted.

“Not people,” Lyon answered. “Two persons said they saw her jump. Caleb Piper and Roger Candlin. Three weeks later Caleb married Lavinia and shortly thereafter Roger Candlin became the banker for the Piper interests.”

Located on the center of the table was a box of Civil War rifle cartridge packages. The box had been opened and was only half full. “Interesting,” Lyon said with the knowledge of where the missing cartridges had been spent over the years.

“Do you see the stuff all over the walls?” Rabbit asked.

“I noticed,” Lyon said. Early sunlight came up over the river and narrow streaks of day filtered through the small window openings. They formed cool slanted shafts of light that fell across the station onto swatches of material tacked over the walls. The display was an eclectic assortment of military items: uniform buttons, brass belt buckles, Civil War forage caps, a piece of uniform fabric, a small prayer book, a straight razor. Each item had a single last name inscribed on a small card fixed next to it.

On the far wall above the cupboards was the tattered battle flag of the Connecticut 31st Regiment.

Each exhibit represented the name of one man from the Civil War, and the wall was covered with 467 of them.

“My God, what does this mean?” Lyon said half aloud. “And why here?”

FOURTEEN

Lyon was involved in one of his recurrent nightmares—a tedious trip on the New Jersey Turnpike surrounded by large semis driven by irritable truckers. For reasons he couldn’t comprehend, the car radio seemed capable of only transmitting static. Bea had fallen asleep before they passed the Newark Airport and now her head pressed against his shoulder. The scenery was sparse, the trip dreary.

Bea shifted in her seat and awoke. She looked at him sleepily. “You okay to keep driving?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Now that I think about it, did you get any sleep at all last night?”

“Now that you mention it, no. When we get to Washington, do you think you can get an appointment with the Secretary of the Interior?”

“An undersecretary can take care of things for me.”

“It’s nice to have such an important wife that she can call for favors at high places.”

Bea laughed. “I’m not important. Occasionally I make lots of noise, so they like to keep me quiet. Anyway, I’m to arrange for a park ranger to meet you at the Antietam battlefield.”

“One with expertise on that particular battle.”

“Right, some sort of expert.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the favor.”

“You know, Lyon, I agree with Rocco. We both think you’re overly complicating this whole Piper matter. It seems obvious that the Civil War colonel murdered his first wife to marry his second. He stashed her away in the Underground Railroad station because it was never used after the war and was a great place to hide a body. Since the colonel was probably a little wacko, it follows that once he considered the room a tomb, he also established his own macabre regimental museum in the same place. Presto, the ancient mystery is solved. Now that it’s done, let’s turn around and go home.”

“Why would the colonel keep his strange little museum such a secret? Why didn’t he put that stuff in the library with the other material? Why didn’t he build a separate room for it? Why were the mementos so odd? The items appear to have been scavenged, not collected. As the colonel of the regiment who raised, equipped, and uniformed it, he could have built nearly any sort of shrine for his men that he wanted. No, he didn’t collect that junk, someone else did.”

“The same person who’s been killing Pipers all down the years?”

“You’ve got it,” Lyon said. He violently jerked the steering wheel, returning the Saturn to its proper lane in response to a semi’s airhorn shriek.

Bea looked up at the truck cab as it passed. The driver leered at her and made an obscene finger gesture. She retaliated with her brightest political smile. The driver pointed the finger at Lyon and pantomimed a gunshot. Bea nodded and smiled. The trucker grinned in return.

“The suggestion has been made that we change drivers,” Bea said. “Pull over at the next rest stop and let me take the wheel.”

They came to a pull-off a mile down the road and switched places. Bea continued with her thought when they were back on the interstate. “Now, let me follow your logic. A contemporary of Caleb Piper’s collected war memorabilia in a room that no living person knew about. This individual then proceeded, over the next hundred and thirty or more years, to knock off the firstborn Piper of every generation.”

“Exactly.”

“And you’re going to the Antietam battlefield in Sharpsburg, Maryland, to check for other ghosts still treading that hallowed ground?”

“Something like that.”

“We’ve seemingly become a spiritualist in our dotage?”

“You know me better than that, Bea. I hardly believe in the supernatural. There’s always a rational answer for things once you find the key. I believe that everything that’s happened so far leads back to the battle of Antietam. The newly appointed colonel recruited his regiment and they fought their first and last battle at Antietam. If anything happened in the Civil War that started this train of events, it had to begin on September seventeenth, 1862. That was the single day that battle was fought.”

“What happened to the colonel during the remainder of the war?”

“According to family records,” Lyon said, “he was breveted from lieutenant colonel to full colonel, cited for heroism, and assigned to rear echelons to work on ordnance for the duration. This was considered a reward for his heroic acts and knowledge of explosives.”

“And the names on the wall of the secret room?”

Lyon pulled a pad from his pocket while Bea frantically steered around a slowing semi. It was the same driver. He pursed his lips in a kissing gesture. It was her turn to give the finger.

“I wrote down the names,” Lyon said as he concentrated on his notes and missed the minor highway drama. “All four hundred sixty-seven of them. Considering he commanded a regiment, this is probably a list of the casualties that someone meant to honor. Of course it could also be a list of deserters and stragglers marked for revenge. But considering the size of a regiment in those days the second alternative seems unlikely. It wasn’t unusual for a quarter of a unit’s men to drop out of a march for one reason or another and not be on the battle line when the skirmishing started. There’s a significance to those names and that’s what we have to find out. I’ll drop you off in Washington, swing through Frederick, Maryland, go on to Sharpsburg at Hagerstown.”

A mile north of Sharpsburg on a road that ran parallel to Antietam Creek, Lyon pulled the Saturn to the side of the road and parked between a Confederate cannon and a historical marker. He knew he was at a location that overlooked a portion of the battlefield they called the cornfield. An early morning charge against the Southern lines at this location was the first phase of the battle. Quiet now. It was hard to imagine that single day so long ago, the bloodiest in the history of the United States.

He placed his hand on the barrel of the cannon warming in the sun. Squatting on a low rise just above the cornfield the cannon looked out over the land it would guard for eternity. It waited for the rush of men who would never charge again.

The first phase of the Army of the Potomac’s attack had been launched by General Hooker from an area called the North Woods. They were stopped in the cornfield by the men of Stonewall Jackson. Union General John Sedgewick had stormed the nearby West Woods, where two thousand men fell under the withering fire of Jackson’s hidden troops.

Lyon turned toward the center of the battlefield. It was here that both sides had contested a single farm lane called “the sunken road.” Five thousand fell where cows now grazed. The narrow roadway had been renamed Bloody Lane. It was later in the day during the fight on Lee’s right flank to the south where the bridge had played such a crucial part. It was there that Colonel Caleb Piper and his Connecticut regiment had fought so gallantly.

Lyon turned away from the Bloody Lane. He could feel their presence and hear the haunting sounds of a muted and distant thunder. They were there to be heard, but he did not want to listen to the voices of the past yet. He wanted those feelings to be clear and powerful when he visited the bridge. He must see and feel the place where the men from his home had died.

He returned to the Saturn and drove the short distance to the park building.

The battlefield’s Visitor’s Center was a low-slung stone structure built into the side of a ridge and designed to blend into the surrounding fields. It was on high ground above the cornfield, located on a spot where artillery had once fired canister and grape during the heat of battle. The building housed a small auditorium where a short film on the battle was shown every hour. A tiny museum displayed artifacts from the battle. A bookstore and a lounge with large windows overlooking the battlefield completed the interior.

Lyon identified himself at the reception desk and was directed downstairs to a small office and locker room used by park personnel.

“You Wentworth?” The heavyset park ranger looked a decade and a half past mandatory retirement age. His feet were propped on a scuffed desk, a fat book lay on his stomach, and his hands were laced behind his head. His massive mop of graying hair topped a wide face and broad smile. The name tag read, RUSTY WEST—VOLUNTEER.

He waved the book in the air. “Did Lee make the frontal assault at Gettysburg and sacrifice Pickett’s men because he didn’t feel well that day? Or was it because Stonewall had recently been killed and wasn’t present with advice?”

Lyon knew that notwithstanding the man’s friendly smile, the question was a test. “I think Lee ordered that disastrous charge because he wanted the war to end that day, one way or the other. I think he was astonished when his defeated army was allowed to retreat back to Virginia without further loss.”

The ranger’s feet thumped to the floor as his hand shot out with a sincere grip. “A lot of people think Lee was the greatest general that ever lived and would throttle you for that notion. You’re talking near treason.”

“Pickett’s charge could have been ordered by a man who knew that continuing the battles was insanity.”

“Interesting idea. You know your war?”

Lyon smiled in the realization that somehow he had passed the man’s test. “Afraid not. I know Gettysburg because I worked there for a short while.”

A frown fought with the ranger’s greeting and lost. “Honest answer, anyway. So, now you’ve got more time on your hands and want to learn about Antietam?”

“It’s more complicated and important than that. Someone’s life may depend upon what I find. I can’t explain it now.”

“Will you someday?”

“Yes.”

Rusty West considered this a moment, then with a barely perceptible nod agreed to the conditions. “I need to know a great deal about this battle,” Lyon continued. “Particularly the third phase.”

“You mean Burnside’s attack on Lee’s flank?”

“Someone tipped you off.”

“A fax from Washington. I know all about General Burnside’s bridge. I suppose I know about as much as anyone in the world. Not that it did me any good when mandatory retirement rolled around. Be that as it may, I’m still a sucker for my battle. Anything in particular you want to know?”

“I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for, but whatever it is will revolve around the Thirty-first Connecticut Rifles.”

“Those poor bastards.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Unlucky Thirty-first they were called. They fought at the Bridge. Yes, sir, they really did fight at the Bridge. Interesting story that. I’ll tell you when I take you down there. Where do you want to start?”

“I’d like to begin with my list. I have four hundred sixty-seven names. They probably have something in common, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Do you think the names are soldiers who fought in the war?”

“I believe they were all members of the Union army. I think they belonged to the Thirty-first Regiment, but I’m not sure. In fact, so far that’s about all I do know about them.”

“We can run it through our computer program.”

“How does that work?”

Rusty West led Lyon over to a computer pushed into the corner of the small office. It was covered with a sheet, which he took off and neatly folded. “We had the damn thing out on the floor for everyone to use, but some computer nerd kids kept feeding strange programs into the damn thing and screwing it up.”

“What is the program?” Lyon asked.

“This is the ‘Civil War Soldier’s System’ that we developed with the National Archives. The Mormons were in on it too. Out in Salt Lake City the Mormons have some of the best genealogical records in the world. So, working with volunteers and people like myself, we put the system together.”

West’s voice slipped into a lecture mode as he continued explaining the computer program. “If you consider both sides of the conflict, three and a half million men fought in the Civil War. Our system includes the North and the South. We’re talking seven thousand regiments.”

“Exactly what does it cover?”

“If you feed a name into the system it will tell you if he was a Confederate or Yankee. It will give you his rank, what unit he was attached to, and indicate if he was killed, wounded, captured, or reported missing. We have a database that might show you where he is buried, what decorations he received, and any other data that we’ve managed to accumulate. Once you know his unit you can trace that out also. It will show you what battles and skirmishes his regiment participated in, his commanding officers, and things of that nature.”

“I’d like to run my list of names through the system,” Lyon said.

“Hell, Wentworth, sit down and do your duty.”

Rusty West went back to his book and only occasionally looked over at the computer. Lyon booted up the system and began to type in his list of names in the exact order that he had copied them from the room wall at Bridgeway.

The readings for each were nearly identical. ‘Casualty: killed in action, missing in action, or wounded in action’ … he knew after the first dozen names that the pattern would continue.

Lyon turned to the ranger after his list had been entered. “Can I print this out?”

“Sure. Let me show you.”

The dot matrix printer by the side of the computer began to clank out the names with their continual “casualty” entry.

The ranger ran his finger down the column of names. “It figures considering these men were all in the Thirty-first Connecticut.”

“You mean it’s logical that they all were casualties?”

“Sure. Those boys had a rough time that day.”

“I ran the database on the regiment. This seemed to be the only battle they fought in during the whole war.”

“After their hour on the bridge there wasn’t enough of the regiment left to fight anything,” West said.

Lyon gingerly held the printout and ran his finger down the list of names that were becoming so familiar. He knew that many of the regiments at that time were enlisted from the same geographical areas, so it was logical that most of the men in the 31st came from the Middleburg-Murphysville region of the state. It also followed that some names would be familiar to him since so many families had lived in the area for generations. He was still surprised:

Roger Candlin, the congressman’s namesake, wounded in action.

Warren Fraxer, killed in action. He would not be surprised if he were a relative of Paula’s boyfriend, the activist college student, Chuck Fraxer.

Drummer boy Willard Welch, Rabbit’s forebear, missing in action, later designated as wounded in action.

And the greatest surprise of all was the name Swan. Major Swan, the regiment’s adjutant, had died from wounds received at the battle.

And there were others, many more, 467 all told.

Rusty West reverently folded the printout and placed it in an envelope for him. “It was a bloody day that September. Twenty-three thousand fell here. Come on, let’s go down to the bridge and I’ll show you what happened to the Thirty-first Rifles. You’re not related to anyone named Piper, are you?”

“No. Why?”

“In that case, I’ll tell you why the Thirty-first was decimated.”

West directed Lyon as they drove away from the Visitor’s Center. It was still early in the season, so there were few cars on the auto tour portion of the battlefield. They turned south along a road that ran parallel to what was now known as the Bloody Lane. Most of the battlefield land was still in private hands. The fields were planted with the same crops as 130 years ago. It was good rolling land enriched by Antietam creek, which ran clear and cold one thousand yards away. The Potomac River was not far to the west. Rich land fertilized with the blood of thousands of young men.

“Antietam isn’t much of a river,” Rusty West said. “It’s a creek really. But she runs cold and swift enough that her high banks made an obstacle for a large army. Three bridges cross her at Sharpsburg. The Yanks held the upper bridge from the start and that’s how they came across to attack Stonewall’s men in the cornfield. The lower bridge, or as folks around here called it, Rohrback’s Bridge, became known as Burnside’s Bridge after the battle. They named it after General Burnside, whose men paid so dearly to capture it. Anyways, the lower bridge controlled Lee’s right flank. But the Rebs gave the Yanks a bit of difficulty in crossing it.”

At the ranger’s signal Lyon parked the Saturn at a pull-off. They walked a few yards to an overlook on a high bluff that looked directly down at the creek crossed by the Burnside Bridge.

“My God,” Lyon said in awe. “The Southerners were up here?”

“If you look carefully you can still see the remains of their rifle pits just a mite below where you’re standing now,” West said. “Just a few hundred of General Tomb’s Georgians held this spot. They beat back Burnside’s Corp time and time again.”

“I can see why,” Lyon said. He looked down at the river and small bridge a few hundred feet below them. The terrain appraisal faculties he had honed so carefully during his war returned with all their accuracy. Infantry warfare had not changed fundamentally in the intervening century and a half. Young men with rifles still had to march against other men with rifles. One group had to wrest good high ground from other men. A great many people died in the process.

It was obvious to Lyon that the spot where they stood was nearly an impossible position to assault. The sturdy stone bridge was narrow. It was wide enough for only one farm cart at a time to cross. The bridge faced directly into the bluffs on this side of the river.

Men rushing across the bridge would be forced into a front only four men wide. They would face directly into murderously accurate musket fire that would destroy each rank in precision order.

The only road approaching the bridge from the far side ran parallel to the creek and then plunged into a funnellike depression in front of the bluffs where the Georgian sharpshooters had waited.

“What happened to the Connecticut men?” Lyon asked as they walked down a steep path leading off the hill toward the bridge road.

West laughed. “You know, back in those days the officers were true leaders. It was expected that the colonel of the regiment would provide a personal example to his men and lead the attack from the front. It seems that even though the Thirty-first had only been in the army a month, Colonel Piper volunteered his men for the glory of taking the bridge. General Burnside turned him down the first time because he wanted seasoned troops to make the assault. Piper had a few belts of whiskey and went back to pester the general. He not only volunteered again, but demanded that Connecticut have the honor and glory of carrying the bridge. ‘By God they could do it!’ he told Burnside. Fact is they might have captured it, considering the cost they paid in lives. Might have, if they had had an officer to lead them properly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that by the time the regiment marched down to the bridge, Colonel Piper and his second-in-command had had a few more belts of whatever it was they were drinking. Piper was so drunk that he fell off his damn horse before he reached the bridge. He slept through the whole damn battle under a tree beyond that ridge over there.”

“His men attacked without their colonel?”

“Without most of their officers. It was said they marched right well for new soldiers as they went onto the bridge. Four abreast they were, marching to drummers and fifes right into the damn muskets of the Georgians. The Southern boys held their fire until they were halfway across and then they said it was a turkey shoot. A horrible bloody carnage.”

