The Death at Yew Corner (5 page)

“That changed a lot of men.”

The other woman looked at Bea as if the simplistic statement was a unique revelation. “Yes. Changed. He changed. He was one of those medical guys that went with the soldiers.”

“A corpsman.”

“When he came back, he was different. When we made … when he went to bed with me, it was different. He seemed to want to hurt me. I knew he was unhappy back at the hospital. Then when he got involved with the union, it seemed as if he liked the battles and arguments. He liked the organizing, the yelling, the picket lines, and sometimes the fights.”

“Did anyone ever threaten him?”

“All the time. It used to frighten us, but we got used to it. They'd call up in the middle of the night and say they were waiting for him … things like that.”

“Anyone specific?”

“It had gotten worse recently. There were a lot of problems at the convalescent homes. Marty said there was a sweetheart deal between union and management in several of the homes. He said they were corrupt and ought to be exposed. He liked a fight like that. In Murphysville he had to take on the old union and management at the same time. After he won a fight, he'd go off and have a few drinks someplace and then maybe a few more and go off with … it was never the same.”

The tears had been held within her for a long time, and when they brimmed her eyes, she seemed to melt. Her body shook violently in an arch of grief, and Bea comforted her.

They pulled him along the ground. His head hit rocks and roots as it bumped along the forest floor. They dragged him to the grave and dropped him in. His face hit the bottom. His eyes were wide as they stared at the rich loam inches from his face. He knew he was a dead man
.

The shot seared the rear of his skull. He felt a ring of blood seep over his forehead and into his eyes. The sun was warm. His body convulsed as the first shovelful of dirt fell onto the small of his back
…
and then more … and more … as they buried him
.

Rocco retreated into the small room he had built near the boiler in the cellar of his home. Martha and Remley were in Boston for the weekend, which made the night his. He pulled a paint-splattered kitchen chair across the rough cement floor and centered it carefully in front of the doll house. A pint of vodka lay in the workbench drawer. He flipped off the top and poured a jelly glass half full. He held the glass casually and tilted his chair back while he looked into the serenity of the miniature Victorian mansion.

It had been a bad day. A lot of them were. The kid had been picked up after running a stop sign and was found to be driving with a suspended license. Jamie Martin had brought him in for booking after confiscating an ounce of grass. Rocco had passed through the processing room when the kid had lunged for him. The roundhouse blow had glanced off his right cheek and barely staggered him.

He had reacted automatically. His fingers had extended into a straight plane as his hand swung forward in a blow that caught the kid across the larynx. He had stood over the prone body as his victim gasped for breath. His long arms had hung loosely by his side with the fingers balled into fists. When it was apparent that the kid writhing on the floor had not suffered permanent damage, he had left the room without a word.

It was such incidents that made them call him a mean son of a bitch. It was always the young ones between seventeen and twenty-five who caused the problems. Over the years he had become, he suspected, brutalized by them to the point where he reacted without thought, as he had this afternoon.

He needed this quiet time, this serenity before his miniatures. He drank vodka and considered rearranging the living room. He carefully placed the glass back on the workbench and began to move furniture in the front parlor. It was an ordered place, a place without mayhem, where young men wore black suits with high Celluloid collars, went to work each morning, and courted girls on veranda swings before the diffused illumination of gas lamps.

“What you need is a Victrola. One of those little ones with a speaker horn and the listening dog.”

“If you wore shoes instead of those ridiculous half-assed sneakers, I would have heard you coming. The sherry's in the paint cabinet behind the gallon of gloss.”

“Martha must be away,” Lyon said as he extracted a bottle of wine and poured some into a second jelly glass.

“Boston. Do you think the sofa should go along this wall?” He made a minor adjustment to a four-inch-long divan.

“Probably. What are you doing about Fabian Bunting?”

“Turned what I had over to the state prosecutor, who promptly shipped it back. He thinks I'm nuts. People do die in convalescent homes, and this is the third scalding death we've had in the state this year.”

“Rustman's still missing.”

“Bea called me about that. He's probably holed up in some motel with a broad.”

“Kim says no. He would never do that in the midst of a strike.”

“How do you read it?” Rocco moved the bureau in the master bedroom.

“She saw someone kidnap Rustman and they disposed of her.”

“I called Pasquale in Hartford. The wife hasn't filed a missing persons yet.”

“I think you had better start looking for him. I have the feeling that if we find who took Rustman, we'll know who killed Fabian Bunting.”

“Back to square one—find Rustman.”

“You should.”

At Nutmeg Hill Lyon trundled the folded envelope out from the barn on a two-wheeled cart and began to spread out the hot-air balloon on the grass. It would probably be circumspect to wait until Bea returned home so that she could follow him in the chase truck, but he was impatient to be aloft. He would phone her when he landed.

When the envelope was extended its full length, he started the small compressor to drive air into the bag. When the balloon began to billow and the aperture was wide enough, he held the propane burner across his waist and lit the pilot light. The jutting flame whooshed to life and began to heat the air inside the balloon.

In minutes the balloon began to rise slowly from the ground until it bounced overhead. He attached the burner to the ring above the gondola and then gave the flame a few seconds of burn until the balloon stabilized. He made preflight checks and untied the safety line tethered to the large oak. One last burn and the balloon shot upward.

There was a slight wind from the northeast that would push the large balloon past the green over Murphysville. If his calculations were correct, he would eventually pass over the convalescent home.

He leaned over the edge of the wicker basket with his arms folded. A panorama of his life was spread out below. A few miles up the river was Middleburg College where he had taught until suddenly realizing one morning that he was able to support his family from the royalties of his children's books. Now the balloon was over the green. Below was police headquarters; two blocks to the right, near the steepled Congregational Church, was the house where he and Bea had once lived—until their little girl was struck down while riding her first bicycle. They had left the house that very day and never returned.

