A Child's Garden of Death (15 page)

“Hear, hear,” they said and drank.

“I didn't want to kill the bastard,” Lyon said.

“Why not?” Rocco replied. “I would have. Gladly.”

“I should have incapacitated him by shooting him in the leg. I'm afraid I was very frightened.”

“I didn't mean you were a lousy shot because of that,” Rocco said. “I meant you should have hit him the first time.”

“If I had any presence of mind I could have hit him over the head with the damn thing.”

“No matter. You got the bastard. I'd as soon feel remorse over that pig as I would a snake. You got him and the confession; that's all that matters.”

“‘I beat his damn brains out,' that's what he said.”

“And that's a confession. Otherwise, why would he be after you, and why come after me? You scared the living be-Jesus out of him because you were too close.”

“Now we can close the files,” Bea said. “Rocco goes back to parking tickets, and Lyon to his Cat.”

“I've got the next book,” Lyon said. “It came to me recently when I had some time to wait and think. How does ‘Pollywog in the Pond' strike you?”

“He's got to be kidding,” the nurse said to the intern.

“I think they're all nuts,” the intern replied.

An hour later Rocco had disengaged himself from the orthopedic device and was sitting in a chair opposite Lyon. The nurse and intern occupied the bed, while Bea and Martha had left to find a pizza parlor. The two men smiled at each other, the glow of partial inebriation blunting the edges of pain and briefly tinting the edge of the world with soft colors.

“Damn, I feel fine,” Rocco said.

“You know, we're both lucky to be alive,” Lyon replied.

“We did it, man. We found out who they were, we tracked the bastard down, and it's done.”

They drank to that, and they drank to their wives and to their respective jobs, and they drank again to the solution of the crime. They were both asleep in their chairs when the wives returned with pizza.

With the aid of hospital personnel, Bea and Martha carried Rocco back to bed, ushered the intern and nurse out, and placed Lyon in a wheel chair and pushed him to the emergency exit, where Bea poured him into the car. Lyon awoke as the car pulled in the drive at Nutmeg Hill.

“I bet you think I'm squiffed,” he said to his wife.

“Of course I don't, dear. I think you're smashed out of your mind.”

“You're right and you're wrong.”

“I don't want to hear about it.”

The car stopped by the steps, and after a bit of fumbling, Lyon managed to get the door open. He staggered up the steps and threw himself in front of the door, blocking Bea's entrance.

“You can't go in until you hear me out,” he said.

Bea smiled in a resigned manner and laughed. “You're going to feel terrible tomorrow.”

“I feel terrible now.”

“If you're going to be sick, don't do it in the rose bushes.”

“I am not going to be sick in the roses … I am sick here,” he said and pounded his chest.

“You can sleep on the couch tonight,” she replied.

“I'm glad I killed him, Bea. I'm glad he died in the child's grave.”

“He would have killed you without a moment's hesitation,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Maybe I enjoyed killing him. Maybe there was a great satisfaction in pulling the trigger. I did that once before in the service. I was caught on the line during an attack, and I fired. I didn't see them very well, but I pulled the trigger then … again and again … and I was glad afterward.”

“Glad you were alive.”

“Yes, glad I'm alive and glad that he's dead.”

“It's over now, that's all that counts,” his wife said and stepped toward him.

“You think I'm drunk,” Lyon said as he stepped off the porch and fell into the fish pool. He stood to scream at his wife, the house, the river. “You think I'm drunk, and I am. But he didn't kill them, Bea. Martin didn't kill them.”

Seven

On the couch in his study, America's greatest creator of children's fantasies awoke with a massive headache. Wind whipped rain against the window panes, and Lyon turned over to bury his head against the cushion, only to find that any possibility of sleep was gone.

“Perfect, perfect, no tolerance … I beat him …” The words synchronized with the wind and the rain as he got up. In stocking feet he trod an unsteady way toward the kitchen. He found Kimberly tacking a massive poster of Lenin to the wall near the fireplace.