“Four hundred and sixty-seven casualties?”

“The Thirty-first only had six hundred men present for duty that day. Not many survived.”

“But Caleb Piper did.”

“They say he had one hell of a hangover. A headache so bad he got a wound medal for it.”

“If the story of his drinking was known, why wasn’t he court-martialed?”

“If you remember your history, the North desperately needed a victory at that time. Lincoln wanted to issue the Emancipation Proclamation, which would be politically effective only if the rest of the world felt that the North would ultimately defeat the South. Antietam was the North’s first victory in the war. Those circumstances made it impossible to have court-martials over drunken colonels who fell off their horses while their regiments marched off to slaughter. That’s why Piper was given a medal and sent to the rear for the rest of the war.”

“He killed them, didn’t he?”

“Yep. He killed them more than the Georgians with their muskets on the bluff did. They said that most of the men panicked when the Southerners opened fire. Some soldiers tried to turn back and some didn’t; the bridge became a mass of milling confused men, which made them even more vulnerable. They were too green to have been volunteered for the mission in the first place. Without a leader and firm direction they were needlessly slaughtered. He murdered them the same as if he’d pointed a musket at each one and shot a minié ball into their heads.”

“Yes, a minié ball.”

“You know,” West mused, “the real hero of that battle was Major Swan, their adjutant. He wasn’t even supposed to be in the fight, but when he saw what was happening he ran out on the bridge and tried to rally the men. It was too late by that time and he was mortally wounded. He lived for a few days. Clara Barton kept him alive just long enough for his wife and teenage boy to get here for a last good-bye. They say he spent the last few minutes of his life talking with his young son. The boy never would say exactly what his dad’s last words were, but I think I know. I had worked here for twenty years and never saw it until 1975 when they closed the Burnside Bridge for a year’s renovation.”

“Saw what?” Lyon asked.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

They walked up to the bridge but instead of proceeding along the roadbed, Rusty led him down by the side of the vaulted structure. They stooped and went underneath the front portion of the first arch. At the creek’s edge underneath the bridge the retired ranger pointed up at the curve of the vault. “Looka that,” Rusty said.

“I can’t make it out,” Lyon said.

It was difficult to read the letters and words, until Rusty took a small penlight from his pocket and pointed it at the words. “When Washington said you were interested in the bridge I thought you might like to see this. Not many have.”

Lyon read the words. “WE SWEAR AL … something … TO THE COVENANT OF THE BRIDGE.”

“I think that word beginning with AL is ‘allegiance,’” the ranger said.

“The letters are in brown.”

“I figure it was written in blood from the creek that same day. We know that when Major Swan was hit he fell into the water about here. It’s only a guess, mind you, but I think that Swan wrote those words and passed on their meaning to his son.”

“The Covenant of the Bridge,” Lyon repeated. “We swear allegiance to the Covenant of the Bridge. What in the hell does it mean?”

Rusty shrugged. “Who knows? It was a long time ago. I conjecture that the survivors of the Thirty-first Rifles formed a memorial group of some sort. Sort of an early American Legion deal that probably turned into a drinking club.”

“That doesn’t sound like the sort of thing a dying man would pass on to his teenage son,” Lyon said.

“You got me, Mr. Wentworth. Some things get lost in time. Funny, you’re the second guy I’ve told this story to this month. Usually it comes out only once a year.”

It took a moment for the ranger’s final remark to register. “You’ve told this to someone else? Recently?”

“Yep. Just a couple of weeks ago. Fella was in a rush, but still said he was interested in the Connecticut Rifles. I swear, he turned white as a sheet when I mentioned Major Swan.”

“Do you remember the man’s name?” Lyon asked slowly.

“Nope. We see a thousand people a day in here sometimes.”

“Then you have no idea who he was?”

“Well, you could check the visitor’s registry, but that’s none too accurate. Couple a times a year we get General Burnside signing in, and according to the book, General Lee pays us a visit or two a year.”

“Do you have any idea of what this man looked like?” Lyon pressed.

“No. Except he had a funny accent.”

Lyon’s disappointment was obvious. “From a foreign country?”

“Oh, no. American. But real funny. Let me try and place it …”

“Deep South, Cajun, or Geechie?”

“Opposite direction. I’ll tell you. He sounded like a voice I heard when I was a little kid and used to listen to those Fireside Talks given by FDR. Yep, that’s it. The guy talked like that. Like FDR. Real friendly guy too. Say, I’ve often wondered what happened after the war to that son-of-a-bitch, Piper?”

“He lived a long life and became very wealthy,” Lyon said.

“You mean the people from his hometown didn’t shoot the bastard?”

“No. Someone did far worse than that.”

FIFTEEN

The Wentworths left the Piper mausoleum together and stood looking out over the Piper Pie with its rows of orderly tombstones. Bea sat on the cannon barrel and brushed rock dust from the knees of her slacks. Their work inside the crypt was complete. Now they had to wait for their audience.

“There are probably thousands of possible suspects for the murders of Piper heirs,” she said. “And that only includes direct descendants from the battle on the bridge.”

“The attempt on Paula’s life indicates that the assassin knows day-to-day family moments.”

“And you’re convinced that a relative of someone who was a casualty of that Civil War battle on the bridge is behind all this?” Bea asked.

“Got to be,” Lyon answered. “How else can you explain that strange museum in the Underground Railroad station? It’s a shrine to a regiment’s casualties.”

“And so death by minié ball has been carried down to modern times?”

“Exactly,” Lyon said. “We know that Caleb Piper recruited his Civil War regiment in the Murphysville–Middleburg area. All six hundred men who marched out on that bridge came from here.”

“And someone swore a vengeance that has carried down through the generations? Like who?”

“We could start with the recently murdered man, Markham Swan. And, of course Roger Candlin, whose forefathers were lurking around.”

“The Candlins would have a dual motive since another colonel destroyed them financially. I have a narrow soul; pardon me while I try not to gloat if the congressman is involved.”

Lyon continued. “Then there’s Paula’s boyfriend, Chuck Fraxer, and of course Rabbit.”

“Why couldn’t it be someone whose family wasn’t a member of the regiment? Someone completely unknown to us.”

“Anything is possible,” Lyon answered. “But we have to assume that the originator of the vendetta had one hell of a motive. One strong enough to be carried down through time.”

“We agree that no one-hundred-thirty-year-old guys are running around doing bad things. It has to be a contemporary person in each generation. Which means that you’re asking me to believe that the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of an original victim still carry enough hate to continue killing Pipers.” Bea pressed her point. “It could be that certain Piper kids have lots of bad luck. Which means that we’ve gone to a hell of a lot of effort for nothing and here comes part of our audience.”

Rocco parked his police cruiser by the gate and walked across the cemetery toward the pie as Lyon went to meet him.

Lyon’s hand, cupped over the large police chief’s shoulder, directed his reluctant charge toward the mausoleum. Rocco shook his head violently while Lyon talked earnestly. They stopped in front of Bea. She nodded and gave her knees a final brush before pushing off the cannon. “It’s open,” she said referring to the side passageway into the crypt.

“Where’s Rabbit?” Lyon asked.

“Frieda’s tracking him down and he’ll be along. What about Peyton? He’s the important one,” Bea answered.

“I got him on the car phone,” Rocco answered. “He’s on his way from the factory.” Rocco’s brow furrowed. “This is the last time I drag that man anywhere. He’s talking heavy-duty legal stuff with harassment charges and court orders. And I can’t really blame him.”

“Even if he killed Swan?” Lyon answered.

“Can you prove that?” Rocco retorted.

“Not yet, but that’s the reason for this meeting.”

“You’re operating on instinct again?”

“I have information. Recently a man at Antietam battlefield talked to the same ranger I spoke with. This person was extremely interested in the battle for the bridge and the colonel’s regiment. This very sociable individual spoke with an unusual New England accent.”

“People from Maine speak with a distinct accent and some of them are even sociable,” Rocco said.

“This person discovered, as I did, that a Major Swan was mortally wounded at that Bridge. He lived long enough for his young son to arrive. I think he made the boy take a vow of revenge, something called the Covenant of the Bridge.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions there,” Bea said.

“True, but a logical jump. We know that Peyton, searching for a new factory location, was in the South recently. I believe we can place him at that battlefield.”

“It’s a national park, for God’s sake,” Rocco said.

“Hear me out,” Lyon continued. “Either because of Swan’s research or his own knowledge, Peyton knows there is a possibility that his only child, Paula, will be murdered. He has no idea who might do it until he accidentally finds out about the death of Major Swan at the bridge. He now suspects that Swan has more than a sexual interest in Paula. He has no hard evidence, nor does he have any legal recourse since Swan hasn’t actually done anything at that point. This puts Peyton in one hell of a quandary. He knows that Swans may have been killing Pipers for generations, but he can’t do a damn thing about it.”

“You’re making our little neighborhood munitions maker almost noble,” Bea said.

“Except he let Loyce Swan take the fall for his murder.”

“None of this beats the evidence Norby has against Swan’s wife,” Roco said. “Your conjectures weighed against the evidence about her motives just aren’t going to spring her.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Lyon said, “I’m hoping that what we have to show will have enough surprise to force some incriminating admissions from him. And here comes our man now.”

They watched Peyton drive his Mercedes down the lane and turn into the cemetery. He parked behind the police cruiser and walked toward them with a chopping stride that radiated anger.

“He looks like a munitions maker who has just learned of universal disarmament,” Bea said.

“Can we get this charade over with quickly?” Peyton said irritably while still twenty feet away. “I would have thought you’d have more sense, Beatrice.”

“It won’t take a moment. This way,” Bea said as she ducked to enter the building through the narrow side entrance. They followed single file. She crossed to Caleb’s vault, where she hoisted herself to the rim and dropped inside.

“Exactly what in the hell is she doing?” Peyton asked.

“We’ve found something,” Lyon said. “Just follow her.”

Peyton looked dubious until Bea stooped over to scuttle forward and quickly disappeared from sight.

“Where the hell did she go?”

Rocco’s hand on Peyton’s shoulder was an unmistakable signal. “You’ll find out. Go ahead.”

In complete silence they made their way through the narrow passageway into the hidden room.

Once inside the entryway Bea’s outstretched hands forced them to stand in line. The bright flashlights in the exterior room had temporarily destroyed their night vision, so they waited in nearly complete darkness. Lyon and Rocco stood on either side of Peyton to observe his initial reactions.

Outside, nearly inaudible from their location in the secret room, they could hear the chug of heavy machinery.

“What in the hell is that?” Rocco asked in the darkness.

“Sounds like the backhoe,” Peyton answered. “Tomorrow we were to put in some new drainpipes along the lane down from the Pie. I guess they started a day early.”

“Ready?” Bea asked.

“Do it,” Lyon answered.

Bea counted a silent ten before she threw the switch that turned on the three battery lanterns she had carefully positioned on either side of the entrance.

The floodlike lamps instantly illuminated the room.

Peyton involuntarily stepped back against the wall as if he had been slammed by a gigantic fist. “I’ll be damned,” he finally said in a hushed voice. His look of surprise changed to astonishment as he gradually absorbed the macabre scene. The combination of filtered natural light through the oblong window slits in the rock face and the powerful lantern beams created a combination that twisted the room’s shadows into strange shapes. The total effect was overwhelming.

The centerpiece was the long center table with its two costumed hostesses. These silent cadavers, facing each other as if in animated conversation, created a frightening initial tableau.

Peyton walked along the wall, staying as far from the table as he could until he passed the two petrified bodies that had been transformed into human caricatures. He shuddered and turned away. It was at this point that he seemed to notice that the mass of material fixed to the walls was not decorative. He stepped closer to examine individual items more carefully.

“What is this?” Peyton said after his initial inspection. The factory owner seemed to have recovered part of his emotional equilibrium, which reactivated his usual authoritarian attitude. He paced nervously in front of the wall covered with the scraps of Civil War memorabilia. “Is this supposed to be some sort of modern art? A historical collage of some sort?” His look at Lyon was more of an accusation than a question. “Did you perpetrate this desecration, Wentworth?” His hand swept along the wall holding the relics from the decimated regiment until it pointed at the two remains seated at the table.

“Me?” Lyon glanced at Rocco and Bea standing by the entrance. His look silently asked them for an opinion of whether this was Peyton Piper’s first exposure to the hidden room. He knew his friend and wife well enough to know that Rocco’s slight shoulder movement and Bea’s small shrug were verification of his own feeling. Peyton had not seen this room before. No man other than the most talented actor or sociopathic personality could fake his reaction.

“Do you know what that material on the wall represents?” Lyon asked Peyton.

“Haven’t the slightest. All that I can see is that someone has sullied a very valuable historical shrine.”

“Then you know why this room was built?”

“I’m not all that dense, Wentworth. You were the one who suggested there was another possible room for the Underground Railroad. This is obviously that room. Those,” he pointed to the two ancient cadavers at the table, “are obviously …”

“Who?” Rocco asked.

“One must be the colonel’s wife who’s missing from her grave. The other … I don’t know.”

“Try Mary, the first wife,” Bea said.

“Impossible!” Peyton snapped. “Her body was never found.”

“It never went anywhere,” Rocco said. “The colonel stashed her in his own tomb until she was moved in here by someone else.”

“Do you know what’s on the walls?” Lyon asked.

Peyton peered closely at the relics before answering. “It’s old stuff that seems to be related to the men of Caleb’s regiment. In fact, it looks like junk someone might have gathered on a battlefield after the fighting was over.”

“Yes. I thought that also,” Lyon said. “It looks like odds and ends that might have been taken from bodies.”

“The old man must have done it himself,” Peyton said. “He created his own personal shrine for the lost men. There were a lot of casualties in that fight.”

“Nearly the complete regiment was lost.”

“Battles were costly in those days. The poor bastards had to march straight into the mouth of massed musket fire. Which is why the colonel received his decoration.”

“Your colonel was not on the bridge. He was so drunk he fell off his horse before the battle began.”

“You know, Wentworth, I don’t care for your crappy revisionist history. It’s always left-wingers who write debunking history. Intellectuals hate the concept of heroes and honor. If I chose to argue the point, I might point out that the Army of the Potomac didn’t follow your reasoning. Colonel Piper was decorated by both General Burnside and General McClellan himself after the battle. He was honored and written up by the newspapers as the hero of the bridge.”

“He drank a bottle of liquid courage, volunteered his men for a suicide mission, and then was too drunk to lead them. He sacrificed hundreds of men while safely passed out behind a rock.”

“You haven’t changed since college.”

“Damn it, Peyton! I’m not debunking a dead man for no reason. What Caleb did on that bridge more than a century ago is what has infected your family. Can’t you understand that?”

“Bullshit!”

Lyon impatiently turned away from his former classmate. “What do you think, Rocco?”

The large police chief moved to the center of the room, where he dipped his fingers into the box of minié ball cartridge packages that sat on the center of the table. “This carton is half full. I think that over the years the others have been fired at people.”

Peyton moved to Rocco’s side and bent over to examine the cartridges. “Confederates.”

“The same type that were found in Swan,” Lyon said.

“Interesting,” Rocco said.

“There was a Major Swan on that bridge,” Lyon said. “He was mortally wounded, but lived long enough for his wife and teenage son to visit him. It’s been said that he made his son take a vow. No one seems to know what that vow was, Peyton, but I think you know.”

“Your overly dramatic imagination is reaching again.”

“I know what he means,” Rocco said. “Over the years the Swans have been doing you Pipers in. They’ve been filling up your Pie out there. You found out and you took care of Mr. Swan to protect your family.”

“I was going to fire him because of his sexual escapades.”

“You were down South on business and happened to be near Sharpsburg, Maryland. You stopped off out of curiosity and talked to Ranger Rusty West about the battle.”

“Thousands of people a year stop to visit battlefields,” Peyton responded.

“Ranger West has identified your photograph,” Bea said with such authority that even Lyon believed her.

“He remembered you quite distinctly,” Lyon said. “Particularly your accent and friendliness. You knew about the colonel, the bridge, and you knew the name Swan.”

“Suppose I don’t deny that knowledge? Those are historical facts,” Peyton said.

Lyon was about to speak when he intuitively stopped. Rocco was primed. The police chief’s voice automatically slipped into his official non-judgmental monotone.

“We’ve reconstructed the circumstances carefully, Mr. Piper,” Rocco said. “You were aware of the Swan family connection. You were aware of the grave danger your daughter faced. When you found out about the note Swan sent to Paula you knew the situation was critical. You killed Swan because you perceived that you had no other choice.”

“I’m fed up with this crap! You can all get the hell out of here,” Peyton said. “I would be appreciative if you got off my property as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning this room will be sealed with concrete and will never be reopened. It will remain a burial place for those two poor souls, and a shrine to the lost men of the bridge.”

