The Death in the Willows (10 page)

With a wave, he gave another burn and the balloon shot upward.

He watched the altimeter closely until it approached 500 feet, and tried to judge his rate of ascent in order to reach level flight as near that altitude as possible. This, like all his subsequent movements, would be imitated by the following hound balloons.

Bea was directly below him, walking to their truck, while to her right Raven was pointing a camera with a zoom lens in his direction. Far to the left a lone bearded figure stood looking upward. There was a familiarity to the man's stance and general configuration, and Lyon had immediate recall of the day in the tunnel as the squad car moved slowly past a group of police. A man in a beard looked directly at him and then turned away. He was probably imagining things, and there would be many bearded men at the meet, including Max Popov.

He took the craft higher, allowed it to stabilize at a thousand feet, and begin to drift north. Bright sun filled the basket as day broke across the side of the balloon. His shadow fell on the fields below in a wide circle, and the silent drift and sensation of free flight filled him with a buoyancy and clarity that had eluded him for days. He gripped the guy wires of two corners of the basket and felt cleansed and whole again.

The hounds began to rise from the ground in their attempt to duplicate Lyon's moves. He waited until they reached his altitude before executing the most dramatic maneuver of the flight.

The careful man glanced from the hovering balloon, with the large Wobbly on its side, down to his watch. He watched with dispassion as the sweep second hand jerked slowly around the dial. It would only be a few more minutes before it began, and then the circle would be complete, the last loose end excised. It was perhaps unfair that Wentworth had an inadvertent choice of roommates that night, but then again, perhaps life was unfair. He looked up at the sky and waited.

Opening the panel at the crown of the balloon, Lyon allowed large gusts of hot air to escape from the envelope. The balloon began an immediate descent. Watching the altimeter and the interior of the balloon, he kept the panel open as long as he dared before slowly closing it. He gave the propane a shot and allowed the balloon to drop within a few feet of the ground. A five-mile-an-hour wind pushed him across an open field toward a distant tree line.

As he approached the trees, he decided it would be best not to get too close as the maneuver might be difficult for some of the more novice ballooners. He increased the burn and the balloon rose swiftly and cleared the trees with fifty yards to spare.

He glanced up at the hounds in the sky attempting to duplicate his maneuvers. It was awesome to see the air filled with a dozen behemoths.

Looking back toward his own forward course, he saw that he was again at treetop level and quickly traversing another field and headed directly toward the pylon of a high tension line.

It wasn't supposed to be there, but it was. The naked rake of earth underneath the lines indicated the newness of its construction.

Unable to change horizontal direction, the balloon moved relentlessly toward the power lines. Lyon knew that pulling the ripping panel would not enable him to pass under the lines, nor could he land in time. Instinctively he pulled down on the propane lever.

The pilot did not light the burner and he pulled the lever again and again without results.

The tanks were empty. Although he always carried enough propane for double the length of any planned flight, inexplicably the tanks were now without fuel.

The lines were only a few feet away from the leading edge of the balloon. He knew of an accident in Georgia a few years ago where the balloonist had died under almost identical circumstances.

Lyon turned from the approaching lines, nearly touching the balloon, and dove over the side of the basket.

7

Willie Shep stood at the end of the long bus with a laugh that began at some distant place and increased in volume as it echoed forward. He began to move down the aisle as a crooked smile cleaved his face. Lyon fired the Magnum and watched the bullet pass harmlessly through the hijacker's body. As his attacker came closer, the other passengers stood and turned with pointed index fingers aimed at Lyon. He recoiled in horror at their dead faces and fired the gun again and again as the laughter increased and was mimicked by the others.

His eyes opened. His breath came in short gasps and he felt pain surrounding his rib cage. As his orientation returned, he saw them bent over the bed: Bea to his side and the bearded man at the foot. He tried to cry out, and again felt the pain.

“He's awake.”

“I'll never forgive myself for this,” Popov said.

“I'm sure it wasn't your fault.”

The room stabilized for Lyon as he tentatively moved his limbs, found them operable, and assessed his injuries as a massive headache with pain girdling his rib cage. “Those lines weren't supposed to be there and the propane ran out. Where am I?”

“The hospital,” Bea said. “With cracked ribs and a concussion. They say you can leave after a few days' observation.”

“My God, I'm sorry, old man. I really didn't know they were there. They weren't last year.”

“The propane tanks had been tapped.”

“There must have been a malfunction when they were filled.”

“Anyone else hurt?”

“No. They all had time to avoid the lines after they saw what happened to you. Thank God you had presence of mind to leap from the basket instead of trying to ride it down.”

“How's the Wobbly III?”

Popov looked embarrassed. “Well, it's still wrapped around the power lines. They caught your balloon between the basket and the envelope, the gondola flipped over the lines in a complete circle. Never saw that happen before.”

“Like the Georgia case.”

“I guess it is. The electric company people tell me they can cut it down in a day or two, but I'm afraid it's been totaled.”

“An old map, lines that weren't supposed to be there, and malfunctioning tanks. That's quite a combination.”

“I hope you'll accept my apology for any part I inadvertently played in the accident?” Lyon didn't answer. “If there's anything I can do?” Popov said to Bea. “I'll see about salvage on the balloon and truck what I can to your place.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, okay, then.” He gave a wave and hurriedly exited.

“You don't blame Max?”

“Where's Kim?”

“In the waiting room with Raven. She's torn between worrying about you and some story about an African tribe that's all eight feet tall or something. Raven says he's got a great shot of the accident, but that you didn't have to go to all that trouble on his behalf.”

Lyon groaned. “Not on his behalf. I think you had better get Rocco for me.”

“You don't think it was an accident?”

“No.”

She pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat as near to him as she could. “I had the binoculars up when it happened and I saw you go over the side of the basket. I thought—well, you can guess what I thought. You know, Wentworth, I wouldn't be at all unhappy if you gave up your hobby for something safe like sky diving or deep sea exploration.”

“A balloon is one of the safest vehicles known to man under proper conditions.”

“You're no proof of that.”

“An out-of-date map, new power lines, no propane.… I can't follow the lines of coincidence that far.”

“That's pretty subtle and sophisticated sabotage.”

Lyon considered the calculations required to have his balloon, under exact wind conditions, at that place and that height when the propane ran out. “Very sophisticated, or else done by someone who was completely unfamiliar with the operation of a hot air balloon. Someone who would not realize that the loss of propane under ordinary circumstances would not mean disaster. It could be very unsophisticated.” But sabotage he was certain it was. “I wonder about Popov. He was the one who selected me to be the hare.”

“I can't believe that of Max.”

“He wears a beard.”

“A good many men do nowadays, and beards can be taken off easily.”

“He worked on your last campaign, didn't he?”

“Two years ago he handled three towns for me and did a pretty good job. We carried them by a wide majority.”

“I only know him through ballooning. What else do you know about him?”

“His parents were Russian emigrés who lived in Paris a good many years. That's where he was born. They went to England during World War Two, and Max came over here when he was eighteen or twenty. Finished his graduate work and now teaches economics at Middleburg College. The blond with him is a permanent house guest. Max balloons, and likes my politics.”

“I like your politics, too.” They held hands as his eyes closed.

Bea leaned over to kiss him on the forehead, pulled the blanket over his shoulders, and quietly left the room.

When he awoke again the day was waning, and the last light cast diffused patterns through the venetian blinds. His body tensed as the door handle turned. It opened slowly to admit a tall, shadowy figure that approached the bed and laid something on the nightstand.

“Rocco?”

“No, Mr. Wentworth. I'm Dr. Warren. May I talk to you a moment?”

“Of course.”

The overhead light flickered on to reveal a man carrying a clipboard who sat in the chair next to the bed. He wore a gray herringbone tweed sport jacket with strange green slacks that drew attention from an extremely elongated face dominated by large, lined pouches under the eyes. He seemed to Lyon to be a very sad man.

“The emergency room attending physician asked that I stop in to chat with you.”

“I can go home?”

“That's not exactly my province. They were concerned downstairs over certain things you said, certain incoherent things you mumbled.”

“I'm afraid that I draw a blank on anything that happened after I hit the ground.”

Dr. Warren glanced at his clipboard. “‘He's going to kill me, I know he is going to kill me.'” He looked sadly at Lyon. “I wonder if you could be more explicit than that?”

“I don't know who ‘he' is.”

“Someone you don't know is trying to kill you?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you ever see this individual?”

“I thought I saw him on the ground, and of course he was in the tunnel. At least I think that's the one. The same person who gave me the gun and told me to kill Willie Shep.”

“He tells you to kill people.” It was a statement, and the doctor wrote a long, meticulous note on his board. “Does he often do that?”

“Only that once.”

“Do you hear other voices, Mr. Wentworth?”

“Well, yes. Now that you mention it.”

“Do these voices belong to anyone in particular?”

“Usually the Wobblies.”

“Members of the old IWW?”

“Of course not. The Wobbly monsters. They often walk with me, and come to see me in my study. Ig usually sits on the mantle and Scratch always takes the leather chair. He's a fiend for comfort.”

“And you actually see these … Wobblies?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What do they look like?”

“They're both so alike that it's difficult to tell them apart until they speak. Then it's quite obvious. They are six feet tall, furry, with red eyes and long red tongues that usually loll out the sides of their mouths. Their snouts are long, like their tails, and they look quite fierce until you get to know them.”

“I see. And they tell you to do things?”

“Constantly.”

“Bad things?”

“Never. They are actually quite benign.”

“Except when they give you guns and tell you to kill people?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“These … these monsters tell you to kill.”

“I'm a little confused, doctor.”

“Yes, I can understand that. Do you know what day it is?”

“Tuesday? No, yesterday was Wednesday. No. The balloon meets are always held on Saturday morning.”

“You're not certain?”

“I do lose track occasionally, but it must be Saturday.”

“I see.” He wrote another copious note. “These Wobblies talk to you often and for long lengths of time?”

“When I'm alone and working.”

“It must be difficult for you to function under those circumstances?”

“On the contrary. I couldn't do it without them.”

“Uh huh. And now someone is trying to kill you?”

“I believe so.”

“And of course the Wobblies will tell you to kill him first?”

“Absolutely not!” Lyon winced as he sat up. “I think you are the confused one, doctor.”

“Your monsters told you that?”

“They didn't have to.” Lyon laughed as he realized the significance of the doctor with the long face. “Oh, my God! You're a psychiatrist.”

“Uh huh.” Another long note.

“An inappropriate response?”

“That sometimes happens. These things do not overcome us overnight, Mr. Wentworth. It often takes years for such symptoms to manifest themselves. And consequently, it will take time for us to remove them and make you well again.”

“BEATRICE!”

Dr. Warren jumped at his yell, and reached for the hypodermic he had placed on a towel on the night table. “I have something here that will relax you.” He held up the syringe and depressed the plunger to force a drop from the tip.

“No, thank you.”

“You will feel much better,” the doctor said as he advanced toward the bed.

“No!” Lyon swiveled painfully off the bed in the opposite direction and retreated into a corner. “It's not convenient for me right now. BEATRICE!”

“Please, Mr. Wentworth. We must have your cooperation.”

The door burst open as Rocco and Bea rushed in. Rocco assessed the situation, saw the man with the hypodermic needle stalking Lyon in the corner, and drew his service revolver.