Death Through the Looking Glass (17 page)

As the other vehicle sped past, the car tilted more precariously and slid into a skid that spun them around to face in the opposite direction.

Rocco slumped over the wheel briefly, and then, swearing, tried to start the stalled car. The starter motor whirred ineffectively for a moment and then caught. The cruiser jerked forward.

“You're going the wrong way to get to the mansion,” Lyon said.

“Mansion, hell! I'm catching that crazy son of a bitch who almost killed us!”

He had the car at seventy before they reached the junction and turned north on the highway. In the distance, they could see the car they had almost collided with. Rocco accelerated, and from morbid curiosity Lyon leaned over to watch the steady climb of the speedometer needle.

“You're doing over a hundred!”

“Freddy was right; those dual carbs help a lot.”

“We're going to have a dual funeral.”

“That bastard will pay for this!” He flipped on the siren and flashing roof lights.

“Why don't you radio ahead for a roadblock?” Lyon yelled over the din of the siren and the strange clanks from the car's dented body.

“Screw the roadblocks. This guy's mine!” They were gaining on the other car. “It's a damn Rolls,” Rocco yelled and pressed the accelerator to the floor. “I've got him!” he said gleefully. As the distance narrowed between the two cars, the Rolls reduced its speed until Rocco pulled abreast of it and signaled for the driver to pull over.

“Do you see who's driving that car?”

“Blossom.”

Rocco walked toward the Rolls, taking care to keep directly behind the driver. His right hand gripped the butt of his pistol as he yanked the door open. He pulled Blossom from the car and forced his hands onto the car roof as he patted him down.

“Leave the Reverend alone!” Blossom's companion had rushed Rocco and was pummeling his shoulder with her fists.

“He's only doing his job, Lorelei,” Blossom said. “Remember our precepts of love.”

The girl stepped back and then bowed her head. “Leave him alone,” she said in a more subdued voice.

“He won't be hurt,” Lyon said.

The girl wrenched her arm away from his touch. Her face seemed to elongate as her lips parted. Lyon wouldn't have been surprised if she had actually snarled at them.

“Into the cruiser, you two,” Rocco said.

As the town library was closed for the day, Rocco opted to use those facilities. Dr. Blossom sat at the reference table with his hands folded before him. The robed girl at his side still glared with unabashed hostility. Lyon sat at a table in a far corner as Rocco placed the arrest report in front of Blossom.

Dr. Blossom methodically took glasses from his pocket, balanced them on the edge of his nose, and read the report slowly. “That's quite a list, Chief. My attorney will call it harassment.”

Rocco signed the report. “Speeding, reckless driving, leaving the scene, driving on the wrong side, improper license. There must be more if I can think of them.” He put the report aside. “There is one more item I'm thinking of charging you with.”

Blossom put his glasses away. “Oh?”

“Murder.”

“You seem to be very much alive.”

“Tom Giles.”

“You know very well that my whereabouts are accounted for during the periods in question.”

“Your alibi doesn't stand up. The Winston boy will sign an affidavit stating that he was not with you. You made him alibi for you.”

“Apostate!” the girl screamed.

Blossom patted her hands. “It's all right, my dear. The faithful will survive. I have many enemies, both individual and institutional, that wish to destroy me and the movement.”

“The only destruction I'm interested in is that of Tom Giles and Esposito.”

“Since I began the movement, I have been accused of everything from mail fraud to kidnapping, Chief Herbert. But never of murder.”

Rocco unwound from his easy slouch on the chair and walked methodically toward Blossom. He placed his hands flat on the edge of the table and leaned forward with his face inches from the minister's. “You were aware that the land deal would be more profitable with fewer survivors. You killed Giles and then Esposito. After Winston left the mansion, you tried to burn down the Wentworth house and kill them all.”

“Preposterous!”

“We found gasoline-soaked rags that had been used to start the fire. The same material as that!” He pointed an accusing finger at the girl's robe. “And you have no alibi left, Blossom!”

The girl stood. Her long fingers gripped the edge of the chair as she shook with intensity. “He was with me. Both times. With me. He didn't want anyone to know about it. We … we were making love.”