“Look around you,” Rocco said. “I’ve sat through a lot of criminal trials, but I’ve never seen anything as effective as photographs of this room will be. A good defense lawyer will play up your love for your daughter, your fear of Swan—hell, you’ll be out in two years.”

“Your confession will allow Loyce Swan to be released,” Bea added.

Peyton turned to glare at Bea. “You’d love it, wouldn’t you? My political career shattered before it starts, and you become the heroine in this mess. I don’t give a crap about Loyce. Let her twist in the wind.”

“You’d let her go through a trial?” Bea asked.

“Better her than me.”

Lyon watched that remark register with Rocco; the emotional play on his friend’s face reminded him of the young Ranger captain he had seen fearlessly facing down the Army general. Although Rocco knew criminal law, his Paladin sense of justice sometimes overrode logic.

“You won’t get the nomination for Lord High Executioner when I’m through with you,” Rocco said as he snapped handcuffs on Peyton Piper. “I’m arresting you for the murder of Markham Swan.”

“Are you out of your mind? I have the best lawyers money can buy. They’ll cut your legs off. You will be dismissed by the Murphysville town fathers, Herbert. You’ll end up as a minimum wage security guard working a five-and-dime discount house.”

Rocco shook his head. “You discovered his notes, which made it obvious that Swan’s family were the murderers. Since Swan hadn’t done Paula any physical harm at this point, there was no legal protection you could obtain. You killed him to protect your family.”

“What notes are you talking about?” Peyton snapped. “Wentworth went through all that junk of Swan’s.”

“The notes you destroyed after you read them,” Rocco replied.

“All right, I did go down to the cottage to fire him that night. I found him already dead, with his wife standing over the body with the gun in her hand. That’s going to be my story, Herbert.”

“You shot him—twice,” Rocco said.

“You think anyone is going to believe that I would have done it myself? If I wanted to kill the creep I would have Barry do it. Barry would kill his own grandmother for the right price.”

“No,” Rocco said, “you wouldn’t have wanted to sell your soul to Barry for the rest of time.”

“Loyce Swan would have gotten off eventually and I would have compensated her for her time. It was necessary that I remain untainted in order to run for the Senate.”

“I think they call that the divine rights of kings,” Bea mumbled.

“Let’s go,” Rocco said as he pushed Peyton toward the entrance.

They climbed up through the tomb and out through the stone passage to the concrete deck near the obelisk.

“What in the hell is going on here?” Peyton said as he looked out over the Pie.

SIXTEEN

Uneven clumps of dirt had been piled between the neat rows of tombstones that radiated from the obelisk. Several headstones had been knocked over while others canted at precarious angles. It appeared as if an impatient giant had brushed past the Pie while his fist sprinkled a constant stream of soil.

Rocco instinctively tightened his grip on Peyton’s arm. “I don’t know what your people are doing out here, Piper, but don’t even consider making a break for it.”

“I had nothing to do with …”

The industrialist’s words were lost under the chugging roar of a large yellow backhoe that skidded around the corner of the mausoleum. It sped past them to the edge of the pie, where it dumped another load of dirt. The heavy machine continued on to the edge of the cemetery where its oversize tires swiveled in a half circle. The engine died with a coughing hack.

Rabbit, a semiautomatic rifle slung across his back, jumped from the cab to the rear of the large machine. He crouched behind the hoe’s bucket where he was well protected by the folding arm. He unslung the rifle and braced the barrel against a rear strut of the undercarriage.

The metal click of the magazine’s seating and the clank of the bolt were audible across the Pie. The rifle barrel traced a narrow arc across the walk in front of the crypt.

Rocco drew his service revolver. “Everyone down,” he whispered to the others on the stone walk. “Drop that rifle!” he bellowed across the Pie.

A short burst of closely spaced fire whined off a band of scrollwork running along the top of the mausoleum. Pieces of stone flaked off under the barrage and pelted them as they huddled by the wall.

Rocco threw himself flat. “Are you crazy, Rabbit?” He steadied his right wrist with his left hand as he aimed the pistol toward the heavy equipment parked at the far end of the pie. “Everyone okay?” he asked the others around him.

“So far,” Lyon answered as he looked at his wife with concern.

The rifle cracked again and another round ricochetted off the marble facade above their heads. “In case you have any ideas, Herbert,” Rabbit yelled, “I have a thirty-thirty and plenty of ammo. You are exposed. You know that at this range your handgun is next to useless. If anyone tries to run, I will make it very unpleasant for them. That goes for everyone except Bea. Give me your word you won’t go for help, Senator, and you can sit in your car until this is over.”

“I’ll stay with Lyon,” she called back.

“Go on!” Lyon insisted. “She’s going, Mister R.”

“No, I’m not.”

Rabbit fired a shot in the air. “Discussion is over. Nobody goes anywhere.”

“This is an official order,” Rocco yelled across the Pie. “Throw down your rifle and come forward with your hands in the air.”

The answer was another shot that splattered against the wall.

“What in the hell does he want?” Rocco whispered to the group huddled around him.

“He’s obviously flipped out,” Peyton said. “I always knew he was unstable.”

“He obviously wants something,” Lyon said. “He can shoot any or all of us at a time of his choosing.”

As if in reply to their questions, Rabbit called across the Pie. “Send Piper to me.”

“Nonnegotiable,” Rocco yelled back. “I never release a prisoner.”

“Damn it! This isn’t my doing,” Peyton said. “This is all the runt’s idea. I don’t need him or this. I’m prepared to make a fool of you in court, Chief. I’m not going to live as a fugitive on the run.”

“Peyton’s got a point,” Lyon agreed. “Rabbit has another agenda.”

“I wish someone would tell me what it is,” Rocco said as he unlocked Peyton’s handcuffs. “Don’t get ideas, Piper. The cuffs are off because we may have to move away from here fast.”

“It’s over, Peyton,” Rabbit yelled. “The Covenant of the Bridge is complete. A hundred years of blood will stop. I am changing the rules. It won’t be Paula that fulfills the covenant, but you, Peyton, and then it’s over.”

“What in the hell is he talking about?” Rocco asked as he searched the target area for a clear shot of the hidden man with the rifle.

“You’ve got it screwed up, little man,” Peyton said as he instinctively rose to his knees and cupped his hands around his mouth. “It was Swan. Swan! The dead man!”

“I researched it,” Lyon added. “The dying Major Swan made his young son take an oath. Major Swan and his son created the covenant.”

“Right,” Rabbit replied. “They did. Except that young Swan entered the Union Army the following year and was killed at Petersburg.”

“Oh, my God,” Peyton chuckled. “Don’t tell me it’s your family, Rabbit?”

“We’ve been around a long time, Mister Big Man.”

“Why the dirt?” Piper asked.

“Fitting, I thought. Both our ancestors are buried in this soil,” he answered. “I’m giving you a chance.”

“I think he’s laid some land mines under the pie,” Lyon said.

Peyton’s veneer began to dissolve. His voice cracked. “Jesus, I think you’re right. He’s only covered them with a few inches of dirt and I can see one of the pressure plates.” He yelled across the headstones again. “You have Tommies planted in the Pie, Rabbit.”

“Hey, good guess,” the man with the rifle called back. “I didn’t have time to do a whole field, but there’s enough explosive doo-dads out here to make your walk interesting.”

“What walk?” Peyton’s voice skirted panic level.

“In many places of the world a typical Sunday afternoon stroll through fields sown with mines is not unusual. So, you’re going to walk through your own toys. Come on, Mr. Piper. They don’t cost much to make and all they can do is blow you apart. If you’re tall enough they might only separate you from your lower half and make you a little person. I think the men who died on the Bridge would approve this fitting end.”

“You’re going too far, Welch,” Rocco yelled in his most authoritative voice. “You are committing a number of felonies.”

The answer was another shot that whined off the stone.

“Make Peyton take his walk and it’s all over,” Rabbit said.

“As soon as I’m in the clear away from the others you’ll shoot me. You’ve always hated me, Rabbit. Always have and always will.”

“There’s no need for this,” Lyon shouted. “Rocco has arrested Peyton for Swan’s murder. You don’t need to do anything to him.”

“That means I can work something out with you. It’s like the gas station, R.,” Rocco said. “We can put a package together if you drop the rifle immediately.”

“If that son-of-a-bitch doesn’t start tiptoeing through the mine field in five seconds, I’m going to start adding bullets to his wardrobe.”

“You’re fired!” Peyton screamed at Rabbit. “Get off Piper property.”

“Like I’m going to obey that command,” the man with the rifle said. He fired a single round. “Unless you come toward me, the next one will be a gut shot, Peyton. If you can make it all the way over here without cracking, then you get to go home tonight. I don’t think you can, Peyton. I think the Pipers are all poisoned with the same cowardice as that colonel on the Bridge. Prove me wrong, big man. Walk over to me like the tall man you think you are.”

“Stop him,” Peyton pleaded to Rocco as the last vestige of his control crumbled.

“Tell me how to do that, Piper,” Rocco answered. “We have to either wait him out until he makes a mistake, hope that my office comes looking for me, or get lucky with a clear shot at a small target. I suggest we wait and lie here and pray he won’t shoot us.”

“You mean shoot me.”

“You, me, us. He can pick off whomever he wishes whenever he decides.”

Peyton lurched forward to the outer rim of the spread dirt where he grasped the edge of a headstone. His fingers curved over the top surface to give him the support he needed to remain upright. He spoke in a strained cracked voice whose words often faded. “We got to talk, Rab … Mister R.”

“I’m listening.”

“I … I’m not only a reasonable man, I’m a reasonably wealthy man. I can make you rich. Rich beyond your wildest dreams. You’ll have so much the women won’t care how tall you are.”

“You really know how to appeal to a dwarf, Piper. Christ, I’d like to put one through your gullet right now.”

“Please.” Peyton slid down the face of the tombstone and pressed his head against the side as his hands attempted to pull the protective stonework over him as a shield.

“Walk through the mines like a man, for God’s sake,” Rabbit yelled shrilly. “Get off your knees. You Pipers are all alike. It’s in the blood, Peyton. From the coward colonel who wouldn’t go on the bridge to you his sniveling progeny. The genes in you are as rotten and cowardly as they always have been.”

“Your great granddad survived the bridge. He got a medal. He came home to Bridgeway and lived here the rest of his life.”

“And swore to uphold the covenant every day of that life.”

“I’ll give you everything I have,” the kneeling man pleaded.

“You have a chance if you walk directly toward me through the mines. If you don’t, I’m coming over there to kill you. You just might make it through the field. Zigzag as much as you want. By the way, when they explode they bounce a few feet in the air and then go boom.”

Peyton dragged himself erect once more and took a tentative step toward Rabbit. “We can negotiate a deal.”

“Keep coming.”

“Okay, okay.” Peyton took several steps before he stopped. He kneeled and shoved his hands at an oblique angle slowly into the thin layer of soil. He cupped his fingers around the base of a mine below the pressure plate and raised it slowly aloft where it trembled in his shaking hands. He gently put it aside. “I think you laid a simple triangular pattern here.”

“Maybe yes. Maybe no.”

Peyton took a few more steps. He kept his eyes constantly on the ground to look for the telltale contours of metal pressure plates that would ignite a Tommy. He walked another five feet before he bent over again and gingerly began to feel through the soil for the sides of another mine.

“We can work something out,” Peyton said as he laid the second mine aside.

“You reach me and you are home safe,” Rabbit responded.

“I can give you a cash settlement,” Peyton said with a forced smile. The result was a skewered caricature of the social greeting that had gotten him so much in life. “My lawyers can work it out in a trust so you don’t have tax problems.”

“At this moment, tax problems really worry me,” Rabbit said.

Again Peyton willed his wide social smile. “Come on, kid, let’s go check out the wine cellar.”

“Keep coming, boss man. Remember, the Tommy that gets you might not kill you. It might only blow you in half.”

“Time out,” Peyton said as flippantly as he could muster. He bent to search for the next mine.

“Oh, boy,” Rabbit said simultaneously with the small pop of the mine’s initial explosion.

The Tommy erupted straight up from the soil like a miniature flying saucer. Four feet off the ground it exploded with a dull thud that reverberated across the hills. Dozens of stainless steel balls thudded into the stone structure behind Lyon and Bea. At the opposite end of the cemetery pellets shattered the front windshield of the backhoe.

“You still alive, Peyton?” Rabbit called.

No answer. Lyon stood to shade his eyes and look across the Piper Pie toward the spot where Peyton had been standing. A small crater surrounded by mounds of recently spread topsoil, which were molded into piles like gigantic animal leavings, marked the spot. “Peyton!” Lyon yelled.

“This has got to end,” a weak voice said. Peyton had thrown himself behind a tombstone when the Tommy detonated. His quick reaction had protected him from the mine’s powerful secondary explosion. He slowly straightened up. Deep facial lines which had once radiated a dominant assurance had reformed into weak crevices, giving the impression of a personality dissolved. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “Let me go. Please.”

Lyon walked down the path Peyton had cleared of mines. “Enough of this, Rabbit.”

“He’s not thinking right,” Bea called after him.

“Stop where you are, Wentworth,” Rabbit said. “I have no quarrel with you, but I will shoot if I have to.”

Lyon stopped midway between the mausoleum and backhoe. “Exactly what are you doing?”

“As a young man I took a blood oath to fulfill the Covenant of the Bridge,” Rabbit said. “If that vow is to be broken forevermore, it has to come to an end in a fitting way. This is that way.” During the conversation Rabbit had stood up behind the backhoe. He stepped around the edge still gripping the rifle firmly.

Rocco still lay prone on the walk in front of the mausoleum. He steadied his right wrist with his left hand. His elbows propped on the flat surface gave him a steady aiming platform for his .357 magnum. He estimated that the small man with the rifle was now less than fifty yards away. There was little wind. The only impediments to the shot were the two men standing directly in front of Rabbit.

Lyon shifted slightly to the right, giving Rocco a clear lane of fire. The police chief estimated that he would be able to fire at least twice before Rabbit had a chance to react. It would be one of the most difficult shots of his career. It had to be done. He did not want to kill, but circumstances dictated that he try for a fatal wound.

“I think that you’re holding a chicken shit hand and I’m calling,” Peyton said. His stature straightened as his body language indicated he had made a different assumption and was proceeding on a new track.

The others watched in amazement as Peyton’s transformation propelled him toward Rabbit.

“You’re making a mistake,” Bea called to him.

“I know this man,” Peyton said. “He doesn’t have the balls to take me on.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Rocco added.

“Once a servant always a minion. You know, little man,” Peyton said, “I just realized that the reason you couldn’t kill Paula like your so-called blood vow required, was because you don’t have the gonads to do it. You couldn’t kill her just like you had to use land mines in your attempt to get me. Well, I’ve figured out the dumb little pattern of explosives you’ve placed and now I’m going to rip that rifle out of your stubby little hands and stuff it down your constricted little throat.”

Rabbit was expressionless. The rifle held at his waist drooped toward the ground.

“Everyone down!” Rocco’s yelled command was to clear the path for his own impending shot.

Lyon immediately dropped to the ground while Bea inched back behind Rocco.

Peyton ignored the command as he continued a zigzag walk toward the man with the rifle.

Another pop signified the activation of a Tommy mine. Peyton’s look was of absolute confusion. He had obviously miscalculated, and it was difficult for him to assimilate this fact. He hesitated a microsecond too long before stepping to the side, where another pop activated a second mine.

Both munitions devices rose into the air and exploded.

Whistling hot shrapnel passed harmlessly over Lyon’s head and rattled against the wall above Rocco and Bea.

In the other direction, the exploding canisters released another salvo of a hundred projectiles that passed above the short man’s head.

The two charges hit Peyton from opposite directions and flung him backward over a tombstone.

Lyon was the first to reach the body. He knelt by the man’s side to reach toward the lolling head to clear an airway.

Rocco stood over him. “Forget it. Nothing can be done.”

Bea was the first to see Frieda come through the cemetery gates, walking resolutely toward her husband. The rigidity of her posture and the stiff movement of her legs signaled her anxiety. She carried something clutched in her right hand. Bea realized that the Welch cottage was only a quarter of a mile away, and Frieda must have heard the shots and guessed at their origin.

Frieda walked through the cemetery behind the backhoe. She held a cast iron frying pan tightly as she looked at her husband’s back with eyes of infinite sadness.

She walked silently up behind him and brought the skillet down on the center of his head.

Rabbit fell forward into the dirt. Frieda reached for the rifle and tossed it aside.

“It’s over, Rabbit,” she said. “It’s all over.”

SEVENTEEN

Bea Wentworth lay on the edge of the large bed at Nutmeg Hill and stared at the ceiling while dawn crept upriver from the sea. Lyon had captured the bulk of the covers and was splayed by her side consuming the majority of the space.

