The Wizard of Death (22 page)

“You and what army? Come on, man, you've got to get with it. Townies have a choice. You can run home from class every day, become the class clown, or be a jock.”

“I'm lousy at basketball.”

“Football?” Tom looked reflectively at Lyon as he got to his feet. He appraised Lyon's recently acquired six feet of height and his slight build. “Forget football. How about baseball?”

“Never played.”

“Oh, Jesus. Come on, Went. You've got to do something. Everybody does something.”

“I have a great butterfly collection.”

Giles closed his eyes. “Sorry I asked. You mention butterflies to anybody else at Greenfield and they'll break your back and flush you.”

“I've never been great at sports. We traveled a lot, and my skills are …”

Giles snapped his fingers. “Lacrosse. We've got a great lacrosse team at Greenfield.”

“I've never even seen it played.”

“That's the great part. No one else has either, until they come here. You ever seen guys playing sandlot lacrosse, playing lacrosse in their backyards?”

“Well, no.” Lyon thought a moment. “Then everybody starts off even. Who do I see about it?”

“Me. I'm JV captain.”

Lyon's memories of the beginnings of their relationship immediately faded when he saw a plume of black smoke curling back from the front of Tom's craft. He tensed. His hands gripped the edge of the basket as he fixed his attention on the plane's plight. The smoke continued to roll as the plane went into a dive.

As the aircraft neared the water, its angle of descent seemed to increase, and yet it flew under control as the power dive continued. Why didn't Tom pull the nose up, cut the power—any number of things that might save him from destruction?

He would hit the water in moments.

The balloon was directly over the restaurant near the town pier. Lyon glanced quickly at his compass and reached for the CB radio. He switched to channel 9, the emergency channel.

“This is an emergency from Wobbly Two over Lantern City. There is a light plane in distress. Does anyone read me?” He flipped to receive.

“I read you, Wobbly Two. This is Red Ball on the Conn Pike. I am proceeding south. What do you need?”

Lyon switched to transmit. “Thank you, Red Ball. Get word to the Coast Guard.” As he watched, the plane hit the water and immediately disappeared. “Get word to the Coast Guard that a small aircraft has gone down in the sound. A heading of 170 from the restaurant at the Lantern City town pier.”

“I got you; 170 from the pier. I'm near the State Police barracks, and I'll have them talk to you. Out.”

Lyon switched the radio over to channel 24, where Rocco would be monitoring. “Rocco. Rocco. Do you hear me? Do you read me?”

“I'm talking, mister,” a high-pitched and astringent voice said in anger.

“This is an emergency.”

“Use the emergency channel.”

“I'm in the pickup going toward the football field.” Rocco's voice overrode the woman's.

Lyon looked down from the balloon. “I'm over the Lantern City town beach. Get over here fast.”

“I can see you. Be right there.”

Lyon flipped back to the emergency channel with one hand while the other pulled the red rope of the ripping panel. “Sergeant Raskin here. Who wants the Coast Guard?”

“A plane has gone down at a bearing of 170 from the town pier. I estimate about six thousand yards out.”

The open panel spilled gusts of hot air from the envelope of the balloon, and Lyon had to replace the radio and attend to the rapid descent of the balloon. He flipped the propane burner for very short burns and looked down at the onrushing beach.

The balloon's rate of descent was alarming, and he could only hope he would hit the slim sandy beach rather than the water, that he would not fall onto some of the large rocks spotted along the shore.

Rocco pulled the pickup truck into the adjacent parking lot as the balloon landed with a heavy bounce on the beach.

Lyon was thrown against the side of the basket, then flipped over the edge to land unharmed in the sand. He rolled over and onto his feet and ran at full speed toward the truck. Rocco had the door open and the pickup rolling as Lyon threw himself into the cab and gasped for breath.

“Where to?”

“Back to Snow's house. He's got a speedboat tied to his dock. Hurry, Rocco. Tom Giles just went down in the drink.”

2

Damon Snow stood at the helm of the motorboat as it bucked through the water at full throttle. As it pulled past the town pier, Lyon tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the right.