“Take that off the wall,” he mumbled as he rocked past her.

“Bourgeois pig,” she replied without turning.

“Your vocabulary is very limited. Do we have a Coke, a soft drink, something?”

“How about a soul drink?”

“Anything.”

Kimberly pushed past him and opened the refrigerator door. She handed him a large glass filled with red liquid. Lyon drained half the glass. “This is good,” Lyon said and drained the rest of the liquid. “What is it?”

“Soul drink. Tomato juice, watermelon rind, clam juice, all mixed up with four shots of vodka.”

“No wonder I feel better.”

“You want eggs and bacon?”

“Sadist. Is Bea up yet?”

“Long gone. It's ten o'clock.”

Below the hill, wind whipped the river as trees bent under the onslaught of rain. From the depths of the house he heard the chug of the sump pump, and felt surrounded by things mechanical. “Perfect … perfect … no tolerance.” What did it mean?

The ringing of the phone shattered his nerves and he jerked in surprise. One hand pressed his forehead to stop the pounding as the other picked up the receiver on the kitchen wall.

“Lyon Wentworth?” the deep voice asked.

“I think so.”

“Asa Houston here. I wanted to express my profound thanks for the job you performed on that Meyerson matter. And also the relief all of us at Houston Company have over your well being. You were damn lucky to come out of that incident alive.”

“I'm not so sure of that either.”

“What?”

“Nothing, Mr. Houston. I'm just not too well this morning.”

“Well, sorry about that. Perhaps it might help if I tell you that the Houston Foundation is sending you a check for five thousand dollars as a token of our gratitude for what you've done.”

“That's not necessary.”

“Nonsense. You risked your life for one of my employees. Even if the man was an employee thirty years ago, he was still under the protection of Houston Company. I suppose the confession from Martin wraps it up.”

“Yes, I suppose it does. Mr. Houston, he did say something to me that I don't understand. ‘Perfect … perfect … no tolerance.' Do you have any idea what that might mean?”

There was a slight pause. “Perfect. No tolerance. That's an impossibility, of course; a certain degree of tolerance is a necessity for any part or tool. Complete perfection is an impossibility. It's strictly a question of what's allowable under the particular specifications.”

“You think he was referring to work?”

“From what I read in the paper, he said that and went on to say he beat Meyerson to death. Isn't that correct?”

“Beat him senseless.”

“Same thing. I suppose they had an argument about something on the floor … a piece of work, set-up of a lathe or some such thing, and that's what started the whole thing. Does it matter?”

“Matter? No I suppose not.”

“Once again, I can't tell you how happy we all are that the matter is concluded so neatly. You'll receive the check in the mail.”

Lyon replaced the phone slowly and thoughtfully, then picked it up again and dialed the Houston Company. The operator put him through to Jim Graves, chief of production.

“Fine job, Wentworth. What can I do for you?”

“One last point. What was the factory making in 1943?”

“1943? Let me think. Same thing we now make in Department J. Of course with the prevalence of jet engines it's only a minor part of our production these days. Back in the forties it was the largest part.”

“What's that?”

“Airplane reciprocating engines and components. In 1943 we were probably still making them for the B-24 Liberator, or we might have begun prototype production for the B-29, I'm not sure. I could find out if it's important.”

“No, thank you. It's not important.”

“Call me anytime if I can be of help.”

Lyon had another of Kimberly's soul drinks and found he felt infinitely better. In fact, he felt so much better that when Kim leaned over he was able to admire the curve of her legs and thighs, and when she stood he noticed that even in faded dungarees and loose shirt she was a very attractive woman. In passing, he wondered what would happen if he made a pass at Kim, and knew instantly she'd probably kick him. For all her leftist tendencies, in certain areas she was a remarkably prudish girl. He knew what was wrong.

“
YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR LIVING MIND
.”

Lyon reached in his wife's ear, extracted the hearing aid, turned it on and replaced it. “What did you say, dear?”