“What have I done?” she whispered softly into the awakening day. “Whatever possessed me to do that?”

“Yeah,” Lyon mumbled as he turned to face in the opposite direction while yanking the remains of the covers over his shoulders. “You did it with your own little motion from the floor of the convention,” he said without a trace of sleep in his voice.

“You phony!” She sat bolt upright to hit him over the head with her pillow. “I’ve been lying here silently suffering and you knew it all along.”

“Only since your conscience began shouting to the rooftops over that nomination you made at the state convention yesterday.”

“I thought I was suffering quietly. Besides, Roger Candlin might make a good U.S. senator.”

“Sure he will, as long as he has Bismarck and Maeterlinck to give him aid and comfort. Actually, the governor told me she thought your nomination by acclamation was a brilliant move. It keeps the party from a possible primary election blood bath. No one dares to oppose Roger. But whatever possessed you to nominate him?”

“For a mad instant it seemed logical. We got rid of him as a problem by kicking him upstairs. Roger is shrewd and Machiavellian, but honest within those parameters. The nomination gets him out of the day-to-day running of state politics, which we need. Everything was going along fine until he realized what I was doing. That’s why he got his revenge by having his minions nominate me.”

“Maybe you’ll like Congress. You’ve got a good chance to win since the congressional district overlaps your senatorial district.”

“If that happens, I’d be beholden to Roger for his nomination. I can’t stand that thought.”

“Think of the alternative. It might have been Peyton running for the Senate.”

“I suppose.” She lay back on the pillows, contemplating an imaginary panorama that moved across the blank ceiling. “How long do you think Rabbit will be in prison?”

“Of his twelve years, he should be out in five unless he does something rash. Unfortunately, knowing Rabbit, that is altogether too possible.”

“Katherine and Paula tell me they’re going to keep Bridgeway, but they might turn it over to the state as a park. Either way, Rabbit has a job when he returns and he and Frieda can keep the little house.”

“That’s something positive.” Lyon felt her loom over him as her hair brushed gently across his forehead. She bent to whisper in his ear the few words that shattered the moment.

“There’s someone downstairs.”

Her lips slid across his neck as he twisted his head to hear better. Over the years Nutmeg Hill’s creak and groan house sounds had become as familiar to him as the workings of his own body. “I don’t hear anything.” He reached around her waist and pulled her closer. “But as long as you’re here, I’ve got a great idea.”

“Knock it off,” she whispered in his ear and shifted. “I tell you, I hear someone walking around down there. Get your gun.”

“I don’t own a gun.”

“Set the attack dog on them.”

“We don’t have a dog either,” Lyon said. “But I do smell coffee. Do burglars usually start the coffee machine?”

“Do you hear someone searching the bread box for a stale Danish and the liquor cabinet for our good vodka?”

“Both.”

“Okay, so now we know who it is. Go down there and do something to him for scaring me to death,” Bea said as she tumbled over him to lay on her stomach and scrunch a pillow over her ears.

Her last remaining sheet slipped away and he saw that she was wearing his pajama top. For reasons he didn’t quite understand, he thought this far more erotic than if she were completely nude. Her right hand marched across the mattress searching for covers. He pulled the blanket over her as he reluctantly left the bed.

Rocco was pouring coffee into mugs as Lyon shuffled down the backstairs still belting his terry cloth robe. The police chief handed him a coffee mug.

“How did you know I wasn’t a guard dog who at this very moment would be leaping for your throat?” Lyon asked.

“After living with you, the most ferocious pit bull would be out in the yard playing with his rubber ducks. You have company in the living room, but read this first.” He handed Lyon an official-looking document.

“What’s this so early in the morning?” Lyon asked as he squinted at the blue-backed legal-size document with the town clerk’s embossed seal displayed at the bottom of the page.

“The Selectmen passed a new town ordinance last night. To summarize, it states that any lighter-than-air device without proper gondolas or passenger-carrying undercarriages are banned from the town limits of Murphysville. I believe this includes your Cloudhopper.”

“My balloon seems to be the only vehicle covered by the rule unless Tinker Bell decides to practice aerobatics over the town green.”

“The volunteer firemen made sure I had a copy immediately.”

“What are you supposed to do about it?”

“Arrest the perps, I guess,” Rocco said with a smile. “Or at the very least, shoot them down somehow.”

“I’m not quite sure that’s legal, but then again I’m not sure I want to test the ordinance. What am I supposed to do? When I fly a balloon I go where the wind carries me.”

“My advice is that you attach a very large wind sock to the widow’s walk of Nutmeg Hill. I wanted to drop the legal paper off before I drove Katherine Piper to rehab at Silver Hills. Come say hello and good-bye.”

In the living room Katherine Piper sat rigidly on the long sectional couch trying to force her shaking hands to grasp the coffee mug. She bolted to her feet as she tilted her coffee mug too far to one side and its contents spilled over the couch. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” Lyon said. “It’s very washable.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bea cringing in the kitchen as she poured her own coffee.

“I’m going into rehab today,” Katherine said. “Although I’m not quite convinced that eight weeks at Silver Hills will sop up a decade of tippling.”

Lyon saw Bea in the kitchen mouth, “It’s a good start.”

“But I’ll do the best I can,” Katherine said. “Now that Peyton is gone I certainly have the time. I have asked Loyce Swan to say on at Bridgeway,” Katherine continued. “She can live in the gate cottage for as long as she likes. God only knows we owe her at least that much. And of course Frieda will stay on in the little house until Rabbit comes home. I think we ought to rename the hills of the Seven Sisters, the hills of the Three Widows,” Katherine said bitterly.

Bea shuffled into the living room in a robe and fluffy slippers. She waved and perched on the arm of the easy chair across from the sofa. “How’s Paula doing?”

“I sometimes think Paula and I got along better when I drank,” Katherine said. “Since her father died she’s had more interest in the Dow Jones than in suicidal poets. She’s dropped out of school and is working full time at the Piper factory. Her newest project is working some sort of self-destruct device into the land mines. It has something to do with the explosives becoming contaminated and inoperable after a year in the ground.”

The phone rang and Bea snicked the wall unit from its fixture. She spoke briefly before handing the portable unit to the chief.

Rocco spoke in a low monotone for a moment before jumping to his feet with the phone still pressed to his ear. “Good Christ!” they heard him say. “I hope someone kicks ass over that one!” He smashed the phone down. “This is no way to start a day,” he said.

“I’d laugh if it wouldn’t hurt,” Katherine said. “I know him too well. How did he do it?”

Rocco brushed his forehead with his massive hand. “During the van trip to max security he bit a deputy sheriff. He’d already slipped his cuffs, and was able to jump out of the van.”

“I hope you are kidding, Rocco,” Bea said. “I can’t believe that Rabbit has escaped.”

Rocco shook his head. “Well, it won’t be for long. When we put out the APB, how many men fit his description? He’s probably at home with his wife. That’s where they always go when they break out.” He started for the door. “I better go down there and see about him before someone gets hurt.”

“Well,” Katherine Piper said with relief, “I can always start rehab another time.”

Bea and Lyon shook their heads and Katherine Piper’s smile faded.

“I’ll drive you up there,” Bea said. “Give me three minutes to throw some clothes on.”

Lyon stood at his computer console and looked out the window of his study that overlooked the patio of Nutmeg Hill. The quiet scene reinforced his conviction that there was a certain balanced symmetry in life. Rabbit would be captured soon. Rocco was right, there was no place for him to run. No burrow was remote enough to hide him for long. Eventually Rocco’s solid police procedures, mixed with an intuitive sense, would lead him to the fugitive. Rabbit would be escorted back to prison with several years added to his sentence.

It was time for the Wobbly monsters to return. His book must be restarted and life must begin again.

His benign monsters were down on the river below the house. The two furry animals were zipped into an Eskimo kayak, paddling furiously downriver. Their strong furry shoulders moved in practiced unison as they propelled the small craft through the center of the channel.

It might be a possible story. Perhaps something about the Wobblies and how they saved baby seals from vicious fur pirates. It might be worth thinking about.…

The barrel of a pistol pressed into that spot where his spinal column joined the base of his brain. The movement behind him had been so silent that he had no advance warning of the approach.

“Do not move. Do not even breathe or I blow your head off.”

“Running from the van was a very foolish thing to do. You can’t avoid Rocco for long.” Lyon turned slightly, to look into the muzzle of a very long-barreled pistol that the small man held. He recognized the weapon as an exhibit from one of the display cases in the Piper library. It was a percussion-cap Colt single-action revolver from the Civil War era.

Lyon’s close view included a look into the gun’s chambers. It appeared as if the weapons were primed and ready to fire. “Appropriate gun. Fires a minié ball, I would suppose,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Why, Rabbit?”

For the first time Rabbit looked directly at him. His eyes were surrounded by dark hollow rings, giving him a raccoonlike appearance. “If I don’t do it here, it will be in the cop car with Rocco. I’ll run and he’ll have to shoot me. If not with him then when the deputies take me to the prison. If not then, then when I get to max security. On the first day I will run for the wall and they will have to shoot me. Somewhere soon it will happen, but I would rather do it here.”

Lyon understood but couldn’t answer.

Rabbit looked at him with a wistful smile. “Thank God you didn’t call me a determined little man. I think I would have thrown up.”

“I’m still not satisfied, Mister R. How come the Welches were the family forced to fulfill the covenant?”

“I understand that in the beginning we were just onlookers. Young Swan swore to his dying father that he would do it. When he was killed in the war it was assumed that Candlin would step in to fulfill the covenant.”

“The same Candlin who was having dinner on the patio when the first Mrs. Colonel didn’t take a dive off the parapet.”

Rabbit nodded. “Yep. The same man who started the meal as a farmhand and was a private banker by dessert. Doesn’t take much to figure out that he was bought.”

“So the promise became the Welches’ by default?”

“We were the only men of honor left. It helped that our size protected us as long as the Candlin who fought in the Civil War was alive. He was too pompous to seriously consider little people as the perpetrators.”

“Honor that carried down for over a hundred years. Honor that kept men killing young men and women for generation after generation.”

“The Pipers helped matters by generally being very unpleasant people.”

“And was Rebecca also unpleasant enough to be murdered?”

“That was distasteful, and the reason that I decided to stop the covenant when it came time to include Paula. I could no more kill her than my own kid.”

“If you hadn’t pled guilty this might have come out during a trial, but I still don’t understand,” Lyon said. “What possessed your family, generation after generation, to keep this thing going?”

Rabbit’s gaze seemed drawn toward the river far below the promontory, or perhaps to the wooded hills across the water, or perhaps to a time long ago. “At first a kid doesn’t know anything is wrong. The other kids are about your size, but they keep growing and you don’t. They can be mean, Lyon, God they can be mean. And it hurts. You become the class clown who won’t take any crap, but it gets worse when you’re a teenager with all the problems that implies.”

“And they rescued you with a secret ceremony in that hidden room under the graves,” Lyon said softly.

“Yes, you’ve got it. All that spooky candles and knife stuff can be heavy for a fourteen year old. But it was the ceremony that made us giants among men. We were the only keepers of honor, no matter our size, and for that we swore a blood oath that had to be obeyed.”

“You didn’t fulfill it.”

“I declared the game over. I don’t have children and never will. The covenant is finished.”

“Then it is truly over,” Lyon said as he left the swivel desk chair and walked to the study’s door. He saw the aghast look on Rabbit’s face as he pushed past him.

“Where in the hell do you think you’re going?”

Lyon didn’t answer but continued through the living room and out on the patio.

The Colt exploded behind him and the minié ball shattered a window pane in the French door by his side. Large chunks of glass clattered to the floor. Lyon kept walking.

“You touch a phone and I will blow you apart,” Rabbit said behind him as he ran to catch up.

Lyon continued off the patio and down the few steps into the side yard. He sat on a grassy knoll overlooking the Seven Sister hills in the distance. He flicked a long blade of grass from between his feet and stuck it in his mouth. The lawn needed to be cut. Perhaps this afternoon he’d get the lawn tractor from the shed and do the job.

Rabbit came up behind him. “Are you nuts?” He sat on the grass next to Lyon. Both men let the still day close around them. Clouds moved overhead at a leisurely pace. It would be a good day for ballooning, Lyon thought.

“Is Rocco Herbert looking for me at my house?” Rabbit asked.

“I imagine.”

“Then it’s only a question of time until he figures out where I am.”

“Yes.”

“I know he tried to help me on the sentencing, but five years is still a long time. I don’t think I’ll make it, Lyon.”

“You’re still young. The prison is only an hour-and-a-half drive from here, which means Frieda can come up to see you.”

“I was only in jail for ten days after the gas station holdup. The black guys don’t bother you because they know what it’s like to be different. Most of the white guys don’t give a damn and only want to do their time without bothering anyone. But there’s a cage full of sadistic dumb white bastards up there who give little people a hard time.”

“That kind gives everyone a hard time,” Lyon said.

“I don’t take shit. I fight back and that makes it worse. I know that’s the case, but I have to fight them. It’s what they call a vicious circle.”

Lyon didn’t answer, because it was difficult to argue with what he knew to be the truth.

“I’m going to die there, Lyon. I’m not crying about it. I’m just stating a fact. I’m going to die because I can’t take what they will do to me. I will fight them and eventually they will kill me. I’m not going out to Munchkin Land bleeding to death in some prison shower or laundry room.”

“I can get Bea or Roger Candlin to have you assigned to the prison infirmary. That’s always safer.”

“Sure, and I get dwarf-tossed wearing whites. You know, I was standing in my yard at the little cottage the day you flew over the Pie in your balloon. What’s it feel like to float over the world like that?”

Lyon thought about it a moment. “Like a very large bird that can float on air currents for hours at a time and silently glide over the land.”

“Over everyone’s head. I think I’d like that. Get the balloon ready.”

“No.” Lyon heard the hammer of the single-action six-gun click as Rabbit thumbed it back. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

“I may have to. You would give me no choice.”

“Rabbit, no one, but no one, has ever escaped from anywhere in a hot-air balloon. Even in the relatively small Cloudhopper, you are attached to a huge vehicle. It is visible for at least ten or more miles on a day like this.”

“I said fill the balloon and show me what to do.”

“There isn’t much to do actually.”

“Then get started.”

Lyon trundled the Cloudhopper envelope and equipment from the barn in its three-wheel cart. He began to spread the flat balloon out on the grass. After a few moments of labor he noticed that Rabbit was working alongside him. They continued without speaking until it was time to start the compressor.

While Lyon held the propane burner across his waist and directed the flame inside the envelope, Rabbit had stuck the large six-gun into his belt. The barrel’s length was awkward and undoubtedly uncomfortable because of the small man’s stature.

“Was your Dad a big person?” Lyon asked. “He was the one who killed the Piper at Fort Dix during the Korean War, wasn’t he?”

“He was and he wasn’t,” Rabbit responded. “I mean, he was not a big person and he did kill the young Lieutenant.”

Lyon was puzzled. “I don’t understand. Lieutenant Piper was killed in the company street after a training exercise. One of his own men must have done it.”

Rabbit laughed. “Pop was clever. Each barrack had a boiler housed in one end. Pop was one of the civilian employees who stoked and maintained them.” He held the far end of the balloon envelope off the ground so that it would fill easier. “I know you’re wondering how he did it. He snuck into the barrack while the men were showering, borrowed a weapon and stuffed the minié ball on top of a blank. He fired from the boiler room and snuck the rifle back to the rack. They never even interviewed him. The Provost people were certain it was one of the men in the platoon. A couple weeks later he managed to get himself fired from the job.”

“And the cannon at the cemetery that fired at Paula was a blank?”

Rabbit’s face clouded. “It wasn’t going to be in the beginning. At first I loaded it with a regular cannonball. And that bothered me so I considered canister shot that would take us all out … including me. That’s when I realized I couldn’t do either and decided it would have to be Peyton who got it. At the last moment I didn’t load any shot, just the charge. I couldn’t hurt Paula, for God’s sake.”

“The bodies were moved around the colonel’s tomb for ease of access?”

“That’s all. No big deal. They just never got sorted back in the right order.”

Lyon noticed that his companion had removed the pistol from his belt. It lay on the grass a few feet away.

The Cloudhopper began to bob from the ground and as a safety measure Lyon tethered it to the iron stake. There was a certain childish wonderment in Rabbit’s face as he looked up at the Cloudhopper whose top was now higher than the roof beam of the barn.

Lyon lunged across the grass, covering the Colt with his body. He snapped to his knees with the gun held in both hands and pointed at the little man. “I have it now, Mr. R.,” he said.

Rabbit looked at him with a bemused smile. “So. You have it. Mount it on your wall. Do what you will with it. Peyton doesn’t need it anymore.”

“I am making a citizen’s arrest.”