Blossom splayed his fingers in a gesture of resignation. “Continence is not a tenet of our movement. For diplomatic reasons it is best that my foibles not be advertised.”

“And if we break her down, there're others?”

“Probably. Now, I think I'd like to see my lawyer.”

“He's dead,” Lyon said quietly.

“There are others, Mr. Wentworth. There are always others.”

13

They were alone in the library. Rocco had taken Dr. Blossom down the hall to the telephone and had left Lyon with the disciple staring belligerently at him across the room. Her piercing look never left his face, as if she blamed her leader's recent troubles completely on him.

He spread his arms. “Isn't love one of your precepts?”

She snorted and turned away to pick up a newspaper suspended from a wooden rod in a rack. As she opened the daily to hide her face, Lyon saw the banner headline:
KAREN GILES ARRAIGNED
.

He stretched his legs onto an adjoining chair and tilted back. The discovery of the handgun in Gary Middleton's home would be the final piece of circumstantial evidence needed to convict Karen and her lover. And yet, their present residency in jail precluded their participation in the arson of Nutmeg Hill. The Blossom people had great quantities of unbleached muslin, and the movement's leader was an experienced pilot, while Damon Snow was not.

He idly glanced along the line of reference books stretched across the table and began to flip through the pages of
Prominent Eastern Industrialists
.

Damon Snow did not warrant a long listing:

“Snow, Damon Lamont: Toy manufacturer, b. Ridgewood, N.J., May 8, 1932; s. Wilburn Thornton Snow and Ida (Hunt) Snow; student …”

Lyon skimmed the remainder of the listing and then went back: “… Served with U.S. Army 1951–53, Captain, Art. Recipient of American Defense Medal, two Korean Battle Stars, Bronze Star, Distinguished Flying Cross and Purple Heart.”

Rocco slammed the door and gestured to the disciple to leave. “His lawyer's here arranging for his release on his own recognizance, and all I've got on the Oriental bastard is a handful of traffic violations.”

“What about a search warrant to find the cloth match?”

Rocco's glower was replaced by a sly smile. “Maybe, just maybe.”

Bea's dungarees had ripped along a seam, her shirt was smudged, and soot streaked her cheek. She stood on the front stoop as Lyon kissed her.

“How is it?”

“OUTSIDE OF A MEDIUM-RARE LIVING ROOM AND EIGHTEEN MILLION GALLONS OF WATER, WE'RE IN GOOD SHAPE.”

“Except for the loss of your hearing aid.”

“IN MY BACK POCKET.”

He snaked the small device from her pocket, adjusted the level, and placed it in her ear. “Robin giving you a hand?”

“Robin and Winston have been in the barn all morning.”

“Separate stalls, I hope.”

“ALL RIGHT, WENTWORTH. How come you always sneak out every time the house burns up?”

“This is the first time …”

She laughed. “How about coffee? The kitchen's in good shape.”

The kitchen wasn't actually in good shape. Smoke smeared the walls and sooty water streaked the floors, but it was relatively undamaged. Bea hastily boiled water and spooned instant coffee into mugs. “By the way,” she said, “the office called, and your Dr. Blossom is having his religious charter challenged by the IRS.”

“That's interesting.”

“I thought you might think so. I called the station and left the same information for Rocco.”

Lyon stirred the steaming coffee and stared into its black depths. “How do you get the Distinguished Flying Cross when you're in the artillery?”

“You get shot out of a cannon.”

“Very funny.”

“Don't they use helicopters a lot? I would suppose those men must be entitled to flying decorations under certain conditions.”

“During the Korean War, helicopters were used mostly for rescue work and evacuation of wounded.”

“What does that have to do with the price of anything?”

“Damon Snow was in the army, and yet he's the recipient of a flying medal.”

“During World War Two, what is now the Air Force was the Army Air Corps.”

“Not in 1950.”

They turned simultaneously as the barn door slammed. Winston strode across the yard, followed by Robin, who grabbed his arm and spun him around. They engaged in a very animated argument.