“I said, you are out of your living mind. The thing is finished. The police are happy, the state is happy, Mr. Houston is happy, and I am happy. I am very happy over the half of the money you're going to keep.”

They stood in the rococo hallway of the state capitol. “It doesn't work,” he said. “It doesn't fit. I knew that drunk and I know that sober. Only now I think I know the reason.”

“Why would Martin come after you if he wasn't the killer?”

“I don't know. But I do know that there are still too many missing pieces, and that's why I need your help.”

“What evidence do you have?”

“Nothing tangible yet. But I still can't believe that Meyerson's wife would allow herself to be … jumped, as he put it, by that slob.”

“He could have attacked her.”

“There is the possibility of rape, and Meyerson could have come home while it was going on … a fight … but then what about the little girl?”

“He obviously didn't want any witnesses. He killed the woman first, then the man, and the little girl had to go.”

“I stood with Martin as he died, Beatrice. He talked about tolerances, he talked about beating Meyerson … no mention of the child. That's one thing that doesn't make sense.”

“As you said, he was dying.”

“There's more to it.”

“There sure is. To begin with, you don't know anything about the character of the late Mrs. Meyerson. Who knows what her bag was; she may have dug slobs. Secondly, Bull tried to kill you and almost killed Rocco. And you expect him to develop a death-bed conscience.”

“I think I know what Meyerson was like, and I can't imagine his wife being of completely different character. I think Bull and Meyerson had a fight over something that happened at the plant.”

“And then he went to the trailer to finish it … went too far and had to kill all of them.”

“Why didn't he mention the child?”

“He didn't want God to hear.”

“Bea, for the last time, will you please call your friend in Washington and get the information for me?”

“You know, Lyon, every time I call the Senator I have to make a commitment of political support. So far, I'm committed for his run for re-election, for his nomination for the vice-presidency and presidency … what this time? God.”

Bea made the call to Washington and Lyon was afraid to ask what commitment she had to make. That afternoon he waited impatiently in his study until the call came from the Senator's administrative assistant.

“The name you wanted, sir, is Jonathan Coop. He presently lives at 232 Cyprus Circle, Clearwater Beach, Florida.”

“Fine. Thank you for your effort.”

Lyon Wentworth called the airport and made reservations on the morning flight to Tampa, Florida.

The plane touched down in Tampa with a squeak of tires on the hot tarmac. As he deplaned, Lyon squinted at the hot, bright sun reflected off buildings and concrete. With the other passengers he hurried to the coolness of the terminal building. Inside the terminal he purchased a pair of sunglasses and a map of the area before searching for the rental car agency booth.

“Master Charge or American Express, sir?” the pert young woman smiled at him over the rental form.

“Neither. I'll pay cash.”

Her face fell and after a moment brightened. “Diners Club, Air Travel or BankAmericard?”

Lyon shook his head sadly.

“Carte Blanche, Oil Company Credit Card … Hilton …” her voice trailed off as Lyon shook his head again.

“I have money,” he said softly.

“Money?”

“Cash. I could make some sort of deposit.”

She shook her head in great disappointment. “Telephone credit card, another car rental firm …”

“I have a bank account,” Lyon said hopefully.

She brightened. “On a Tampa bank?”

“Would you believe Murphysville, Connecticut?”

“Would you believe a two-hundred-dollar deposit?”

“I don't have two hundred with me.”

“I don't have any cars.”

Four hours later Lyon waited at the Western Union counter as the aged clerk slowly counted five hundred dollars in tens onto the grimy counter. Bea had been furious. His telephone call, her trip to the bank and then Western Union had forced her to miss a roll call vote and spoiled a perfect attendance record for the session.

In another half hour Lyon was driving toward Clearwater. Clearwater Beach, connected to the mainland by a causeway, is strung along the Gulf for five miles and barely a quarter of a mile wide at its greatest width. The street atlas showed Cyprus Circle on a man-made finger to the south of the causeway.