Rabbit paid him little attention. “I strap myself in the harness and then pull the lanyard when I want the gas to burn, right?”

“You’re not listening to me, Rabbit,” Lyon said. “You are my prisoner.”

The small smile faded. “And what in the hell do you think you are going to do about it? Blow my head off? Is that what you want? Go on. Fire, damn you, shoot!” He spread both arms and stood directly in front of Lyon with his head thrown back.

Both men laughed.

“You don’t believe I’ll shoot you?” Lyon asked.

“No, I don’t think you’re going to blow my head off.”

“And you don’t care if I do?”

“That’s correct.”

Lyon grabbed the Colt by its long barrel and bent back, bringing the muscles of his back into play. He sprang forward and threw the pistol as hard as he could over the edge of the promontory. Both men watched the weapon spin out over the river and then fall silently into the water.

“Didn’t make it across,” Rabbit said.

“That toss was a personal best for me,” Lyon said. “I’m not going to shoot you. Why should I? Rocco will figure things out in a few minutes and be over here to haul you in.”

“I figured that. I intend to steal your balloon and be gone.”

“It’s yours. You don’t have to steal it. Like I told you, it’s really not much of a getaway vehicle.”

“It’ll do. Show me how it works.”

Lyon adjusted the parachute harness for Rabbit’s torso. He explained the propane lanyard and the red-coded line for emergency venting if a quick descent was desired.

“Why don’t you take my car?” Lyon suggested.

“You’d get in trouble. I am a wanted and dangerous criminal.”

“Steal it, then.”

“I’m stealing your balloon.”

Lyon shrugged. “You won’t be hard to find.”

“Where am I going?”

Lyon snatched a handful of grass from the lawn and tossed it in the air. It blew due east at a moderate rate. “You’ll drift out over the Sound. If you had enough fuel you might even reach Long Island.”

“But I don’t?”

“No,” Lyon answered. “Estimating wind and drift, I’d say you have enough fuel for about halfway. The Coast Guard will pick you up if you’re lucky.”

Rabbit began to strap himself into the harness of the Cloudhopper. He smiled at Lyon. “Thanks, old buddy.” He waved as he jerked the tethering line loose from the stake and gave the burner a long burst of flame. The balloon bobbed a moment and then shot into the air, jerking Rabbit off his feet as he was snatched aloft.

“We are giants among men!” Rabbit yelled down.

Lyon heard the car in the driveway behind him. The screech of brakes at the end of the road and the slamming door announced the arrival of Rocco Herbert.

“Persistent little bugger, isn’t he?” Rocco said as he stood next to Lyon and jacked a shell into the rifle’s chamber. “I can blow him out of the sky. Where does he think he’s going?”

“Judging by the wind, I’d say somewhere in the channel between Block Island and Montauk Point.”

Rocco lowered the rifle. “Oh.”

“Don’t you want to scramble the U.S. Air Force and shoot him down or something?”

“I think not.” Rocco lay the rifle gently on the grass between their feet and continued staring up at the balloon as it drifted along the waterway above the Connecticut River. “Does he have a chance to make it?”

“If he doesn’t snag those power lines below the Seven Sisters he’ll make the Sound.”

“No further?”

Lyon didn’t answer. They both knew where Rabbit would land. “He said he was a giant among men.”

Both men watched the balloon drift away and perhaps they heard the surprisingly deep voice of the small man as he screamed in exaltation.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Lyon and Bea Wentworth Mysteries

ONE

‘Spook did this!’

There was a slight quiver in the young patrolman’s voice as he stooped to look more closely at the naked corpse. The flesh around his cheek bones tightened. His fists clenched and unclenched as he turned toward his superior who paced a dozen yards away. His first words had been inaudible due to a stiff breeze blowing from the river in eddies that swept through the high stand of pines lining the promontory.

‘Spook killed her!’ he repeated in a louder voice.

Police Chief Rocco Herbert acknowledged the statement with a nod. He continued to pace a slow parabolic path that traced an orbit a dozen yards from the body. He carried his large bulk on a massive frame with surprising lightness. He walked with a supple grace that belied his six-and-a-half-feet height, which was matched by a body weight that was closer to three than two hundred pounds.

Patrolman Jamie Martin stood rigidly erect. He exhaled with a snorting vent of air. Although he had been on the Murphysville, Connecticut police force for several years, Jamie presented a naivety and innocence. Town residents still referred to him as ‘that nice young policeman.’

‘Spook ripped her clothes off, raped her, and then killed her.’ He delivered the assessment in a near shout that bounced off the large glacial boulders that bounded the perimeter of the small wooded cove. ‘I don’t know, maybe he raped her after he killed her,’ he said in a lower tone.

Rocco stopped at the foot of a black and white checkered blanket spread neatly on the ground on the far side of the clearing. A carefully folded pile of clothing—panties, bra, simple white blouse and jeans—was placed to the side. ‘Think not, Jamie.’

The police chief had purposely not advanced further toward the body. He had recognized the young woman from a dozen feet away. He had faced her at least once a week for the past six months as she worked the express checkout counter at the town’s only supermarket. He knew her as an attractive, flirtatious young woman, with a ripe voluptuousness and zest. Her darting eyes at men of any age were the merriment of a girl passing over the cusp of youth into womanhood. The flirting gestures did not promise future commitments as much as they expressed feminine vitality. The live girl of the express check-out line had somehow come to represent all young women of that age. He had casually enjoyed her youthful energy, which was now dissipated by the obscene position that signified a violent death.

The nude girl sprawled in the clearing was nearly the same age and build as his own daughter, who was a rising sophomore at a small liberal arts college in upper New York State. It was this similarity that kept him from an immediate examination of her body. ‘Why do you think it’s Spook?’ he asked tiredly.

Jamie Martin reached toward the corpse’s outstretched hand and prized the fingers apart. He removed a small piece of cloth containing yellow and black markings. He waved it overhead like a miniature flag. ‘Here’s the evidence that proves it!’ he crowed.

‘Oh, my God,’ Rocco muttered as he turned away. This violation of the rules of evidence made him want to bang his head against the nearest rock in complete frustration. ‘Jamie,’ he finally managed to say after a pause that was long enough for him to regain control. ‘During your training at the Police Academy, did they not casually mention, in passing, something about the proper method to establish a proper chain of evidence? Did they not touch on the rules of gathering said evidence?’

The young patrolman looked sheepishly at the patch of yellow and black clutched in his fist. ‘It’s a First Cav army shoulder patch, Chief. Look.’ As if in propitiation, he thrust the patch reverently toward Rocco. ‘Everyone knows how Spook is about the First Cav. He hands these things out to anyone who will take one. It was clutched in her fingers.’

As he knew he would eventually be forced to do, Rocco approached the body. He walked gingerly as if the ground beneath him were brittle enough to shatter and hurl him into a deep abyss. He avoided her as long as he could while he looked toward the distant Connecticut River below the cliff. He took the patch from Jamie and glanced at it long enough to establish that it was a First Cavalry Division shoulder patch. He gently placed the cloth in the dead girl’s outstretched hand and folded her fingers shut.

‘You never touched her, understand, Jamie?’

‘Yes, sir. I never got close to her.’ He backed halfway across the clearing. ‘She died hard, Chief.’

Rocco ignored his subordinate. ‘Go back to the car and radio Communications to send an assistant medical examiner out here. And for Christ’s sake, tell them not to send laughing Lars this time.’ Jamie gave a half salute. ‘Bring an evidence bag and tweezers from my car,’ Rocco yelled after him. ‘I want the ME to take the patch from her fingers. Go!’ Rocco turned his attention back to the sprawled cadaver as Jamie jogged toward the logging road.

Her painful progress across the clearing was obvious. A trail of blood flecks and disturbed leaves led from the blanket to the far edge of the clearing. She seemed to have fallen midway across and crawled the last few yards with the last shreds of her strength. Her direction seemed to be toward the cliff path that led down to the river.

He forced himself to kneel for a closer examination. She lay on her side while the hand clutching the patch stretched beyond her head. An apron of blood below her waist covered the belly and pelvic area. The injury seemed to indicate a low wound near or through the umbilicus that possibly severed the lower abdominal aorta. The autopsy would confirm that and indicate any sexual activity as well as the exact cause of death.

There was no question that the patch Jamie had taken from her fingers was a First Cavalry Division shoulder insignia. Every resident of Murphysville knew that Spook was obsessed with the First Cav, which was his old Viet Nam unit. The traumatized veteran had forced the patch on countless adults and numerous children. Its appearance clutched in the dead girl’s fingers could be very significant or perfectly innocent.

He took a last look at the young woman’s face before he stood and turned away from the body. Her after-image haunted him. The final freeze of expression had multiple meanings: a look of astonishment at the ferocity of her attack, utter disbelief in her mortal wound, and a look of despair that only the young can create when their past visions of immortality are shattered.

He walked the perimeter of the clearing. This small cove was only one of many scattered through the thousand acres of state forest that ran in a narrow band along the promontory above the river. It was an undeveloped park area traversed by a few old logging and maintenance roads. There were no formal recreational facilities for camping or hiking. Rocco knew that the area was used by only the most ardent naturalists, illegal hunters, and lovers. The neat pile of clothing near the spread blanket indicated the latter possibility for the dead girl.

If there had been a sexual attack there might be signs of a struggle or perhaps other evidence. He mentally divided the small clearing into grid squares and began a methodical inspection. He found tiny blood spatters on a six-foot-high boulder that squatted near the blanket. These markings were consistent with the trail that led across the cove to the place where she had finally expired.

He imagined her reeling back against the boulder after the wound. The blood on her hands indicated that she had probably clutched her belly while she stumbled across the clearing until she fell. Unable to stand, she began a painful crawl on hands and knees in a desperate attempt to escape.

A deep cackle from the nearby logging road shattered the glen’s quiet. Rocco cringed. His request had been ignored. That laughter signaled that Happy Hansen was the assistant medical examiner assigned to the case.

The doctor stepped into the clearing and thumped Rocco on the back with sufficient force to stagger the large man. ‘What say, little guy?’ Hansen chortled.

‘I’m saying,’ Rocco said over the medical examiner’s shoulder, ‘that Jamie Martin had best check out that old car parked on the shoulder since it may belong to the victim.’

‘Now that makes sense,’ Hansen said with his usual chuckle. He looked at the distant body. ‘I pronounce the victim female, young, and unclothed.’

Rocco frowned. ‘Lars, didn’t medical school, the state health commissioner, or anyone else ever teach you to show a modicum of respect for the dead?’

The medical examiner turned abruptly serious as he sauntered toward the body. ‘The school of tragedy taught me that if you are to survive in my business you have to laugh. Men like you, who work and live in pleasant little towns, don’t face this type of thing two or three times a day. You guys have coffee with friends at a neighborhood breakfast table, run a school crossing at noon, check out the library for loitering problems, stake out a stop sign, and handle a drunk in the late afternoon. My patients are always dead and have departed in more ways than you can possibly imagine.’ He knelt next to the body. ‘Yep. This one is dead like the others.’ He tried to restrain his laughter, but his shoulders convulsed and squirts of merriment bubbled through.

Rocco refused to become involved in this doctor’s aberration. ‘Can you give me a hint as to how she might have died?’

‘Usually the heart stops. In fact, the heart always stops.’

‘Damn it all, Happy! You know what I mean.’

‘Spook did it,’ Jamie Martin announced from the edge of the clearing. ‘She’s got a First Cav patch clutched in her hand.’

Rocco cast his subordinate a withering glance.

Lars Hansen glanced at Rocco with a shrug. ‘Let us preserve the evidence,’ he said to himself as he reached toward them. Rocco slapped an acetate evidence bag and tweezers into the ME’s fingers. Hansen carefully removed the patch from the fingers. ‘First Cav all right,’ he said. ‘Jamie, do you really think that Spook is ever sober long enough to hold a small-caliber weapon steady enough to make a low wound like this?’

‘Thirty-two?’ Rocco asked.

‘I should think so. Small entrance wound in the lower belly. Ballistics will tell for sure.’

‘Entrance wound through the umbilicus,’ Rocco said. ‘With that much bleeding it must have severed the lower aorta.’

‘Need about a ten-degree upward trajectory to do that,’ Lars added. ‘I’ll tell you for sure when I get her on the table.’

As a line of vehicles began to gather along the dirt logging road, groups of men and women began to filter into the clearing. Two paramedics pushed a gurney toward the body and stood to the side waiting for the ME to finish. Lab techs from the state forensic lab were accompanied by a photographer and a detective from the state police barracks. They talked of mundane things in subdued voices.

‘Time of death?’ Rocco asked.

‘A quick estimate based on lividity is three to five hours ago,’ Lars said. ‘Who found her?’

‘The minister of Saint James Church came across the body.’

‘Canon MacIntire?’

‘The good reverend was out here watching for eagles.’

‘See any?’

‘Jesus, Lars, I’m not into eagles today. I have enough other problems. I know this girl and she’s all of maybe eighteen.’

Happy inserted a thermometer into the corpse. ‘What’s her name?’ He read the thermometer. ‘Based on temp, I change the estimate to three to four hours.’

A mental image of the girl’s supermarket name badge flashed before Rocco. ‘Boots,’ he said as he searched for her last name. ‘Boots Anderson, I think.’

‘That must be Lister Anderson’s kid,’ Lars said. ‘He’s a mechanic down at the Chevy agency.’

‘That old Impala in the road is registered to a Bonnarah Anderson,’ Jamie Martin said.

Rocco nodded. ‘I’ll have the lab boys impound it and do their thing. It’s time to interview the neighbors,’ he commanded.

‘Hell, Chief,’ Martin said. ‘No one lives around here. The river is down there.’ He made a sweeping gesture along the promontory. ‘The state forest runs along this ridge for nearly a mile. We’re in like the boonies.’

‘See if Lyon Wentworth saw or heard anything. He lives up the road in the other direction at Nutmeg Hill.’

Lars Hansen laughed as he looked up from his examination of the body. ‘Wentworth hear anything? He probably heard a lot. Like maybe voices crying in the wilderness.’

‘How about space aliens?’ Jamie Martin added.

‘There’s a real space cadet for you,’ Happy Hansen said as the two men laughed in unison.

Rocco frowned until the patrolman’s laugh gurgled to a stop. ‘See Wentworth now,’ he commanded. ‘Do I have to say more?’

‘No, sir.’

Lyon Wentworth couldn’t work. He glared at the computer monitor with dislike. Its blank blue face stared back like an indifferent Cyclops. The words necessary to give life to his Wobbly monsters and place them in a coherent story were unavailable. The elusive words had fled to some unknown region where they hid and defied location. He couldn’t resurrect the missing sentences, much less type them into the machine on the desk.

His newest children’s book, The Wood Wobblies, pitted his red-eyed, long-tailed, but benign monsters against ecologically evil paper companies who were clear-cutting a New England forest. The Wobblies’ intention was to haunt the woods until the paper company reformed. Today there was little haunting and absolutely no reform.

He clicked to the software icons and placed the cursor on an entertainment program. When the game menu appeared he immediately entered ‘Rodent’s Revenge’. He knew it was avoiding work, and he felt vaguely ashamed, but was soon immersed in the shifting computer images of mice chasing cats through a complicated maze.

The door chimed.

Lyon catapulted from his chair with gratitude for the interruption. Nutmeg Hill’s isolation discouraged casual visitors. The usual caller was either a Federal Express delivery man or a stranded motorist who wanted to call a motor club.

Several years ago, only short months after the death of their young daughter, Lyon and Bea had literally stumbled across Nutmeg Hill. To deal with their grief they had forced themselves into the habit of taking long walks. They pushed these lengthy hikes until they were physically tired to the point of exhaustion. Only sleep allowed partial relief from their bitter memories.

One Sunday morning they had followed the ridge line from the state forest. They found an abandoned house with boarded windows that was nearly covered with undergrowth. It had been vacant for a generation. Its solid New England construction, built by shipwrights for a whaling sea captain, had allowed the building to survive its abandonment.

They bought the house from the estate of the sea captain’s last surviving relative. The aged shell of a house, with fifty-nine acres, abutted the state forest. Nutmeg Hill’s reconstruction took several years of hard manual labor. The daunting refurbishment occupied them to such an extent that they were able to survive their grief.

Their home was located on a high saucer-shaped promontory above the Connecticut River. Anyone who approached the reconstructed building on the long driveway leading up from the secondary highway first saw the widow’s walk, which stretched the length of the gambrel roof, and then the solid square lines of the house.

Lyon opened the front door to find Jamie Martin slouched against the wall. The youthful-looking patrolman straightened when he saw Lyon. ‘I didn’t hear you drive up,’ Lyon said.

‘I came through the woods from the state land,’ Martin said as he smiled at the tall man in the doorway.