“Straight out from here!” he yelled over the roar of the engines.

The boat swerved in a tight arc toward a new heading that took it directly away from the pier. The violent turn threw Lyon back against the seat as Rocco, standing next to Damon, gripped the windshield with both hands.

“How far out?” Damon yelled.

“Cut your speed at three thousand yards. We don't want to cut him in half if he's in the water.”

The bow rose and tide swells slapped the hull as the boat swept straight away from the dock. “Are you sure of your bearing?”

“The bearing, yes, but it's hard to estimate distance over water. He went down directly in front of me when I was over the pier. But the sun was in my eyes.”

The engine whine and hull slap decreased markedly as Damon pushed the twin throttles to a one-third-ahead position. Rocco indicated by hand signals that Lyon should search on the port side, he on the starboard, while Damon's position at the wheel would allow him to scan ahead. They were silent as they peered across the water, searching for a swimmer, an oil slick, or any sign of wreckage that would mark the small plane's grave.

After some minutes Damon turned to Lyon: “We're pretty far out. Suppose I go to port a hundred yards and sweep back toward shore?”

“Fine,” Lyon replied and pointed. “We're going to have help. That looks like a Coast Guard cutter.”

The cutter pulled alongside the motorboat, and while her commanding officer and Lyon held a shouted interchange, the two boats were joined by a Lantern City police launch. The cutter dropped a red marker buoy at the spot Lyon felt was the closest to the plane's crash point. They divided the area into grids and began a series of careful search patterns.

After two hours of fruitless search, a police officer in the launch signaled for Damon to head back to his dock. They turned back, followed by the police boat, as the cutter continued its methodical search.

As soon as they reached the dock, and before Damon had an opportunity to secure the mooring lines, Rocco stepped to the pier and strode toward the house. After the boat was docked, Lyon found him in the living room, hunched over the phone.

“This is Chief Herbert. Let me speak to the airport manager.… That you, Gary? Rocco Herbert here. No, I don't want a flying lesson. I need information. You know Tom Giles's plane?… A Piper with a crazy paint job.…” Rocco looked toward Lyon, who nodded affirmatively. “Who took it up?… Giles called you yesterday and told you to have it gassed and ready for takeoff.… Did it have a radio?… We think it might have gone down off Lantern City.” He slowly hung up and turned to Lyon.

“Well?”

“No radio. He always flew visual flight rules. It took off yesterday afternoon.”

“Yesterday afternoon?”

They both turned as a police officer standing by the doorway cleared his throat. Lyon recognized Lantern City's police chief, Will Barnes. He was a near replica of Rocco, although in a smaller version: a big man with massive shoulders and closely cropped hair.

“You still don't wear a gun,” Rocco said. “Or does your mother make you leave it at home?”

“At least I'm not a cat freak, like certain cops I could name.”

“Did you find the plane?” Lyon asked impatiently.

“Nope. You Lyon Wentworth?”

“Yes.”

“We've put divers down near the buoy marker. Are you sure it went down there?”

“Not positive, Chief. But it's the best estimate I could give the Coast Guard.”

Barnes sat in a straight chair and took a small pad from his breast pocket. “I'd like to get a statement from you, Mr. Wentworth. Give me as many details as you can.”

“Yes, of course. This morning, in fact early this morning, my wife and friends inflated my balloon, and I took it aloft.”

“At what time?”

“I can't give you the exact time. I don't wear a watch.”

“About 6:45,” Rocco said. “He called me on the radio immediately afterward.”

“And what time would you say the plane went down?”

“About seven,” Rocco said.

“I also believe the plane was owned by Thomas Giles, a Hartford attorney.”

“That seems to check out with the Murphysville airport,” Rocco added.

“Are you sure of the sighting you gave the Coast Guard?”

“I don't quite follow the question, Chief Barnes.”

Will Barnes closed his notebook and carefully replaced it in his breast pocket. “I don't know how to put this diplomatically, Mr. Wentworth, except to say that we can't find any airplane.”