“Doesn't he have a home?” Lyon asked.

“Some suburb of New York. Sooner or later I suppose his parents will come after him.”

“They're having a hell of a row. You don't suppose he molested her, do you?”

“YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING! Nobody says that any more. I think she's trying to molest him.”

“That's unfair.”

“I fear, dear Lyon, that your solicitousness smacks of the prurient.”

“Come on. The thought never entered my mind.” And he wished it hadn't.

He parked on a side road and crossed the fields to a small rise, bracketed by a clump of trees, across from the Cedarcrest Toy Company. He found a shaded spot where he could lie prone to steady the binoculars and watch the factory's afternoon shift change.

He swept the area around the factory with the glasses. Snow had chosen the site well. The factory was located off an excellent highway, just across the small Morgan River. A well-kept lawn led toward the landscaped buildings. To the rear of the property was a long meadow that would provide room for future expansion. He swung the binoculars back to the rear field and examined it more closely. He estimated that it was a thousand yards in length and a hundred wide, with meadow grass that had been mowed recently. After it was dark he would have a closer look at the pasture.

The traffic jam at the parking lot had begun. The departing cars lined up at the covered bridge over the river and were directed out onto the highway, while a shorter incoming line of cars waited at the highway to cross the bridge toward the parking lot.

He had a mental profile of the man he wanted. One likely prospect drove a dented VW into the lot, but Lyon lost interest when the occupant reached across the seat for his suit coat and briefcase.

A '70 Chevy with flaking paint captured Lyon's interest. The car's engine revved impatiently until the security guard signaled it through the covered bridge toward the lot. It jerked forward with a puff of dirty exhaust. He followed the car's progress with the glasses and noticed that it squeezed into a slot near the employees' entrance and chugged to a halt.

Lyon examined the driver carefully as he slammed the car door and slouched toward the building. He seemed to be in his early fifties and wore heavy work shoes and splotched denim pants. A black lunch box was tucked under one arm, and a frown curled his face. Beaded perspiration on the man's forehead and a red-veined nose made Lyon decide that this was his prospect.

At ten minutes to twelve he parked the Datsun next to the peeling Chevrolet. He glanced around the lot and then quickly crossed to the Chevy to raise the hood and pull out the main distributor wire. He put the wire in the Datsun's glove compartment and sat back to wait.

The man with the reddening nose looked even more dour as he crossed the lot. As he shoved himself into the seat, Lyon deliberately overchoked the Datsun until the smell of gasoline was noticeable. Both men tried in vain to start their cars.

“Who's the son of a bitch?” the red-nosed man said as he threw open the hood.

Lyon leaned out his window with an ingenuous smile. “Pardon?”

“Some bastard took my distributor wire. You see anyone?”

“My car won't start, either.”

“You've flooded it,” the man snapped and slammed the hood. “It's that rotten little runt Joey. I'll kill the bastard!”

Lyon inwardly cringed at the anger seething within the man. He knew that a missing wire would annoy most people, but the hate that spewed from the other man enveloped them both. He tried the ignition again and heard the starter motor whine and catch.

“Can I give you a lift?”

The man turned suspiciously. “How do you know you're going where I'm going?”

“Doesn't make any difference to me. I'm from the outside auditors, and I'm staying in a motel. I always drive around before I turn in.”

The man glared a moment and then yanked the car door open. “Why the fuck not?”

His name was Bill, and he drank boilermakers. They hunched over the scarred booth in the neighborhood bar, sipping whiskey and tossing down beer. “Joey hates my ass,” he said.

“You're in maintenance, aren't you?”

“How'd you know?”

“Must've seen you around today.”

“Right. Custodial maintenance. That means shit jobs. What the hell, for five bucks an hour I'm not complaining.”

“Not as much as those guys in the closed section make.”

“You mean where they make the new stuff?”

“They really pour the money in there.”

“How do you know about that?” Bill asked with a squint.

“I'm an auditor. We have to go over the books once a year. I know how much they spend for that sort of thing. But I don't know what they're making.”