Lyon Wentworth was a slender six feet. He had a shock of brown-greying hair that protruded over his forehead. He often brushed the forelock back with an unconscious gesture. He had an infectious smile, which often transmitted a fey quality. His usual dress was boat shoes without socks, khaki work pants and a loose sport shirt. His ensemble was not necessarily color-coordinated.

‘We got a shooting in the woods. The chief wants to know if you heard or saw anything about three hours ago,’ Jamie continued.

‘I thought I heard a pistol shot about then,’ Lyon answered. ‘That’s not unusual around here. People are always going to the state forest to plink or try out a weapon.’ Jamie made meticulous notes with large letters in a small pad. ‘Who was injured?’

‘Injured, hell! She’s deader’n a baited squirrel. Young kid who works down at the supermarket, name of Boots Anderson.’

Lyon felt that small jolt people experience when they meet the unexpected. ‘I know her. She graduated from Murphysville High School last year. I gave a talk on children’s literature to her English class last May.’

‘She learned more than English this year. Word at Sarge’s bar is that Boots was getting her bones jumped by Eddy Rashish.’

‘Eddy of Rashish Motors? He’s old enough to be her father.’

‘Well, Eddy’s old lady sure ain’t Boots’ mother.’

‘Is Rocco interviewing Eddy?’

‘I don’t know if he knows that Eddy and Boots were playing house. Don’t matter none, Mr. Wentworth. Spook is the one who killed her.’

‘Spook hasn’t been sober since the Viet Nam war.’

‘I found a First Cav patch clutched in Boots’ hand. And you know how Spook is about the First Cav. You want to come over to the woods and talk to Chief Herbert?’

‘No way, Jamie. The last thing I need is to get involved in another murder investigation. Besides, from what you say, it would seem that Spook has finally crossed the line.’

‘I don’t know what line you mean. It sure ain’t no lunch line. He’s been out to lunch for years, but this time he’s grazing in never-never land. I’ll tell the chief about the shot. Did you see anything?’

‘No. Tell Rocco that I heard one round of small arms fire about three hours ago. That’s all I know.’

‘Gotcha. Is Senator Wentworth home? I got to interview her, too.’

‘The State Senate’s in session today. Bea’s in Hartford. My wife wasn’t home when I heard the shot.’

Jamie gave him a casual salute and turned to jog toward the faint path that led through the woods.

As Lyon looked after the retreating police officer, last spring’s high school English class materialized in Nutmeg Hill’s side yard.

Boots Anderson sat in the first row directly in front of Lyon’s podium. Her short skirt was barely within the allowable limits of the school dress code. Her exploratory seductive gaze was disconcerting. At the end of his presentation she had raised her hand with a slight squirming motion to the rest of her body.

‘Mr. Wentworth, about those Wobblies you write about, are they a boy and a girl or are they the same sex?’

‘Boy and a girl.’

‘Then do they … Well, what I mean is, do they …’

‘Make out?’ a male voice blurted from the seat behind Boots.

‘Make what?’ Lyon had automatically asked. He immediately regretted his naive response as laughter swept the room. He remembered Boots valiantly attempting to maintain her composure. Laughter built within her like strong pressure from an underground spring. When the giggles broke through she leaned her head back and was convulsed by a paroxysm of guffaws. That was his remembrance of the dead young woman.

The phone rang inside the house. Lyon took his time going to the kitchen phone. He hoped that the caller would get discouraged. He counted twelve rings and became certain that the caller would persist. The insistent caller won. He snicked the phone from its wall bracket. ‘I will not come over there to view the body of a dead girl,’ he said without preamble.

‘How did you know it was me?’ Rocco asked. ‘Don’t you have any other friends?’

‘I know how you operate,’ Lyon answered. ‘My other friends do not call when they know I am trying to work. I refuse to scour the woods for clues or get more upset over the death of a young woman who I knew.’

‘I’ve got to bring Spook in, Lyon. I don’t want to use a state police SWAT team to do it. I need your help.’

‘Spook didn’t kill her. I don’t care if you did find one of his souvenirs in her hand. He may be in orbit, but he’s not a killer anymore.’

‘Jamie Martin doesn’t keep police investigation secrets well, does he?’

‘A lot of men served in that army division.’

‘That may be, but Spook has to be brought in and I need your help. If I have to do it formally he could get hurt.’

‘Damn it, Rocco! I’ll go with you, but I don’t like it.’ He slammed the phone into its mounting to break the connection.

TWO

On Route 40, beyond the trailer park, Lyon turned into the narrow lane that led to Spook’s acre. He parked his red Saturn behind car one of the Murphysville Police Department. He waited while Rocco finished a cellular phone call. A heavy growth of brush marked the boundaries of the property. Through a narrow opening hacked through the overgrowth he could see the large tree that held Spook’s house.

Rocco finished his call and slouched over to the Saturn. He placed both hands on the roof by the driver’s window. ‘He’s home,’ he stated laconically.

‘Maybe you had better call your brother-in-law on the state police and ask him to send over that SWAT team he’s so proud of.’

‘Very funny. You know Spook would go ballistic if he spotted a bunch of guys wearing camouflage suits carrying automatic weapons.’

‘I suspect he would consider their intentions dishonorable.’

‘Exactly. So, it’s going to come down my way. Same as last time. I’m the company commander and you are the battalion surgeon.’

‘OK. We’re going to do another “he’s in trouble for not taking his malaria tablet again” scenario.’

‘You’ve got it,’ Rocco said.

‘He might remember that we used that only a couple of months ago to get him down to the VA hospital for his medication change.’

‘Hell, it worked then, it will work again.’

They pushed single file into the narrow path that cut through the overgrowth into the hedged perimeter containing the huge oak tree. The tree divided into two distinct sections twelve feet up the trunk. It was at this junction that Spook had constructed his tree house. Short lengths of two-by-fours nailed to the trunk provided a ladder access. A twelve-by-fourteen-foot room had been built using the tree’s wide crotch as a base, with support pillars provided by the divided trunk. Tar paper covered a slanted roof and the wooden sides.

Looking directly up toward the floor of the tree house revealed that it was primarily built from scavenged lumber of assorted sizes and types.

‘I would think living up there would be OK in the spring and summer,’ Lyon said. ‘But in winter the wind would swirl around the trunk and seep up through the wood flooring and freeze him out.’

‘He’s got carpet remnants covering the floor and a potbellied wood stove that makes him snug as a bug. You’ve never been inside, have you?’ Rocco said.

‘No. How does he perform his private functions?’ Lyon asked.

‘A bucket. He brings it down every morning and dumps it in a lime pit over in that corner.’ He pointed toward the newly turned earth of a slit trench. ‘I make sure he sets it up properly. Periodically I make him fill in the trench and dig a new one. Put in a sprinkling of lime and it’s decent field sanitation.’

‘Let’s get it over with. I hate lying to the man,’ Lyon said.

‘In the long run it’s the most painless way to bring him in for questioning.’ Rocco stepped to the base of the tree and cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Spook!’ he called. ‘Corporal Williams! This is Captain Herbert. You up there, soldier?’

‘I hear you, Captain,’ was the muffled reply. A trapdoor above the makeshift ladder opened. A face peered down at them. ‘What’s up, Cap?’ a quavery voice asked.

‘You got an Article Fifteen, Spook,’ Rocco said.

‘Hey, man. I done nothing.’

‘You got punishment, Corporal. Doc here says you didn’t take your malaria tablet today. You know that’s an Article Fifteen under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. I won’t lean on you hard, maybe a little extra guard duty.’

‘I hate their damn taste, Cap.’

‘Corporal, get your ass down here. And I mean now!’

‘Yes, sir.’ The trapdoor slowly opened to reveal a tall cadaverous man of indeterminate age whose long locks of hair fell over his shoulders. He wore holed sneakers and faded army fatigues. He cautiously climbed down the makeshift ladder leading from the tree house. When he reached the base of the tree he straightened into a caricature of attention and attempted to give Rocco a smart salute.

‘I just forgot to take the pill, Doc,’ Spook said to Lyon.

‘You have to come to headquarters with me, Corporal,’ Rocco said.

‘Yes, sir. Whatever the captain says.’ Spook turned to hand Lyon a wadded First Cavalry Division patch with its distinctive dark horse head silhouette set against a vivid yellow background. ‘You need to sew this on your uniform, Doc. Pill pusher or not, we’re all First Cav here.’

The Murphysville Department of Police Services consisted of twelve sworn officers and three communications operators, who also doubled as department clerks. Their new location was a block down from the town green, across from the volunteer fire department. The building was occasionally mistaken for a reform temple due to its stained-glass window whose abstract design vaguely resembled a burning bush.

Except for the fact that it was twice as large, Rocco Herbert’s new office was similar to the one he occupied when they shared space with the town library. Although the construction budget allowed for new furnishings, Rocco insisted on retaining his old. The room contained the same massive wooden desk and worn leather couch. The ancient Mr. Coffee machine still squatted on the marred credenza.

Lyon sat on a wooden side chair next to Rocco’s desk. Spook slowly lowered himself on to the leather couch. He used both hands to clasp his knees.

‘I know you got a little taste there, Captain,’ Spook said.

‘You know we can’t drink on duty, Corporal,’ Rocco replied.

‘Come on, man. Just a little goddamn taste. And I ain’t no corporal anymore. Fact is, I think I’m out of the service now.’

Rocco arched his eyebrow at Lyon before he reached into his bottom desk drawer to pull out a pint of Smirnoff vodka. He poured three ounces into a jelly glass and carried it to Spook.

The former corporal grasped the glass with both hands and steadied their tremors by pressing his elbows against his thighs. He slowly bent toward the glass and drank greedily. ‘Oh, boy, that tastes good.’

‘Do you know Boots Anderson?’ Rocco asked mildly.

Spook shrugged and chugged down the remains of the vodka. ‘Yeah, I know her. She works down at the supermarket.’

‘How well do you know her, Spook?’

Shutters clamped shut behind the veteran’s rheumy eyes. ‘I know what you’re after, Captain.’

‘Glad you do,’ Rocco answered in a non-judgemental tone.

‘I’m not saying another word.’

‘I think you should seriously reconsider that position, Williams,’ Rocco said. ‘Things are coming down heavy.’

‘My lips are sealed. I know that the manager at the market sicced you on me. But you get nothing from me. Not a word.’

‘The manager?’ For the first time Rocco sounded puzzled. He wondered if Larry Bell, the market manager, was involved. Were she and Boots an item?

‘You can bring in Viet Cong torturers and you won’t get anything from me. I owe her.’

‘Boots went out to the state forest today with either Eddy Rashish or Larry, right?’ No answer. ‘You saw them on the blanket without clothes on,’ Rocco continued. ‘The guy left and Boots decided to sunbathe without clothes …’

‘Huh? What are you talking about, Captain?’

‘Don’t fade out on me now, Spook,’ Rocco snapped. ‘You’re here. You’re in Murphysville. Earlier today you were in the state forest watching a lovely young woman parade around naked. It turned you on.’

‘You better stay away from the booze for awhile, Captain,’ Spook said. ‘You’re talking crazy.’

‘You couldn’t help yourself, Spook,’ Rocco continued. ‘I understand how it was. I don’t blame you. No one blames you. You just got carried away and had to shoot her.’

‘Shoot her!’ Spook stood on trembling legs. ‘She was an angel. I thought you got me here because the manager made you because of the check-out line stuff.’

‘What in the hell are you talking about?’ Rocco snapped impatiently.

‘Boots kinda ran her own food bank down there at the market. Toward the end of the month, when my disability check runs out, she lets me buy tuna fish and crackers cheap. If she knows you don’t have much money she keeps the cost down. She kinda slides stuff around the scanner, know what I mean? I don’t want to get her in no trouble. What you talking about, naked girls and can’t help myself? The manager sent you after me because of the tuna fish, right?’

‘Oh, Lord,’ Rocco groaned. ‘Where were you today, Spook?’

‘Hell, Captain. It’s the end of the month and I don’t have no money left. If I had a few bucks I’da been down at Sarge’s place tossing down a few.’

‘You’ve been in your tree house all day?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did you kill Boots, Spook?’

‘I don’t kill no one anymore, Captain. You know that.’

‘What did you do with the gun?’ Rocco pressed.

‘I don’t have no side arms since I turned in my army forty-five when I was shipped home from Nam. You know that, Cap.’

Rocco sighed. ‘We’re going to have to check out your tree house. Is that OK with you?’

Spook held out his tumbler for more vodka. ‘Hell, yes. That’s OK with me, Cap. That’s your job, right?’

Sarge’s Bar and Grill was a neighborhood bar that occupied the ground floor of a clapboard house. It was set back from a secondary highway by a small parking lot. Sarge Renfroe, the retired army master-sergeant owner, had living quarters on the second floor. The bar room had wide plank flooring, a massive wooden bar with a brass footrail and faded red stools. A half-dozen booths lined the walls of the remainder of the space. Large jars of pickled eggs bracketed each end of the worn bar, while the wall decor consisted of several beer company posters. Sarge Renfroe occasionally swiped the worn wood with a dubious-looking bar rag and cooked fat hamburgers on the grill.

At noon a dozen men lined the bar for hamburgers washed down with draft beer. Jamie Martin, his police uniform replaced by chino pants and a checkered sports shirt, drank a beer with a side shot of bar whiskey. He’d just finished his midnight-to-eight with three extra hours of overtime due to the girl’s murder in the state forest. Now it was catchup time.

‘The chief says no way did Spook blow her away,’ Jamie announced authoritatively to his section of the bar.

‘Spook’s not only out to lunch, he never made breakfast,’ Sarge mumbled as he flipped another burger on the grill. ‘He’s crazy enough to think that Boots was Viet Cong.’

‘Well, maybe Chief Herbert just better look into who was jumping the kid’s bones,’ Jamie said.

‘Yeah, does Rocco know about Eddy?’ Sarge asked as he slapped a burger into a roll and slipped it on a paper plate next to a large pickle and a handful of potato chips.

‘I told him,’ Jamie said as he pushed his shot glass forward for a refill. ‘I figure that Eddy might have put a bun in Boots’ oven and now wanted to turn off the pilot light.’

Sarge nodded and poured Jamie’s shot. He waved away payment. ‘That makes sense.’

‘What are you talking about?’ A large meaty hand grasped Jamie’s shoulder and spun the police officer around on his stool. He faced an overweight, ruddy-faced man with wisps of dull red hair.

‘Uh oh,’ Sarge mumbled as he reached under the bar for his baseball bat. ‘I didn’t see you come in, but you keep it calm now, Mr. Anderson. We want no trouble in here and Jamie is the law.’

Anderson ignored the bar owner. ‘You talking about my kid, Boots? That who you talking about, brother?’

‘Jesus Christ, Mr. Anderson, didn’t they tell you yet?’ Jamie said.

‘Do not take the name of the Lord in vain. Tell me what?’

‘About what happened to Boots.’

‘You been saying in here that my daughter was breaking a commandment with Eddy. You mean Eddy Rashish of Rashish Motors?’

‘Well, yes, sir. But there’s something you should know.’

‘I don’t need to know nothing more, Jamie. Eddy has sinned once too often and the wrath of God shall punish him. I am His messenger and I shall call upon the avenging angels.’

‘Sir, please listen to me. About your daughter …’

‘I don’t want to hear anything more about Boots. I’ll deal with her tonight. Right now I’m going out to that cheap excuse of a used-car lot that Eddy runs to have a talk with the sinner.’

The large man started for the door. Jamie Martin pushed off the bar stool and hurried after him. He put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘Please, Mr. Anderson …’

Anderson pushed Jamie back against the wall next to the door. ‘Listen to me, brother. I don’t care if you are a cop. Eddy’s going to get his. He’s fooled around for the last time.’

‘About your daughter, she’s …’

‘She’s what?’

‘She’s dead, Mr. Anderson.’

Lister Anderson was a man who thought with his hands. His sensitive fingers could run across an engine block and sense the miscue of bad timing or a maladjusted carburetor. This ability did not translate into verbal understanding. At times, when his auditory senses became overloaded, he suffered from a type of auditory dyslexia. It took a certain amount of time for him to assimilate conversationally imparted information and sort out the meaning of the words and phrases. He clearly heard what Jamie Martin had just said. The words did not directly register, but created immediate images of road kill—pictures of small animals flung to the side of the road by speeding vehicles that snuffed life from their furry bodies. He could not immediately transpose these images and those words into the acceptance of his daughter’s death.

‘I didn’t hear what you said,’ Lister Anderson said to Jamie Martin, although he had heard every word quite clearly.

‘Your daughter is dead, sir. She was found in the state forest by a bird watcher. We think she had been shot. The medical examiner has the body and they will probably want you for a formal identification.’

‘And Eddy Rashish did this?’