He shook his head to dispel the thoughts. The balloon was drifting slowly past the convalescent home. A thin line of pickets, fewer in number than yesterday, meandered down the home's front walk. His interest was held by the north side of the building where below the sun-room there was a walled courtyard enclosed on three sides. A dumpster was parked to one side of a loading platform. Any vehicle in the courtyard would be well hidden from the view of those on the line in front of the home. In fact, it might not be seen by anyone except an old lady at the sun-room window with an ancient pair of opera glasses.

That's how it had been. A car, truck, or perhaps a van had been parked in the enclosure. Rustman was thrust inside and driven away. Which way did they go? A turn to the left would take the vehicle toward the green and the most populous part of town. If it turned right, it would pass few homes until it was in the country.

The wind pushed the balloon past the home. He wondered if his aerial path was following the same direction as that taken by the vehicle bearing Rustman.

He was convinced that Rustman had been taken involuntarily from the home and that Fabian Bunting had seen the abduction. He had faith in Kim's assessment that Marty would never have left the area voluntarily when an important negotiating session was imminent. The question now was, What had they done with him?

The balloon reached the outskirts of town and began to pass over an undeveloped state forest. It was a dense area filled with heavy undergrowth and only utilized by hunters during the season. It was crisscrossed by old logging roads and a labyrinth of wooded coves and isolated cul-de-sacs.

Finding Rustman would be nearly an impossible task. In addition to the hundreds of acres of state forest, there was the nearby Connecticut River. He had known it to happen before—a week, month, or years from now a group of Boy Scouts might come across a shallow grave whose covering had been disturbed by predators. Or a fisherman on the river might snag a perforated oil drum made light by the buildup of internal gases from a decomposing body. Or Rustman might never be found.

It was time to pick a place to land, and he began to survey the ground below intently. The winding river to the right was flanked on each side by high bluffs. Most of the land below was woods, and directly ahead was the high stack of the Crown Point nuclear energy plant. His altitude was now dangerously low and his forward direction was neatly aligned with the top of the spewing smokestack.

Lyon knew that the stack released superheated steam into the atmosphere. If the balloon passed too close, the effect of the steam on the interior of the balloon envelope would be disastrous. There was no mechanism to steer the balloon, and the tall stack with its white column of steam was too high for the balloon to pass over, even with an additional propane burn.

He yanked the ripping panel. Huge gusts of hot air spilled from the open side of the envelope, and the balloon began a rapid descent. He calculated touchdown as safely forward of the reactor building and within the confines of the chain link fence that surrounded the facility.

As his rate of descent increased, he put on a crash helmet and gave the burner a few quick bursts of propane to slow the speed of his fall. When he was fifty feet from the ground, a siren wailed and uniformed men rushed from the gatehouse toward the main building. The balloon basket landed with a thump that tumbled Lyon Over the side.

He shook his head groggily. As his eyes began to focus, he found himself facing the barrels of four M-16s held at the ready by grim-faced men.

“It's customary to share a bottle of champagne at an unexpected landing,” Lyon said as four rifle bolts clicked four rounds into four chambers.

“If the first selectman sees this, my next year's budget is zip.” Rocco Herbert grimly drove the police cruiser back to Murphysville. The back of the car was stuffed with the rolled balloon envelope, while the wicker gondola was roped to the top.

“Those security guards don't have much sense of humor.”

“Who would when some idiot falls out of the sky in a vehicle that looks like it came from another century?”

“You're going to book me?”

“As far as those security guards are concerned, you're arrested for trespassing, unauthorized flight, and reckless endangerment.”

“But released on my own recognizance.”

“I'd like to put that balloon in storage as evidence forever. Did you find out anything?”

“That we're probably never going to find Rustman's body.”

“You're positive it's out there somewhere?”

“I think so. I think we'll have to approach things from a different angle. Perhaps some more information at the nursing home.”

“Bea is persona non grata out there.”

“She'll find a way. Have you turned up anything else?”

“Two of the strikers think they saw a red van drive from the courtyard of the nursing home about ten that morning. No one remembers who was in it or the license plate number.”

“That figures.”

The Murphysville Capella Cantorum was composed of thirty-five men and women of diverse backgrounds. They were businessmen and women, machinists, a professor or two from Middleburg College, and housewives. They met every Tuesday night for one purpose—to sing. They had made arrangements to give a lunch-hour concert to the inhabitants of the Murphysville Convalescent Home. Bea followed them in the pickup truck. She parked at the rear of the entourage as they assembled in front of the home.

While following the singers into the building, she noticed that the ranks of the strikers had noticeably thinned out. Kim marched resolutely with a picket sign, but only two other workers were present. The black woman looked her way and raised an eyebrow when Bea failed to respond. Kim nodded in understanding and marched in the other direction.

Inside the home Bea saw Dale Winters, the conductor of the group, talking with the administrator. Tanner directed the choir down the hall toward the recreation room on the first floor.

Marcia Dabner, who owned the Murphysville Pharmacy, fell in step with Bea. “I thought you tried out for the choir in sixty-five, Beatrice?”

“I did. As I recall, I was unanimously not accepted.”

“You've improved?”

“Nope.”

“Worse?”

“Probably.”

“Lord help us.”

“Just visiting. I promise not to spoil your concert.”

Bea peeled off from the herd of singers and entered the elevator. She simultaneously pushed the button for the second floor and the “close door” button. All the ambulatory patients and those who could sit comfortably in wheelchairs would be at the concert, as would most of the remaining help. The elevator door opened on the second floor. The nurses' station was vacant. She strode rapidly down the hall toward the PT room and she pushed through the doors.