“I've heard of planes going down without a slick or any wreckage floating to the surface.”

“Yes, so have I, but not usually in Long Island Sound, a couple of miles offshore. However, we'll continue, and the Coast Guard has a specially equipped cutter in New Haven that they'll have up here tomorrow morning. It carries various sensing devices that will determine whether or not a plane is down.”

“‘Whether or not?' I saw an airplane go down!”

“So far, we haven't been able to locate anyone else who did.”

“It was early.” Lyon realized that Will Barnes was trying to be as polite as the circumstances allowed, but he couldn't stop the foam of anger that rose within him. “Officer, I saw an airplane in difficulty, with what appeared to be smoke issuing from the engine cowling, and the airplane went into a power dive that took it into the water.”

“Of course. And we will keep searching, Mr. Wentworth. By the way, I assume that is your balloon on the town beach?”

“It is.”

“We'd be appreciative if you'd move it as quickly as possible. It's going to play havoc with the sunbathers.” Will Barnes stood up and walked to the door, then turned to face Lyon. “Had you been drinking this morning, Mr. Wentworth?”

“We had a little for breakfast,” Lyon replied as Rocco put a hand to his face.

“For breakfast,” Barnes said reflectively. “Tell me, Rocco, is there a charge for operating a hot-air balloon while under the influence?”

Rocco shook his head. “There ought to be.”

“YOU COULD BE MISTAKEN!” Bea said as she drove the pickup toward the town beach.

“Your battery's low again.”

“What?”

Lyon plucked the minute hearing aid from his wife's ear, banged it twice against the dashboard, then replaced it. “How's that?”

“I said, you could have been mistaken in what you saw.”

“The sun was in my eyes, and the visibility and lines of sight were not good—I'll grant that. But I've been up hundreds of times over the years, Beatrice.”

“Usually on my days off.”

He shook his head. “Be serious. Hundreds of times, and in my whole ballooning career I have seen only one multicolored single-engine airplane like that, and that was Tom Giles's. That's why I continued watching it.”

“Then it's down there in the water somewhere.”

“It's got to be.”

“Then they'll find it, won't they?”

“Eventually.”

They drove silently for a few moments before Bea turned to him with a look of mild puzzlement. “By the way, when is Robin going back down south?”

“I don't know. She hasn't said.”

“She came up to deliver the drawings and has turned into a permanent house guest.”

“I guess it's just a change for her.”

“I don't like the way she looks at you.”

“Come on, Bea. She's only eighteen.”

“That's the second thing.”

“You aren't serious?”

“Yep.” She turned the truck into the town beach parking lot. They walked over to where Lyon had so hurriedly left the balloon earlier in the day.

He stood over the tilted gondola and looked disconsolately down at the destruction. The altimeter had been torn from the wood paneling, the CB radio and compass were missing, and a long gash had been rent in the balloon envelope, as if someone had maliciously ripped the fabric with a jackknife.

“Sometimes it hardly pays to be a good Samaritan,” Bea said as she put a hand on his arm. “I'm sorry, Lyon.”

He sat on the end of the dock and let his feet dangle over the water. The sun waned to a red glow in the western sky. Out on the water the Coast Guard cutter had begun to move slowly down the sound, while the police launch retrieved the last scuba diver.

Tom Giles had disappeared into the darkening waters out there. The last cry of Lyon's childhood now whimpered into the black waters of the sound. So many others were gone, or he'd lost track of them; Giles's death would mark the end of a remembered time that would now fade into vague shadows. Their interests had diverged over the years, and often long spans of time had passed without their seeing each other, but at every reunion Lyon had always felt warmth for the long-ago boy who had offered friendship to a gangling adolescent. He sighed. Greenfield would have been years of living hell without Tom's friendship. Again he felt the hovering specter of age.

He heard someone behind him and then felt hands on his shoulders.

“It's turned out to be a lousy day for you.”

He looked up at Robin. “I guess I've had better. It had a great start.”

“Can I sit with you?”