‘We don’t know for sure. I didn’t mean to say …’

Lister Anderson knew there was no need to talk further. Words were unimportant. There were actions his hands could take. Here was a physical course of action. He broke away from the light grip that Jamie Martin had on his shoulder and marched through the door of Sarge’s bar out to his waiting pickup truck.

‘I’ve never tossed a tree house before,’ Rocco said. They had just climbed the wooden rungs and entered through the trapdoor. Although the exterior construction was of different materials scavenged from a dozen sites, the interior was neatly papered with Sunday newspaper funnies. The taut blanket that covered an army cot was made with neat hospital corners. Two footlockers on each side of a card table provided storage and seating. A single electric line, run from some illegal connection, provided power for a single hanging bulb, a small television, and a hotplate. Three orange crates along the far wall provided space for food storage and a place for a few dishes and other utensils. The potbellied stove and discreet toilet bucket completed the furnishing. The room was spartan, neat, and well kept. It was the room of a cadet or professional soldier.

Lyon ran his hand along the cot blanket. It was tight enough to bounce a coin. ‘This is a waste of time, Rocco. Spook didn’t kill the girl. Boots may have given him a break on the price of tuna fish, but no way would she go into the state forest alone with him.’

‘Probably no girl in town would want to be alone with Spook, even if he is harmless. That’s not the way I see it happening. Spook just happened to be in the forest. Maybe he took a bottle out there, or thought he was on a search-and-destroy mission, I don’t know. He doesn’t just march to a different drummer, he carries a whole marching band in his head. Anyway, he sees Boots and her boyfriend making love. The guy leaves and Spook watches Boots parading around au naturel. He’s turned on. He goes into the clearing. He gives her a First Cav patch as a gift and then when he touches her she screams. He goes berserk. He kills her.’

‘Where did the gun come from?’

‘He’s had it a long time. We may find it here.’

‘If Spook had a handgun he would have sold it long ago for whiskey money.’

‘Maybe yes, maybe it’s here. The place has to be tossed. I’d be derelict if I didn’t.’ Rocco began a meticulous search of the small room.

Lyon opened the first footlocker and lifted out an open shoebox stuffed with dozens of First Cav patches. ‘There’s over a hundred patches here. He must order them by the gross.’

‘If we find a handgun there’s no way the poor bastard will ever get out of jail,’ Rocco said as he continued his search.

Lyon watched the police officer’s efficient movements and began to help. In twenty minutes they had thoroughly gone through the small room containing the man’s meager belongings. Lyon climbed to the roof and carefully examined the top of the structure for possible hiding places.

‘Come look at this,’ Rocco said as Lyon climbed down from the roof. Mounted on the wall above the cot was a metal crossbow with a sheaf containing half a dozen bolts.

‘Could that have fired a missile that caused the girl’s wound?’ Lyon asked.

‘I don’t think so, but this thing has an interesting background. Did you know that in Nam, Spook was known as the Bowman? On clandestine missions he took out sentries and guards with a weapon like this. These things are easy to operate, silent, accurate, and powerful.’

Lyon hefted the weapon in his hand. ‘It’s called a Cranequin. It uses a rack and pinion system for spanning.’

‘How in the hell did you know that?’ Rocco laughed.

Lyon shrugged. ‘Read it somewhere. This method of spanning is five hundred years old.’

‘What’s spanning?’

‘Drawing the string back,’ Lyon said.

Rocco took the bow and remounted it on the wall. ‘Be that as it will. Nothing like this shot Boots Anderson.’

Now that their search was complete, the stark bareness of the small room was disquieting. It seemed to be a place without corners, maintained so demons would find little to hide behind. Lyon wondered what the emotionally wounded Spook had encountered during his two tours of combat that had rocked his personality to its most primitive roots.

‘Chief, you up there?’ the voice of patrolman Jamie Martin called from the base of the tree.

Rocco stuck his head out the trap door. ‘What’s up, Jamie? I thought you were off duty.’

‘I am, sir. I went over to Sarge’s place for a beer and a hamburger.’ He omitted the three shots of whiskey he’d gulped to accompany the beer. ‘We got a problem, Chief.’

‘We often have a problem at Sarge’s,’ Rocco answered. ‘What’s Renfroe up to this time, besides sampling his own products too early in the day?’

Jamie shifted from one foot to another for a moment before blurting out, ‘I told the girl’s father about her killing.’

‘Oh, Jesus H. Christ,’ Rocco mumbled under his breath. He forced himself to think positively. ‘Well, thanks for taking on that unpleasant task, Jamie. It shows a growing maturity on your part. Having to break the news to the relatives of the recently deceased is not an easy job. I was going to speak with the Anderson family as soon as I was finished up here. Now, since you have taken care of that little task, I won’t have to.’

‘It’s not exactly like you think, Chief. Lister sort of overheard me talking about Boots and Eddy Rashish. When he learned she was dead, he looked real pissed and scratched off in his pickup.’

‘Oh, God!’ Rocco climbed down the makeshift ladder quickly followed by Lyon. ‘Lister will blow Eddy away if we don’t get there first.’

Eddy’s Motors was located north of Murphysville just before the highway reached the bridge across the Connecticut River. The sales lot contained two dozen vehicles of mixed breed and age that were parked nose-out on an open dirt field. The office was in a red striped trailer at the center rear of the property. Multicolored triangular flags were hung from a wire stretched across the front of the lot. They flapped lazily in the breeze above windshields whose white messages announced: A CREAM PUFF, GUARANTEED CREDIT, PAY WEEKLY or PRICE SLASHED.

Eddy had a live one. The customer hovered over a red pickup. Eddy hovered over the customer. ‘You pay here weekly,’ Eddy said casually. ‘Seventy-five little ones gets you this little buggy,’ he said more exuberantly. ‘You bring in the payment every Friday afternoon. That’s when you get paid at the factory, right?’

‘We get paid on Thursday,’ the customer said as he kicked a tire.

Eddy smiled and clapped the man’s shoulder. ‘Hell, I’m easy to work with. Bring in the payment Thursday or Friday. I don’t care. Every week and no sweat. That way there’s no big payment to pony up each month. And, I don’t give a squiggly damn about your past credit.’

‘What if I miss a week?’

Eddy smiled. It was a grin that would have frightened dragons, but his ‘live one’ was too intent on trying the stereo of the red pickup to notice the skewered grimace. ‘Hell, we can always work something out if you’re up front with me.’ Bull diddle, he thought to himself. You jump a payment and you miss the truck cuz I hold the title until you’re paid off. That means I can drive her away anytime I want.

‘Well, I don’t know.’

‘She’s a beauty, and you can use her for hunting and fishing. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to throw in a cap for the truck bed. With a cap on the back you can put an air mattress in there. Dunk in a beer cooler and you got a hunting and fishing camper.’

‘That would be nice.’ The customer had already begun to dream of swigging apricot brandy around a campfire peopled with visions of plump fish and swift deer. ‘How much a week again?’

‘Only seventy-five.’

‘For how long?’

‘Two years.’

‘That comes to—’

‘A little more than the sticker price cuz I’m financing you like a bank would. Your bank would charge you a heavy percentage, wouldn’t they?’

‘Sure,’ the customer replied, even though he didn’t have a bank account or credit with any lending institution.

‘Want a test spin?’ Eddy counted on the customer’s ignorance of percentages to hide the true cost of the vehicle. The pay-weekly amount for two years nearly doubled the cost of the truck.

Lister Anderson drove his pickup over the curb and across the lot until he slammed into the side of the office trailer. He jumped from the cab after grabbing a .12 gauge from the gun rack mounted across the rear window. He peered around the lot until he saw Eddy with his customer. As he walked toward them, Lister broke the .12 gauge open to see that shells were seated in both chambers. He snapped it shut and thumbed back the triggers.

‘Oh, shit,’ Eddy said as he saw the man with the wispy red hair stalking across the lot. ‘You just look this baby over some more,’ he said to his customer. He smiled and began to walk toward Anderson. ‘Hey, how you doing, Lister?’

‘You laid with my daughter.’

‘Now wait a minute, Lister. Everything can be explained.’

‘Sinner!’ Lister Anderson said as he raised the shotgun and fired both barrels directly into Eddy’s abdomen.

The two shots, fired nearly simultaneously, hit Eddy Rashish directly in the midsection and lifted him bodily off his feet and flung him back against a ’92 Chevy utility wagon.

THREE

The Millrace Inn was built on the bluff of the third of the Seven Sister hills. It was located almost directly across the river from Nutmeg Hill. Its high perch overlooking the valley demanded broad expanses of window. The recent return to the area of a few eagles provided further amusement for the inn’s customers. These large birds, in their predatory circling over the river, often rode the air currents that swept past the inn. From time to time they would turn to watch the guests with the same curiosity they usually reserved for small scurrying prey.

Bea Wentworth stood in the entryway of the inn’s Forge Room and waited to be seated. She glanced at her appointment book. It occurred to her that she must be aging. Recently she had formed the habit of making lists of her ‘things to do.’ There were three entries on her calendar for today’s luncheon date with Helena Rabnor of the State Life Committee. Her intern had made one entry, Bea another, and God only knows the author of the third. Inefficient redundancy, she thought.

This was an important meeting. The outspoken Helena was a heavy-set feisty woman who had manned the feminist barricades for two decades. She could be a close friend or a dedicated enemy. Since they agreed on most issues, Bea considered herself a part of the friendly contingent.

Bea was not a large woman although her compact figure was too full for her to be called petite. Her close-cropped hair often created a gamine-like appearance. This innocence was quickly dispelled by darting intelligent eyes and an intense manner that revealed itself when she was deeply concerned.

The inn’s owner, Mike Maresca, presented himself with a slight bow. ‘Senator Wentworth, we have your reservation. A window table?’

‘Please, Mike.’ She followed him to a table set for two with a fine view of the river. ‘I’m expecting Helena Rabnor, do you know her?’

The owner sighed. ‘But, yes. She had the inn picketed in eighty-nine because all the waiters were male.’

Bea gave him her best political smile. ‘Well, try and not poison her today, please.’

Maresca pulled out her chair. ‘I have selected a special wine for you. A 1992 Au Bon Climat, a Californian Chardonnay.’

‘Not hemlock?’

Maresca held both palms up in supplication. ‘A promise.’

‘I place myself in your trusted hands,’ Bea said with another smile at the departing owner. She looked out over the river. It was a magnificent technicolor day.

A vague sense of malaise suddenly seeped over her and she wondered at its origin until its genesis jolted her. This day, like so many others at this time of year, reminded her of one years ago when their daughter had died. It had been Sandra’s birthday. They had given her a two-wheeler bike and she had squealed in delight.

‘I don’t need training wheels. I can do it! I’ve been practicing at Mandy’s. Watch me!’

She began her wobbly ride on the sidewalk in front of their home on the Murphysville Green. Suddenly she had run over the curb into the street and lost her balance. Before Lyon could reach her she was struck by a car and killed.

Bea turned from the window in pain as Helena Rabnor appeared at the table.

‘How’s my favorite state senator?’ Helena said as she snatched a chair from the table and plunked into it.

‘A moment ago old ghosts were a-haunting, but they’re leaving.’ Bea forced a smile. The remembered horror of witnessing her daughter’s death now changed into concern over her ticking biological clock. She often felt that her internal timepiece was rapidly approaching its last tock. If she and Lyon were to have another child, they would have to begin in the relatively near future. She wasn’t sure if she had the strength to go through with it.

Bea forced her best political smile toward the woman sitting across the table as menus appeared and wine was poured.

‘We have problems at the capital, Wentworth,’ Helena said in her usual forceful manner. ‘I need a bill.’

Why does that not surprise me? Bea thought. Was it because Helena always needed legislation? ‘What do you have in mind?’ Bea responded casually as she scanned the menu for the fish of the day.

‘I want legal teeth!’ Helena demanded. ‘The clinic protestors must be stopped, or at least controlled. They are frightening some of our young women clients.’

What goes around comes around, Bea thought. Yesterday’s avid protesters want protection from today’s avid protesters. ‘Can you be more specific as to what you had in mind?’ she asked and inwardly sighed as Helena produced a thick sheaf of documents.

Bea was still making notes over coffee when the inn owner diffidently approached them. He whispered in her ear. ‘Senator, we seem to have a problem of the utmost delicacy. Could I speak with you privately in my office?’

‘Of course. I’ll be there in a few moments.’ Bea smiled at the owner and her tablemate. ‘Give me a few days on this,’ she said to Helena. ‘I’ll see what support I can gather in the senate.’

Helena pushed away from the table with the same vigor she exhibited in most activities. ‘Very good. You always give our needs your best shot, Beatrice. That’s why we support you.’ They shook hands firmly.

As Helena left for the parking lot, Bea knocked on the office door by the inn entrance. Maresca’s muffled ‘Come in’ sounded depressed. She found the inn owner slumped dejectedly in a deeply upholstered desk chair.

‘What is it, Mike? The Restaurant League want a bill banning all fast food introduced in the legislature?’

‘Don’t I wish!’ He turned to her, his face wrinkled with worry lines. ‘I believe you are good friends with the governor?’

‘Margaret and I have been friends for years. We go back to the days when we were both freshman representatives.’

‘Her husband, the congressman, is here.’

‘Bill Tallman? Oh, I didn’t see … OK, Mike. What’s the deal?’

‘As you know, the inn has a dozen rooms upstairs for our small bed and breakfast clientele. The congressman is presently occupying one and all is not well.’

‘Did you call 911?’

Maresca cleared his throat. ‘It is a matter of a little delicacy, since the congressman had a companion with him and is now dead.’

‘Which one is dead?’

‘The congressman has left us.’

‘Oh, ho.’ Bea slumped into a chair. ‘He is unclothed?’

‘But, yes. For amore that is the way.’

‘How complicated do we get? Is the companion a man or woman?’

‘A girl.’

‘Over eighteen?’

Maresca looked thoughtful. ‘I would say … Yes. Young, but a definite over eighteen. Let us put it this way, I would not card her in my bar. But I must say that she seems to be a young lady of dubious background.’

‘This is going to kill Margaret.’

‘The publicity will not be good for the inn. I have not built my reputation as an establishment known for matinee performances by older men with dubious younger women.’

Bea sighed. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’

Ashley Towers claimed to be an emergency pharmacist to her family and friends. In reality, she was the most requested woman working for the Middleburg Escort Service. While her formal education had ended after an incomplete first year at Middleburg Community College, she claimed to be operating as an emergency pharmacist under a temporary certification.

She explained to everyone that she was on constant call for a chain of twenty-four-hour drug stores. It was her assignment to temporarily replace sick and absent pharmacists. In reality, her extensive call-outs were due to an erotic education gained during extra-curricular activities experienced that single year in college. She had been considered an outstanding date for a quick and satisfying evening.

After two failed marriages to real losers, Ashley had answered a newspaper ad for attractive hostesses. It was her assumption that by working for the Middleburg Escort Service she would be taken to dinner by out-of-town salesmen. She might or might not have a romantic interlude. She quickly learned that there was very little eating done in the escort business, but a great many romantic interludes in a variety of motel rooms.

Congressman Bill Tallman had been a regular. He always went first class. They drank good champagne and usually stayed in the Clara Barton suite of the Millrace Inn. She enjoyed their sessions and his tips were generous. His only requirement, besides her complete enthusiasm, was discretion.

She didn’t think it was very discreet of him to die on her. And it didn’t take the brain of a real emergency pharmacist to diagnose that the man on the bed was quite definitely dead.

The inn had a large man from the grounds crew blocking the outside of the door so she couldn’t leave. They wouldn’t let her telephone Baby Dumpling for advice. She shivered and waited for the owner to return.

Mike Maresca and Bea entered the Clara Barton suite and firmly closed the door. ‘What happened?’ Bea snapped at the red-haired girl sitting uncomfortably on a Victorian chair.

‘We were doing it when he just clutched his chest. Then he said, “Oh, God,” and died.’

Bea looked at the corpse. Her first thought was that an interim election would be held. She might have hated herself for her uncharitable spirit if the dead man hadn’t been such a bastard. She nodded grimly at Maresca before turning her attention toward the girl. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked the red-haired girl.

‘I know who you are, Mrs. Wentworth. I grew up and live in Murphysville.’

‘I want you back across the river,’ Bea said. ‘Do not talk to anyone about this. Do you understand? If you speak with a soul, I guarantee you will be in deep trouble.’

‘I understand. I won’t say a word. I just want to get out of here.’

‘Then leave. Quickly!’ Bea said.

‘I haven’t been paid.’

‘Paid!’ Bea snorted. ‘He didn’t finish.’

For a moment Ashley seemed poised to object, but then thought better of it. ‘OK, I’m going,’ she answered as she gathered her purse and hurried from the room.

‘We dress him and move the body to the sofa in the sitting room,’ Bea said. ‘Then you call 911 and tell them that he might be having a coronary. We will say that Bill felt ill while driving his car and pulled in here to rest. You gave him a room and when you checked back you found him like this.’

Maresca nodded. ‘Do you think we can pull this off?’

‘I hope so, Mike. I’m doing this for Margaret, not for this roué. She’s a great governor and doesn’t deserve this.’

Lyon was very uneasy. This was not an unusual condition when he rode with Rocco in the police cruiser. His friend seemed to prefer Formula One speeds combined with a nonchalant attitude toward the mechanics of driving. He casually draped one elbow out the side window, while two fingers of his other hand lightly caressed the steering wheel. The speedometer began to inch up as they passed the town green with its historic homes. Rocco pressed for more speed when they turned down Route 40, which contained the shopping mall and the ubiquitous strip of fast food emporiums that were endemic to every American town. Once clear of congestion the speedometer inched toward eighty as they sped toward Eddy’s Motors with dome light flashing and siren wailing.

The radio sputtered. Rocco flipped the mouthpiece off its stanchion and donned small headphones to hear properly. ‘Car One. Herbert,’ he announced laconically. He listened for a moment and then, ‘Patch him through … Yes, Lars,’ he said to the medical examiner. ‘What do you have for me?… Thanks. Over and out.’

‘What was that about?’ Lyon yelled over the sound of the siren’s screech as he pressed both feet against the floor in a vain attempt to restrain forward momentum.

‘Our joyful ME says the deceased did have recent sex,’ Rocco shouted. ‘She was shot in the periumbilical area with an entrance wound of 1.5 by 1.5 centimeters. There was massive hemorrhaging, with large blood clots found in the abdominal cavity. There were extensive perforations of the small intestine. The bullet was lodged near the lower abdominal aorta. The projectile was a single round from a small-caliber weapon. The bullet has been preserved for a ballistics test when we have something to compare it to. She was also two months pregnant.’

‘We had best get to Eddy’s fast,’ Lyon said.

Although Rocco had been born and raised in Murphysville and Lyon in nearby Middleburg, they had not met until they served together in a war zone. Lyon was an infantry battalion’s intelligence officer, while Rocco was a ranger and leader of the recon platoon that acted as the unit’s eyes and ears. They had established a working relationship then that still continued. Rocco, as the man of action, took to the field to obtain the raw data for Lyon’s evaluation. Rocco’s intelligent harvesting of information combined with Lyon’s unique perceptions created a team whose total exceeded the sum of its parts.

Their army cooperation had naturally evolved into civilian crime investigation. A full working relationship and friendship had blossomed after Lyon and Bea moved to the house on the green with their young daughter. An irrevocable bond had been forged after the hit-and-run accident. Rocco had spent dozens of sleepless nights until his state-wide check of body shops had revealed the guilty driver.

Lyon and Bea had walked away from the house on the green on the day of the accident and had never returned. The bond with Rocco and the memory of their daughter had kept them in Murphysville. It was shortly thereafter that they had immersed themselves in the restoration of Nutmeg Hill.

At Eddy’s Motors the double shotgun blast had discouraged the owner’s latest hot prospect. The sight of the sprawled car salesman propped against the Chevy utility made the prospective customer’s gas-eating, oil-chugging truck, with its wooden stake bed, look almost attractive. He passed the speeding police car as he churned away from the lot.

Lister Anderson’s wrath was not satisfied by Eddy’s mortal wound. He proceeded to destroy as many pickups and used cars as his remaining time allowed. His method was certain and efficient. He swung the .12 gauge by its barrel to smash the front windshield of each vehicle, and then proceeded to blow out the tires with the weapon. Lister had managed to dispatch most of the inventory when Rocco’s cruiser screeched to a stop by the trailer office. The large police chief catapulted from the car and held up both hands palms forward in a gesture of command.

‘Drop the weapon, Lister,’ Rocco ordered.

‘Mostly out of shells, Chief.’ Anderson let the shotgun fall to the ground. ‘About got them all, anyway.’

‘That you did, Lister,’ Rocco said as he handcuffed his prisoner’s hands behind his back. ‘That you surely did.’

Lyon ran over to the sprawled body of Eddy Rashish. The salesman had somehow managed to temporarily survive the double blast and struggled to sit up. It was obvious from the massive trauma that his time was limited.

Lyon propped the dying man’s head on his lap. ‘The ambulance will be here soon, Eddy.’

Eyes blinked open. ‘Don’t let him get away. Don’t let him go.’

‘Rocco’s got him cuffed in the back of the cruiser,’ Lyon answered.

‘I mean my live fish. If you have to, tell him sixty a week for two and a half years. Just close the deal.’

Eddy Rashish died uttering incomprehensible things about deal percentages and forging odometer readings.

Bea Wentworth cut the skin off two large chicken breasts and seasoned them in preparation for grilling. Lyon worked at the chopping block reducing vegetables into salad-size portions.

‘I thought about it today,’ Bea said. She knew it was not necessary to identify the event further. Lyon would know her meaning even if they hadn’t talked about it in months.

Lyon stopped with his cleaver poised in mid-air. ‘So did I. It came back to me while I was riding in Rocco’s cruiser.’

‘I was at the Millrace Inn about to have lunch with Helena Rabnor when it hit me. We had other excitement at the inn, which I’ll tell you about next.’

‘We’ve been married too long. That accounts for this mental similarity.’

‘Do you believe it’s that?’

‘Not completely,’ Lyon said. ‘I think it’s the same time of year combined with today’s weather and light …’ He mistakenly brought the cleaver down on a large tomato with a blow that splattered it across the room. ‘Any thoughts on it?’ he asked as he wiped juice and pulp from the cabinets.

‘I have concern over my biological clock.’

‘It’s been ten years,’ Lyon said. He returned to the chopping block to scrape carrots. ‘I applied to Big Buddy today.’

She turned toward him in amazement. For her husband to volunteer to be a mentor to a young child was an astonishing step of recovery, considering the massive pain they both felt. ‘Can you handle it?’

‘I think so. It’s a first step. They have a few kids on the waiting list in the Murphysville area. They’ll assign me to a child as soon as they check me out. They’re pretty careful about backgrounds nowadays. I’ve asked Rocco to vouch for me. If I’m properly vetted they match me with a single parent’s young boy.’

‘Not a girl?’

‘It doesn’t seem to work that way. Basically, they want an adult male to do things with the kid. We’re supposed to go places and do masculine activities. It comes down to mentor stuff while we act as a male role model.’ The phone rang and Lyon snicked it off its kitchen-wall stanchion. ‘Wentworth here.’

‘I told them the truth about you,’ Rocco said without preamble. ‘I’m talking about the query I received from the Big Buddy organization. I vouched that you are a fine upstanding citizen at least fifty percent of the time. I did have to point out that in the fall, when the Canadian geese make their flyover, you are apt to leap from your parapet in an attempt to join them in flight.’

‘Thanks, old buddy.’

‘I have two male holding cells in my little lockup,’ Rocco said. ‘We have Spook in one and Lister Anderson in the other. Lister has been born again and is trying to bring Spook to Jesus. Spook is trying to recruit Lister for the First Cav’s motor pool.’

After dinner they made espresso coffee in the machine that Rocco and his wife had given them last Christmas. As they sat on the patio and watched the sun brim the horizon, Bea told Lyon about the discovery of the congressman’s body at the inn. She described how the governor’s husband had been found dead in the inn’s Clara Barton suite with his red-haired friend.

‘I suppose that, strictly speaking, what Mike Maresca and I did was illegal,’ Bea concluded. ‘But damn it all, Lyon. Margaret doesn’t need to be hurt any further by that guy.’

‘Of course not,’ Lyon said. ‘But I hope that’s the end of it.’ He wondered how the governor could have remained ignorant of her husband’s peccadillos all these years. For at least the last half decade it had been well known on both sides of the aisle that Bill Tallman considered it perpetually open season on all women.

‘You’d really like to consider having another child, wouldn’t you?’ Bea asked.

‘For the first time in years, I’m able to consider the possibility of considering,’ Lyon replied. ‘It’s up to you, of course.’ He looked across the patio table to see tears in his usually pragmatic wife’s eyes. He was instantly remorseful. He never wanted to hurt her.

‘God only knows I want a child,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know that I am strong enough to go through another loss like that.’

‘As I said, we are only considering the possibility of considering it.’

Bea nodded and wondered if this was to be a day marked by two postponed problems.

At ten in the morning, Sarge Renfroe was usually his own best customer. The rules set by Rocco Herbert forbade his personal consumption of hard liquor before the sun was over the yardarm. Sarge understood, as legions of senior enlisted men before him had, that officers’ rules were meant to be discreetly disregarded. ‘Sun’s over the yardarm somewhere in the world,’ he mumbled aloud as he brought the first shot of the day toward his eager mouth.

The second drink of bar whiskey was loaded and ready to fire when a large hand clamped down on Sarge’s wrist. The heavy shot glass clanked to the floor and rolled under the footrail. ‘Come on, Captain,’ he pleaded with Rocco. ‘I’m really hung this morning.’

‘Winston Churchill once said that often the most important accomplishments are done by men who don’t feel well in the morning.’

‘I don’t suppose you have any coffee?’ Lyon asked.

Sarge shuddered while he pulled two steaming mugs of inky coffee from the machine at the rear of the bar. He slid them across the scarred bar and plunked a sugar bowl and small cream container by each mug. He sulked on a stool hidden behind the sports page.

‘He is not a happy sergeant,’ Rocco said.

‘Listen,’ Lyon said. ‘After I drink half this coffee I go back to work. I have a deadline on this book and you aren’t helping. Your case is wrapped up. Spook didn’t kill anyone. Eddy killed the girl and Lister killed Eddy. You have an eye witness to Lister’s shotgunning, and all you need is a little back and fill to tie Eddy to Boots’ murder. A nice double solution.’

Rocco arched an eyebrow too high for it to be a natural movement. ‘Do you believe that?’

‘Is that a rhetorical question?’

‘I have a gut feeling about this case,’ Rocco said.

‘That it’s not over yet?’

‘We’re a small town,’ Rocco said. ‘A ripple in the water expands to the town line. Man gets girl preg, man kills girl. Man is killed by irate father. Everything over and all back to normal? Maybe. Or maybe we need to know what caused that first ripple.’ Rocco drummed his fingers on the bar before calling out, ‘Sarge!’

The owner gave a start as the newspaper fell from his fingers. ‘Huh?’

‘What in the hell was Lister Anderson doing in here yesterday? In my holding cell last night he spouted bible talk to Spook for ten hours straight.’

‘I think Spook is a Buddhist or something,’ Renfroe responded.

‘What’s a bible thumper like Lister doing in a dump like this?’

‘Lister Anderson has been coming to this establishment every other day for the past two years. He comes in at noon with the other mechanics from the Chevy agency. The other guys have a beer and a burger. Lister has a Coke with his. He keeps his mouth shut about the religious stuff or he wouldn’t be welcome here.’ Sarge rocked back on his heels so pleased with himself that he poured a shot of bar whiskey and drained it in one fluid motion. ‘Right, Cap?’

‘Right, Sarge,’ Rocco answered, ignoring the latest liquor transgression. ‘You know we have to go see Mrs. Anderson,’ he said to Lyon.

‘We?’ Lyon said. ‘Why do you need me for a closed case? We’ve already decided, older man gets involved with younger woman. She gets a bun in the oven. They argue. She wants marriage or money for abortion. He wants out. More argument. He shoots her. Bible-thumping father decides on divine retribution. Daddy with shotgun blows away philandering used-car salesman. How much more typical can you get, Rocco?’

‘Eddy Rashish would sell his grandmother for twenty dollars a week payable every Friday for two years. But I don’t think he would shoot his lover in the lower abdomen.’

‘Maybe he was a bad shot,’ Lyon countered.

‘He might hire a hit man,’ Rocco said. ‘I can see Eddy hiring a guy and paying him off with a bad check. But to make love on a blanket in the woods and then shoot her in the gut … No.’

‘Rocco, Eddy was not a very nice person.’

‘He wasn’t evil either,’ Rocco said contemplatively. ‘Well, he might lie a little about an odometer, a creaky transmission, finance charges, or about divorcing his wife in the near future in order to seduce a girl, but …’

‘OK,’ Lyon said. ‘Another scenario. He takes her to the woods for their usual slap and tickle. When he finds out about the baby he decides to throw a real scare into her. He waves the gun around and it accidently goes off and hits her in the abdomen. There is no way he can explain things so he panics and takes off.’

‘What were Eddy’s dying words?’ Rocco asked.

Lyon watched Sarge surreptitiously down another quick shot. ‘Something about closing deals and odometers were his last words.’

‘I rest my case on his priorities,’ Rocco said as he slipped off the bar stool. ‘Let’s get on with conversing with Mrs. Anderson.’

The front and back yards of the Anderson house looked like a rusted lawn sale. Engine blocks without pistons, old lawnmower motors in varying stages of disassembly and other strange pieces of machinery were scattered across the yard. Clustered around the small garage at the rear of the property were three automobiles of unknown vintage that were in dire need of reconstruction. It was a disaster area that was tolerated by the neighborhood because adjacent properties also contained herds of motor vehicles in various stages of perpetual repair.

The house was a small ranch with a large picture window in the living room. The window faced the street and overlooked a rusting school bus, which sat on concrete blocks. Rocco looked at Lyon with a shrug when the doorbell wouldn’t respond to his touch. He thumped heavily with a door knocker made from a hood ornament.

A tall man whose body was dominated by an elongated face opened the door to look at them with somber dark eyes.

‘Is Mrs. Anderson home?’ Rocco asked.

‘Sister Anderson is in grief and not receiving.’

‘Tell her Chief Herbert is here to talk about her husband.’

‘I said the sister is not receiving.’

‘Who be you?’ Rocco asked.

‘Pastor of her flock.’

‘You will be herding your flock from my lockup if you don’t produce the lady in five seconds,’ Rocco said in a quiet voice.

Eliza Anderson had a slight body and a face too deeply grief-worn to have been accumulated in one life. Some of the ravages were inherited from past generations, who had fought icy fish lines off the Grand Banks, or scrabbled a living from Maine’s rock-strewn fields. Lister and Eliza had immigrated from the harsh Maine coast to Connecticut where new generations faced hardships of a different type.

Eliza had already lost her eldest child when his pickup went airborne after striking a bridge abutment on the interstate. Her daughter Boots occupied a slab in the medical examiner’s office. Her husband was in jail. Her last offspring sat sullenly before the television in his ill-fitting meeting-time clothes and glared at them resentfully. Rocco nodded at the teenager. They were acquainted due to several juvenile charges that would probably escalate in the coming year. Rocco knew it was only a matter of months until the kid would be caught and charged as an adult for grand theft auto. It seemed like an irrevocable pattern.

‘Pastor was with me through the night,’ Eliza Anderson said. ‘He read from the Book of Job and we prayed. Nothing more can be done.’

‘Did you know that Boots was pregnant?’ Rocco asked with an abruptness that startled Lyon.

‘She done told me. We decided not to tell her daddy until after the wedding. You saw what happened when he found out on his own.’

Lyon was puzzled. It was not a secret in this small town that Eddy Rashish was very permanently married.

‘Marriage?’ Rocco questioned.

‘To Skee Rumford. They’ve been sweet on each other since the eighth grade.’

‘Lister killed Eddy Rashish,’ Rocco pressed.

‘Lister always did get things mixed up,’ Eliza Anderson replied. ‘Sometimes I think he didn’t listen none, or maybe he didn’t hear none. Anyway, he always got things wrong unless it was a piece of machinery that he could put his hands on.’

‘Are you telling us that Eddy wasn’t the daddy?’ Rocco asked.

‘Not saying that.’

Rocco sighed. ‘What are you saying, Mrs. Anderson?’

‘Boots was beddin’ them both.’

‘She was involved with Eddy and Skee?’

‘That’s what I’m saying. Boots always did like variety. She would kinda alternate them.’

‘Then who was the daddy?’

Eliza Anderson shrugged. ‘God knows,’ she finally replied as she looked at Rocco and Lyon. ‘Don’t matter none now, does it? And I wouldn’t pick one over tuther cuz I wouldn’t want Lister to think he shot the wrong man.’

Buy Death in the Secret Garden Now!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Richard Forrest (1932–2005) was an American mystery author. Born in New Jersey, he served in the US Army, wrote plays, and sold insurance before he began writing mystery fiction. His debut, Who Killed Mr. Garland’s Mistress (1974), was an Edgar Award finalist. He remains best known for his ten novels starring Lyon and Bea Wentworth, a husband-and-wife sleuthing team introduced in A Child’s Garden of Death (1975).

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1997 by Richard Forrest

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3790-7

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Preview: Death in the Secret Garden

About the Author

Copyright Page